His black brows drew together. “When? I would never lie to you.”
She smiled faintly. “You are right now,” she murmured. “You told me that your infatuation would pass. It hasn’t, has it? And now you are angry with me because of it.”
He gripped her hand in his healing one. “I am not angry with you, Dustin.” He felt his composure slipping. It was a dark, quiet, lonely hall, who would hear his words except her? It was suddenly as if he had to confess and get all of the bleak feelings out of his soul. Mayhap if she knew the truth, if he could put his emotions into words, then he could gain much needed relief. As he struggled to say something, she spoke softly.
“Then tell me what is bothering you, Marcus,” she said quietly. “Let me help.”
The statement struck him as sad and ironic. He gave her a wry smile and released her hand.
“You cannot, unless you are planning to leave Chris and marry me,” he said. “I apologize for my actions for I never meant to upset you or infer that I was angry. It’s…it is sometimes difficult for me to realize that I have fallen in love with my liege’s wife, as horrific as it is.”
Her face went slack. “You have fallen in love with me?” she gasped. “Marcus, how could you? You know I can never… Marcus, I love Christopher.”
His face hardened. “I know you do and I know he would probably kill me if he knew I was telling you this, but tell you I must for my own sanity.” He was growing agitated. “Call me mad if you will, but I cannot help what I feel. I kissed you once, Dustin, and I haven’t kissed another woman since. I do not know if I ever will.”
Dustin felt as if the entire weight of the world had just been laid on her shoulders. She stepped back from him, denial all over her face. “And you blame me? I have done nothing to encourage you.”
“Nothing except what comes naturally, and I cannot blame you for it,” he shot back passionately. He stopped to compose himself, running his hand over his cropped black hair. “I am sorry, Dustin. For everything, I am sorry. I have tried to put you away in my mind, but I have been unsuccessful as of yet. I suppose I need time to suppress my feelings and I apologize if I am distant or cold in the process. But what I feel for you, Dustin…it scares me.”
She gazed back at him, feeling so badly that she was the cause of his distress. “Christopher said the same thing to me, once,” she whispered. “He said I frightened him. Why do I scare the two of you so? I am a simply woman, for God’s sake, not Lucifer in a disguise.”
Marcus let out a strangled chuckle. “You are simply the most remarkable woman either of us has ever met. Unfortunately for me, Christopher was the lucky one. Yet I know that you would have loved me had I met you first, and that is my foremost regret in life,” he sighed and slapped his thigh in defeat. “Ah, well, there is no use in dwelling over what could have been.”
She looked back at him a moment, studying him, before sighing softly. “I think I could have easily loved you, but I married Christopher and I love him dearly,” she said. “I am sorry to cause your pain, Marcus, I would never hurt you knowingly.”
“I know,” he said with a weak smile. “And I am sorry to have been such a bear. I shall try harder to return to my sweet, charming self.”
She grinned. “Do not fret over it,” she said. “If you are gruff, ’twill give me an excuse to slug you and it will be the most exercise I have had in weeks. Christopher practically talks for me so that I will not strain myself.”
Marcus laughed softly. “He is driving you insane, isn’t he? The child is all he can talk about.”
“I know,” she nodded. “He talks to it every night, puts his mouth right against my belly and tells the babe what he expects of him.”
Marcus could just see Christopher talking to Dustin’s naked belly and he chuckled. She giggled in return, pleased to see that the “old” Marcus was on the mend. Without warning, she went over to him and put her arms around him, squeezing him affectionately. She probably shouldn’t have, but she hated to see him upset. He responded stiffly, and she stepped back with a bashful grin on her face.
“I am glad you are not angry with me,” she said.
“Never,” he insisted, glancing over his shoulder to the steep stairwell behind him, partially shadowed in the darkness. “Well, I am expected on the field. Go back to your rooms before Christopher sends out a search party.”
He turned for the stairs and was most of the way down the flight when he heard Dustin calling him from above. He turned to see her standing in the doorway, the light from the corridor behind her silhouetting her figure. She was saying something he could not quite hear and he asked her to repeat herself. Confused, she did not hear his response and started to descend the steep, narrow stairs.
Marcus was two or three steps from the bottom, looking up at her and thinking it was not such a good idea for her to be descending the flight. It was too steep and angled. He took another step toward her and called out to her to return to the top. Dustin took her eyes off the stairs for a moment because she hadn’t caught his words, and when she did, she inevitably stepped on the long hem of her surcoat.
Marcus saw it coming and there was absolutely nothing he could do to prevent the fall. He saw her pitch forward, heard his own hoarse shout, and then she was tumbling down, down, down in a mass of wool and hair. He tried to run to catch her but he was simply too far away and by the time she crashed into him, she had fallen nearly the whole flight of stairs.
Marcus caught Dustin in his arms as she tumbled into him, her body limp with unconsciousness. Her head was cut and blood was coming from her nose, and Marcus was filled with complete and utter horror. He tried to force his legs to move, to run up the stairs with her cradled in his arms, but he could not seem to function. His whole body was shaking, running hot and cold with disbelief and panic.
But move he had to; Dustin’s life depended on it. With a shout of agony, he propelled himself back up the steps and ran as fast as his legs could carry him.
*
By the time Christopher barreled back to his apartments, the entire corridor was lined with soldiers and various knights, all parting out of his way like the Red Sea to Moses. David was with him, for it was he who went to find Christopher after Marcus had stumbled into the apartments with Dustin squeezed against him, her arms flopping about loosely and her neck hung over his arm.
Christopher could not even think. His mind was a black bog of terror and anguish, only knowing that his wife had been injured in some way but not much else. Marcus had been nearly incoherent in his explanation to David and the others. All they knew was that she was badly injured and a surgeon had been summoned.
All of his knights were in the antechamber, their eyes wide with concern as Christopher and his brother bolted into the room. Christopher’s eyes immediately found Marcus, standing near the bedchamber door. Marcus knew what had happened and Christopher would tear the man apart if the explanation was not clear and forthcoming.
“What in the hell happened?” he roared at Marcus.
Marcus was coming apart, desperately trying to control himself. “She fell down a flight of stairs, Chris. I tried to save her, but I was too far away.”
Christopher let out a strangled cry and put two huge hands over his mouth to prevent any more sounds from escaping. He was breathing so hard and so fast he was nearly hyperventilating.
“What stairs?” he asked through his hands.
“The flight at the end of the hall; the servant’s well,” Marcus whispered in reply, closing his eyes and turning away in agony.
Christopher could only stand there and stare at his friend’s dark head. He was incapable of moving or speaking while his frenzied mind sorted out the information.
“Who’s with her?” he choked.
“Burwell and his assistant,” Leeton supplied. Marcus was too devastated to speak. “They have been in with her for a while now.”
As if on cue, Burwell came bursting out of the room and dashed to the front door, co
mpletely ignoring the occupants of the antechamber. He yelled to a few of his men out in the hall to retrieve a midwife and slammed the door shut again, only then noticing Christopher and the others.
His ruddy face was intense to the point of anger, but it softened when his eyes fell on the baron.
“How is she?” Christopher demanded.
“She is injured, my lord, injured,” he said. Burwell was not the great communicator, but he was an extremely competent surgeon.
“How injured?” Christopher could hardly bring himself to ask.
Burwell approached him, his gruff manner easing as he reluctantly met Christopher’s eye. “No broken bones, I think, but she is bruised and battered.” Then, much to everyone’s concern, put a beefy hand on Christopher’s shoulder. “There will be other babes, my lord, for she is young and strong. But my biggest concern at this moment is stopping her hemorrhaging, for she is losing too much blood for my taste.”
His assistant said something to him and Burwell turned into the gruff and crusty physician again. He dropped his hand from Christopher and began ranting about something or another, storming back into the bedchamber and slamming the door, leaving Christopher standing in the middle of the room in shock.
After an eternal minute, he sank slowly into a chair. Gripped with grief, he hung his head.
No one knew quite what to say to him. David moved over to the chair but his tongue caught in his mouth and he could think of nothing that would be remotely comforting.
“I am sorry, Chris,” he said quietly. “But there will be more children and….”
Christopher shot out of his chair, his face red and his body as tight as a spring.
“Goddammit, I do not care about the baby. My wife is in there bleeding to death and that is all I am concerned with.” He staggered about aimlessly, dragging his hands over his face. “Christ, why did this happen? Why did this have to happen to the only good thing that has ever come into my life? What have I ever done to deserve this grief?”
His speech was as passionate and moving as any of them had ever seen him. The silence that met with his plea was deafening, for he wanted answers to questions no one was able to give.
“God is wise and merciful, Chris,” Marcus said in a strange, hoarse voice. “You must trust that He will pull Dustin through.”
“To hell with God!” Christopher snapped with fury and force, whirling on Marcus. “And to hell with you, too. This is all your fault, Burton. What was she doing on the stairs? And why were you there? Why are you always around my wife?”
“Because you ask it of me.” Marcus pushed himself off the wall and glared at Christopher. “You ask me to protect her, remember? And I didn’t push her down those stairs; she tripped. It was a goddamn accident!”
Edward was up, pushing Marcus away from Christopher as the two men came dangerously close to one another.
“Sit down, Marcus,” he said with quiet firmness. “David, pour your brother a cup of wine and set him down.”
David gripped Christopher’s arm to steer him toward a chair but he pulled away roughly. “I do not need wine,” he barked. “I need to see my wife.”
The door to the apartments opened and a small, old woman came through, escorted in by one of Christopher’s soldiers. She curtsied to the roomful of agitated men.
“My lords, I am Griselda Warwick, the midwife,” she said. “Burwell sent for me.”
Christopher moved forward and grasped the woman by the arm. “In here,” he told her.
He pulled her toward the bedchamber and opened the door. It became apparent that he intended to follow the woman in, and Edward reached out to grab him.
“Where are you going?” he asked with concern. “Leave them to work on your wife alone. You shall do no good in there.”
Christopher glared at Edward and yanked his arm away. To Edward, it almost looked as if the baron was about to cry for his eyes took on a most unfamiliar haze. Without a word, he lowered his gaze and pushed forward into the bedchamber, closing the door behind him.
The room was dim. The midwife rushed over to the bed where Burwell and his assistant were administering to Dustin, swathed in a disarray of linen sheets and other bedclothes. Her legs were up and her thighs parted, just as they parted for him when she drew him down into her. His eyes immediately went to her face; she was as white as the sheets and there was a bandage on her forehead, misshapen and crude.
Christopher’s breath caught in his throat at the sight. Never in his life had he felt more helpless or anguished over anything. His chest twisted painfully, making it difficult to breathe as he took halting steps toward her.
“Get out,” Burwell spat at him, moving aside to give the midwife better access.
Christopher ignored him, moving to the head of the bed and falling to his knees beside his wife’s head. The bed had been lowered at the head and the foot of it raised high with chairs. He noted the angle of the bed as he raised a shaking hand and touched Dustin’s forehead tenderly.
Burwell stood there and alternately glared at Christopher and paid close attention to what the midwife was doing. “I gave her something for the pain, baron. She is asleep and I do not want you upsetting her.
“I won’t upset her,” he whispered, gently stroking her head, his gaze compassionate on her sleeping face.
Dustin suddenly twitched and her eyes fluttered open. Immediately, she let out a groan of pain and everyone put their hands on her body to still her twisting.
Christopher threw his huge arm across her chest. “Be still, my love, be still,” he whispered urgently. “I am here.”
Her drugged eyes tried to focus on him and the tears began to fall uncontrollably. She cried feebly, like a child, and he buried his face against her head, murmuring words of comfort to her and stroking her head sweetly.
“The bleeding is growing darker,” the midwife announced softly, throwing a saturated towel on the floor. “It will lessen now.”
Burwell let out a sigh, the evidence of his relief. He had been positive the baron’s wife was going to bleed to death in front of him and he had no desire to confront the man with the news, for he would most likely have been the recipient of a blade to the belly.
Christopher heard the woman, too, and was flooded with relief so great he went weak. His grip tightened on his sobbing wife, so very, very grateful for her life.
“You will be fine, sweetheart,” he kissed her cheek, brushing his lips on her hair.
“My baby,” she squeaked miserably.
“I know,” he whispered. “I am so sorry.”
She coughed and twisted with discomfort as the midwife did something Christopher could not quite see.
“Your son is gone,” she sobbed. “Oh, Christopher, can you forgive me?”
He didn’t even realize there were tears in his eyes. “There is nothing to forgive, Dustin, ’twas an accident.”
The midwife closed Dustin’s thighs and pulled the coverlet over her. “Let her rest a bit, baron. I shall check her in a few minutes.”
Christopher nodded, his attention still on his wife. Burwell leaned over him and lifted the bandage on her forehead, checking on the huge bruise underneath.
“Well, at least you did not crack your skull open,” he commented. “Great Gods, it’s amazing you survived at all.”
Christopher turned to shoot the man an angry look but the surgeon was already moving across the room, helping his assistant with the dirtied instruments.
Dustin’s sobbing had lessened, sounding more like weak whimpers and Christopher tried to hold her as close as he could with the strange angle of the bed.
“Do you hate me now?” she murmured.
“Of course not, Dustin, I love you,” he responded before he thought about what he was saying.
He froze, and her crying stopped. Then, her head moved a bit and her swollen gray eyes focused on him questioningly.
“Tell me again,” she begged.
He blinked at her, almost refusin
g, but he didn’t know why he should. He loved her, she knew he loved her, but the matter of saying those three simple words had been the most difficult of tasks. To say them was opening him up, laying himself vulnerable, and giving her power over him.
But she already had power over him. She was his wife and he loved her like nothing else on earth. The time had come for him to stop being such a coward and tell her over and over how much he loved her until she grew tired of hearing it. He hated himself in that it took something of this magnitude to bring him to his senses.
“I love you,” he whispered, gazing into the depths of the stormy gray eyes. “You are my reason for living, lady, and I love you with all my heart.”
Her clammy hand came up to weakly caress his cheek and her pale lips formed a wonderful smile. “Tell me again.”
He grinned. “I just did, but I will say it again if you wish it. I love you madly.”
Her eyes closed but the smile was still there, and her hand dropped limply to the bed. “I love you, husband,” she sighed.
He clutched her hand tightly, holding it reverently to his lips. They stayed in that loving position the longest time. The midwife continued to check Dustin periodically to make sure the hemorrhaging had stopped, offering an encouraging smile to Christopher now and again. Burwell and his assistant remained, seated quietly in the corner of the bedchamber in case they were needed again. The afternoon passed into early evening.
Finally, the midwife was satisfied that the bleeding was minimal and would stop in a few days. She instructed Christopher to keep the head of the bed down for the night and in the morning she would return to see how Dustin was faring. Burwell, too, was full of instructions as to the care of Lady de Lohr and Christopher listened intently.
When the man turned to leave, Christopher stopped him.
“Burwell,” he said in a scratchy voice. “Is…..is there enough of the babe to bury?”
Burwell looked thoughtful. “The babe was about as big as my thumb. Intact, I might add.”
Christopher swallowed at the distaste he felt at even asking the question, then hearing the answer. It bordered on disgust, but for some reason, he had to know. The fetus was his flesh and blood and a part of him, a part of Dustin.
The de Lohr Dynasty Page 55
