by Laura Landon
“Weak from what?”
“Eating poorly. Lack of sleep. Worry.” Bronnely took another sip. “The nurse, Maude, told me her mistress hasn’t been herself since Huntingdon died. Tonight almost pushed her over the edge. It still might.”
Sam stared at Bronnely in disbelief. “You’re serious,” Sam said, unable to mask his shock. “You really think she might die?”
“It’s possible. We have to get some nourishment down her. And pray a fever doesn’t set in.”
Sam felt an unfamiliar niggling of fear and swiped his hand across his jaw. He needed her to get well. At least well enough to tell him where she’d hidden the necklace. Which would also give him the papers.
“You almost look concerned, Sam.”
“Of course I’m concerned.”
“How touching. But I have to wonder. Is it the lady you’re the most worried about or something else?”
Sam ignored Bronnely’s intense look and splashed more brandy into his glass. “It’s complicated, Bron.”
“That’s obvious, Sam. This wasn’t some random thievery. Whoever attacked Lady Huntingdon meant business.”
Sam took another swallow and dropped down into an oversized wing chair. He couldn’t mention the necklace or the papers. He couldn’t trust anyone. Not even Bronnely.
“Surely you don’t think this is connected to Hunt’s death, do you?” the doctor asked, his hand halting midway to his mouth.
“I’m not sure what I think.”
“But if it is,” Bronnely said, sitting forward, “that means the lady upstairs knows something someone is willing to harm her to find out.”
“There is that possibility,” Sam said, stretching his long legs out in front of him.
“And your guess would be . . .”
Bronnely waited for Sam to finish his sentence, but Sam shook his head and took another swallow of the brandy in his glass. “I don’t know, but I’m not going to rest until I find out.”
“Then I don’t envy the lady.”
Sam arched his brows.
“Face it, Sam. I know seasoned soldiers who shy away from your scrutiny. You don’t have the gentlest reputation.”
“Then I’ll have to take special care with Hunt’s widow. If she’s as injured as you say, I wouldn’t want to do her more harm.”
“She is, Sam.”
Sam pondered Bronnely’s warning as the two finished their brandy in silence.
“I’ll be back later,” Bronnely said, rising to his feet. “Try to get as much liquid down her as you can. I’ve told the nurse to fix a broth. See if she won’t take some of that.” He lifted his bag from the floor, then walked to the door. Sam followed him.
The minute he closed the door behind Bronnely, Sam turned toward the stairs. He didn’t care how much the rest of the world sympathized with her. He’d be damned if he’d let Hunt’s death be for naught. Damned if he’d let her keep the necklace, or let Roseneau have it.
He took the steps two at a time and threw open the door to her room as if he expected to see the enemy he’d mentally pictured breathing fire and wielding a sword. What he saw sucked the air from his chest.
There was nothing formidable about her. She looked as lifeless as if she’d already taken her last breath. Her coloring was as white as the sheets she lay on, all except the massive black and purple bruises marring her features.
The white bandages Bronnely had wrapped around her shoulder and arm were already stained with blood. She looked as helpless as a child, and yet . . . there was nothing childlike about her. She was all woman. A woman so desirable Hunt had given his life to keep her love.
Sam shot his angry gaze away from her and met Maude’s worried expression. “Why don’t you get some rest?” he said to the older woman. “I’ll stay with her for a while.”
Sam almost smiled at Maude’s hesitation. He picked up a chair and moved it closer to the bed. “Don’t worry. I’ll call if she needs you.”
Maude finally agreed with a nod. “There’s cool water on the table here. That might help keep the fever away. Doctor Bronnely said to give her plenty to drink.” She slid a glass closer. “I’ll bring up some broth before I retire.”
Sam nodded and watched Lady Huntingdon’s shallow breathing. When Maude reached the door, she stopped. “If you need anything, just call. I’ll hear you.”
“Get some sleep. It’s been a long night for you.”
“Not nearly as long as it’s been for her. The doctor tried to be gentle, but . . . she stayed awake through nearly all of it.” The older woman swiped her fingers across her damp cheeks, then closed the door behind her, leaving him alone with Lady Huntingdon.
Sam placed a fresh cloth on her forehead. She showed no indication that she felt it. No sign she knew he was here. He sat down on the chair and watched her.
Her hair was more gold than brown, the color of ripened wheat. It fanned out around her face and glowed a deep bronze in the firelight from the brushing Maude must have given it. Even though no one would know it by looking at her now, he knew her complexion was clear and creamy, and that she had exquisitely striking features.
He remembered how she’d looked the night he’d played the part of Hunt’s coachman and had driven her to Roseneau’s ball; her high cheekbones, the slight uplift to her small nose, the enchanting smile that lit her face.
She’d been the picture of elegance and grace. A most amazing vision. The way her gown clung to her body when she’d walked up the stairs on Hunt’s arm was enough to cause any healthy male to take more than a second look. Her sheer perfection made the Marquess of Huntingdon one of the most envied men in Society.
But Sam knew the perfection everyone saw on the outside didn’t dwell inside the Marchioness of Huntingdon. Why else would Hunt have felt the need to buy her love? Why would he have stolen a necklace to give to her?
Hunt had paid for his devotion with his life.
Sam looked at her fragile outline beneath the sheet covering her. Bronnely was right. She was overly thin. As if she hadn’t eaten well since Hunt’s death. The question was, why?
He leaned back in his chair and compared the facts he knew with what he surmised. Surely grief wasn’t the reason. It had been four months since Hunt’s death. Could she have loved him so desperately that she found it impossible to live without him?
Sam rose to his feet and paced the floor at the end of the bed. No. He knew too much about her to believe that. No. It wasn’t grief that had stolen her appetite.
Perhaps it was guilt.
He walked back to the side of the bed and placed a fresh cloth on her forehead. She shuddered when he touched her.
He sat in the chair and tried to recall everything he knew about her. From her childhood and life growing up the pampered daughter of a marquess, to the last time she’d been seen in public. The day of Hunt’s funeral.
Sam hadn’t been there. He hadn’t regained consciousness until weeks after Hunt had been buried. But every report he’d seen had noted that the Marchioness of Huntingdon held her composure remarkably well.
Hunt had once commented that her only interests were the latest styles of gowns and which balls they were to attend, but Sam knew that couldn’t be all there was to her. The Hunt he knew would never have married anyone that shallow. He could never have tolerated anyone who wasn’t a match for his intellect. And there’d never been anything to indicate Hunt regretted marrying her. Never.
So, how could she not mourn a man who loved her as Hunt had? Surely she cared for Hunt a fraction as much as he seemed to have cared for her?
Sam fought another wave of anger and turned his head when the door opened and Maude entered.
“I brought some broth.”
“Set it on the table,” Sam said.
Maude set down the tray, then picked up a glass and lifted the cool water to Lady Huntingdon’s parched lips. Most of it ran down the side of her face, but a little of the liquid must have made its way into her mouth because he saw he
r swallow. Maude gently dabbed her bruised flesh with a soft cloth, then repeated the motion.
“Did she say anything while Bronnely was tending to her?” Sam asked
“You mean did she tell us why that blackguard attacked her? No, Major. It required effort enough for her just to stay alive.”
“You know what they want, don’t you?”
Sam focused his gaze on her, but she didn’t answer, and he clenched his hands in frustration. “Why won’t she give it over, Maude? She won’t be safe until she does.”
“You’ll have to ask her that, Major. I’m sure she would if she thought she could. Evidently giving it over isn’t possible.”
Maude’s words struck the nerve she’d intended. He sucked in a deep breath and slowly released it.
Maude gave Sam a sympathetic look over her shoulder. “I know what the mistress has is important to you, Major. But keeping it must be as important to her as it is to you.”
They shared a look that hinted at an irreconcilable impasse, then Maude moved from the side of the bed and handed Sam the glass of water. “Make sure she drinks. Then try to get some of that broth down her if you can. I’ll be back in a few hours.”
Sam listened for the door to close, then took the glass and held it to her lips. He thought she swallowed a little of the water, but wasn’t sure. Next, he tried to spoon some of the broth past her lips. On the first try, she turned her head and refused to open her mouth. He tried a stronger approach and forced her mouth open. She spit back most of the first spoonful, but swallowed the second, and the third.
“Just one more,” he whispered when she turned her head away from him after the fourth spoonful.
“Please . . . no more.”
He placed the broth back on the table by the bed and picked up the wine laced with laudanum. “Here. Drink a little of this. It will help with the pain.”
She tried to shake her head, but the motion was barely noticeable.
“One swallow isn’t enough to force you to tell me where you’ve hidden the necklace, my lady. It would take this whole bloody glass and more. Drink it. You aren’t strong enough to survive much more pain and you know it.”
She slowly turned her head on the pillow, and the raw pain in her eyes nearly took him to his knees. He’d never seen such helplessness. Or felt such a compelling need to protect. “One swallow,” he demanded and held the glass to her lips.
She swallowed once. Twice. Then closed her eyes and sank back into the pillow. The effort it took to do that much concerned him. He straightened the covers around her, then sat back in his chair.
She labored for air, and he held her hand until her breathing returned to normal. And wished her small hand didn’t fit so perfectly in his.
Chapter 4
The sun was high in the sky, the day nearly half gone. Sam had watched her toss and turn in restless slumber for hours. More than once he’d had to pin her to the mattress to keep her from tearing her stitches open or injuring herself further. More than once he’d had to assure her that she was safe. That her attacker was gone.
Twice he’d tried to feed her more of the broth, with little success.
He looked at the half-full bowl and decided to try again in a little while, when she was more awake.
Sam relaxed against the cushions, then bolted forward when she moved. Her chest rose with a gasp of air, and her hands grabbed fistfuls of the sheets covering her. Sam reached for her hands and held her tight while he whispered in her ear.
“It’s all right. You’re safe now. He’s gone.”
“No!”
“Yes, my lady. You’re safe.”
She struggled once more, then opened her eyes and stared at him. He knew the moment recognition dawned. She took a sharp breath, then released it.
He paused with her hand still in his. “Lie still. You don’t want to tear your stitches open.”
She relaxed, then turned her head toward the open window. “What time is it?”
“The middle of the afternoon.”
She closed her eyes. “Where’s Maude?”
“She went belowstairs to get you some hot broth.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“That hardly matters. You have to eat.”
“I want you to leave.”
She tried to pull away from him, but the pain from moving stole her breath. Instead, she clutched her fingers tighter around his hand and held on to him. “Go,” she finally managed.
“Not a chance.”
Her reaction was obvious, and she forced her pain-filled gaze to lock with his. “I want you . . . gone.”
Sam felt a hitch in his breathing as he pulled his chair closer, still keeping her hand anchored in his. “Not until I have the necklace,” he said without releasing her gaze.
“I can’t give it to you.”
A rush of anger and fury exploded like fireworks of bright light behind his eyes. Sam took several harsh breaths, waiting for his temper to abate. He searched for any conceivable reason she might have to keep the necklace. But all that came to mind was greed. The thought that Hunt had been so desperate to keep this woman’s love that he’d risked his honor and integrity made Sam ill.
When he felt he at least had a small hold on his temper, he leaned forward in his chair and rested his elbows on his knees. “Do you know what you have, Lady Huntingdon? Do you know the value of the necklace you refuse to give up?” He took a deep breath as another wave of anger exploded inside him. “And I don’t mean in monetary worth. I mean in human terms.”
She closed her eyes as if she didn’t want to hear what he was going to tell her. Well, too bloody damn bad! He wanted her to know what was at stake. What power she held in her hands. “The necklace your husband gave you is the tool we need to bring about a quicker end to the war. Having it will save thousands of lives. If you refuse to give the necklace over, you’re as much as executing countless innocent young men.”
She took a painful gasp of air, and the terror Sam saw in her eyes gave him reason to hope. Her next words killed it. “If I gave you the necklace . . . would you give it to Roseneau?”
Sam felt his temper rise. “Hardly, my lady. England has greater need of it. Roseneau is in part responsible for funding Russia’s role in the Crimean War.”
She turned her face from him, then pulled her hand from his grasp. The movement cost her much. She paled as she pressed her lips together in what he assumed was an effort to keep from crying out in pain.
Sam felt the rein on his temper slip. “The necklace doesn’t belong to you. Your husband may have stolen it to buy your love, but once he knew what he had, he didn’t intend for you to keep it. And he certainly didn’t intend for Roseneau to have it back. He realized how important it was as a political tool. Both the necklace and the papers are invaluable.”
Her bruised features froze. “Papers?”
“Yes. Papers he took along with the necklace. Surely you don’t intend to withhold those?”
“I don’t know . . . about any papers.”
“Yes, you do. And I want them.”
When she didn’t answer, he bolted from his chair. “Your husband paid the ultimate sacrifice for those papers. He took a monumental risk and gave his life because he knew how valuable they were. I’ll not let you destroy what he did.”
Her face turned more ashen than before.
Sam braced his hands on either side of her and leaned close. “It is too late to undo all that has been done. Too late to bring Hunt back, but I want you to know this much. I will have that necklace. And when I have it in my possession, I will hand it over to the British government. Perhaps something can be salvaged from the damage your association with Roseneau has already done. Perhaps some good can be realized from the noble deed Hunt tried to accomplish. But most of all, perhaps I will be able to understand how Hunt could love someone whose greed would allow her to betray every principle he stood for. Although I sincerely doubt it.”
Sam pushed himself away fro
m her and raked his fingers through his hair. Then he made the mistake of looking down at the bed. The Marchioness of Huntingdon—the object of his scorn and ridicule—had her eyes shut tight. But in the warm light from the sun filtering through the window, he saw her skin glisten as one tear after another streamed from the corners of her eyes.
Guilt assaulted him like a heavy weight pressing against his chest. Yet, he refused to take back his words. She, more than anyone, deserved his wrath and anger. By her refusal to help, she’d reduced Hunt’s honor, and made his death a meaningless sacrifice.
Sam walked to the window and stared out at nothing. Hunt’s face appeared as a reflection in the glass, so real and lifelike Sam had to hold back his hand to keep from reaching out to touch him. Instead, he looked over his shoulder toward the bed and stared at the marchioness’s pain-ravaged face. When he could bear his guilt no longer, he made his way back to her bedside and reached for the laudanum-laced wine. “Here, drink one more swallow of this wine. It will help you sleep.”
He tipped the glass before she had a chance to turn away from him. A small amount of the liquid made its way down her throat before she coughed, her body arching in pain. He laid her back on the pillows and wiped her face with a cool, wet cloth. When her breathing had slowed, he sat down beside the bed and waited for the drug to take effect.
Eventually, her features relaxed.
For a long time, he kept his vigil, watching her chest slowly rise and fall. He held her still when she thrashed in her delirium, and whispered comforting words when she moaned in her sleep. And when she cried out for help, he assured her he would keep her safe.
Finally, she fell into a deep sleep, where even her nightmares couldn’t reach her.
Sam leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. Praying he could keep his own nightmares at bay.
Hunt may have taken the necklace because he loved his wife, but he’d also thrown himself in front of the assassin’s bullets to save Sam’s life. With Hunt still cradled in his arms, Sam had vowed he wouldn’t let his friend’s death be for naught. He had four weeks to find the necklace and hand it over to the Foreign Office. Four weeks to discover the traitor’s identity.
