by Laura Landon
“Yes, my lady. I told the earl as much.”
“And he said?”
“I couldn’t repeat what the earl said, my lady.”
“I imagine not.”
Olivia took a step forward, and Chivers reached for the door. He stopped with his hand on the knob. “Please be warned. The earl’s not in the best of spirits.”
“He’s been no other way since he’s come back,” Olivia said, as she stepped past him.
“Yes, my lady.”
Chivers rushed to open the door, and Olivia marched into the room. She stopped when she saw Damien lying on the bed.
He was stretched out on his side, facing her. His eyes were closed and a sheet covered him to his shoulders. A deep circle of blood had seeped through the white linen.
She took another step into the room. His eyes snapped open, and his hand reached out as if searching for a weapon. With reflexes so swift they startled her, Damien swung his feet over the side of the bed and sat up.
His torso was naked from the waist up, his skin a deep bronze, his chest matted with dark hair. He still wore his breeches, and Olivia was thankful for that, but it wouldn’t have mattered. All she could focus on was his broad chest and muscled shoulders.
A sheen of perspiration covered his entire body, and the taut look on his pain-ravaged face tore at her heart. She stepped closer to him, even though the fury she saw in his eyes told her she wasn’t welcome.
“Damien?”
“Get the bloody hell out of here!”
Olivia wasn’t cowed by his temper. She’d been warned. She was shocked, though, by the vehemence in his voice, the fierceness of his words.
“Chivers! Get her the hell out of here!”
Olivia took another step closer. “Chivers is still in my employ, my lord. He takes his orders from me.”
Damien flew to his feet, then reached out a hand to support himself. He nearly crashed to the floor before he regained his balance. Olivia rushed forward, as did Chivers, but Damien’s harsh demand stopped them both.
“Leave me alone!”
Olivia watched in helplessness as he held them off with an outstretched hand and a glaring look. His knees seemed to buckle beneath him, and the arm he had braced against the bedside table trembled in weakness.
“You’re hurt, Damien. Let us take care of you.”
“No! Get out. Chivers will take care of me.”
Blood seeped from the wound at his side while perspiration shone on his body. His face grew paler by the minute.
“Damien, let me—”
“Olivia,” he breathed in a rush as his legs buckled beneath him. “Get—”
He lost his balance, his body staggering before it sank downward.
“Damien!”
Olivia and Chivers rushed forward, supporting Damien on either side. They sat him on the bed, then laid him down. Olivia reached for a cloth while Chivers turned him to his side.
She hadn’t glimpsed his back until now. Hadn’t seen what he was trying so desperately to hide from her. The horrifying scars ran diagonally from shoulder to waist and lower, pulling and knotting his flesh in grotesque designs.
Her stomach rolled. Not at the horrendous sight before her, even though it was gruesome. But at the pain he must have endured. At the agony he must have suffered.
Tears welled in her eyes, and she bit her lower lip to hold them back.
“You’ve seen it. Now get the hell out.”
His voice jolted through her like the shock of a needle pricking her skin. It was all she could do to keep her voice even.
“Yes, I’ve seen it. Now get ready to have another mark added to your flesh. This wound needs tending.”
Olivia reached for a wet cloth and wiped the blood from Damien’s side. His muscles were hard beneath her hand, not the corded hardness one associated with strength and power, but the tight, bulging tenseness that came with pain and humiliation.
Johns rushed into the room carrying a bucket of water, a tray filled with salves and bandages, and a needle and thread. Chivers told Olivia where to press, where to wash, and what to hand him next, while Johns held a bright lamp high so Chivers could sew the jagged flesh together. Damien lay with his face turned from her, his left side shielded, his eyes averted.
Olivia hurt so much she thought she might die.
She let herself look again at the horrible scars marking his beautiful body while tears flowed silently down her cheeks. The wall she’d erected to protect herself from his anger and resentment cracked, then crumbled.
This was the result of the fire she thought had killed him. This is what he’d wanted to keep hidden from her. In her attempt to protect him, she’d caused him to suffer.
Chivers finished sewing the long gash at Damien’s waist and when he was done, she pulled the fresh covers over him and drew the drapes to keep out the early morning sun.
His eyes were closed. Whether it was because he slept, or because he refused to look at her again, she didn’t know. She sent Johns to warn Captain Durham that there was something wrong aboard the Conquest, then she gathered the soiled linens and quietly left the room.
Her resolve to keep from breaking down before she reached the solitude of her own room weakened with each step she took. The pain pressing against her chest was almost more than she could bear, and by the time she closed the door behind her, she wasn’t sure she could survive under the weight of such guilt and hopelessness.
Chapter 9
Damien squeezed his eyes shut tight and sucked in a harsh breath. He turned in the strange bed and felt a renewed stabbing of pain, then lay still and quiet. Bloody hell, but he hurt. He felt worse than he did after a night of drinking and brawling.
His mind worked feverishly to recall what he’d done last night to make him hurt so. Then reality dawned, and he realized he wasn’t in the Indies any longer, but in London. And he remembered the fight.
He prayed he’d feel the gentle rocking of a ship on the ocean and find himself aboard the Angel’s Wings, but knew he wouldn’t. He wasn’t sure why he’d come here except . . . Now he wished he hadn’t.
He lay still and silent, refusing to awaken fully. He heard her soft breathing and smelled the sweet lilacs and roses that she’d always used to wash her hair. Her presence was so overpowering he could imagine her in his mind’s eye. He knew if he looked, he’d find her there.
He slowly turned his head and opened his eyes.
She sat curled in the chair, her feet tucked beneath her and a quilt thrown over her. Her mahogany hair hung down around her shoulders and curled softly at the ends. Her thick, dark lashes rested daintily against her cheeks. She was so beautiful the sight of her made him ache.
Her lips were full and dark, her nose small and upturned, and her skin soft and clear. Everything about her was perfection, a perfection he remembered loving all those years ago when the world was easy and carefree and he thought he must be the luckiest man alive. A time before his world had crashed down around him and he’d lost everything he held dear.
He didn’t want her to wake up. Didn’t want to see the worry he’d seen on her face last night, the concern he’d glimpsed in her eyes. He only wanted to remember her betrayal. The world she’d stolen from him. The life he vowed to get back.
She moved. First, only her arm stretched out lazily from beneath the cover. Then her hand pushed the cover down, exposing her white eyelet gown, and the pale peach satin wrap she wore over it.
Her head moved and she winced, as if she’d lain too long in one spot and felt some discomfort. She sighed. Then she opened her eyes and her gaze locked with his. And he saw not pity exactly . . . but regret in her eyes.
She’d seen him. Not all of him, not the worst of him, but enough to know he was no longer whole.
For a long time, neither of them spoke. There really was noth
ing more to say. Nothing that wouldn’t embarrass either of them. So they said nothing. Until the silence was too unbearable.
“Did you send word to the Conquest?”
“Yes. The men you fought had cut the ties that fastened the cargo in the hold. The first rough seas would have tossed the crates around like matchsticks. The cargo would have been a complete loss.”
Damien stared up at the ceiling, thankful his left side was turned away from her. “Why haven’t you gone to anyone for help? These problems didn’t just start.”
She pushed her feet out from beneath her and sat up in her chair, her back rigid and straight. “I have gone for help. I alerted the port authorities and hired investigators to look into what’s happening. But they haven’t been able to discover anything that might lead to who is responsible. I don’t know what more you expect me to do.”
“Don’t you? How long do you think it will be before someone is seriously injured?”
With her chin high, she turned her face away from him.
Damien blew out a harsh breath. “Do you have any idea who might be behind your problems?”
She shook her head.
“Have you received any threats? Anything in writing?”
“No. Until recently, everything that’s happened has been more an inconvenience than anything. Costly, but nothing more than destructive pranks. And nothing serious. Until the fire last week and the—” She stopped.
“The attack the other night,” he finished for her.
“We can’t be sure that was even related. It could have just been coincidence.”
Damien didn’t answer her, and as if his silence said more than words, she rose from her chair and walked away from him. He watched her cross the room.
He wanted her to go away and leave him. Instead, she opened the drapes to let in the early morning sunshine, then pulled the rope to ring for a servant. A few minutes later, Tilly opened the door.
Olivia turned to issue orders. “Tell Chivers Lord Iversley is awake. Then have Cook prepare a tray.”
“Yes, my lady.”
Tilly left and Olivia came back to the bed and straightened the covers.
Damien bit back a curse. He didn’t want her here. He didn’t want her fussing over him, staring at him. Seeing him for what he really was. What he’d become. There’d be time enough for that after they were married, but he wasn’t ready yet to see the shock on her face, the revulsion. Or God help him, the pity.
It had been a mistake to come here, but he’d had no choice. If the attack the other night was any indication of the danger she was in, she’d need someone close by to protect her.
She moved to the other side of the bed and poured a glass of water. He fisted his hands at his sides and turned away from her. He heard her sigh of frustration at his refusal of her help, then a heavy thud as the glass hit the top of the bedside table.
“Chivers will be here soon,” she said. Her voice held a tinge of anger and her movements conveyed her annoyance as she straightened the covers on the other side of the bed. “You’ll be more comfortable after we’ve changed the bandage.”
“I want to be alone, Olivia.”
“I’m sure you do.” She stopped rearranging the covers and glared at him. “Why did you come here?”
“To tell you about the two men I saw leaving the Conquest.”
“You could have sent a message.”
Damien’s temper warmed. “I couldn’t risk someone recognizing me.”
“Why?”
“Because whoever is doing this thinks you are completely vulnerable. That you have no one to protect you. The minute the assailant finds out you’re not alone, he might change his tactics.”
“And become more dangerous?”
“Yes.”
“But why did you fight them on your own? You could have been killed.”
“I wasn’t.”
“But you could have been. You should have—”
“Enough, woman!”
A wave of pain hit him. Damien clutched his side and waited until the spikes of pain lessened. He closed his eyes and tried to look as if he was falling asleep in hopes she’d go away. Didn’t she know how her nearness affected him? He wasn’t fit enough to battle her right now.
When he’d put his cold demeanor safely back in place, he opened his eyes and looked at her. “Have you set a date for our wedding?”
He almost laughed at the speed with which her hostile gaze darted to his. At the strained tone to her voice.
“There will be no date to set. There will be no wedding between us.”
“But there will, Olivia. The sooner you accustom yourself to it, the easier our existence together will be.”
“There will never be an . . . existence between us. You have changed too much.”
“Because of you! You are the one who caused the change in me. And you will live with the results.”
He watched her face pale from his brutal accusations and heard her suck in a shaky breath. His intended barbs had hurt her, and he wasn’t sorry. The anger and thoughts of revenge he’d lived with for nearly four years came back with a raging force. “Now leave me alone.”
She recovered enough to respond with more hostility than he thought she could muster. “You forget, sir. This is my home. I’ll not be ordered out of any part of it.”
Damien was still glaring at her when Chivers came with fresh bandages. Every muscle in his body tensed. It was one thing for her to see him in the darkness when his mind was foggy with pain. Another matter for her to see his disfigured body in the bright morning sunshine. He couldn’t bear it.
“Leave,” he said, making sure his voice was harsh and his word a command.
“I saw the damage last night. There’s no need to—”
“Fine! Then stay. Take a good look at what I’ve become.”
Damien saw her blanch, saw her recoil from his attack. He hoped he’d been cruel enough that she’d run from the room in tears. The old Olivia would have. The young, naïve woman-child he’d left nearly four years ago. The woman he’d come home to didn’t back down so easily. He saw her lift her chin in defiance and with an angry snap to her movements, she reached for the salve on the tray Chivers had brought.
“Hold Lord Iversley still,” she ordered Chivers. “This is bound to hurt. And we wouldn’t want him to tear his stitches open.”
Damien prepared to receive the brunt of her anger. He’d goaded her, insulted and antagonized her enough to be on the receiving end of her resentment. He was ready for her abuse. Welcomed it. He’d add this to the other transgressions he’d compiled against her. The long list of sins he didn’t want to forgive . . . or forget.
Chivers lifted Damien’s shoulders and steadied him. He removed his shirt first, then helped him move to his stomach with his arms bent at the elbows. Damien’s palms were flat against the mattress at either side of his head and he fisted his hands into tight balls. Sunlight poured through the open windows, exposing every ugly inch of him. He expected to hear her gasp with revulsion when she saw him. Instead, she removed the bandage at his side, her touch soft and gentle, then cleaned the wound with such tenderness he hardly realized she was caring for him.
“You did an excellent job stitching Lord Iversley,” she said to Chivers, her fingers moving over him with rapid attentiveness. “I’m sure in time the mark will be barely more than a scratch.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” Chivers answered.
She rinsed her cloth, cleaned the wound, dried it, then put on more salve before she covered it again with a clean bandage. He swore her fingers lingered on his flesh several moments after the bandage was in place, but he must have been mistaken. It probably took every ounce of her courage just to look at him, let alone touch him.
She gathered up what she’d used and put it on the bedside table.
Damien watched from the corner of his eye and noticed that her hands trembled when she set down the jar of salve. Her cheeks had a flush much more pronounced than could be explained by the exertion it took to change his bandage. She stepped back from the bed, nervously wiping her palms against the front of her wrap. When she spoke, her voice contained a certain breathless quality.
“Chivers will help you with anything you need. After I’ve dressed, I’ll return with your breakfast, and we’ll discuss at length how quickly you can be gone from here.”
“You’d kick an injured man out onto the streets?”
“If you are that injured man, yes. I have no intention of letting you get too comfortable here.”
“You forget I used to live here, Olivia. And, according to the stipulations in your father’s will, will probably live here again when we’re married.”
He heard her breath catch before she answered.
“The chances of you living here ever again are so negligible they aren’t even worth considering. I would encourage you to recover quickly, my lord. My hospitality will last only so long.”
“I’ll anticipate your return, then,” Damien said, dropping back against the mattress. “I always look forward to anything you have to say.”
He heard the sharp swish of her clothing as she turned away from him. The door closed with a firm thud. Thick tension remained long after she left.
Damien lay without moving, waiting for the hostility of her presence to calm. Chivers finally broke the spell she’d left in her wake.
“Would you care to rest for a moment before we begin? I think a shave might be in order if you feel up to it.”
“Yes, Chivers. Thank you.”
Chivers silently moved toward the door, and Damien stopped him before he’d turned the handle. “Chivers, would you consider it a traitorous request if I asked you to send someone to the Angel’s Wings to gather my belongings?”
Chivers hesitated a moment. “Everything, my lord?”
“Yes, Chivers. Everything.”
Chivers pondered longer. “No, sir. I would consider it a controversial means to a necessary end. Having you in such close proximity may make her choice easier.”
