by Brenda Joyce
“He was branded,” Stevan said grimly. “I did not know. It must have happened long ago. He must have been caught stealing.”
She was appalled. Another terrible injustice…. Would it ever end? She took Emilian’s fisted hand in hers. “Can you send for Hoode?” she asked Stevan. “Not only does he serve Emilian well, I think he cares about him. He can help.”
Stevan nodded but did not move.
“I’ll ask Djordi to go,” Jaelle whispered. She remained ashen, standing at the foot of the bed.
Ariella didn’t care if Stevan wished to linger. The maid would arrive at any moment and Ariella would start wiping away the blood so she could inspect the extent of his wounds. She was afraid of what she would find. She was fairly certain some of his lacerations might need stitches. And she was so afraid of an infection.
It was three hours to town by rail. She desperately hoped both Finney and the surgeon would arrive by midnight.
She raised his fist to her mouth and kissed it. “You were so heroic…though I wish you hadn’t been a hero today. But don’t worry. You are safe now and I am taking care of you. My family will take care of you, Emilian.” She realized she was starting to cry. She was in so much pain, too. He hadn’t deserved this. She wished she could miraculously heal his every wound, even those in his heart.
His lashes moved.
“And don’t you even think of going to Woodland,” she choked. Then she leaned close to kiss his cheek. Her tears covered his face. “Today, I hate them, too.”
His eyes opened and he looked at her.
She forced a smile.
He blanched; his eyes closed instantly. She heard him choke off a moan. She whirled to see Stevan still standing there. “Please, hurry. He is in so much pain.”
Stevan said, “He is young and strong. It will take more than a whipping to kill him.”
She trembled violently. “That is what Tollman wanted, isn’t it? He wanted to kill him! There was no call for this kind of brutality.”
“You were there,” he said. He walked out and Ariella met Jaelle’s gaze.
“This is because of me,” she whispered. “The other day Emilian went after Tollman for what he tried to do. Tollman now hunts Emilian.”
“It isn’t your fault,” Ariella said curtly. “Will you send for Hoode? You or Djordi can take the coach.”
Jaelle nodded, rushing past Amanda as she hurried in, a maid with her, her arms loaded with the items Ariella had asked for. Amanda was grim as she paused beside Ariella. “I brought laudanum. It would be best to dose him thoroughly before you attempt to attend those lashes.”
Ariella took the dropper, nodding. But even as she forced five drops into his mouth, her mind raced darkly. This had been more than a case of prejudice; this had been personal, too. Tollman had wanted to kill him.
She was afraid this wasn’t the end, but a terrible beginning.
ARIELLA SAT in the chair beside Emilian’s bed, watching him as he slept. She had left the draperies open, and the sky was studded with stars and a crescent moon. She guessed it was close to midnight. She had checked—the last trains would have arrived over an hour ago. It did not appear that either the doctor or the surgeon would arrive that night. She was beyond dismay.
She had thoroughly cleaned his wounds, Hoode arriving well before she was done, and a few hours ago, she had dosed him with more laudanum. Amanda, Margery, her aunt Lizzie and Dianna had been by time and again, to express their concern and see if they could help. Jaelle was asleep on the love seat in front of the fireplace.
He didn’t appear to be in pain, but that was only because he was so heavily drugged. The skin that remained on his back was on fire, but he had yet to become feverish. Still, he desperately needed the doctor. She reminded herself that he was young and strong, as Stevan had said.
“Ariella?”
She turned at the sound of her father’s voice. Cliff stood in the doorway, his attention going from her to Emilian. She ran into his arms.
He held her briefly. “Dr. Finney is in the hall, and so is Marriot.”
Her relief brought tears. “Thank God.”
“Apparently we all received your message simultaneously,” he said, his focus returning to Emilian. “How seriously is he hurt?”
“He was viciously flogged. If I hadn’t stopped it, I believe he would have been whipped until he was dead,” she said in a harsh whisper.
Cliff put his arm around her. “I heard what you did. I am proud of you.”
Ariella couldn’t smile. “I am still in shock. It is unbelievable that men could act so violently and cruelly,” she said tersely. “Jack Tollman did this while most of the village stood and watched—even the gentry.”
“You have led a sheltered life,” Cliff said. “I have always wanted to spare you this kind of hatred and tragedy.”
“My mother was treated this way, wasn’t she?”
Her father stared back at her. “Yes. She suffered the same kind of bigotry.”
Ariella inhaled. “What will happen now?”
“Tollman broke the laws of this country,” Cliff said seriously. “He assaulted an innocent man.”
“He needs to be prosecuted for what he has done! What if Emilian dies?”
“I have every intention of seeing Tollman properly and lawfully punished for his actions.”
Gladdened by this last bit of information, Ariella turned. Dr. Finney stood there with another gentleman, whom she assumed was the surgeon. Her brother was with them, too. She left Cliff and went into Alexi’s arms.
He hugged her. “I leave for one day and there is a crisis,” Alexi said tersely. He meant to tease, but he was sober.
“I am sure if you were here, none of this would have happened,” she said, low.
Alexi looked piercingly at her for one more moment, but Ariella did not care if he guessed her secrets now. Jaelle had awoken. Cliff gestured and they all went into the hall. Ariella seized Finney’s hand before he and Marriot went into the sickroom. “Thank you, Dr. Finney. Thank you!”
He smiled kindly at her. “How could I possibly refuse you, Ariella?” He had been treating the family for over twenty years. He entered the sickroom, closing the door behind him.
Cliff said to Alexi, “Why don’t you find Miss St Xavier a guest room? I imagine she will wish to stay here while her brother recovers.”
Ariella knew her father intended a private discussion. She tensed, certain he would begin to probe into the real, personal reasons for her defense of Emilian that day. When Alexi and Jaelle were gone, Ariella folded her arms, daring to look at Cliff.
He was staring very closely. “Are you in love with him?”
Her tension escalated. An honest answer could only lead to the truth of their affair, for her father was too astute. Cliff would be crushed and furious. Any compassion that he felt for Emilian would vanish. He might not even pursue justice. But how could she lie?
“You don’t have to answer me, Ariella. It is obvious.”
She wiped her tears. “I am in love with him.”
He studied her. “I wouldn’t have chosen him for you.”
“Because he is Rom?”
“No, because he reminds me of a wounded lion, and wounded beasts strike out whenever they can, at whatever they can. Nothing is as dangerous.”
She hugged herself. “He is wounded. He has had a difficult life, being scorned by the English as a Gypsy while living amongst them as an Englishman.”
“I can imagine. I saw how he was received at the Simmonses’. You, of course, believe you will heal his wounds?”
“I intend to try.” She swallowed. “You told me that when I came forward with the man of my choice, no matter whom it was, you would give me your blessing.”
“I did. And I meant it. But I have grave reservations now.”
Ariella knew she should stop. Emilian didn’t love her, and she knew her father must never guess that his feelings were unequal to hers. There was no need for any bles
sing, but still she said, “So you disapprove? Or worse?”
“I will try to approve, Ariella.” He pulled her close and kissed her forehead briefly. “I will give St Xavier the benefit of the doubt.”
She was overcome with relief.
Then Cliff said, “Has he asked you to marry?”
Her relief vanished. Somehow she said, “We have only just met.”
Cliff stared very closely at her. He finally said, “So he has no intentions to marry you.”
Ariella tensed. “That isn’t what I said.”
“Darling, I am forty-six years old. I can read between the lines. I can arrange a marriage for you. I have little doubt I can persuade St Xavier to see the benefits of such a union.”
Ariella stared. Of course there were benefits—her good name, her fortune. “I will marry for love,” she said, “or I will not marry at all.”
A look of resignation appeared in Cliff’s eyes. “Of course you will. You are my daughter. Fine. For the moment, I will not intervene.”
“Thank you,” Ariella said.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
“’FORE GOD, HIS GRACE IS BOLD to trust these traitors.…They shall be apprehended by and by…. How smooth and even they do bear themselves!”
What was this, he wondered in confusion. Where was he?
“As if allegiance in their bosoms sat, Crowned with faith and constant loyalty.”
His back burned, as if on fire, And his head hurt explosively. Worse, he was so dry he could not swallow. What had happened?
“There are no innocent Gypsies.”
His mind, groggy and dull, urged him to awaken, and an odd horror began. His stomach felt dangerously sick. He was going to vomit—which meant he had to get up. But his body was so heavy that even though he ordered himself to rise, nothing happened. He realized he lay on his stomach, clutching a pillow.
“There are no innocent Gypsies.”
“Stop! You will kill him!”
Ariella! He tensed, suddenly remembering why he was prone on his belly in a bed he did not recognize. He had taken the flogging for Djordi, and it had been vicious…. Ariella had been there, screaming and weeping for him.
“The king hath note of all that they intend, by interception which they dream not of.”
He went still. Ariella was reading to him.
Her voice was soft, melodious, soothing. The horror eased and the nausea faded. He had one cheek on the pillow, turned toward the sound of her voice. He must be at Woodland, and she was at his side.
He wanted to open his eyes but his lids seemed to weigh dozens of stones. He blinked, fiercely now, determined to have a glimpse of her. And finally he saw her.
She sat beside him in a chair she had pulled up, a book in her hands as she read from it, her tone changing with the dialogue but never rising loudly. She remained immersed in the novel; she was the most stirring sight he had ever seen.
She pointed the gun and it wavered frighteningly, her face a mask of rage, and he knew she was an instant from murdering Tollman.
No one had ever tried to defend him so wholeheartedly, not ever.
He suddenly thought he recalled her gentle touch on his feverish back, cool and wet against red-hot flames. He thought he recalled her bending over him, adjusting his pillows and pulling up the coverlets. Had she kept cold compresses on his forehead, too? Or were those all dreams?
Maybe this was a dream, he thought. She was so beautiful and kind, so brave, that this had to be a dream.
“Emilian! You are awake,” she gasped, closing the book, her eyes trained upon him.
He wanted to smile, but he kept seeing her with the gun, an instant from murdering a man on his behalf.
Her expression was worried. “You will be fine,” she whispered, closing her small hand over his larger one. “Don’t try to move. You need to lie still for several days so you can heal properly.”
His heart beat wildly. Why had this little woman behaved as she had? Why was she hovering over him now?
She stood, releasing his hand. “Are you thirsty? Let me help you drink. You must still be in pain. I have laudanum. Doctor Finney advised me to keep you dosed until the end of the week.” She was already pouring water into a glass from the bedside pitcher.
She was an angel, he thought, an angel of mercy. She was his angel of mercy.
And his lids closed of their own volition and there was only darkness.
HE WOKE SLOWLY, in stages, daylight against his closed eyes. A nagging dread emerged as he rose up from the heavy, thick clouds of sleep. The feeling was familiar—it had been haunting him at moments like these. There was something he had to do, to face. And as he awoke, he knew something was very wrong.
Emilian tensed. He did not feel very well. In fact, his back was stiff and sore—no, he was stiff and sore all over, and he did not know why. He lay on his side, but when he began to move onto his back, the soreness increased. Fully awake at last, wondering at the slow, difficult process, he squinted against dull daylight, his temples pounding, his mouth unbearably dry. He realized he was in a strange bed. What the hell?
He glanced past the bed and saw Ariella.
She sat in a big upholstered chair, drawn so closely up to his bed that it touched the mattress. Asleep, she was clutching a book to her chest, her legs curled up beneath her skirts, a few stocking-clad toes visible. Her golden hair was loosely pinned up, with many tendrils escaping. His heart skipped.
I will take care of him at Rose Hill.
He slowly pushed himself to sit up. Now, he had vague, dreamlike recollections of Ariella hovering over him, nursing him, giving him water and laudanum. And she had been reading to him. He recalled that, too.
His angel of mercy.
Warmth unfurled in his chest. He did not understand it. He dared not contemplate her too closely now. He finally sat, his back sore but not terribly so, and that perplexed him, for he remembered being in the fires of hell when he had first been brought to Rose Hill. He was damned weak, and terribly hungry. He was also utterly naked beneath the sheets and blankets covering him.
He saw the pitcher of water and the glass on the bedstand carefully swung his legs over the side of the bed, keeping the sheets with him. When he reached for the pitcher, he saw his hand shaking. He cursed.
What was this? How long had he been in bed? Clearly, he had been dosed, probably with laudanum. He lifted the pitcher, sweating.
“Let me do that,” Ariella cried, standing and taking the pitcher from him.
He sank back against the pillows, grimacing as his back came into contact with the cotton and down.
She was so beautiful, exactly the way an angel should look.
She poured the water and held the glass to his mouth.
He took the glass from her. “Ariella, stop. I am not an invalid.”
She hesitated before allowing him to take the glass. As he drank, she stood there wringing her hands, as if uncertain whether he could even drink by himself.
How long had she been taking care of him?
He drained the glass and took the pitcher, refilled the glass, and then drank again. His hand still trembled, but not as badly as the first time.
“How do you feel?” she whispered, taking the empty glass from him and setting it aside.
“Like hell,” he said. “I am sore, stiff and weak, obviously. How long have I been here?”
“Seven days.”
His eyes widened. “Have you been dosing me the entire time?”
She nodded. “You needed stitches. Both the doctor and surgeon wanted you in bed, lying still, for as long as possible. You had a low fever for several days, too.” She touched his forehead.
He did not move. He was grimly satisfied when he felt his pulse quicken and begin to thicken his loins. Obviously he was well on the mend.
“You have no fever now,” she said quietly, and her hand strayed to his cheek.
She had been caring for him for seven days. She had been ready to murder Tol
lman for him. He caught her wrist reflexively. He might be weak, but he wanted to pull her down into the bed with him. He wanted to stroke her and hold her and slowly make love to her. He wanted to show his gratitude. “I could have told you I had no fever,” he said softly. He slid his hand to hers and held it.
She smiled a little. “I am so happy to hear that seductive tone of voice!”
“Am I being seductive?” he murmured. Seduction was safe, he somehow thought. Anything else was far too dangerous.
“Your eyes are gleaming,” she whispered.
“I am sitting here naked, Ariella, and I am not so sore as to be dead.”
She pulled his hand to her mouth and quickly kissed it, flushing. Then she sat, reaching for the book on the floor.
When had anyone ever cared about him this way? In his entire life, he could not think of anyone, except his mother, who would have sat with him as she had and who would have threatened Tollman as she had. She was so different from all the other gadji women. But he had known that the first time their eyes had met.
“Are you in pain?” she asked.
He shook his head. “My back is sore, that is all, and no wonder, if I have been sleeping for a week. Thank you.”
She stared breathlessly. “Emilian, you have nothing to thank me for.”
“Was it my imagination, or did you hover over me the entire time I lay here?”
She smiled. “I hovered.”
He smiled back at her. “Maybe your true calling is nursing.”
She shook her head. “You needed aid. I was determined to be the one caring for you.”
Her words were like a fist to his chest. Her eyes were still shining. In them, there was so much love and so much trust. But he did not deserve that trust, did he? He did not deserve so much love. He could not return her feelings—he did not even want to. But his heart felt so odd. There was that strange warmth inside it. He owed her so much now.
