by Jade Lee
“That’s unfair!” Kit responded. “He is my cousin, and he took you driving in Hyde Park.”
“I remember who he is,” she returned dryly.
“Yes, but do you recall that he has excellent advice sometimes? Most knowledgeable on politics and the like, though rather cynical.”
“Extremely cynical,” she muttered.
“And he was the only one who stood up for our engagement,” Kit pressed.
“He did no such thing!”
“He drove you around Hyde Park.”
“So that he could show us both how regretfully terrible an idea it was!” It was only with those last heated words that she realized conversation had lulled around them. In truth, the Green Room had gone relatively quiet as everyone turned to watch her and Kit in their disagreement.
Kit looked around, giving everyone a strained smile. “Nervous brides can have tart tongues, don’t you know?” Then he turned to wink at her. “But it will all be better after the wedding night, my love.”
Raucous laughter followed his words while Scher fought a wave of disgust. It never failed in the Green Room. A single bawdy comment and all was laughed off. Unless, of course, it was Lady Scher who made the comment. Then she was back to being a low-class scheming whore.
“Smile!” Kit hissed at her under his breath. “You look like you just swallowed a toad.”
“It’s the wine,” she shot back, as she pressed her half-filled glass into his hand. Then she waved vaguely at the crowd. “I feel a headache coming on. Wedding preparations and all can be so exhausting.” In truth, she hadn’t done anything more than give their costumer instructions and coins to make her a simple wedding dress. She doubted it would end up simple. Mary loved to embellish, but Scher had made the effort.
“Perhaps I should escort you to bed then,” said Kit with another broad wink to the crowd.
Scher turned quickly to press the flat of her palm on Kit’s chest. She held it there, stopping him from moving forward. Then she slowly, carefully, raised up on her toes and pressed her lips against his. Her kiss was nearly chaste. Their mouths touched and when he would have deepened it, she held him back. She merely allowed him to explore lip to lip rather than tongue to tongue.
In the background, the crowd swelled with cheers and bawdy comments. She would never do this in the normal course of events. At least half the group would take this as proof positive that she was a scheming social climber. And by tomorrow night, everyone would be saying that she had stripped naked for Kit in full view of the entire Green Room.
It didn’t seem to matter to her. Her attention was centered completely on Kit. She used all her skill to tease him—and the crowd—with just her lips, allowing just so much and no more. Then she pushed back with a smile even though Kit clenched his hands tighter on her arms, trying to keep her in place.
“No, no, my love,” she said. “I think you should stay down here until the wedding night. I am a proper lady, after all.”
Laughter erupted around her, peppered by more bawdy comments at Kit’s obvious discomfort and his perfect expression of chagrin. But that was typical fare for the Green Room. What made the joke truly funny was the suggestion that Scheherazade was a lady. Clearly, their guffaws said, she was anything but.
Her smile tightened, anger churning inside her. How dare they judge her? She knew for a fact how very immoral most of these men were, and what sanctimonious asses the others were. But that was beside the point. Her temper was badly frayed. She needed to leave immediately before she did something very wrong.
So she curtsied and ducked out. Seth touched her arm as she was leaving, silently asking if she needed an escort. She shook her head. She had no fear of unexpected visitors tonight. So long as no one followed her upstairs, she would be fine.
She made it up to her room with speed, pushing inside less than a minute after leaving the Green Room. She had meant to drop onto her bed and apply a wet compress. Indeed, that had been her firm intent when she had decided to come upstairs. But by the time she unlocked her door, she knew her decision was in vain. No matter what she intended, she would end up in the very place she had been for the last five nights.
She didn’t want to go. She didn’t want to lie to Kit, to sneak out of the playhouse, to act like the very scandalous whore everyone thought she was. But she couldn’t stop herself.
She changed her clothes quickly, donning a poor man’s pants, shirt, coat, and hat. She’d had it made a long time ago for times just like this when she needed to be out by herself at night. And truthfully, the very shabbiness of the outfit added to the disguise. Moments later, she slipped out of her door and the playhouse, melding silently into the dark London night.
Wake up, sahib. There is a fire.
“Brandon. Please wake up. Try to drink this.”
Sahib. Fire.
Cool liquid slid into his mouth. It was there, then it was gone.
Fire, sahib. Fire!
Brandon came alert with a gasp that made him choke. Ashes burned through his lungs, and his vision would not clear. Tears burned his eyes, pain wracked his body. The fire! Oh my God, the fire!
“Brandon! Stop! Brandon!”
Sahib!
“Drink this. Drink!”
Again the cool liquid on his lips. He had to get up. He had to go help. Oh my God. Fire! But he couldn’t get the word out, and his head was spinning. The water was good in his mouth. How could it be good when . . .
“Fire,” he croaked.
“There is no fire, Brandon. Just a fever. Drink more.”
But there was a fire. And he was too late to stop it. Oh God, too late.
The water felt good. He swallowed by instinct, but he didn’t deserve it. It was all his fault.
“My fault. My fault.”
“Shhhh, Brandon. Try to rest.”
“My fault.”
A cool cloth pressed to his forehead. His muscles gave out. He was so dizzy.
“It was all my fault.”
A fingertip touched his lips. A simple press, but it felt like a searing brand.
“Then you are forgiven, Brandon. Be at peace now. You are forgiven.”
The words seemed to slip into his body from that touch on his lips. As if he inhaled what was said and from there it touched every part of him. He breathed deeper, pain splitting him from belly to chin.
Finally the pain went deep enough. Finally he felt the agony he deserved. And with that anguish came the release. Could it be possible? Had he finally suffered enough for his sins? No.
“Not enough.”
“Sleep, Brandon. Be at peace.”
“The fire,” he mumbled, though his tongue felt so thick it could barely move.
“The fire is out. It is all over. You can rest now.”
He felt the darkness grow, the numbness of sleep weighed his thoughts down. But he still had to know.
“Am I really forgiven?”
“Of course. You have suffered enough.”
Truly?
“Sleep.”
He slept.
Brandon opened his eyes. It wasn’t a conscious decision. One moment he was drifting. The very next moment he had vision. Labels lined up in his mind. Names of things listed without judgment: torn blanket, urine smell, tallow candle nearly burned out. He blinked, sorting form from shadow. Woman asleep in chair. She wore men’s clothing.
Scheherazade.
Scheherazade.
Scheherazade.
His mind stopped on her name, repeating it over and over. He didn’t know if he could move his thoughts elsewhere. He didn’t try. He simply stayed where he was, looking at her while her name repeated in his thoughts.
Scheherazade.
Scheherazade.
She wasn’t here. Scheherazade wasn’t here. He knew that without turning his head. If she were here, he would smell her. He knew she used lavender perfume. If his nose were against her skin, he would smell lavender and something else. Something that was uniquely her. B
ut more often, he would smell every scent—heavy perfumes from dozens of people, heavy paints from the actors, and then the more acrid scents of sweat and dung that lingered throughout that area of London. Scheherazade carried all those scents with her, but they were not strong in this room now. Which meant she was not here.
And since he also didn’t smell the overwhelming scent of onions, the other woman wasn’t here either. That, at least, was a kindness. He really didn’t care for the shrew. Or for the boy, Hank, his servant. They were like biting flies that bothered him when all he wanted to do was slip away.
With a sigh that was half regret, half relief, he closed his eyes. With luck, he wouldn’t ever wake again.
Chapter 11
“’E asks after ye. Says yer name right and tight. An’ when yer not here, he goes right back to sleep.”
“So he can speak?”
“Jes yer name and none too clear.”
Brandon stirred, hearing sounds from the other room, but they had no meaning to him. He tried to drop back into the oblivion of sleep, but the sounds became voices: Scher’s voice and the other woman’s. And with Scher’s presence came interest, awareness, and eventually, meaning.
“But he can talk,” Scher pressed. “And he lets you help him?”
“Usually just points. Lets me at him with the necessaries. Don’t like my soup much, but ’e eats it. Then ’e sleeps.”
Brandon’s other senses roused. He could smell Scher now. Soon he would feel her presence like a tingle along his skin. He didn’t know if it was true or just his fevered imagination, but he savored in it nonetheless.
“He didn’t ask questions? Demand . . . something? He just—”
“The fight’s gone out of ’im. Seen it afore. All ’e cares about is if yer ’ere.”
He opened his eyes. He didn’t see anything beyond shadows cast on the ceiling. He would try to sit up, but he knew from experience that it would be better if he did not. Besides, she would come to him eventually. He merely needed to be patient.
“You’re awake!”
Scher stepped into his field of vision, bringing the candle with her. She wore a man’s hat, which flopped ridiculously about her ears. It was a perfect match for the cheap men’s clothing that hung on her slender frame. No one with any brains would mistake her for a man. She was too beautiful, her features too refined for anything but an angel.
She set down the candle, then took something from the other woman. Martha was her name, and she handed Scher a cup. With brackish water in it, no doubt. Scher leaned down, slipping her arm beneath his shoulders. He hissed as he tried to help her. How ridiculous that the mere act of lifting his torso produced such agony.
His head was swimming by the time Scher lifted him up enough that he could drink. He dutifully drained the cup, then clenched his teeth as she set him back down. Martha had put another pillow behind him, so at least he was higher up than before. He could watch Scher without straining his neck.
“How do you feel this evening?” Scher asked. Her voice held the gentle notes he remembered, but something else as well. An ease, he thought. So it wasn’t really that there was something new in her voice, more that something was absent. The wariness was gone, replaced by a quiet ease.
He wasn’t sure how he felt about that. He preferred it when she was on edge around him. He liked instilling excitement in her. But now, stretched out on this dirty bed, he was useless.
“Not feeling talkative, Brandon?” she said lightly as she pulled a roll out of her pocket. His stomach clenched at the sight. He was hungry, but so far his stomach had rebelled at anything more than greasy broth. Besides, he had no wish to eat her food. He knew from experience that this was likely the first meal she’d had all day. His gaze slipped to the window to check the time. Dark. It was probably well after the show then, two or three in the morning. He looked back to her. She looked tired.
“You are staring, Brandon. Did you want a bit of bread?” She broke off a small piece and offered it to him. She even stood up beside the bed, bringing her breasts eye level to him, but she wore that ridiculous men’s shirt and so he saw nothing but cheap fabric.
She held the piece before his lips, but he shook his head. He would not take her dinner. She pressed her lips together in a tight frown, then shrugged.
“Very well,” she said as she sat back down. “I’m very pleased that you are awake. The surgeon will return tomorrow, by the way. He said that you are very lucky. Very lucky indeed.”
Yes, he had heard the surgeon’s opinion. The man talked nonstop as he’d poked and prodded into wounds that were better off left alone. Brandon had endured it in sweating silence. “Lucky” was not a word Brandon liked. Certainly not when it pertained to him, though people insisted on calling him that.
He looked away. He wanted to use the necessary, but he couldn’t move. He couldn’t do anything by himself but sit and brood. The very idea disgusted him. What a waste he had become.
“It occurs to me that you have been lying there quite a while now. Do you need the pot?”
He looked at her, his eyes wide with horror. Good God, it was bad enough that Martha and Hank helped him, but Scheherazade? The mortification—
“Do not look at me like that! Do you think I have never seen a naked man? I provided most of Pappy’s care for his last year. I assure you, you have nothing that will disgust me.”
He shook his head, and his gaze slid to the door. Would she understand that he wanted the other woman to help him, not her?
“Martha has gone to bed and Hank is exhausted. They have had the care of you all day. It is my turn now.” So saying, she stood up and grabbed the bed pan. But when she stepped close, he shoved aside her arm in irritation. He would do this himself!
Except the very act of pushing her away sent bolts of fire through his body. He bit back his scream, but he couldn’t fight the weakness that made short work of all his determination. He grabbed her arm to steady himself, and then he pulled her closer, burying his head into her chest as he fought the agony.
She held him tightly, supporting him with both hands while she pressed a kiss to the top of his head. It was that kiss that broke him. How he had wanted her to hold him, to kiss him, to do any number of things. But not this way! Not like a mother to her babe!
He was furious with her, with himself, with the entire world. He wanted no one and nothing! Instead, he clutched her even more tightly and began to sob. Great wracking sobs of despair, and the knowledge horrified him.
He felt as if his consciousness stood beside him, a silent observer from across the room. That mental awareness watched in confusion as an ocean of darkness flowed from his mouth. Where did this well of sorrow come from? It wasn’t the physical pain. He had endured that and so much worse before. This was a mental anguish that both stunned and revolted him.
He was a man, by God! And yet there he was in his sick bed, clutching Scher and bawling into her breast like a toddler. Worse, each wracking breath sent fresh torment through his wound. He’d been stabbed through his ribs. Did he want to tear himself open? He could still bleed to death. The wound could still go putrid. Worse, he could catch an ague in this godforsaken hovel. Did he want to die?
Yes.
The words came clearly to his consciousness as it stood apart from the bed.
Yes, he desperately wanted to die.
The knowledge was shocking enough that it translated all the way through to his body. His sobs stopped.
He wanted to die.
Then why the hell didn’t he take some poison and be done with it? Why make the effort of healing up, of having Scheherazade nurse him like a child? Why endure the humiliation of her seeing him like this? Why not slit his throat now?
“Shhhh. It’s all right. I’ve got a hold of you.” She was murmuring into his hair. Then as his breath began to ease, he lifted his head enough to press his cheek against hers. “I’ve got you,” she repeated. “I’ve—”
He kissed her. Clingin
g and awkward at first as he turned into her mouth. He could barely breathe, but he could press his lips to hers. He could thrust his tongue into her mouth. He could . . . he could . . . he could lose all strength in his body as he fell backward like a limp rag.
But she came with him. She supported him back down onto the bed. He needed to breathe, so she shifted to rain kisses across his lips, his nose, his cheeks. He had enough power in his hand to bunch her shapeless shirt tight in his fist. He clutched so tightly that his fingers poked a hole in the worn fabric, but he did not care. He would not release her.
Her kisses continued. His cheeks, his brow, even his eyelids, before she returned to his mouth. Once there, Brandon did not allow her to escape again. It was done with little thought. Even his consciousness that had stood apart, faded away to nothingness as he possessed her mouth.
On and on it went. Not because he didn’t want to touch her breasts or fill her body. If he wanted anything in his entire misbegotten life, it was to thrust himself into her. But he hadn’t the strength. He certainly didn’t have the technique. He had only the desperate need to touch her.
Her hands were braced on his shoulders, her forearms pressed to his sides. Between them, her breasts were flat against his bandaged chest. He could feel her heart pounding there against his. And when she shifted again, he tasted her tears. He shifted his kiss, pressed his lips to the side of her mouth and her cheek. He licked away the saltiness and pressed light kisses to her closed eyes.
“Why, Brandon?” she gasped. “Why were you in that place? Why didn’t you fight?”
Her words flowed past him without meaning. He heard anguish, not a question. He felt confusion without understanding.
“Joey and Hank followed you that night. I sent Joey after you because . . . because I was afraid for you. He and Hank . . . You remember your tiger, don’t you? They said you just collapsed. You didn’t fight. Why? Why didn’t you fight?”
