Fall from Trace

by Rebecca Connolly

  Could she?

  Suddenly, he moaned, the sound weak and one of pure agony, and she was by his side in a moment, taking his hand and squeezing.

  “Easy,” she murmured gently. “Easy. It’s all right.”

  He moaned again, writhing at her touch, then wincing as his body moved.

  Poppy couldn’t see what might have injured him, but she shook her head quickly. “Easy, Alex. It’s all right, you’re safe. Just rest.”

  He turned towards the sound of her voice, his eyes still closed, and inhaled deeply, his head bobbing in a feverish motion. His lips moved soundlessly, but his fingers returned her hold with the faintest pressure.

  She smiled at the sensation. “I’ve got you. Just rest.”

  Alex’s chin dipped, and his head lay back fully against the pillows, exhaling as though the weight of the world were upon him. His breathing deepened again, and she knew that he was once more unconscious or asleep, though she doubted there would be much difference between the two at this state.

  Poppy turned to the pitcher and bowl, pouring the cool water into it and soaking a rag. She glanced at Alex with a wry smile. “I’m not sure if I should cool you or bathe you at the moment. You’re a filthy mess, and it’s going to take quite some time to change that.”

  She placed a cool rag on his brow, then soaked another and ran it down his neck and chest. “Honestly, I’m not even sure where to begin here. Your fever is high, you’re pale as death, your breathing isn’t quite steady… And then there are the wounds…”

  Wringing out a third rag, she shook her head at her foolishness. Talking to an unconscious man in light tones as though it would make her feel better. It felt so forced and false, so stupid, considering all she had been through. He had clearly been through a great deal as well, though she couldn’t know for how long or why.

  She had to find a way. She had to pretend that Alex was someone else, any other man who had stumbled across her path, sick, wounded, and in need of help. That man would need comfort, goodness, and warmth, and as much as she would like to be distant and cold with Alex until she had some answers, seeing him like this would force her to save that for a less precarious time.

  This wasn’t about her.

  It had to be about Alex.

  Alex…

  A memory flashed across her mind as she set the third rag against his overheated skin.

  Alex had just returned from spending two months in London, and she had raced to Parkerton to see him on foot, which had appalled her mother and Rosemary for its indecency. Poppy hadn’t cared, nor had Alex. He’d been crossing the grounds to see her as well, forgoing the formality of cravat, coat, or gloves, and when she’d crossed over onto Parkerton grounds and seen him coming towards Whitesdown, she’d run at him full tilt, and he’d done the same, his grin as brilliant as the sun itself.

  He’d picked her up and swung her around and around until she was almost dizzy, then taken her face in his hands and kissed her until she was more than dizzy, and she’d swayed into him in her mad delirium for him. Then they’d stood there together, arms tight around each other, murmuring softly, inhaling the scent of each other, reveling in being in their favorite place on earth.

  In each other’s arms.

  “I love you more every time I leave,” Alex had whispered with a kiss just above her ear.

  “Then may you leave me every day until you cannot love me more,” she’d replied, as she’d run her hand up his neck and into his hair. “I’m already there.”

  He’d kissed her so sweetly, so passionately then, and when they finally parted, they’d walked the Parkerton grounds together at a slow, leisurely pace, fingers entwined.

  He’d died four months later.

  Except he hadn’t.

  He was here.

  Poppy stared at him again, half expecting him to disappear when she blinked.

  What cruel twist of fate was this?

  “Water, Miss Edgewood,” Stanton called from the kitchen, stirring her from her reverie.

  “Good,” she managed to reply, turning to the linens she’d brought. “I’m going to start tearing strips to tend his wounds.”

  She heard the buckets of water hit the floor of the kitchen, and Stanton’s heavy footfalls in her direction. “Excellent thought. Some of those are fresh, I’d wager, and need tending.” He rounded the other side of the bed and took a closer look at Alex, rolling up his sleeves. “Think he’d take to some barley water, Miss Edgewood? Might bring down the fever.”

  “I don’t know,” Poppy murmured as she tore the linen into strips. “I’m not sure how coherent he is at the moment. He barely stirred as I tried to cool him.”

  Stanton made a soft noise and felt for a pulse on Alex’s neck, making a face. “Strong enough, but not good.” His brow furrowed and he straightened. “Wounds need tending, but he’s not clean enough. Best be about washing him before we think about that.”

  Poppy balked and her face flamed, her focus on the linen strips intensifying.

  “I’ll fetch him some of my things for him to wear once we’ve done that,” Stanton said brusquely. “What he’s wearing needs to be burned.”

  She nodded by way of answer.

  A loud ripping sound split the air and she turned on the bed to look at Stanton in surprise. He didn’t even glance in her direction as he continued to tear the tattered tunic from Alex’s body, opening the fabric to expose his chest fully, and swearing softly when he’d done so.

  Poppy’s vision seemed to blur as she stared at the open expanse of chest and abdomen. While it was just as taut and muscular as ever, she had not expected to see each of his ribs on display. Nor the expanse of marks crisscrossing the skin. Long, angry, faded scars, and fresh, bright ones, some that still bled though not with any intensity.

  “Lashes,” Stanton stated without emotion. “Among other things, and likely worse on the back.”

  “What’s worse?” she whispered, though she didn’t want to know.

  He swallowed as he stared at Alex. “Flaying.”

  Poppy swallowed, a lump forming in her throat. These were brutal marks, and she could not imagine enduring them time and time again. She reached out to touch a short, raised line that ran vertically on his lower abdomen, unlike the rest that seemed to have been haphazardly strewn about.

  “And this?” she whispered as she touched it.

  Stanton glanced at it. “Stabbing.” He pointed to the shoulder nearest him. “Here, too.” He shook his head and lifted Alex’s arm to pull the sleeve from it. “I have no doubt we’ll find more.” He looked up at Poppy then. “Can you stomach this, madam? I can manage alone if I must, but it would be easier to have you assist.”

  “I’m fine,” she assured him, though her shaky voice betrayed her. “I’ve just never seen anyone look like this.”

  “Nor should you have,” he returned with a nod. “This is not the sort of thing any genteel young lady should witness.”

  Poppy smiled at that. “Then it’s a good thing I am neither genteel nor a young lady anymore, isn’t it?”

  Stanton smiled crookedly at her. “Indeed it is. Let’s get this off him, shall we? Then I’ll get some vinegar and water to dress the wounds.”

  She nodded and rose, taking Alex’s other arm and peeling the tattered fabric off him. She frowned at the awkward way the arm moved and stared at it once it was bare.

  “Stanton…” she said slowly. “Something’s not right with his arm.”

  He came around the bed and examined it for a moment, then hissed something incoherent under his breath. “Dislocated. Not completely, it seems as though he tried to put it back in himself.”

  Bile rose within Poppy’s throat, and she looked up at Stanton with a frown. “Is that even possible?”

  “Possible, yes.” He lifted the arm again, twisting it slightly. “Successful, not often.” He nudged his head at her. “Come over here and hold him, will you? He may not like this.”

  Poppy came around S
tanton and lifted Alex slightly, his head lolling back onto her shoulder as she settled him against her. She bit her lip and looked heavenward, praying for the strength to endure being so close to him, with his head against her and her arms around him.

  “Ready?” Stanton asked, taking Alex’s arm and holding it away from the body, his grip like one he might have had on a rope.

  Poppy nodded and tightened her hold, squeezing her eyes shut.

  She felt the pressure when Stanton pulled Alex’s arm, a slow and steady pressure that seemed to build, and then…

  Clunk.

  She opened her eyes and looked at the arm, normal but for the marks upon and around it. “Did you get it?”

  “Think so.” Stanton bent the elbow and laid Alex’s arm across his stomach. “We’ll sling that once we’re done with the rest. He must be worse off than we thought, Miss Edgewood. He didn’t even stir.”

  Poppy felt a weak sigh course through her, and her arms tightened around Alex once more briefly.

  “I was afraid of that.”

  Stanton took the weight of Alex’s body from her and she scooted back out, looking down at her skirts and apron, now smeared with numerous bright streaks of blood. “Stanton…”

  He saw it and looked at Alex’s back, hissing at once and looking away as he gingerly lowered him back to the bed. “Dammit. Flaying. We’ll deal with that later, Miss Edgewood. There’s much else to see to.”

  That was undoubtedly true, but somehow having Alex’s blood on her clothes brought all of this to a new level, and a frightening reality settled on her.

  Alex was here. Alex was really and truly here, and he was alive. But he was bleeding, feverish, and weak, and if she did not do something, he could die all over again. Only this time, she would be to blame, and the guilt and shame would be of her own making.

  Whatever reason had brought him back into her life, had brought him back from the dead, she couldn’t resent him while he was like this, nor could she be just a patient, considerate observer.

  This was Alexander Sommerville, Lord Parkerton. The only man she had ever loved.

  And this time, she would fight to keep him alive.

  Poppy exhaled shortly and squared her shoulders. “I’ll wipe the dirt and grime from him, you bandage.”

  “Let’s make that the other way around, shall we?” Stanton chuckled. “You’ve a gentler hand than me, and he might not appreciate a woman washing him in this state.”

  Her cheeks flamed, but she nodded in agreement.

  Silently, they worked in tandem, Stanton wiping the skin down with the cool, wet rags while Poppy soaked strip after strip of linen in the vinegar water, laying it upon the marks on his chest and stomach. She paused only briefly to boil some water and barley for him, then returned once that was done.

  Through it all, Alex never so much as stirred, though his breathing was almost steady now. Stanton, for all his size and his words on the subject, had a light touch, gentle in his ministrations and careful to a precise degree.

  Poppy watched as Stanton pulled Alex’s boots off, though she winced and looked away when the battered and bruised feet appeared. She bit down on her lips hard and focused on dipping more linen into the vinegar and water mixture.

  “Might as well keep your eyes averted, Miss Edgewood,” Stanton warned. “I need to remove the trousers now. I’ll be quick about it and cover him.”

  She nodded and kept her eyes down at the rags, her fingers absently working at them and wringing them.

  “Bloody hell, Trace,” she heard Stanton whisper, though she had no idea if he was speaking to Alex or just speaking aloud. Not that it mattered in any way, but it was curious.

  She had no doubt now that he knew Alex somehow, but it was not the time to ask about it. Nor, she supposed, to ask how he knew the manner of wound and illness care that he was demonstrating that night. It was all part of his past, and they had an unspoken agreement not to discuss that.

  Just as he did not know many of the particulars of hers.

  “All right, madam,” he said at last. “He’s covered enough. I’ll keep with the washing down here on his legs.”

  Poppy raised her head and wrung out the linens again. “Anything that needs tending on his legs or feet?”

  There was a long moment of hesitation, and then Stanton rumbled, “Not anymore.”

  Oh, she couldn’t bear this. Couldn’t stand to see anyone who had been treated this way, let alone someone she had once known so well and so dearly. She knew Alex would never have shown any of this to her, and probably not to anyone, and to see him this way seemed a violation of his confidence somehow. For his own good, certainly, but guilt still flickered within her.

  “Right,” she replied after a long moment, keeping her tone formal and businesslike. “In a moment, I shall require your assistance to sit him up or turn him so I might see to his back.”

  “Yes, Miss Edgewood,” he said in a matching tone.

  It seemed they both needed to feel detached about this, and that comforted her.

  Poppy laid another strip of soaked linen across Alex’s abdomen when suddenly he moaned loudly, jerking her attention up to his face.

  “Alex?”

  He moaned again, his legs shifting restlessly, his hands clenching at his sides.

  Poppy scrambled up to him. “Alex, shh…”

  Alex’s frame suddenly went rigid and his back arched off the bed as he released a pained cry like the screeching howl of an animal and his arms shook with the force of it.

  “Stanton!” Poppy shrieked, taking Alex’s face in her hands and trying to soothe him with her touch.

  Stanton moved quickly to the center of the bed, placing his hands and forearms along the sides of Alex’s body.

  “Steady, lad. Steady now.”

  Alex bared his clenched teeth, his breath hissing past them frantically as he groaned in agony.

  “Oh, Alex,” Poppy whispered, smoothing her hand across his cheek. “Shh… It’s all right.”

  She rubbed his jaw and throat gently, feeling the tightened muscles there and attempting in vain to help them relax.

  “Barley water,” Stanton ground out as he forced Alex’s body back to the bed. “Or laudanum, if you can get it down.”

  “We don’t have laudanum just sitting around the house,” Poppy snapped, throwing a glare at him.

  Stanton returned her look with exasperation. “Then get the damned barley water and get his fever down.” He smiled a little. “I’ll keep him here, go.”

  She heaved a frustrated sigh and dashed to the kitchen, pulling the water completely away from the fire and pouring a cup of the mixture, her hands shaking as she did so. Then she was taking cup and saucer back to the room and sitting back beside Alex, practically on top of him as she cupped the back of his head with one hand and brought the cup to his lips with the other.

  “Here, love,” she murmured, stroking his hair as best she could. “Drink a little. Drink.”

  His neck tensed for a long moment, and his lips pressed together until they were white.

  “Please, Alex,” Poppy whispered. “Please.”

  He moaned again, then his face and neck softened on an exhale.

  Poppy gently poured the warm liquid into his mouth, some of it dribbling down the front of him. “Don’t be a baby,” she hissed, finding a way to smile. “Drink it like a man. Swallow it.”

  Amazingly, he did so, though not much of it before he began to shake and tremble all over.

  “Stanton?” Poppy asked with some alarm.

  “More cool rags,” he ordered, removing himself from Alex and coming to her. “Talk to him, Poppy. Say anything. Just talk to him.”

  She could count on one hand the number of times Stanton had used her Christian name, but she knew he had never done so with such gentleness.

  Tears burned at the corners of her eyes, and she took the rags from Alex’s skin, dipping them in cool water again.

  “Violet has suitors now, Alex
,” Poppy told him as she laid another cloth to his brow. “Can you imagine that? Five of them, if her letter is to be believed.”

  She continued to chatter aimlessly as though they were old friends who needed catching up as she and Stanton set more cool compresses and rags on his skin until his shaking ceased. Then, they returned to wiping the dirt and binding his wounds, but Poppy continued to talk to him, telling him about the farm, about their financial situation, about the workers she wanted to hire for the rest of the harvest.

  Stanton pulled Alex to a sitting position so Poppy could lay strips on the raw flesh of his back, and she forced herself not to stare or think about what had caused such savage marks, or the scars beneath them. Layers upon layers of scars and marks, so his back no longer resembled anything of the sort. She kept up a steady stream of one-sided conversation, which seemed to keep Alex from roaring with pain again, though he did moan occasionally.

  They carefully secured the strips with bands of linen, and then Stanton picked Alex up completely while Poppy changed the bed linens.

  Once Alex was settled again and sleeping peacefully, Poppy sank into a chair she’d pulled to the edge of the bed and rested her head against the counterpane, her throat raw.

  “Go to bed, Miss Edgewood,” Stanton urged. “I’ll watch him.”

  She shook her head against the bed. “I’ll stay here. But if you could bring in the tub and fill it with water, that would be helpful.”

  “Planning a bath?”

  She laughed softly and looked up at him. “If we can’t get his fever down, we might have to set him in there to cool.”

  Stanton blinked at that. “And ruin everything we’ve just done for his wounds.”

  Poppy nodded, the idea exhausting her.

  He glared at Alex’s sleeping form. “If we have to redo that in a few hours, I will kill him in earnest this time.”

  It wasn’t funny, not in the least, but she found herself chuckling at that. “Thank you, Stanton.”

  He looked at her with a soft smile. “Of course, madam. Get some rest while you can. It may be a long night.” He nodded and turned from the room.

  Poppy turned back to Alex, the arm closest to her finally secured to him with linen as well.