Geoffrey raked his hand through his hair. “And this one here doesn’t strike people as intimidating.”
Etienne huffed. “I am plenty intimidating. I’ll have you know—”
Geoffrey’s lips turned up. “You’re not supposed to be making us laugh now.”
His eyes softened, and his heart caught in his chest. A warm pleasure descended on him, and he immediately hated himself for that. Etienne had been attacked, and he was feeling joy at being in his presence once again? The thing was ridiculous and utterly uncalled for–a testament to all that was wrong about Geoffrey.
He swiveled his head from Etienne and caught the contemplative eyes of the duke fixed on him. His face burned, and his legs felt unsteady. The duke and Etienne had been close; he would have to know about Etienne’s experience with other men. Would he suspect the same of Geoffrey? Would he mind?
Geoffrey’s fists tightened. He reminded himself that men could feel affection toward their friends. But the fact that his duties involved upholding the law, and the law forbade sodomy, stayed with him.
How could he show the duke he was a good magistrate if he also broke the law?
The grandfather clock ticked in the silence. His eyes shot to the hands.
A knock sounded on the door, and Barnesley stepped into the room. “I am to inform you, sir, that the green room is prepared.”
“Good.” Geoffrey swallowed hard. “Please assist Etienne up the stairs.”
“I would rather not.” Barnesley set his jaw, his hands fiddling against the doorframe.
Geoffrey inhaled sharply. Other people employed more elegant butlers who did not ask questions, and Geoffrey pondered his uncle’s partiality to this man, even though he strove to acquire the best of everything else.
Geoffrey locked eyes with him. “Do it now.”
“Very well, sir.” Barnesley scowled and yanked Etienne up. He threw the man over his shoulder.
Etienne yelped and glared at Geoffrey as Barnesley sauntered out of the room. Heavy footsteps plodded up the stairs, each one lurching in his chest and twisting his heart as he considered all of Etienne’s possible injuries, all the possible ways in which Barnesley may have aggravated his pain.
The duke leaped to his feet. “Was that really necessary, Hammerstead?”
Geoffrey frowned and steeled his eyes against him.
Chapter Nine
With a huff, the duke exited the room, and the thick oak door slammed behind him, leaving Geoffrey alone with his thoughts. Scowling, Geoffrey rose and made his way to the green room. A few servants loitered in the hallway, and Barnesley stood, kneading his hat. Geoffrey sighed when he viewed him. The man appeared genuinely upset. Perhaps his uncle’s disappearance had rattled him more than Geoffrey understood. And it must be difficult seeing a former prisoner, a man reputed to not follow the law, in one of the guest rooms. The large room with the massive bed, now topped with thick cashmere and woolen blankets, would not be anything like Barnesley’s own accommodation.
Murmurs sounded through the open door, and Geoffrey approached the room, poking his head through. Flames danced merrily in the fireplace, as if oblivious to the solemnity of the occasion, and glowed over Etienne. The bruises were more apparent now, and Geoffrey hovered at the doorway. The duke sat in an armchair beside Etienne.
“Please don’t make him take care of me,” Etienne pleaded.
Geoffrey stiffened, feeling like an eavesdropper. He began making his way into the room, eager to make his presence known. The duke shot him a glance and frowned.
The duke returned his gaze to Etienne. “Will he harm you?”
Etienne shook his head and sank into the pillows. The concession did something to ease Geoffrey’s pain. Though if Etienne thought Geoffrey wouldn’t harm him, why did he resist spending time with him? Where else would he go? His eyes shot to the window, at the branches scraping against the glass, at the wind roaring through the castle turrets and into the thick trees, not bothered by impediments.
He swallowed hard and vowed to himself that Etienne would not regret staying with him.
The duke patted Etienne on the shoulder and pushed past Geoffrey.
Geoffrey hastened after him. “He shouldn’t stay here if he abhors it. Perhaps there are other options . . .”
Servants rustled in the hallway, and Geoffrey turned to glare at them. Rapid curtsies and hurried footsteps away followed.
The duke sighed and rested his hand on one of the ornate French cabinets that filled Ashbury Castle’s hallways. His grip tightened on a golden flourish. “The townspeople need to see he’s under your protection.”
“Despite his nationality.” And his past.
“Yes.” The duke forced a smile. “You can consider it one of your duties to look after him.”
Geoffrey nodded. “I’m not a nurse. Why not take him with you?”
The duke frowned. “You will be now.” He shrugged. “Call in a doctor. Whatever is best for him. But he’ll need to stay here.”
They exchanged a long, steady look. The duke called a manservant and left. A distant hollow thud sounded below.
Geoffrey swallowed and hesitated at the door to the green room. His mind returned to that afternoon at Somerset Hall. That kiss, those embraces, what had they meant?
Was Etienne desperate for money? Had he been attacked when he offered his services to others? Or had it simply been a case, as he claimed, of an attack against a Frenchman?
Now Etienne was here, near him, and professed complete dislike for him. Geoffrey smoothed his hands over his clothes.
“I think you have less to worry about your appearance than I do,” Etienne said.
Geoffrey’s face heated, and he stepped into the room.
Etienne sighed. “Is my face horribly mangled?”
Geoffrey eyed him. His cheek was scratched, his clothes torn, and his hair unkempt. Bruises dotted the parts of his body that were visible, and he imagined also the parts hidden by his clothes and blankets.
But all Geoffrey craved was to brush his lips over the bruises and pull the man closer to him. He was perfect. He always would be. Nothing could mar that. Geoffrey breathed, “You are . . . beautiful.”
Etienne’s smoky eyes darkened, and Geoffrey’s heart pounded more quickly as Etienne’s eyes melted into his.
“Oh.” Etienne turned away, his head resting on the pillow.
For a moment, Geoffrey wondered if the man had fallen asleep, and he prepared to leave the room, a task more difficult than it should have been.
“I didn’t ask the duke to bring me here.” Etienne rolled over and implored, “You must realize that, I . . .”
Etienne’s utter vulnerability struck Geoffrey. He drank in Etienne’s every gesture, every expression that fleeted upon the man’s gaunt yet striking face. His body hungered for the man; his mind dreamed of him.
Geoffrey’s nostrils flared, and his fists clenched. Anger soared through him. Anger that Etienne would plead not to spend time with him, anger that Etienne had no one else to go to, and anger that the duke deserted him there despite Etienne’s obvious unwillingness. The man had just been attacked, but he acted as if the worst thing to happen to him was ending up at Ashbury Castle. “You don’t need to make your dislike for me so apparent. Begging the duke to take you away. Running off . . .”
Etienne shut his eyes and scowled.
Geoffrey sighed. “Usually, your scowls carry more force.”
“I’m trying.” Etienne frowned, an expression of stubbornness on his face.
Geoffrey’s heartbeat quickened, and he forced his lips not to turn up.
“Time for you to sleep,” Geoffrey said.
Etienne nodded and ran a hand through his hair, his gaze lost. He moved in languid motions, and Geoffrey’s stomach clenched.
Etienne patted his side. “The doctor’s already sewn me closed.”
Geoffrey’s stomach dropped at the seriousness of the injuries, and he forced his breath to remain steady. “It’s good the duke
saw to that at least.”
“The doctor sent for him. He shouldn’t have . . . he should be with his wife.”
“I’m sure the duchess understands.”
“I’m not worth it.” Etienne’s words squeezed Geoffrey’s chest.
Geoffrey gentled his hand to rest on Etienne’s shoulder. “Will you let me see the wound?”
Etienne rustled under the blanket and then pushed it aside. A sheet still covered his bottom half, and Geoffrey undid the tie on Etienne’s robe, thankful no one had forced him into an inaccessible nightshirt.
His chest appeared before Geoffrey, one Geoffrey had felt and dreamed about but had never seen. And he had never imagined it like this, a collection of bruises and cuts that trailed to a large bandage, dotted with red and yellow.
Geoffrey’s eyes darted to the solid ridges on the man’s chest, and he pressed his lips together. Etienne would not have gone down very easily. Whoever had done this had meant to do so.
He had seen other men die from wounds from bar fights. A man might not think a single blow or stab might kill a man, but Geoffrey knew that it did.
But Etienne had not experienced a single blow, unfortunately directed. He had received many.
Geoffrey’s voice tightened, and pain flashed through him. “You need to tell me who did this.”
Etienne jutted his chin out. “It’s because I’m French. And they thought I was Catholic.”
“And that’s everything?” Geoffrey narrowed his eyes, and Etienne froze and turned his head away.
Etienne’s voice shook as he continued, “It’s the fifth of November. I should have stayed inside. It’s my fault.”
Geoffrey’s fists clenched together, the anger simmering inside, threatening to veer out. He sucked in a deep breath and grabbed Etienne’s face, guiding it toward his own. “This is not your fault.”
Etienne blinked and averted his eyes.
“Look at me,” Geoffrey growled. “Did you attack them?”
Etienne shook his head.
“No one does this. No one should do this. And whoever does—well you cannot blame yourself for this.”
Etienne’s breathing quickened, and Geoffrey returned his attention to the man’s chest. He longed to brush his fingers around the bruises, to kiss them, to hold Etienne in his arms and promise to never let anyone hurt him again. But that wasn’t his place. If it ever might have been, he had ruined it, his words too insensitive, his mind too bewildered to chase after Etienne when he had the chance to do so.
And then the man had vanished. Perhaps he might have asked the duke, but . . . the duke hardly liked him anyway, and he could not be anything for Etienne, even if the man returned his burgeoning feelings. It had been better for them to separate then. Hadn’t it been?
His temple throbbed, and a familiar pain filled him.
Geoffrey undid Etienne’s bandage, eager to focus on providing some ease to Etienne’s troubles. He washed Etienne’s wound, noting the man’s tight jaw. “You are welcome to groan.”
Etienne’s lips turned up. “This is hardly the moment for sounds of pleasure.”
“Displeasure,” Geoffrey stammered. “Definitely displeasure. Not that I want you to feel pain.”
Etienne’s lips twitched, and he winked his good eye. The movement was perhaps slower than normal, but Geoffrey treasured it, and a smidgeon of warmth spread through him.
Geoffrey put a fresh bandage on Etienne, one untainted by the yellow poison seeping from the old dressing. He fastened the bandage to Etienne, smoothing down the cloth. His fingers trembled as they grazed Etienne’s skin, the smidgeon of warmth growing into something much stronger. His hands moistened, and he swallowed hard.
He yearned to bury himself in Etienne’s chest. His breath deepened, unsteady. Slowly, he moved Etienne’s robe back over his chest and pulled Etienne’s blanket farther over him.
He allowed his eyes to gaze at Etienne’s face, for some reason more flushed. The man’s breath seemed to be harder, and Geoffrey bit his lip and pressed his hand against the man’s forehead. Does he have a fever? Is he worse?
Geoffrey pushed hair that clung to Etienne’s damp forehead away before dropping his hand, conscious that Etienne wouldn’t want him to touch him like this. Etienne’s eyes seemed unfocused, and a pang of worry rushed through Geoffrey.
He stood up. “I’ll get you a better nurse in the morning. I promise.”
“You’re—” Etienne dropped whatever he was going to say, undoubtedly seeing the value of bringing someone with experience in, someone who would heal the man and not make him worse.
“The men, who were they?” Geoffrey said, changing the subject from his own ineffectiveness.
Etienne shook his head, his eyes glazed. “Not to be named.”
Geoffrey frowned.
“I’ll ask a maid to bring some ice to keep you from swelling and descending farther into a fever.” Geoffrey tucked his hands behind his back. “Are you hungry? Would you like broth brought up to you?”
Etienne shook his head, a weak smile on his face. “Sleep now.”
“Right.” Geoffrey paused by the bed. “Good night, then.”
He didn’t wait for Etienne to answer, or more likely not answer, relieved to be alone.
He was grateful Barnesley was still in the hallway. “I don’t want him to be left alone. Get a maid.”
Barnesley nodded, his eyes fixed on Geoffrey. “Is it true that the attack was directed at him because he was French?”
Geoffrey gritted his teeth. “That’s none of your concern, Barnesley.”
Barnesley nodded tersely and headed downstairs.
“Make sure she has ice,” Geoffrey called after him.
“Very well, sir,” Barnesley said, his booming voice doing something to lessen Geoffrey’s worry, though he didn’t leave until a maid entered Etienne’s room.
*
When he awoke the next day, Geoffrey resolved not to visit Etienne again. Clearly, his presence wasn’t improving matters.
He hurled himself in his work, moving from the prison to the library. The green room lay above the library, and the sound of footsteps on the floorboards assuaged his pain. Etienne is being taking care of. He isn’t alone.
He longed to visit the man and push aside his morning vow. The footsteps above never lessened, if anything, they moved faster. He frowned and rose from his chair. He marched up the stairs, telling himself he wouldn’t bother Etienne and that the doctor would see him later that day. Nevertheless, the pace of his footsteps didn’t waver, not where Etienne was concerned.
Soft moans floated from the room and jabbed at Geoffrey’s heart. He swallowed and poked his head into the green room.
Horror struck him.
Etienne’s moans were louder now, filling the room. The drapes were shut, and grim looks were fastened on the faces of the maids. Etienne’s head tossed back and forth, the soft pillows doing nothing to ease the man’s pain. Sweat dampened his hair, which lay slick against his face, making him appear smaller, more fragile. The blankets were pulled down, and the maids rushed to pile ice on his chest. The man’s shirt was drenched, and Geoffrey rushed over to him, his heart thudding, hoping this was some nightmare he had fallen into, forced by his long night yesterday and not life itself.
Barnesley appeared behind the door. Geoffrey’s eyes widened, surprised the man was worrying over Etienne.
A maid was attempting to push water down Etienne’s throat, but he thrust her hand away, uttering “No” repeatedly, as if he were trapped in yesterday’s fight.
Geoffrey’s heart ached for Etienne, and he hurried over to the bed. He opened his mouth to scold the others for not telling him but then closed it. They were doing what they could.
“Tell me what to do,” he whispered to one of the maids.
She darted a startled glance at him. “His shirt’s drenched. Proper cold now.”
And it isn’t helping; nothing is helping.
“We need more ice and wate
r. He’s melting all of it.” She brushed a hand over her forehead. “And if only we can get him to drink something.”
Geoffrey swallowed. “Fetch more ice and water. We’ll handle it until you’re back.”
Geoffrey turned to Barnesley, trying to hide his astonishment that the man would be here when he hadn’t been asked to do so, when he had barely agreed to help the man up the stairs last night. “Remove his robe.”
“Yes, m’lord.” Barnesley’s hands swiftly undid Etienne’s clothes.
“He should have fresh bedding too.” Geoffrey’s eyes went to the wooden chest that stood in every room, a chest he never touched, and opened it up. He grabbed hold of two sheets, grateful that Barnesley moved on to drying Etienne.
Barnesley helped Geoffrey move Etienne to one corner of the bed while the maid changed one side of the bed. They then lifted Etienne to the fresh, dry side while the maid finished changing the bed.
Her eyes widened. “Caw, it’s good to have two nice, strong men to help.”
Geoffrey gave her a grim smile, his eyes not leaving Etienne for long.
Etienne still refused to drink water, groaning as the maid attempted to touch him.
“Let me.” Geoffrey lifted the back of Etienne’s head with his hands. His heart pounded as the strain on Etienne’s face became apparent, as the man’s vacant stare haunted him.
Etienne’s eyes flickered when Geoffrey touched his hand. When the maid pressed a glass to Etienne’s lips, they froze. Etienne pushed the water away violently, spilling it over the fresh clothes and bedding.
The gesture sent shots of pain through Geoffrey, as if Etienne had poured icy water on him. He pressed his lips together, angry the man was injured, angry he wasn’t recovered. What if he never recovers?
Geoffrey cursed under his breath. He leaned his head toward Etienne and massaged the man’s temples. He made soothing noises, as if calming a frightened horse.
Etienne continued to flail, bucking against the blankets, against the ice meant to calm him, against the crowded room in a strange new place.
Except for Geoffrey.
Whom he despised. Whom he ran from. Whom he begged to disappear from.
Captured At The Castle (Scandal in Sussex Book 2) Page 9