by Anne Gracie
He caught Briggs looking at him oddly and said, “I sometimes like to sit and ponder my wines.”
“Very good, sir, m’lord, sir.” All the servants were thrilled by his elevation and were “m’lording” him at every opportunity. Apparently it reflected well on them.
He fetched half a dozen candles, a tinderbox, a jug of water, a cup, a small wrapped loaf of bread, a knife to cut it with, and a book. He surveyed his preparations and wrinkled his nose. Bread and water was just too prison-ish.
He went back to the kitchen and asked his new cook if there was anything nice to snack on. She filled a tin with ginger biscuits and macaroons, then added a large slice of cake wrapped in waxed paper, and some jam tarts, saying, “There you are, sir, that’ll keep you going until dinnertime.”
Thomas took the tin down to the cellar. The little hidden corner was looking positively homey now. It wouldn’t be too much of a hardship for Rose to be locked in there for a few hours.
He thought of something else, and fetched a large china chamber pot.
Now Briggs really did look at him oddly.
“Might grow herbs in it,” Thomas said vaguely.
Then he headed off to finalize his arrangements. He called in on Phipps, Phipps and Yarwood, Rose’s family lawyers, to make out his will, leaving everything to her, and to make arrangements to collect the gold the following morning. He called in at his bank to see if anything further had come to light about his stolen money—nothing had. He visited Ollie to thank him for his friendship and assistance.
He came home in quite a gloomy mood.
Rose, surprisingly, was quite cheerful. She was full of plans. “I’ve only packed my oldest summer dresses,” she told him. “No point in ruining my new ones with seawater, and heaven knows what maid service we’ll get. See what an efficient wife you have? I’m all packed.” She pointed to a neat little red leather case sitting by the front door. “I’m not taking much. I thought it might be fun to go shopping when we arrive in Mogador. They have markets there, don’t they? I want to get one of those dresses you told me about that covers everything except the eyes.”
Thomas had nothing to say about that. His own bags had been sent to the ship already. He brought down a small, neat valise and set it beside hers. Only one of those bags was going onto the ship, and it wasn’t the red one.
“Dinner in fifteen minutes,” she said brightly.
“I’ll fetch some wine.”
“Oh, we don’t need any—” she began, but Thomas pretended not to hear. He wanted to check the cellar one last time.
Briggs had outdone himself. The floor looked freshly mopped. Briggs had also apparently taken it on himself to rearrange the furniture. He’d brought in a different chair and laid a small rug in front of it. Thomas didn’t see the point of the changes but he didn’t care.
He selected a bottle of wine—an excellent vintage for what was possibly their last dinner together—and went back upstairs. The dining room was a picture, with a low floral centerpiece in the middle of the table, flanked by two handsome candlesticks. Silver and crystal twinkled in the candlelight.
Dinner was served. They didn’t talk much. There would be no further argument. Their positions had been stated repeatedly, and Thomas was determined to make his last night with his wife a pleasant one.
He told her a few stories about his childhood at Brierdon Court. She told him that in the morning Kirk would be coming past with their horses, as usual. That suited Thomas. He enjoyed those morning rides with Rose and her family and the relaxed breakfasts all together afterward. And it would give him a chance to say good-bye to them all.
It was the closest they came to discussing the future, but it sat heavy and unacknowledged at the table with them.
The new cook had outdone herself, but Thomas wasn’t much interested in food. They drank and ate and at the end they rose from the table and with one accord went upstairs to bed.
Their lovemaking then was intense, with an edge of desperation—at least that was how it felt to Thomas. He was memorizing her, he realized at one point, making sure he knew exactly how she tasted here, how soft her skin was there, how her breath hitched just so when he did this, and how she shuddered and clutched at him, making that little humming noise she did when he did that.
And when he realized he was going over her like a damned accountant, trying to save her up for the long lonely days, or more, ahead—as if Rose could ever be summed up in some kind of list—he threw his mental notebook away and buried himself in her, losing himself in her, in the world of their bed. Alone. Oblivious. Together.
Afterward they lay, spent, sweaty and exhausted in each other’s arms. The curtains were open, and faint light from the waning gibbous moon cast the room in shades of slate and silver.
“Thomas?”
“Mmm?”
“You do know that I love you, don’t you?”
A thick knot formed in his throat. He tightened his hold on her.
“You love me too, don’t you?”
The knot thickened. He couldn’t bring himself to speak, not to speak those words she craved. They stuck in his throat.
But she sounded so small and uncertain in the dusky night, so unlike the bold, funny, stubborn, mischievous woman he’d married. And he was planning to leave her tomorrow, locked in the cellar, while he went off to who-knew-what. From which he might never come back.
But saying such things, opening yourself to those feelings, admitting them, it made a man vulnerable, too vulnerable.
Why did women want the words anyway?
Words were cheap. Words could pretend one thing and mean another. Words could deceive. Words betrayed. It was actions that counted, not words.
Words did not matter, he told himself as he covered her mouth with his and poured his feelings into a kiss.
* * *
* * *
They made love again into the wee small hours, and slept then. But they’d left the curtains open and were woken by the dawn. They made love one last time, leisurely, lingering over each brush of skin against skin, each touch and caress and taste, as if they had all the time in the world. Refusing to acknowledge the inevitable.
“Kirk will be here in twenty minutes.”
They washed and dressed swiftly and in silence, watching each other, not covertly but openly, boldly. She watched him shave. It was almost erotic. He nicked himself twice, failing to concentrate, watching her watching him.
He watched the way she luxuriated in the caress of the hot water, patted herself dry then smoothed fragrant cream into her skin, sensuous and deeply feminine. He sighed as she shimmied into her chemise, a delicious quivering of female flesh, slipped on a thin silk shirt, then buttoned her glorious curves into the tight-fitting jacket of her habit. He took her hairbrush from her and brushed her hair with slow lingering strokes and she laughed and shook it out carelessly, a gleaming golden mane to be tucked under her riding hat.
Memorizing again. He swallowed. Four hours left with Rose. He didn’t want to waste a minute.
Kirk arrived with the horses and they set off for the park. The crisp, clear morning was a taunt, carrying the promise of summer. He’d be gone by then. They picked their way through carts and barrows and shouting men and darting boys and escaped cabbages. Market day.
“Is it like this on market day in Mogador?”
“In some ways,” he said curtly. “Not in others.” A cacophony of vibrant colors and odors and noise and people and animals—the same, only different. Very different. Some of the people wore chains.
“I can’t wait to see.”
He wasn’t going to talk about it. Didn’t want to think about it.
They met the rest of Rose’s family at the park entrance. “Come on, sluggards, race you!” Lady George yelled, and took off on her spectacular black stallion. And so began a wild race th
rough the park, a mock hunt chasing a girl on a swift black horse and a shaggy gray long-legged dog.
Shouts of laughter, mock threats, pounding hooves, the heat of the horses, the blast of fresh air through the lungs. Thomas gulped it all down. Memorizing.
Finally the mad race slowed and they came to a halt, breathless and laughing. “One of these days you’ll get us all banned from the park, George,” Lily said, laughing.
“Pooh, you didn’t have to follow. Anyway, there’s nobody around—nobody who cares, at any rate. All the stuffy people are still abed. I’d go mad if I couldn’t have my morning gallop, and so would Sultan and Finn.”
“I’m going to water my horse,” Galbraith said, and they trotted toward the lake, two by two. Thomas and Rose trailed behind. “I’m going to miss this,” Rose said. “But they have wonderful horses in Arabia, don’t they? George named her horse Sultan because he’s half Arab. She raised him herself, from a c—”
There was a loud bang. It sounded like a gunshot but surely it couldn’t be, not in a public park. Thomas looked around but could see nobody. He turned to Rose. “What do you think that w— Rose!”
Under his horrified gaze she tilted sideways and would have fallen to the ground had he not lunged across and steadied her. “Rose!”
She muttered something, and her weight suddenly increased. She’d fainted. The horses shifted restlessly and with some difficulty Thomas managed to free her from her sidesaddle and half lift, half drag her across to his own saddle.
She lay across his lap, cradled in his arms, wan and senseless. A dark stain was spreading across the back of her jacket. One-handed he unbuttoned it and pulled it down. The flimsy white silk shirt she wore underneath was saturated with blood.
Thomas ripped off his neckcloth, wadded it up and pressed it against the bloody wound on Rose’s back. It turned instantly red.
“What the devil’s going on?” Ashendon rode up. He took one look at Rose and blanched. “Oh, my God. Not again!”
Again? It made no sense to Thomas. “She’s been shot.”
“I can see that. Get her to Ashendon House. I’ll fetch a doctor.”
“No, a surgeon in case the ball is still in her.”
“I know who to fetch,” Ashendon snapped. “Just get her out of here.”
Thomas was already moving. His every instinct was to ride like the wind, but he had to keep the pace slow and gentle because to jolt Rose any more would worsen her injury and increase the bleeding.
Her eyelids fluttered and she moaned.
“Stay with me, love. I’m here. You’re all right, I have you safe.” Nonsense, he was talking utter nonsense. Safe? She was bleeding all over him.
Lily rode up beside him. “Rose, are you all right, Rose?” she called distressfully. She brought her horse up close and took one of Rose’s limp hands. “You’re going to be all right, Rose. Isn’t she, Thomas?” Her eyes were wet with tears.
Rose made a little sound and stirred in his arms.
He kept his voice calm. “I know it hurts, love, but I think it’s just a flesh wound. I’m taking you home. You’re going to be fine, just fine.” Flesh wound? He had no idea what kind of a wound it was. He couldn’t tell because of all the blood.
They left the park and entered the traffic. His horse sidestepped suddenly to avoid a piece of rubbish blowing along the road, and Rose gasped and clutched at him.
Her pain burned him. “Hold on, love. Not long now.”
“Love you, Thomas.” Her voice was a thread.
He wanted to pull her tight, shower her with kisses, force her back to wellness, to wholeness, to turn back time. But all he had were words, useless words. “And I—” he began. But she’d fainted.
Lady George had ridden ahead to warn Emm of the situation, and when Thomas reached Ashendon House he found them ready and waiting. Rose was gently lifted from his arms and carried upstairs to her old bedchamber. Emm and her maidservant peeled off the blood-sodden clothing and washed the blood away. They soaked a clean pad in vinegar and kept it pressed against the wound. Lily fluttered around, useless in her distress.
Rose barely stirred. She was breathing, at least.
Thomas watched, clenching and unclenching his fists in helpless anguish.
“It looks nasty,” Emm told him, “but I don’t think it’s fatal.”
Thomas said nothing. Emm meant well, of course, but what would a gently reared society lady know of gunshot wounds? People died all the time of quite small injuries. A tiny cut on a finger, a scratch from a thorn or a fishhook could turn septic for no apparent reason and suddenly the person was dead.
He bent and smoothed back the tumbled golden hair from the pale forehead. Where the hell was that blasted doctor? Not that he would necessarily help. Treatment by doctors often made no difference. There were no guarantees.
“I’m told my own wound looked almost as bad,” Emm said quietly, and he stared at her in shock. With an understanding smile, she touched her shoulder. “Just here. I was shot in the park, too, in mistake for my husband.”
The doctor arrived then, and shooed everyone out except for Lady Ashendon and her maidservant. “I’ll tend to the patient better without having all you people hanging over my every movement,” he said brusquely. “A couple of sensible women, that’s all I need. No brooding husbands, no fretting sisters.”
Thomas didn’t want to leave, but Ashendon drew him aside. “He’s good. When my wife was shot, he brought her through it without incident.” He coaxed Thomas out into the hallway, fetched a couple of chairs from a nearby room, sat him down and poured him a brandy. Thomas tossed it down in a single hit.
“Lady Ashendon really was shot?” Thomas said when he could talk.
Ashendon nodded. “In the shoulder. Long story, but someone was after me, and shot her by accident.”
“And this same doctor treated her?”
“Yes, and she recovered perfectly, as you can see.”
A slender thread of hope to hang on to. “Did you get the man who shot her?”
“I did,” Ashendon said grimly.
“I don’t suppose you saw who shot Rose?”
Ashendon shook his head. “Kirk and Galbraith are scouring the park as we speak, looking for the swine.”
Thomas sank his head into his hands. “But why? Why would anyone want to shoot Rose?”
“Could be an accident. Might not have been Rose they were after.”
“You think they wanted me? Then curse their bad marksmanship. I’d happily die in her place!” He stared at the closed bedchamber door in frustration. “What the devil is taking them so long?”
Ashendon poured him another brandy.
* * *
* * *
The doctor had finished treating Rose. “I’ve done all I can for her now,” he told Thomas, adding when he saw how Thomas had blanched, “meaning I’ll come back tomorrow and see how she’s progressing. I’ve removed the ball and we’ll see how she goes from there. It’s quite high, almost at the shoulder, and no vital organs are affected, and as far as I can tell, no bone was shattered. I have every reason to hope she’ll make a full recovery.”
Thomas breathed again. “Can I see her now?’
The doctor shrugged. “If you like, but don’t disturb her. I’ve given her something to help her sleep.”
“And she’ll make a full recovery?”
The doctor held up a warning finger. “I never said that. These things tend to run their own course. All we can do is try to manage it. I’ve warned Lady Ashendon to expect some fever—that’s the worst of these gunshot wounds. There’s no way to be sure.”
“Then what do we do?”
The doctor sighed. “Wait, and pray. When the fever comes, treat it as you would any fever and hope it breaks quickly.”
“And if it doesn’t?”
The doctor tutted gently. “Let’s cross that bridge if and when we come to it.” He picked up his bag and left, promising to return in the morning.
Thomas went in and sat down beside Rose’s bed. She lay on her front wedged with pillows to prevent her from rolling onto her back. What he could see of her face was deathly pale, but she was sleeping peacefully enough, from what he could tell.
Ashendon poked his head in. “How is she?”
“Asleep.”
“And you’re just going to sit there and watch her, are you?”
Thomas frowned. What else could he do? Ashendon beckoned. Thomas didn’t want to leave. Ashendon beckoned more forcefully, and Thomas sighed, glanced at Rose, kissed her on the forehead and left the room.
“It’s nearly noon,” Ashendon said.
Thomas blinked. “So?”
“Didn’t you plan to be on your ship by now? You can still make it. We’ll take good care of Rose, you can be sure of that.”
Thomas stared at him. “Are you mad? I wouldn’t leave Rose now for—” He shook his head, unable to think of a way to finish the sentence. “I’m not leaving.”
Ashendon gave him a long look. “You’re sure? You’ve been set on this thing as long as I’ve known you.”
“I know.”
“You’re going to abandon your plan to bring those men home?”
“No.” He glanced at the door to Rose’s bedchamber. “But I can’t leave Rose, not like this.”
“So you’ll go as soon as she’s out of the woods?”
“No,” Thomas said slowly. Rose’s injury and the hours leading up to it had settled something in his mind. He wasn’t going to leave her ever again, wasn’t going to put her through that worry. His honor was important to him, and he had no intention of breaking his promise, but a man could learn to bend, couldn’t he?