by Cora Lee
~~~
Hart insisted on staying near the ballroom, giving orders for Rebecca to be detained under guard in one of Elliott House’s guest bedrooms while they awaited the arrival of both a physician and the magistrate. When she wasn’t coughing hard enough to injure herself, her breathing was rapid and shallow, her face contorted in pain. If she survived the night it would be a miracle.
The physician would see to Rebecca, but not before Benson was examined. The footman who’d brought her down was also in distress, his skin pale and clammy as he struggled to breathe. Hart didn’t know if anything could be done for the young man, but that wouldn’t stop him from trying. Not only had he saved his master’s life, but Sarah’s, Joanna’s, and Elizabeth Atwell’s, too, not to mention anyone else who might have entered the ballroom. He was the hero Hart couldn’t be.
“Your turn,” Sarah said to him, kneeling before him.
He tried to wave her away. “I’ll be fine. Are you well?”
“I will be when the physician takes a look at you.”
He would probably submit to that, eventually. “You first.”
She nodded. “I will agree to that if you will at least let me help you get that waistcoat off.”
He wasn’t going to object. The dented steel plate was digging in to his newly cracked rib, and the pain it caused was making it rather difficult for him to act lordly. He allowed her to help him to his feet and peel his tailcoat from his shoulders, but insisted on unbuttoning his waistcoat himself. The last thing he needed after all this excitement was for his wife to undress him in the middle of their lawn.
“Here, let me...” She moved behind him and slid the waistcoat off his shoulders when his injuries limited his range of motion. “Do you want to put your tailcoat back on?”
“It would be more proper, wouldn’t it?”
“Especially with all these people around.” The ball continued in the redecorated outbuilding two hundred yards away, with guests emerging for the fireworks display, and most of the team they’d recruited had gathered behind the house. It would be beyond scandalous for anyone but Sarah to see him with just one layer—the layer nearest his skin—covering his chest.
“But it’s a warm night,” he grinned. “I think I’ll leave it off.”
“Then perhaps I can cover you up.” She circled back around him and slipped her arms around his waist, dropping her forehead to his shoulder.
Another thing he wouldn’t object to, even with the crowd. He wrapped his arms around her and kissed her temple. “Are you truly well?” he whispered.
“More or less,” she replied quietly, even as her body trembled. “I’ve got some cuts from the glass jar Rebecca threw at me, but those will heal. I’m not so sure my mind has grasped all that has happened yet.”
“Nor has mine,” he confessed. There were still details to take care of, like putting the word out that there would no longer be a reward for Sarah’s death, but for all practical purposes her ordeal was over. She was free.
She tightened her arms around him and he groaned involuntarily at the pressure on his injured ribs.
“Oh, I’m sorry.”
She loosened her grasp immediately and started to back away, but he stroked a hand over her hair and drew her close to him again. “It’s all right. Just hold me for a few more minutes, will you?”
She obliged and pressed herself against him, soft and pliant despite the trembling. He reciprocated, sheltering her in his arms. In an odd way, he drew strength from her distress. At that moment, he wanted nothing more than to be the strong, brave man she needed.
When Fortescue arrived with the protective clothing, Hart set his wife gently away from him. “I’ve got one more thing to do tonight, my love.”
“Surely you aren’t going in there again.”
“I am.”
She placed her hands on his shoulders and gave them a little squeeze. “Hartland, you can barely stand. Your breathing is labored. The very last place you should be is in a room full of poison.”
“I have a promise to keep,” he replied matter-of-factly.
But she was unconvinced. “You kept your promise—Rebecca is no longer a threat to me. I am safe.”
“You are not safe near a room full of poison.” He stroked her cheek, hoping he could convey his need to do this last thing for her with his eyes. “Let me fulfill my part of your plan.”
She held his gaze for several long moments before she spoke again. “You allowed me to make my own choices this past month, even when it meant putting myself in danger. I suppose I should allow you the same freedom.”
“Thank you.”
“But don’t forget the other promise you made me today.” She slid her arms around his neck and whispered, “You must stay safe and come back to me alive.”
He kissed her hair, her cheek, and whispered back, “I will. I swear it.”
She insisted on helping him don his protective gear, like a squire of old preparing a knight for battle. Hart and Fortescue each wore a heavy leather apron and gauntlets procured from the forge beside Hartland’s workshop, a pair of Hartland’s sturdiest riding boots, and a damp rag tied over the nose and mouth. No one knew if it would be enough protection from the phosgene, but it was the best they could do—Hart still hadn’t managed to make his own air-filtering mask work.
“Move slowly so you don’t stir up the phosgene too much,” Sarah instructed them. “It’s heavier than air, so it will be more concentrated closer to the floor. When it breaks down, the carbonic oxide gas may rise up, and the muriatic acid should fall to the floor. If you hear fizzing, that’s the acid reacting with the chalk, and you know the process is working.”
She checked over the knots on the aprons and masks once more. “And neither of you is to stay inside that room for more than a few minutes at a time. When you come out, you will hand off your protective clothing to another man and get yourself away from the French windows. There’s no way to tell how much phosgene is still in there.”
Hart and Fortescue both nodded, and for once Hart had every intention of obeying orders. He needed to follow through on his part of the plan and ensure Sarah’s safety, but he had no desire to kill himself in the process.
Each man stepped into the ballroom carrying a large glass jug of water—heavier than Hart remembered from their trial run, and pulling on his damaged ribs—fitted with a specially made spout that projected the liquid out at a distance. It was more forceful than Hart had wanted, but it was an older invention being pressed into use. And it served as a makeshift timepiece as well—when the jug was out of water, it was time for fresh air.
They opened the spouts and began spraying the room, and Hart held his breath. He’d had the ballroom floor chalked as was fashionable, hiring an artist to draw various flowers and animals across the floor, ostensibly for better footing during periods of dancing. A large portion of the chalk was being washed away by the too-forceful streams of water, but as Hart walked slowly around the room with Fortescue, he heard the quiet yet unmistakable sound of fizzing.
“It’s working!” he called through his mask.
It was only a few minutes before both jugs were empty, and the damp cloths over their faces began to dry out. Hart and Fortescue made their way out of the ballroom and onto the lush grass, waiting until they were yards away from the French windows before they began to strip off their protection. Hart had forgotten just how hot one became wearing all that thick leather, and was thankful for the opportunity to get out of it.
Fortescue’s betrothed, Miss Hale, came out to help him with the knots, and Sarah was three steps behind her.
“How do you feel?” Sarah asked, touching Hart’s forehead, his cheek, any exposed skin she could find.
“I’m no worse than I was before,” he answered, pulling the cloth from his face with a grin.
She stepped behind him and untied his mask and apron as he shed the bulky gauntlets. “Given the circumstances, that will do.” Once the leather had be
en handed off to the next wearer, Sarah was in his arms again. “Thank you for keeping your promises,” she murmured.
He seemed to ache from head to toe, but for just a few moments he ignored the pain and reveled in the moment. They were battered but not broken, victorious over their enemy. And Hart had the rest of his life to love Sarah.
Chapter Seventeen
Sarah stayed at Hartland’s side as he convalesced at Elliott House, confined to bed for three weeks and given explicit instructions not to engage in what the physician had called his “marital duty.” They played cards using the mattress as a table, they read aloud to each other from various texts, they even took their meals together in Hartland’s bedchamber. And when his eyes began to droop, she climbed carefully onto the big bed and lay beside him as he slept, her own body healing alongside his.
He’d been granted a brief reprieve to attend Rebecca’s funeral, but declined. The amount of phosgene she’d inhaled had rendered her lungs nearly useless before the physician had even arrived, and she’d died within a day of her attempted attack on Elliott House’s ballroom. Mr. MacDonald took charge of her body, as she had no other relatives, and found a clergyman who would perform the service. He intended to bury her beside his brother, believing it would have been David’s wish. But neither Hart nor Sarah desired to say a final goodbye to the woman who had tried to kill them both.
Once each week Hart was also allowed up to visit Benson, who was ensconced in a guest bedchamber in his own convalescence. Hartland swore he needed Sarah’s help to walk the distance from his own chamber to Benson’s, despite being fairly steady on his feet. Benson, on the other hand, was in a bad way. The physician was unsure if he would live, but if he did his lungs would be permanently damaged. He’d never work again, certainly; it was likely his life would never be normal, either.
“What else can I do for him?” Hart asked after the third visit.
Sarah shook her head. He’d already arranged for a generous pension for the young man if he survived and settled an annuity on his parents. “He cheers up considerably when you visit,” she offered.
“He cheers up considerably when you visit,” Hartland countered with a grin. “But I’ll not be giving you over to him—or anyone else—anytime soon.”
By the fourth week of his recovery the physician told Hartland he might begin spending time out of bed, as long as he was careful not to overtax himself. And Hartland disappeared into his workshop, politely but firmly refusing Sarah entrance.
She tried not to think the worst, but visions of her husband in a sleep-deprived frenzy plagued her despite her best effort, and a nagging little voice tried to convince her that Hartland had tired of her. When he asked her to stop sleeping beside him at night, she reflexively began making plans to live a life separate from his.
Mrs. Shipton remained in the north with Lord Thorston’s family, and would continue on with them until word had spread that there would be no reward for Sarah’s death, but when it was safe again Sarah would probably take her mother and go to one of the estates Hartland had set aside for her use. She was a countess with generous sums of pin money and social standing. If she wanted to purchase a home in Town, she could. If she wanted to re-open the bookshop, she could. If she wanted to set up her own laboratory and perform experiments to her heart’s content, she could do that, too.
But her heart wouldn’t be content without her Hart.
She tortured herself for nearly a week before summoning her courage and marching out to Hartland’s workshop. If he was planning to send her to the country and resume his former life, then she deserved to know that. If she was being ridiculous and panicking for no reason, than she deserved to know that, too.
The door was open when she arrived, a warm breeze leftover from summer ruffling the flowers that had been planted along the outer wall. Hart stood with his hands on his hips, wearing a shirt, trousers, and stout boots, his sleeves rolled up above his elbows.
“What else does it need?”
“A woman’s touch?” she said lightly, taking a few steps inside.
His head swung around. “Sarah! What are you doing out here?”
His voice was bright, if such a thing could be said of sound, almost as if he were trying to sound happy to see her when he was not.
“I came to see you. May I steal you away from your work for a few moments?”
He glanced back at the table where he’d been working and frowned, but managed a smile when he met Sarah’s eyes. “May I show you something first?”
“Certainly.” That he wanted to share his work with her was a good sign, wasn’t it?
They met in the middle of the workshop and he reached for her hand. “I’d hoped to have this more complete before you saw it, but since you’re already here...”
She allowed him to take her hand and lead her to the other side of the room. He’d pushed several battered old tables together to form a large workbench, complete with notebooks and pencils, a few leather-bound books, and assorted glassware similar to what she’d used when testing the muriatic acid.
“What do you think?”
“It’s much neater than your usual workspace,” she said with a chuckle.
“Will it do?”
Sarah shifted her eyes from the tables to her husband. “For what?”
“For you, my lady.” His mouth was curved into a half-smile, but his brows had risen toward his hairline. “Do you like it?”
“Oh, Hart...” She twined her arm with his and took a better look at the space he’d created for her. Nearly a third of the workshop had been cleared of everything except the tables, a couple of stools, and implements he’d gathered for her use. “You’re giving me part of your workshop?”
“We can have something built if you’d like privacy or solitude,” he responded, his smile growing. “And I’ll have something similar done for you at Hartland Abbey and Glanmire House. But I thought this would be a good start if you wanted to put that chemistry knowledge in your head to practical use, or have a sunny place to work on your embroidery. Or maybe to work on a few things with me. Whatever you might want the space for.”
She wrapped her arms around him, careful not to squeeze his healing torso too tightly, and pressed a kiss to his cheek. “I love it.”
He held her against him for much too short a time, then loosened his arms and drew away from her. “I’m afraid I’ve also done something rather scandalous.”
Ah, so that’s what this was really about. He was trying to soften her up before admitting his blunder. “What is it this time?”
“I’ve fallen in love with my wife.” He ran a hand over cheek and down her neck, caressing her skin with the pads of his fingers. “I’ll give you an aristocratic marriage if you still want it, but I love you, Sarah Elliott. Will you stay with me and be my wife in truth, not just in name?”
“Yes!” She flew into his arms, trailing kisses across his temple and jaw until she reached his mouth. “I love you, too, my Hart,” she murmured before capturing his lips with hers.
It had been more than a month since they’d last been intimate, and Sarah could feel his arousal pressing against her. She broke away, borrowing one of Hart’s signature grins. “Does this mean we’ll be sharing a bed again?”
“Is that hope in your voice, my love?”
“It most certainly is. Why did you send me away in the first place?”
His hand slid down her back and cupped her bottom, pressing her more firmly against him. “Because the physician forbade vigorous activity of any sort. When I was too sore to move much, it was easier to resist the temptation. But since I’ve been feeling better, I wasn’t sure if we would be able to comply with his orders.”
The relief must have shown on her face because he continued, “You didn’t think I’d taken a mistress, did you?”
“I didn’t know what to think. You have to give me some context when you do perplexing things like that.”
“I don’t have a mistress. I ha
ven’t since before we were wed, and I never will again. I don’t want anyone but you in my bed.” He punctuated the statement with a kiss that chased away any remaining doubt in her mind.
“Good,” she gasped, drawing back to catch her breath while he feathered kisses down her neck. “Because the only lover I want is you, no matter how many children we have.”
“Then we are agreed,” he mumbled, opening the top buttons on her gown and pressing his warm lips to her bare shoulder.
“We are,” she sighed. “Shall we defy your physician’s orders after all?”
He straightened with a laugh, the corners of his eyes crinkling up as he gazed down at her. “Lady Hartland, rule breaker. Who am I to say no to that?”
~~~
Just a few days later, Hartland walked out to the workshop he now shared with his wife in an effort to locate her. He found her standing at her workbench, a pile of cloth scraps to her left, a box of matches in her hand, and a metal bowl in front of her.
“Sarah, my love, what are you doing?”
She kept her eyes on the tableau before her, striking a match and dropping it into the bowl. “Trying to find a good way to make your brigandines less prone to catch fire. I’ve mixed up a few recipes to treat the fabric, but I need to find out which one works the best.”
He waved a hand in front of his face as he crossed the room. “Whatever that one was, cross it off the list. It stinks.”
She reached for a pitcher and poured water on the offending material. “Noted. Did you need me for something?”
“Lady Stirling’s ball?” It wasn’t a large gathering, but Hart and Sarah had agreed to attend. It would be their first time in public since Rebecca’s final attack, and neither was sure how they’d feel being in a ballroom again.
Her face lit with recognition. “Is it time to go already?”
He nodded, taking the matches from her and setting them down on the battered old table. “You have twenty minutes to ready yourself, though your maid seems to think you’ll need more time than that.”