by Deana James
Silence answered her. No inquiry nor order to enter sounded from the room beyond. After only a moment's hesitation Vivian stepped into the dim library.
It was as she remembered it with its pervasive musty atmosphere. It was still a room too long shut up without clean fresh air to blow through. The dusty, fetid odor assailed her sensitive nostrils particularly since the rest of the house had been so improved by her thorough cleaning.
Her eyes swept the room. The old man sat hunched in his leather chair behind his huge desk. The light fell over his knobby, spotted hands clenched tightly around his cane.
She did not immediately see her husband. Could Addie possibly have been mistaken?
The Earl of Larnaervon lifted his head. "What do you want?" he barked. She stared at him shocked. His normally cynical demeanor, the lips crooked in a humorless smile, was gone. In its place pure rage empurpled his face. A vein stood out in his hollow temple throbbing even as she watched it.
"What do you want!?1* He repeated, louder and angrier than before. A bead of sweat trickled down his face. One hand let loose his cane to disappear behind the desk. He bared his teeth in pain.
Hesitantly, she advanced until she was even with the two wing-back chairs. Slumped wearily in one, his right palm supporting his bearded cheek, one booted foot drawn up on the knee of the other, sat her husband.
When he raised his head to look at her, she gasped at the sight.
If the father had worked himself into a black rage that changed his appearance, the soil was hardly recognizable. She could find almost nothing of the handsome young man who had strode out into the blackness of the December night, his cape swirling around him.
His eyes burned in the dark hollows of his gaunt face. Staring hot and unnaturally bright, they rested on her dully, only vaguely comprehending her presence. The pain groove between his eyebrows deepened. He opened his mouth to speak, but Larne commenced his harangue again.
"What are you doing here?" he growled at Vivian. "No one sent for you. Get out!" When she did not move he raised his voice until his shout rang from the oak beams above them. He lifted the cane and brandished it in her direction. "You can have him to fawn over when I get through with him. Get out, I say!"
Her husband was a sick man. Indeed, he seemed largely unaware of his surroundings, incapable of responding or defending himself against the rage that his father poured on his head. In this very room she had seen Larne strike him. Keeping an eye on the earl, she bent and gazed into Piers's face. Her eyes brightened with sympathy as she saw the dazed expression slowly give way to recognition.
He tried to pull himself upright. His foot dropped to the floor with a tired thud. The noise drew her attention to the boots, for the first time becoming aware of them as a symbol of his own condition. So caked with mud were they that they were unrecognizable as the beautifully tanned leather that he had donned the day he had gone away.
Instead of elegant clothing, he wore no stock, his throat bare above a coarse wrinkled shirt. A soiled filthy coat had a sleeve ripped out at the shoulder. No carefully tanned buckskins fitted his well-muscled legs like a second skin. Instead, he wore rough wool trousers such as a peasant might wear.
His face was a skull over which the skin stretched tautly. Its color was whitish-gray apart from two spots of bright color that rode his cheekbones. As he leaned toward her, she discerned heavy padding over his left shoulder and detected the unmistakable odor of fever. Shifting uncomfortably under her stare, he clutched his tcft arm protectively in his right.
"—not even pregnant." Larnaervon's harangue continued unabated, rolling over them like waves. While his words no longer shocked her, they still had power to irritate her with their harshness and crudeness. Vivian shot a furious look at her father-in-law.
"Don't you look at me like that, you ignorant bitch. You don't know what he's done." He hoisted the cane from the desk top. "He's failed! Failed. My son. That wretched half-dead lump in that chair. Just like he's always done and his mother before him."
Here he brandished the heavy stick, waving it over the desk and reaching out as if he would strike Piers. Spittle sprayed from his lips. "He's lost it all. Everything. The cargo of the Spanish Girl. The men. Scattered, killed. No profit. Not a thing to show for months of work. And who's to know when we can make another run? No way of knowing whether we'll ever be able to make another, whether we even have a business anymore."
Unwilling to listen further to his madness, Vivian turned away from the ugly face spitting hatred. Her scalp prickled as she heard the whish of the cane through the air. "Don’t turn your back on me, girl! Don't you dare! Next time I'll smash this stick down across your shoulders."
Breathing defiance in every pore, Vivian planted herself between the desk and Piers's chair. If necessary she would defend them both against this insanity.
u Larne." Piers's voice sounded weak and rasping, unlike the strong, deep voice Vivian remembered. He bowed his head drawing the strength from a well that was almost dry. "Larne. Listen to me. The Riding Officers were everywhere. MacPherson was a bulldog. Sebby must have bribed someone because they knew our every move. They knew when and where we were trying to make the connection."
"Coincidence! Stupidity!"
"Five times. Five!" Piers rocked forward, smothering the pain, his head hanging only inches above his knees. In his disheveled hair, threads of white shown clearly. Vivian felt her own heart contract.
"Someone must have given them the times and places," he insisted. "But we kept trying until finally, we rode into a trap." He had talked too much and set off a fit of coughing. Deep hacking spasms tore at his throat from deep in his lungs. Helplessly he coughed, the force of the painfully expelled air bending him over until he drew his knees up against his chest to try to suppress pain. Tears spouted from his eyes as his throat closed ever tighter from the punishment it endured.
The agonized explanation only drove the earl's rage further. "Look at him! Damn him and his mother that bore him! A weak woman produces a weak son! Failed! Failed!"
Cane in one hand, the other hand pressed to his belly, the earl lunged up out of the chair. Suddenly, he choked. Abruptly, he tottered backward. One brown-spotted hand dropped the cane and tugged loose his stained neckcloth. He sat down abruptly. The cane clattered to the floor beside the desk. His face turned from dark purple to yellowish-white as anger gave place to fear for his life.
Vivian looked from one to the other. The time had come to end this confrontation. From the looks of them neither could survive much longer. Waiting until Piers's coughing had ceased and the earl's breathing seemed to have evened, she slipped her hand under her husband's shoulder and helped him to his feet.
Swaying, Piers glanced at his father, sitting hunched in his chair, eyes hooded like an old eagle's. Slowly, he shook his head as if to clear it. His long, dark locks swirled lankly. "I’ll leave you, Larne," he announced, sarcasm discernible even in his whisper. "My thanks for your well-wishes as regards my health. My good wife will see to my care."
Staggering slightly, he turned. Vivian placed her arm across the small of his back and grasped his arm. Firmly she pressed against him to strengthen him and steady him as he walked. His body burned hot through his rough garments, and she could feel him trembling with weakness.
As she opened the door, Mrs. Felders darted past them. "Larne. What have you done to him? Larne!"
Ignoring the housekeeper, Vivian guided the viscount out into the hall. Together they slowly mounted the stairs.
Watkins came halfway down to meet them. "I've got him, milady," the valet said, but he could not catch hold of Piers's bad side and Vivian dared not release her husband for fear he would topple backward. Panting beneath his weight, she managed to get him up the stairs.
"We’ve got a nice hot bath prepared for you, milord." Addie dropped a curtsy from where she waited on the landing.
Piers made no response as his breath rattled in and out of his chest. His red-streake
d eyes were bent on the steps before him; his head swung back and forth doggedly as he clung to consciousness.
"Let him go, milady." Watkins reached out to try again as they came up to the top step.
Shaking her head, Vivian waved them on.
The small procession made its way to the viscount's bedroom. There Watkins helped Piers out of his coat and opened his shirt before seating him in a comfortable chair in front of the fire. Addie pressed a snifter of brandy into his shaking hand before turning to see to the preparations for his bath.
Watkins knelt to remove the muddy boots. At the first tug, Piers groaned. Draining the brandy in a single gulp, he spoke for the first time to the silver-haired girl bending over him. "If I'm going to get through this, I'll have to have some more brandy."
Smiling encouragement, Vivian took the glass.
Watkins -got one boot off and then the other. Piers cursed, then coughed. The valet glanced apologetically at Vivian as she brought the drink back.
Piers accepted it gratefully.
"Maybe you'd better lie down, sir?"
"Not until I bathe," came the moaning reply. "These clothes are sticking to my skin and I smell worse than a pig. Your pardon, Vivian. I'll see you this evening. Or perhaps tomorrow."
She shook her head. Gently she unbuttoned the shirt.
"No."
"Your wife was a nurse, sir," Watkins reminded him. "I think she needs to see this."
"But—”
Mouth set, Vivian began to unwind the shoulder.
"It was broken deliberately, milady," Watkins informed her. "Chap was aiming another blow for his lordship's face when someone shot him. Milord ought to have had a doctor, but he wouldn't let me call one."
"We couldn't take the chance."
"I'm sure I didn't set it right. It was so swollen. And then I didn't want to unwind it, since he wouldn't let me send for anyone. I thought it was better to leave it alone than hurt him more." He shrugged helplessly.
"It's been under those wraps to give it support and padding while it heals. God knows, he's suffered. We've been on the run, moving and hiding for more than a month now."
Piers looked up into her face. The gold rings around his pupils seemed to burn brighter with a feverish light. "All anyone would have done," he rasped. "I suspect it'll be all right."
Nodding her reassurance, she finished unwinding the bandage. The sight drove the color from her cheeks. Not one but two lumps pushed upward against the skin of the shoulder. What must surely have been extensive bruising had faded, but she was practically certain that it would have to be rebroken and set properly. He must have a doctor.
She pulled her pad from her sleeve and wrote to Watkins. "1. Bath. 2. Bed. 3. Doctor."
To Addie, "1. Send for Tyler. 2. Bath for Watkins."
The maid bent over the note. "Ss-e-nd—”
Watkins read it to her. When the girl had gone, he smiled wearily. "I thank you, ma'am, for your thoughtfulness."
"Help me up, man," Piers begged hoarsely. "Let's get this over with, so you can get to your rest. You're not much better off than I am."
"No, sir."
As he stood, Piers attempted to straighten his arm. The pain almost overwhelmed him.
"Easy, sir."
Vivian slipped the shirt off his shoulders. Suddenly, she realized both men were watching her. With gentle concern, her hands touched his wide shoulders, the hard muscles of his upper arms. His eyes widened in his pain-wracked face; his body trembled with chill and weakness. He looked so ill and yet so brave.
An impulse was born. A mad, wild impulse that she made no attempt to control. Disregarding the presence of the valet, she rose up on tiptoe. Her palms pressed against his cheeks and turned his face to her. Smiling timidly, she kissed his cracked and bleeding lips.
He moaned, but this time not with pain.
She dropped back on her heels and backed away. Turning to Watkins, she cupped her hand at her mouth, then pointed to herself.
He frowned. "Yes, ma'am. Do you mean for me to call you when I've gotten him in the bed?"
She nodded.
"I’ll do that, milady."
She smiled at them both as she hurried out.
Piers watched her leave as if he could never get enough of her. His tongue licked out across his dry lips hoping for the taste of her.
"Come on, sir," Watkins urged. "It's cold out in the hall. We mustn't keep her waiting long."
************************************
"Has the horse been found, Vivian?"
She nodded. "Captain MacPherson has him," she wrote.
"Damn."
"When he came here, he saw Romany Prince," she wrote again.
Piers grinned. "I’ll bet that put a spoke in his wheel."
She nodded. "Your horse?"
"Romany Knight. Romany Prince's own true brother, two years younger, but the same sire and dam. Identical. Poor Knight. He was shot twice."
Vivian shuddered. "I've sent for the doctor."
"No. You didn't."
She nodded emphatically.
"Damn it. I can't have a doctor. He’ll ask questions."
"You had accident," she wrote. "In Scotland."
"But the arm's about healed."
She took his good hand and lifted it, indicating that he should do the same with his injured arm.
Sweat broke out on his forehead as he tried. "It needs more time."
She shook her head. Her jaw set, she wrote. "Has to be rebroken and reset."
"Damn." His face lost all color. "You're sure."
She shook her head slowly.
"But you think so? And you were a nurse." He lay back on the bed staring at the canopy. After a minute be threw his good arm across his eyes.
Addie entered with a tray. "Everything's ready, sir," she addressed Watkins.
As the valet excused himself, Addie set the tray on the bed. "Will that be all, ma'am?"
Vivian nodded.
Alone at last, she seated herself by her husband and gently touched his arm. He lowered it and looked at her, his eyes burning. She put pillows behind his back and propped him up.
"I can feed myself," he said irritably when she would have dipped the spoon into the soup.
While he ate halfheartedly, she sat back to watch him. Because of his weakened condition, Watkins had not taken time to do more than comb the long hair and beard.
That he had suffered terribly was apparent. The ravages of his ordeal were clear. His wine-dark locks brushed his shoulders. Here and there strands of silver glinted in the firelight. Deep grooves outlined his mouth and creased his forehead between his eyes. His lips were dry and bitten where he had gnawed at them in agony or clamped them tightly with his teeth to still cries and moans of pain.
Except for the beard, his face might have been a tragedy mask with dark hollows around the eyes and below the sculptured cheekbones. The fires of the gods might have burned away all traces of softness.
"Does my appearance offend you?" Piers's voice was stronger for the food.
Instantly, she shook her head. Her eyes reflected nothing but her pity. The terrible physical agony of the past weeks was not over yet, particularly if the doctor should decide to reset the arm when he arrived.
Moreover, her husband had been subjected to a painful and vicious confrontation when he had arrived home. Gently, she laid her hand on his crippled left arm where it rested on a pillow.
Evidently, his mind was on the homecoming as well. His speech was heavy with cynicism when he spoke. "The failure of my expedition seems to have upset Larne inordinately," he drawled. "For a minute there, I thought he might have a stroke and shuffle off this mortal coil. But no such luck. Still, it's an ill wind, and so forth. Jack Beddoes hasn't been heard of since that night. No loss to anyone."
He sighed. When Vivian would have removed her hand, he reached across his body and caught it. "Don't take your hand away."
He did not tell her why he wanted it to remai
n. Instead he studied the food remaining on his tray. "I suppose this is to help me sleep." He lifted the warm milk to his mouth. "Here's hoping I sleep forever."
No sooner had he taken a drink than he was struck by a fit of coughing. The milk slopped over the lip of the glass, but she rescued it before it spilled more than a few drops.
"Damn!" he gasped between the dreadful bursts that shook his frame. He fumbled for the napkin and pressed it to his face. It failed to muffle the cry of agony.
Vivian could do little to help him beyond throwing her arm-across his back and offering him a brace to support his ribs. Finally, when he fell back exhausted, she held water to his lips to wash away the tickling. As he sipped it gratefully, she saw that sweat had broken out on his forehead. Extracting her handkerchief from her sleeve, she wiped him dry.
Tears stood on his sunken cheeks. When he could speak, he lay back weakly against the pillows and muttered his thanks. His head rolled wearily as Vivian hovered over him.
At last, he opened his eyes, staring upward into hers. When he could speak, his voice was a raspy, angry whisper. "Dear God, Vivian. What are you doing here? I'm a failure. A crippled, incompetent who can't even deliver the goods as a smuggler. You heard that foul-mouthed old man downstairs."