by Deana James
She tried to cover his mouth with her fingers, but he pushed her away.
"Why don't you call for the gallant Captain MacPherson? He'll be glad to take me away. And you'll be free."
His bitterness was a tangible thing slapping her across the face, seeking to drive her away from him. She shook her head helplessly, wondering at the attack on her innocent self.
"Men have died because of me," he continued. "My father is right in his estimate. I deserve his calumny. Not the sweet sympathy of your blue eyes." He tried to raise his arm and push her away, but it would not work. Angrily, he sank back and fell to cursing. "Damn you! Get away! Don't wipe my brow like a ministering angel and hold water to my lips when my own father curses me, I'm not worthy of your care. I'm not worthy."
He was a suffering human being whose agony of spirit was worse than his agony of body. Mentally donning her black habit, she left his side to fetch warm bricks for the bed.
"No. Don't! I don't deserve—”
Sliding them beneath the covers, she wrung out a cloth and bathed Piers's face and lips. As she slid it over his forehead, he closed his eyes and kept them closed. His skin felt hot enough for him to be sliding in and out of a delirium dream.
As she began to arrange the covers, he caught her wrist with his good hand.
Uncertain what he might do, Vivian twisted her hand gently.
"No," he whispered. "The fit is over, I swear. I'm not going to hurt you, Vivian. My God! I'm so tired. I don't know what I'm saying, or what I'm doing." After a moment's silence, he rolled his head on the pillow. His eyes bright with fever found her face. "Do you think it will really have to be broken again?"
She folded the cool cloth and laid it on his forehead. With her thumbs she massaged his temples. His eyes closed without seeing her answer. He sighed and his breathing seemed to even.
She thought he had fallen asleep when he spoke. "I dreamed of having you beside me in my bed. For weeks, I've dreamed of nothing else. Don't leave me. Please."
Vivian smoothed the hair back from his hot forehead. His breathing deepened again as he slid back into sleep.
She looked down at him. Mentally, she doffed her habit and hurried to her room. Throwing off her garments, she pulled on her nightgown and hurried back to his bed.
Lifting the covers opposite his bad shoulder, she climbed in and lay down beside him. A blush suffused her cheeks when he smiled. His eyes remained closed, but he patted the bed beside him until he found her with his hand.
"Vivian." He put his hand on her hip, then slid his fingers between her thighs.
Hastily, she pulled his hand up and gathered it between her own.
"Pity," he whispered as he drifted off again.
Basking in the heat from his body, she could not sleep for the fantasy.
Chapter 21
Piers's scream drove Vivian to her knees.
The cries of pain in the infirmary of Shaftesbury Abbey had been nothing when compared to the pain of a person for whom one cared. She clasped her hands together at her forehead, driving her knuckles against the bone. Gradually she eased off the pressure when no more cries came. God in His mercy must have allowed the suffering man to lose consciousness.
Upon his arrival the old doctor had looked at the pitiful wreck of his patient's shoulder and complained that he should have been called immediately. When told that the viscount had been in Scotland on business when the accident occurred, he had changed his attitude. Calling in a Scots doctor, he averred, would have been worse than leaving the body alone.
Reassured and at the same time alarmed by the stretching silence, Vivian pushed herself shakily to her feet and recited a paternoster. When it was ended and the tremors in her hands had ceased, she was certain she had given the doctor time enough. Her husband would need nursing, and this she could do for him.
Shoulders braced, jaw set, she flung open the door into the hall and froze. The Earl of Larnaervon stood just outside his son's door. Her sudden appearance must have startled him, for he jerked awkwardly and lost his grip on his cane. It fell to the floor with a clatter and rolled away to come to a stop against Vivian's shoe.
She jerked her foot back, staring at the long black rod as if it were a snake, then raised her eyes to its owner's face.
Violent emotions played across the ravaged features. He took a step, tottered back, and clenched his fists helplessly. Another one might bring him crashing down. His balance was exceedingly precarious, for he had depended so long on the cane's providing him with a third leg.
His face whitened as he recognized his predicament. His eyes shifted up and down the hall, but no help appeared. No butler nor footman stood at attention to do his bidding. No Emma Felders lurked in the shadows of the upstairs hallway.
As she too recognized his condition, Vivian's face must have reflected her pity, for his lips curled back in a snarl. "Don't feel sorry for me. I don't need nor want your pity. I've lived with this body for a quarter of a century. I don't even think about it anymore."
Nodding in agreement and reassurance, she stooped to pick up the cane.
"Leave it!" he commanded hoarsely. "Damn you. Leave it, I say. I can get it."
Somberly, she swept it up and held it out to him.
He hesitated for a fraction of second; his hand clenched into a fist. The fury in his expression made her believe he was going to refuse. Then he shrugged in the odd way he had. His smile was suddenly affable; his demeanor switched from rage to cool cynicism. "Ah, what fools we mortals be. Pride is surely the most deadly sin of them all. I thank you, my dear daughter."
With an insouciant twirl he set the cane's tip to form an equilateral triangle to his feet and leaned into it with the ease of long custom. "When I was informed, quite by accident I might add, that the doctor had been sent for, I naturally came to ascertain the reason. From the sounds, I can only guess that he is-as was his wont with the late lamented countess-again 'practicing' medicine." He grinned wolfishly at his poor joke.
Vivian pulled her pad from her pocket. "Left shoulder broken. Doctor resetting it."
As he read the words, he grimaced. "Damned uncomfortable. Why wasn't it set properly when it happened?"
"Hiding!"
His fingers clenched around the note. He closed his eyesT the crease between his brows deepened.
When he asked nothing more, Vivian started past him. His eyes flew open. His cane swept up to bar her way. "Is he very bad?"
She looked at him in some surprise. This man had poured fury on his son's ill and defenseless head. She shrugged. By way of description she slowly lifted and lowered her bent arm some six inches from her side pantomiming Piers's crippled shoulder.
His eyes took on a speculative look. "Will he be crippled?"
Only then did she remember that the earl's own shoulders had been crushed and broken years ago. Was he weighing his own pain against what his son must be enduring? She put her palms together in an attitude of prayer.
"Oh, of course. Prayer. Works wonders. My own condition is a result of prayer. I am given to understand that my own dear wife spent hours at my bedside. So easy to do. People use it as an excuse to keep from doing really difficult things." His eyes flashed.
A chill prickled across Vivian's skin. Meeting those eyes was like staring into great volcanic pits of anger.
"I supposed Piers's condition to have resulted from being forced to live without the usual pampering to which he has become accustomed. That, along with a chill, would be enough to put him down. Especially when he's probably spent the last few weeks at the bottom of a brandy bottle." The dark eyelashes swept upward. "And then I heard his scream. I was naturally concerned. But if the doctor is with him, everything will be all right."
She stared meaningfully down at the cane.
He followed her stare. Again his cool courtesy returned. "It's good that you are on your way to his bedside to nurse him. I remember you nursed the countess. And made a good job of it, or so I was led to believe."
Vivian acknowledged his approbation with a nod.
He let the cane fall but as she walked by him, he caught her arm. "Vivian Marleigh, your silence has made you a listener and an infinitely better listener than most. You know our secrets. If you could, you would use them against us. But you can't. Don't think you can run to the law with what you know about the operation. Remember, your mental capacity has been doubted. That can always be invoked."
Her jaw went rigid with her anger. She clawed at his skeletal fingers.
He only tightened his grasp and shook her harshly. "Stand still and listen to me. What you can do is turn this disaster to your advantage."
She twisted her arm succeeding in bruising herself.
"Don't fail to seize this opportunity," her captor hissed. "If you're halfway clever, you can get him to fall in love with you. When he's thoroughly besotted, you can seduce him to give us the heir we need."
Color flooded her cheeks. Her heart set up a ' thrumming at this old man's inference that he and she were somehow in collusion, plotting against Piers for the use of his body. Equal parts of rage and disgust shook her. If only she could voice her feelings, release her anger to the heavens. Her lips parted. She took a deep breath, framed words. Nothing. Frustration added weight to her arm as she struck at his wrist and hand once, twice.
Wincing, he opened his hand.
Free, she sprang away and darted to the door of Piers's bedroom.
His dark chuckle followed her. "If I were you, my dear, I wouldn't commit this conversation to paper. If you do, I’ll be forced to relay my version to poor Piers. Also your friendship with the estimable Captain MacPherson."
She froze, her hand wrapped around the doorknob. Her fingers tightened until the knuckles showed white.
His laugh was triumphant. "Believe me, my dear, Piers won't like that. He'll think that you were the one who betrayed him. At any rate, hell never trust you again. Think how depressed and bitter he'll be. Poor boy!"
Throwing him a look of unutterable hatred, she yanked open the door and closed it loudly behind her.
************************************
The doctor reported that after all, he had not had to rebreak Piers's shoulder. A deft manipulation of clavicle, scapula, and humerus had been accomplished. The humerus had been returned to its socket with a strong pressure and then the clavicle had been slipped back into its proper position.
Vivian turned pale as the man lectured on and on.
Of course, the patient had had the good sense to faint at that point. All three bones, in his opinion, had been fractured; but all seemed to be knitting well. Exercise would probably restore mobility, but only time would tell whether he would ever regain full strength.
The main problem with the patient was the fever which the doctor diagnosed as pneumonia. And from this—he spoke very frankly and seriously—the patient was in such a weakened condition that he might die. In his opinion it had all but overwhelmed the viscount's strong constitution.
He left Vivian with laudanum for pain and quinine for fever. The rest would be up to her and to God.
"I’ll collect my fee from the earl," he told her with a wink that told her he understood more than she imagined.
For almost a week, Piers did little but lie in his bed. For hours he would sleep as one dead only to wake wringing wet with stinking sweat, weakly tossing about n his covers. Moaning, cursing, struggling, he would twist his body under Vivian's soothing hands.
In his sleep the nightmare would wrack him. He straddled the wounded stallion that bucked and pitched like a demon and sought to tear off his leg. When his struggles became too violent, Watkins would wrap sheets around him to keep him from reinjuring his partially healed shoulder.
Wrapped like a mummy at the beginning of the second week, he began to weep. He did not weep loudly nor to attract attention to his plight. The tears were those of despair. His body and the sheets swathing it were soaked with his perspiration as his fever broke for the last time.
His was an overburdened spirit entrapped within a pain-wracked body and unable to move an inch. Even though he made no sound, Vivian, keeping watch by his bedside, became aware of the charged atmosphere. By the light of the fire, she saw the tears sparkling on his cheeks. At the sight of her bending over him, he gulped hard and closed his eyes. His head rolled away from her in a vain effort to conceal his weakness.
Her woman's heart contracted. In an outpouring of emotion she pressed her lips to his forehead.
"Vivian."
Gently, she bathed his face, lifted his head, and held water to his lips. He drank greedily and then sighed as she lowered his head to the pillow.
Conscious of his eyes following her intently, she stripped the binding sheets away and brought warm water from the fireplace.
He wrapped his hand loosely around her upper arm as she washed the stinging salt from his neck. When her soft, competent hands guided the cloth across his chest and shoulders, he moved his hand to her breast, pressing his knuckles against the nipple.
She stiffened. Not just her breast, but her whole body tightened in anticipation. Color rose in her cheeks as she sought his eyes. Sunken in shadow, their expression was unreadable. Surely he was too weak to make love. If he were merely torturing her, then he was cruel, for an ache had already begun in her thighs.
Trembling, she folded down the covers and moved out of his reach. His hand fell limply to the bed. She dipped the cloth and began to sponge his ribs and the curve of his belly.
"Vivian." Her name came on a quick intake of breath.
She felt her cheeks turn pink as she tried to tell herself that she was a nurse and he, her patient. His body was no stranger to her. She and Watkins had taken turns performing all the necessary ablutions. He was no different awake or unconscious or out of his head with fever. His body was the same.
With a show of control, she left him to go for a clean sheet. This she spread over his chest, while she brought the covers down to his knees.
"You have strange ideas of modesty, Vivian," he croaked, surprised that his voice was so weak. "Lord!" he exclaimed as the warm rough cloth moved across his lower belly. Then again as a warning, "Vivian."
Her hand froze. Like a snake uncoiling, his manhood began to move with a will of its own. Her eyes flew to his face.
He chuckled. "I'd say I'm feeling much better."
Face fiery red, she gave up and jerked the clean sheets down over him.
"Not a very efficient nurse. Not washing her patient below the waist," he complained.
She dropped the washcloth into the pitcher and drew the blankets up to his chin. When she met his eyes, they were laughing at her.
"I'm hungry," he whispered plaintively.
Thankful for the normal request, she rested the back of her hand against his cheek, satisfied to find that he seemed free of fever.
"Not just for food," he added, his eyes kindling.
She placed her index finger against his lips.
He smiled to himself as she left his bedside. A feeling of weak well-being spread through him. How pleasant to lie still and quiet and be served by such a beautiful woman. And when he had eaten-
Back in a few minutes with a tray that she placed on the bedside table, she leaned over him to make him comfortable. Reaching across his chest, she pulled a pillow from the other side of the bed and fluffed it vigorously. With her help he raised himself slightly so she could stuff it behind his head. Again his weakness surprised him. He had barely enough strength in his right arm to lever himself up. When he pressed his left`against the bed a twinge of pain shot through his upper arm and shoulder.
When he had slipped back with his head raised, she adjusted the covers across his chest and sat down beside him on the bed. For several spoonfuls of soup, he was silent, accepting her ministrations like an obedient child.
All too soon he turned his head away in disgust. "Enough," he whispered, his voice stronger than before. "I can have a drink of wi
ne now."
She frowned, then shook her head.
"Lord, Vivian." His voice was gaining in resonance. "A man can't live on soup. I need red wine and meat to get my strength back."
With a smile, she dipped the spoon into the bowl and offered it to him.
Angrily, he turned his head away.
Shrugging, she replaced the bowl on the tray.
Irritably, he rolled his head on the pillow. "How badly am I stove up?"
On her pad she wrote, "Pneumonia."
"What about my shoulder?"
"Lucky. Just out of place. Doctor popped it back."
"So I don't have another broken bone to heal. Thank God!" He tried to raise it. Sweat broke out on his forehead.
She put her forearm under his hand and helped him bring it back down.
"It's going to be weak a long time," he murmured.
She nodded solemnly. "Exercise," she wrote. "Heat. Rubbing."
"I look forward to your rubbing it."
She flushed again. With hands that shook she measured out his medicine into a glass of water and held it for him to drink.
He grimaced then lay back watching her as she moved about the room with her beautifully elegant walk. At the door where she balanced the tray on her hip, he called sleepily, "Are you going to get me some wine?"