Love and Marriage
Page 30
“Bloody hell.” Gabriel rose to his feet and glared down at her stubborn expression. “You give me a good deal of credit to be able to command my body to respond upon demand. And absolutely no credit for the smallest claim to morals.”
She flinched at his sharp words, but her gaze remained disbelieving.
“You do not think of an heir when you kiss me?”
He shoved his hands through his hair. It was that or grasping her and shaking some sense into her thick skull.
Perhaps he should tell her precisely what he was thinking when he kissed her, he thought savagely. That in his deepest dreams she was not a sharp-tongued shrew, but the shy, uncertain girl he had courted. That instead of freezing when he neared, she opened her arms to him and pulled him atop those lush curves. That she softly moaned as he caressed that tender skin and cried out in pleasure when he at last took her.
He grimly reined in the fantasies that threatened to torture his body all over again.
“I damn well do not,” he at last rasped.
“I am not beautiful,” she perversely argued.
He flashed her a disgusted glance. “You know nothing of gentlemen if you believe a pretty countenance is all that makes a woman desirable. I have known any number of Incomparables who have not stirred the least amount of interest.”
Her gaze refused to waver. “Then why do gentlemen pursue them with such determination?”
Gad, but she was an innocent, he acknowledged wryly.
“To be envied by the ton. I assure you that a gentleman who is seeking true passion searches for a woman of warmth and generosity. Not an icy beauty more concerned with her appearance than sharing a deep intimacy.” He regarded her with a hint of regret. “You once offered such warmth. It still flows within you.”
Her head abruptly dipped, as if seeking to hide her expressive countenance.
“I cannot deny that you are capable of making me respond to your touch.”
His lips twisted at her reluctant tone. “Is that such a terrible thing? Most women would be well pleased to feel such desire for their husbands. I assure you that it is not always so.”
He saw a tremble shake her body. “I no longer trust such emotions.”
“Yes.” Gabriel clutched his hands at his sides, a feeling of helpless frustration washing through him. “That is what keeps us apart, is it not? What must I do to regain your trust, Beatrice?”
“I do not know,” she answered slowly.
“Then we are destined to be forever at odds.”
“Gabriel—” Her words abruptly halted as she lifted her head. “What was that?”
Gabriel, too, had heard the ominous sound of splintering wood. It took a moment to realize that it came from directly overhead. A shaft of pure fear shot through him, and in a heartbeat he was rushing forward.
“Beatrice,” he bellowed, throwing himself atop her even as the roof came crashing down.
Nine
Confusion held a firm upper hand.
Beatrice heard Gabriel’s shout, then suddenly he was atop her and the entire world seemed to be descending upon them.
With the breath knocked from her body, it took Beatrice a considerable time to untangle herself from the sharp branches and crushed bits of the grotto that covered her. Gasping for breath and wiping the dirt from her stinging eyes, she gazed about in horror.
It was obvious that the wind had ripped off a large branch from a nearby tree, sending it crashing through the roof. A gaping hole overhead allowed the torrential rain to pour down upon them while lightning ripped through the air. But she paid no heed to the storm that suddenly raged about her. Instead, she fell to her knees to regard the man firmly trapped beneath the heavy branch.
“Gabriel,” she choked, her heart faltering at the deep gash in his forehead that was sending blood flowing over his unnaturally pale countenance. “Dear Lord, Gabriel.”
She nearly fainted with relief when his lashes fluttered slowly upward.
“Beatrice?”
“Thank heavens,” she breathed, suddenly realizing that she had feared him dead. “Are you badly hurt?”
He paused a moment to take stock of his form still buried beneath branches and a heavy beam from the roof.
“I do not believe I have actually broken anything, although my head appears to be spinning.”
Beatrice was not at all reassured by his weak tones. Whatever he might claim, it was obvious he was hurt.
She could not begin to surmise how badly.
“You have a terrible gash upon your forehead,” she said softly.
He attempted to grimace, only to wince in pain. “I was afraid of that.”
“Do you think you can move?”
Briefly closing his eyes, Gabriel concentrated on wiggling from beneath the heavy beam. It was obvious within moments, however, he was far too weak to make the effort.
“Bloody hell. It appears that I am stuck.”
Beatrice sat back on her heels.
She had to think.
With an effort she attempted to still her near panic. Gabriel was clearly in no condition to decide what was to be done. It fell upon her to save them from this devilish predicament.
Glancing about the ruined grotto, she swiftly concluded they could not remain where they were. Not only were they exposed to the heavy rain falling from the heavens, there was no telling when another branch or even an entire tree might crash in upon them.
Unfortunately the beam was far too heavy for her to move. And there was no means to release Gabriel from beneath the wreckage.
“I must go for help,” she concluded aloud.
Gabriel gave a brief, futile struggle against an imprisoning limb.
“Beatrice, no.”
She frowned down at him, a sick dread in her stomach as the gash continued to ooze blood down his wet face.
“But you cannot remain in these damp clothes. You will surely catch a chill. And a doctor must see to that gash.”
“Do not fear,” he rasped. “Once we are missed, they will come to rescue us.”
“But that might be hours,” she protested.
“Then we will wait.”
“That is absurd. You will be frozen.”
With obvious effort he glared at her, a commanding expression in his eyes.
“Beatrice, I will not allow you to get into that boat on your own. It is far, far too dangerous.”
Beatrice determinedly refused to contemplate the upcoming trip across the storm-tossed lake. She could not allow her ridiculous fear to paralyze her. Not when Gabriel’s very life hung in the balance.
She would not allow him to die.
Not even if she had to take that bloody boat to the netherworld and back.
Somehow she managed to force a stiff smile to her lips. “You are hardly in a position to halt me.”
“No.” His lashes fluttered as if he were struggling to remain conscious. Beatrice felt her heart squeeze with a near-unbearable pain. “I utterly forbid it.”
She reached out to gently stroke the wet hair from his forehead.
“Please be still, Gabriel. You will do yourself further harm.”
“Promise me you will not try to return to the house,” he whispered, his eyes closing as the weakness overtook him.
Dear Lord, please do not let him die, she inwardly prayed, unwitting tears combining with the rain to pour down her cheeks.
“Gabriel.”
He gave a deep moan. “Beatrice?”
“I am here.”
“Stay with me,” he muttered.
“All will be well,” she retorted, firmly rising to her feet.
She could not delay.
Already she could see Gabriel shivering with cold and the gash continued to bleed.
Even now his very life might be slipping from his body.
She bit back a sob.
No.
She could not think in such a manner.
She had to concentrate on what must be done.
Then, not giving herself the opportunity to ponder what she was about to do, Beatrice left the grotto and made her way down to the boat.
Stoically, she placed one foot before the other, reassuring herself that the wind had significantly lessened and that the lightning was growing farther and farther away. It was not until she actually reached the boat that she faltered.
“You can do this, Beatrice,” she told herself. “Just a few moments and you will be on land.” A shudder racked her body. “You have to do this,” she muttered. “Gabriel might very well die if you do not.”
It was the mere thought of Gabriel dying that propelled her into the rocking boat and groping to undo the rope.
Gabriel would not die.
The very thought was unbearable.
It could not happen.
She would surely die herself.
Refusing to ponder the certainty of her demise without Gabriel, Beatrice clutched the oars and set them in awkward motion. Terror gripped her as water splashed over the sides and the boat tipped precariously.
Think of Gabriel, she sternly told herself. She had to get to the house. She had to get help.
She chanted the words over and over throughout the nightmare journey.
In time she forgot the grasping waves that sought to suck her under, the rain whipping against her, and even the fact that she was biting her lower lip hard enough to draw blood. All she could concentrate upon was the burning weariness that radiated from her shoulders and down her arms.
More than once she feared her arms would give out altogether. Despite the fact that she was a strong, physically active woman, the battle against the wind and waves was nearly overwhelming.
When she finally hit the shore, it came almost as a shock. For a moment she simply sat in the boat, shaking with exhaustion. She was far from certain she could move a weary muscle.
Then the memory of Gabriel lying unconscious, blood running down his face, sent a fresh wave of desperation through her. She had come too far to give up now.
Trembling from head to toe, Beatrice crawled out of the boat and battled her way through the mud. She fell more than once, but with sheer stubborn will she at last arrived at the house and pushed open the door to the foyer.
“Hello ...” she called, her voice oddly hoarse.
It carried far enough, however, to bring the housekeeper, butler, and several footmen dashing to her side.
“My lady, we have been so concerned,” Mrs. Greene cried.
“Please, there has been an accident,” she said as she clutched the door for support.
The older woman gave a shriek of dismay. “Heaven have mercy. Is it Lord Faulconer?”
“Yes. I—”
Beatrice’s words were cut short as the round form of Vicar Humbly hurried to her side.
“Beatrice, my child, what has occurred?”
“Lord Faulconer is on the island. A branch fell through the grotto and he is pinned beneath it.”
The vicar’s face paled. “He isn’t . . . ?”
“No,” Beatrice breathed, fiercely willing it so. “He is wounded but alive. I could not move him. I must have help.”
“Of course.” With a surprising efficiency, Humbly turned to regard the gathered servants. “You there.” He pointed to a footman. “Gather two grooms from the stables and take the boat to the grotto. Be sure you do not jostle his lordship more than necessary. Oh, and take a few blankets with you to keep him warm.” He pointed toward another footman. “You run and fetch the nearest doctor. Do not let him fob you off with some excuse of storms and muddy roads. Tell him that his lordship is injured and if he is not treated with all swiftness, it will be known throughout England he was failed by the local sawbones.”
“Yes, sir.”
The servants rushed to do his bidding, obviously eager to be of service to their beloved earl. Mrs. Greene abruptly straightened her shoulders.
“I must make some tea and some nice warm soup. The poor man will be chilled to the bone.”
She disappeared down the hall, closely followed by the gaunt butler, who was muttering about a stash of brandy hidden in the cellars.
Beatrice would have been stunned by the bumbling vicar’s sudden air of command if she hadn’t been battling the most absurd need to sink to the floor.
As if sensing her distress, Humbly regarded her with a piercing gaze.
“I fear Lord Faulconer is not the only one chilled to the bone. Come, my dear, you must go upstairs and have a nice, hot bath.”
With her teeth chattering, Beatrice gave a firm shake of her head.
“No, I must return to the island with the servants.”
“Nonsense. You will catch your death of cold in those wet clothes.”
“Gabriel needs me.”
Humbly regarded her steadily. “I am quite certain that he does, which is why you must have a care for you own health. You will be of little use to him laid up for weeks with an inflammation of the lungs.”
She stubbornly clung to the door, unable to bear the thought of not being at Gabriel’s side.
“But—”
“Beatrice, the servants are much better suited to return Gabriel to the house,” the vicar said firmly, taking a hold of her arm and tugging her toward the stairs. “Besides which, you would only be in the way once they have him in the boat.”
“I cannot just wait,” she protested as she discovered herself ruthlessly steered across the foyer.
“You will not be waiting. You will be taking a hot bath, followed by a large dose of brandy. You will then attire yourself in your warmest gown and be prepared to speak with the doctor.”
Beatrice wanted to argue. It was her duty to be beside Gabriel. More than that, she needed to be beside Gabriel.
But a glimmer of common sense at last pierced her foggy terror.
She was so weary, she doubted she could make her way back to the lake, not without a servant carrying her. In such a condition she would be of no help to Gabriel. And as Humbly had pointed out, she would surely be in the way once they managed to load him into the boat.
Surely it would be better to regain her strength and be preparing for Gabriel’s return?
“I suppose you are being sensible,” she sighed.
He kindly patted her hand. “Most certainly I am. Now go. I will await the doctor here.”
* * *
Gabriel regarded the small, nearly bald-headed gentleman with a jaundiced glare. He had not liked the look of that weasel face from the moment he had walked into the room. He liked him even less after a quarter of an hour of being poked, prodded, and kneaded like he was a lump of dough rather than a nobly born gentleman.
Luckily for the weasel-faced man, he was feeling as if he had been run over by a team of oxen. Otherwise he would have picked him up by those protruding ears and tossed him out the nearest window long ago.
As if able to read his dark thoughts, the demonic doctor found the most tender spot upon his ribs and dug his finger in with a ruthless force.
“Bloody hell,” Gabriel yelped in pain. “For how long do you intend to poke at me in that rude fashion?”
Straightening, the small man offered him a prunish frown. “I must ascertain you have no further injuries beyond a cut on the head.”
Scooting on the bed until he was out of ready reach of his tormentor, Gabriel pulled the blanket up to his chin. After losing consciousness beneath the branch the previous evening, he had no awareness of what had occurred until he had awakened this morning with a raging headache and this wretched doctor hovering above him like an angel of death.
All he wanted was a hot bath, a large dose of brandy, and, most of all, to see Beatrice and assure himself she had not caught a chill as they had waited to be rescued.
“I have told you I am q
uite well,” he growled in exasperation.
The weasel lips thinned. “And perhaps you would care to tell me precisely when you attended the Royal College of Physicians?”
Gabriel gave a snort. “I should know whether I sustained a life-threatening wound. It is my body, after all.”
“Would you care to know how many buffleheaded patients have gone to meet their maker while swearing they were perfectly fit?”
Buffleheaded?
Why the pompous, twittering fool.
“More likely it was from your poking,” he muttered, only to wince as the man reached out to prod his thigh. “Ow. You did that on purpose.”
A smug smile touched the weasel countenance. “Never argue with the doctor.”
“Tormentor, more like.”
The doctor straightened and placed his hands on his hips. “Would you prefer I leave an elixir for you?”
Gabriel shuddered in horror. “You wouldn’t.”
“Without the least pang of remorse. I have a particularly nasty one that I leave with patients like you.”
“Devil,” Gabriel accused. “Be off with you.”
“Gabriel?”
The softly questioning voice had Gabriel turning his head to discover Beatrice standing in the doorway. A rush of relief flooded through him as he noted her yellow gown as yet unstained by her numerous activities and the soft honey hair piled atop her head. In the morning sunlight she looked fresh and utterly healthy. Thank God, she had no seeming effects from the horrid incident.
“My dear, thank goodness you are here,” he said, holding out his hand toward her.
With a faint frown she hurried forward, surprisingly taking the hand he offered between both of her own.
“Is something the matter?”
“Nothing other than the fact that this demon is determined to bruise me from head to toe.”
The doctor gave a loud sniff. “Lady Faulconer, may I tell you that never has it been my honor to serve such an ill-tempered, thick-skulled gentleman?”
Beatrice glanced toward Gabriel with a lift of her brows. “I presume he refuses to allow you to examine him?”
“He is being most uncooperative.”
“Really, Gabriel,” she chided.
“I am fine.”
“You have a very nasty wound upon your head and several deep bruises. They should heal in time, but only if you remain in bed and behave in a sensible manner.”