Still, she could hear the pitiful call of some maimed animal on that first level of boulders. In places, a ledge had been chipped from the stone, a walkway to the bottom at one time, perhaps, or a collapse of the wall. She could see no sign of life among the carcasses littering this narrow path, but she heard it.
To tear one life from this senseless waste became a fixation. One life was all she asked. Somewhere, there must be rhyme or reason for this slaughter, but she would ask no more than to rescue just one life.
Before John could halt her, Aubree found a hold in the side of the quarry and began to scramble down. She heard John’s panicky yells, but this part of the path was surprisingly easy. Her feet were small and found footholds without much difficulty. The wall did not go straight down, but offered large flat boulders and handholds for easy passage.
Once on the ledge, she had greater difficulty walking among the broken bodies of the murdered sheep. Rage built within her at the senseless cruelty. Who could have conceived of such destruction? Her fury was such that she could easily imagine shoving such an abomination from the face of the cliff to join the cold bodies below. She prayed for the strength to control herself should she ever be faced with the culprit.
Heath’s hoarse cry echoed from above as Aubree found the lamb trapped against the cliff by a solid wall of carcasses. Gingerly, she bent over the foul-smelling bodies to pat the lamb’s head, comforting it with her touch. The lamb responded frantically, trying to reach her.
Aubree scanned the cliffs edge. Heath was already working his way down the path, and she frowned in consternation. If he had been up half the night or more, his leg would be stiff and swollen. He was too large to make that descent, and not agile enough. Fear for her husband outweighed her fear for the lamb, but it was too late now to stop the logical progression of events.
To Aubree’s relief, he made it safely down. She could cope with the fury darkening his face. He had a rope wrapped around his shoulder, and she suspected he half-meant to use it on her, but she could put it to better use.
“Do you think John can pull the lamb up if we tie the rope around it?” she inquired when he was within range of her voice.
“Aubree, my God, I ought to shake you until your teeth rattle or your brain wakes up,” he gritted out between clenched teeth. “Do you think one lousy lamb in all this slaughter is worth risking your life?”
She contemplated him gravely. “I did not think my life had much value to anyone but myself, and it would be worthless to me if I could not use it to help those who cannot help themselves. Did you come down here to yell at me or help me save the lamb?”
Faced with this unarguable logic, he had to give in, at least until he got her back to safety. “Let me get by so I can reach the damned animal.”
After signaling to the men above what he intended to do, he fastened a rope sling for the terrified animal and knotted it to a rope thrown from above. As soon as the rope began to move, Aubree picked her way over the rocks and corpses back to the path. The stink and the depression had taken its toll, and she wanted only to carry the lamb to the green pastures and sweet air of Atwood Abbey.
Aubree did not realize Heath had not followed her up until she was nearly at the top. She rested on a flat rock and watched as John lifted the lamb over the edge into Michael’s waiting arms, then she looked down to follow her husband’s path across the sheep-littered ledge. He had poked and prodded his way through all the cold, still bodies within his reach, and now found his footing on the narrow path upward.
What happened next etched Aubree’s memory and haunted her dreams for years thereafter. He had almost reached her perch, was just within a hand’s grasp of her ankle, when he shifted his weight to his game leg. Aubree watched, aghast, knowing even as he must at that moment, the excruciating pain that lanced through him. As the leg gave way, she grabbed for his hand and screamed as Heath tumbled backward and slid and bounced to the rocks below.
Her hysterical screams brought men rushing from all directions, but none was so swift as Aubree as she scrambled back down the cliff side to the inert body on the ledge. The men inched their way down the treacherous path while Aubree crouched beside her husband, holding his bruised and bleeding head in her hands.
Afterward, she remembered very little of the hours spent hauling Heath’s unconscious body up the cliff. Had he fallen an inch farther, he would have missed the ledge and joined Louise on the jagged rocks at the quarry bottom. As it was, he was still breathing when they reached him, though Aubree swore he would never survive the ascent.
When they reached the abbey, she acted in a daze, ordering hot water and cold compresses, bandages and towels. The one thought that stood out in the confusion was that she could not call the only physician in the area.
After she examined the mangled state of her husband’s leg, she knew he would not survive without a physician, a good one, and not the quack in Exeter. It might be days before even the fastest mail coach could carry her letter and return with a doctor, but she could not wait and helplessly watch him die. She ordered horses and scribbled a frantic note and sent Jamie with her urgent pleas to London. If her father wasn’t at Ashbrook House to receive her letter, her Uncle John or Emery would have to find the man she required.
With the help of Heath’s loyal groom, Aubree divested her patient of his clothes and bathed his battered body in water mixed with soothing herbs. John had cut the tight breeches from his swollen leg, and for modesty’s sake, a sheet was draped over the lower half of his body, but Aubree was very much aware of every muscle beneath the skin she massaged. She worked liniment along the bruises of his shoulders and back, discovering from his incoherent groans the places where ribs were cracked. With relief, she realized no other bones had broken, although she told John his master’s hard head had apparently softened the fall. John gave her a wry grin and anxiously followed her every command.
The leg was another matter entirely. Aubree bit back a gasp of dismay as she turned back the sheet and examined the limb she had bathed just an hour before. In that time, it had swollen to impossible proportions, and the vivid discoloration had grown more pronounced. The ungainly appendage was barely recognizable as a leg.
Gingerly, she rubbed liniment into the toughened muscles of his thigh and worked downward. Heath’s groans intensified as she reached his knee, and she halted to search for damage. If the kneecap was there, she could not discover it as such, but blood-covered gashes where it should be oozed unhealthy fluids.
She soaked a cloth to wash the wounds, wondering how he had succeeded in doing so much damage to the one weak point in his otherwise strong body. She had never really understood the differences between the bodies of men and women before, but examining Heath’s hard carved muscles and tendons extended her education.
Her washing hit a sharp fragment jutting from one wound, and a vividly explicit curse split the air. She jumped and John turned crimson and sent her an apologetic glance.
Aubree dropped the cloth and gestured to John to grab the pillows she had stacked beside the bed. The men had carried Austin to his chamber and not the antechamber he had occupied since Aubree’s arrival. The massive bed held him comfortably, but caused Aubree difficulty in reaching both sides of him.
John slipped a pillow to her and lifted Heath’s head so she might prop him up. A scowl puckered his dark features, but in a moment he forced open one eye. At discovering Aubree’s worried face hovering over him, he forced open the other.
“My God, what did you hit me with?” he moaned.
Aubree exchanged a look of relief with the groom. He at least retained his senses.
“Go tell Lady Heathmont her son’s hard head is not entirely broken yet,” she murmured, dispatching the good tidings in the only manner she could without tears.
John nodded understanding over Austin’s wince of pain and left obediently.
“Are you quite certain it’s not broken?” Heath muttered. “It feels like its shattered in a mil
lion tiny pieces.”
“Your head’s not that big,” Aubree retorted. “As a matter of fact, you use it so seldom I doubt that it would hurt to have it removed. Any man fool enough to clamber down that cliff on that leg. . .” Her throat choked with tears and she could not continue, but turned away to fill a glass with brandy for him.
When she turned back, he had maneuvered his head into a position where he could watch her. He ignored the proffered brandy and studied her tear-begrimed face.
“You’re a mess,” he declared.
“And you’re not?” she answered, shoving the glass in his hand. “Shall I bring you a mirror?”
“If my pretty face is scarred for life, it’s no major loss,” he assured her, grimacing as he tried to sit upright. “But I damned well would like to sit again in the not-too-distant future.”
Aubree slid another pillow behind him and sat on the bed’s edge to steady the glass while he situated himself. She could tell the extent of his pain by the way the glass shook. She ought to ring a peal over him for his stubborn pride, but she could barely speak. Tears stung her eyes as she watched him move with such obvious agony. The fevered flush of his skin and the brightness of his eyes did not bode well.
“I do not think there is anything seriously broken, if that’s what you’re asking,” she replied. “Do not move too abruptly or your ribs will revenge your haste. I have some liquid here I would like you to drink if the brandy has strengthened you. It is not so pleasant-tasting, but it will ease some of the pain.”
He glared at her. “Not laudanum.”
“Only a small amount,” Aubree assured him.
“None,” he commanded, returning the brandy glass.
Aubree set her lips determinedly to prevent the tears from falling. “The pain can only grow worse,” she pointed out. “I only wish you to rest while you can.”
“No laudanum,” he repeated. Relenting, Heath added in explanation, “My father was an addict, halfling. It’s too easy an escape.”
She nodded, vaguely understanding his fears. “I’ll not use it against your wishes. But I cannot bear to see you suffer so.”
“Never mind that. How’s my leg? It feels like it’s been hacked at with a dull saw.” He eased the limb to one side and emitted a strangled moan as the metal shards ground against bone.
“The leg is still there,” Aubree informed him. “That’s all I can say for it. I was trying to examine it when you woke.”
Since he wore nothing beneath the sheet, he sent her an odd look at this mention of her examination. “I should think John would be a more appropriate nurse, halfling. He has tended me before. Why don’t you hold my mother’s hand and let me sleep this off? I will be fine in a few days’ time.”
Aubree favored him with an angry glare. “I believe you must already be delirious. Sleep will not heal you this time, milord. John’s skill is limited to tending a horse’s legs. It will take all my limited knowledge to prevent infection from setting in before a surgeon arrives. From the looks of it, the infection was already there before this fall. For an intelligent man, you certainly play the part of fool well, my lord.”
Heath’s head pounded like the hammers of hell, but even he could sense the alarm behind her angry words. He had lived with the fear of losing this leg for years. It seemed damned inconvenient for it to happen now. Still, worrying would not solve the problem.
“Do what you can, lass,” he murmured, closing his eyes. “Just make certain the men keep to their rounds every night. I’ll not have that bastard come any nearer to the house.”
These disjointed words were hard to follow, but Aubree assumed they referred to the criminal who had torn down the sheep pen. “Who is it, Heath? Let me send the sheriff after him.”
“No proof. Have to catch him. Hang him when I do. Bastard murdered Louise. Stay away from him, my love.”
He slipped into unconsciousness, leaving Aubree to grasp at nameless fears. Who was he calling his love? Louise? Surely, he would not refer to her that way. Yet he feared somebody, and she could not shake her uneasiness.
Chapter 22
Lady Heathmont appeared in Heath’s bedchamber late that evening to persuade Aubree from her vigil.
“Let me sit with him while you rest, dear. There is little we can do while he is like this.” Beneath her cap of white hair, the dowager’s bright-blue eyes regarded her with worry.
Aubree lifted a cooling sponge to Heath’s heated forehead and smiled. “I am not tired. I will rest here when I am.”
Lady Heathmont’s brow puckered into a concerned frown. “You need your rest, dear, especially if there is a child to be considered.”
Aubree looked up in surprise. “A child?” she asked with confusion.
Her mother-in-law managed to appear embarrassed. “I know I promised Austin not to interfere, but it seems if he can go announcing it to half the county, we should be able to talk of it.”
“Announcing? A child?” Aubree decided her brain must be more tired than she imagined.
“The day at the market,” the widow continued doggedly. “The maids told me what Austin said about an heir.”
Embarrassment flushed her cheeks. So that was why everyone had been treating her with such care lately. Even Mattie had made her climb down from the footstool when she had tried to reach one of the kittens in the bed hangings. Heath had served a twofold purpose with that wicked declaration.
Aubree shook her head. “He was simply getting even with me for embarrassing him. He meant nothing by that statement.”
Lady Heathmont’s face sagged. “You are certain? There is no chance?”
Aubree suddenly realized how much a child meant to the dowager. If anything should happen to Heath, he had no heir to carry on the title. There were no brothers, no other line of Atwoods. The abbey and its lands would revert to the crown. All rested on one very slim hope.
She offered what hope she could. “There is always a chance,” she admitted.
The dowager nodded with relief. “I had feared. . . So many rumors follow Austin about. My correspondents in London said your father forced the marriage. I could not believe he could be forced to anything, but his insistence on separate chambers. . . I was worried.”
She had every right to be worried, but Aubree did not have the heart to tell her that. “I would not listen to gossip, milady. Your son is overly concerned about my welfare, perhaps. There is the difference in our ages.”
“Fustian!” Lady Heathmont announced, rising from her chair and preparing to leave. “Austin did not turn a score and ten until last spring. A green girl with no one else to guide her needs a man with more experience than she. And he needs your youth to remind him he is not an old man yet. I shall leave him in your good hands.”
Aubree blinked back tears as the dowager departed after effectively dismissing what Aubree had considered to be the insurmountable problem of age. Now if only Heath could be convinced that he did not need an older woman, or that her wealth was not a handicap, or that her inexperience could be overcome. . . The list seemed endless, but one factor weighed more important than all: before he could be convinced of anything, he must recover.
His unconscious groans and thrashings haunted the upper-story halls the next day. Solemn faces bent to their tasks, never far from Aubree’s call. She went belowstairs only once, when Harley came to call.
Aubree greeted him in the small salon but did not sit.
Harley graciously acknowledged her nervous impatience. “I just heard of the accident, Aubree.” He ignored her title for the first time, speaking to her as friend to friend. “Is there anything I can do? We can do? Anna and Maria offer their aid, too. At times like these, neighbors cannot let old grudges come between them.”
Aubree stalked up and down the worn carpet. Free of the sickroom, a dozen things came to mind, but she hesitated mentioning them. Heath had all but acknowledged that the recent string of disasters was no accident, but she could think of no one who would hold so st
rong a hate for him except the Sothebys. She could not believe Harley guilty of such heinous crimes, but after all, he had been the one who had kidnapped her in the first place.
“Can you not, Harley?” she asked irritably, too tired to be diplomatic. “Can you tell me your father knows nothing of these little ‘accidents’ that have all but destroyed us? Who else would enjoy bringing him down and making him suffer like that?”
Harley looked startled. “You are telling me what happened the other night was not an accident? Heath’s fall—I heard. . .”
She swung to face him. “His fall was an accident. An inevitable one, perhaps, but an accident. No, his tormentor does not mean to kill him quickly, it seems. He would prefer to drive him to his grave in misery, just as your sister died. Louise committed suicide, Harley. You didn’t know that, did you? I wonder if your father does? I have seen Heath suffer so, I cannot help but wonder what keeps him from taking his own life. Maybe that’s what his tormentor intends. What do you think?”
She said unforgivable things, things she had never even thought of until this very minute, when driven to desperation. Someone out there hated her husband; she was never so sure of it as now, when it all came together. He had hidden the knowledge of Louise’s death, but revealing the truth seemed the safest, fastest way to free him from the prison he had been buried in. In truth, there was power.
Harley stood, stunned, as if unable to comprehend her words. “I don’t think even my father knew how Louise died,” he said shakily. “He and Heath have not spoken since her death. He’s a blind, bitter old man, but I cannot imagine him taking vengeance in such a manner. They were friends once, and I think his bitterness stems from what he considers a failure of his trust. I have never heard him call Heath a murderer.”
Aubree stared unhappily out the window. “Then I must believe he has other enemies. I do not know what to do. I must go back up to him in case he wakes.”
She turned to leave, but Harley intervened. “You are certain the sheep and the wheat and all the other little incidents were not accidents?”
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