Daphne wanted to grab his arm and shake him, to force him to share the wonders—and even the horrors—of his fascinating life.
But a lifetime of reticence won out and all she could say was, “You are not boring me, Hugh.”
His gaze flickered over her at her rare use of his Christian name—as if he heard something else beneath her words—and he continued. “Rather than covet my life, William should have lived his own to the fullest. That is the most important lesson I have learned in almost four decades. Life is fleeting and precious and a man”—he cut her a glance—“or a woman, must seize every opportunity to enjoy it. Never take even one day for granted.” His smile turned self-deprecating. “There you have it, Daphne, the profound philosophy of Hugh Redvers—a man whose careers include hellion, slave, and privateer.”
“And what career is it that you are pursuing now?” She could see her question surprised him, but he recovered quickly.
“Oh, I am on a holiday.”
“A holiday?”
“Yes. I have not returned to stay, only to make a certain peace with my past.” His mouth turned down at the corners and he stared grimly ahead. “I should have done so when my uncle was still alive, I know that, but I was weak-willed and could not make myself come back.”
Daphne did not believe for an instant that was the reason he’d stayed away. “Will you depart on the Ghost when it returns?”
“Hmm?” he asked, turning away from whatever thoughts seemed to be obsessing him.
“You will leave England soon?”
His teasing smile told her his brief moment of confidence was at an end. “Why, Daphne, are you trying to be rid of me—already?”
He spent the rest of the short ride teasing and flirting with her; speaking lots of words, but saying nothing.
* * *
It took them a little over an hour to fully inspect the small cottage and two outbuildings. They were returning to their horses when the sound of angry voices could be heard coming from the small stand of trees behind the cottage.
Hugh held a finger to his pursed lips and motioned for her to stay by the horses. Daphne nodded and he moved quickly, and surprisingly quietly, disappearing behind the corner of the house. A few seconds later there was a female shriek followed by the low rumble of Hugh’s voice. And then nothing. She’d just decided to investigate when two people came around the corner, Hugh right behind them.
“Fowler?” Daphne recalled a moment too late that her former maid had married the man behind her, Owen Blake. Daphne had been surprised and not a little hurt when Fowler had decided to stay at Whitton Park to wed Blake all those years ago. She knew most people believed the rather homely Mary Fowler was fortunate to snare the handsome footman, but Daphne had never trusted the preening Blake. She’d also suspected him of carrying tales to Malcolm.
She hadn’t seen either of the Blakes up close since leaving that wretched house ten years ago; neither had aged well. Mary’s skin was a yellowish gray and a fine webbing of telling red veins spread over her nose and cheeks. Her husband’s once-handsome face was florid and jowly, the whites of his eyes bloodshot. Both servants stood with the tense posture of people who’d been interrupted in the middle of something embarrassing.
Daphne looked from face to face. “Is aught amiss?”
Hugh shrugged, staring at the other two.
Mary Blake dropped a wobbly curtsy. “There’s nothing amiss, my lady. We were looking for Blake’s hound, Sprite. I’m afraid I left the door to the shed open and she got away.”
Daphne could hear the lie in her words. “Lord Ramsay and I have been here over an hour and have not seen her.”
Blake’s eyes swept Daphne in a bold and unfriendly manner. “I’m sure the bitch will make her way home when she is hungry enough.” He turned to his wife. “We’d best be getting back to Whitton Park. My lord.” He nodded at Hugh and took his wife’s arm. Mary Blake shot Daphne an apologetic look over her shoulder as her husband all but dragged her away.
“What in heaven’s name was that all about?” Daphne asked after they’d disappeared.
Hugh lifted her into the saddle and handed her the reins. “They were arguing quite heatedly when I came upon them, but I could not make out the substance of the disagreement. I collect they must live just beyond that stand of trees?”
“Yes, their cottage is one of the larger ones on Malcolm’s estate.”
“I do not believe they were arguing about a dog.” He shrugged and glanced around. “If I remember correctly, there should be a shortcut that leads to a rather pleasant meadow.” He shot her a challenging look. “Do you care for a gallop?”
Daphne could see the notion of besting her on horseback amused him. “You must mean the South Meadow? Yes, there is a rather nice path just ahead.” She pointed over his shoulder and when he turned to look, she snapped her reins and Carmel bolted toward the real path.
Delighted laughter echoed behind her. “She plays us foul, Pasha!”
Daphne grinned as she reined in to guide Carmel down the twisty path through the section of woods. The trail was seldom used these days and branches clawed at her hair and habit. The sound of hooves and shouted curses behind her told her the low-hanging branches were even harder on the huge man and his big horse.
Sunlight bathed the path ahead of her and she leaned low and gave the frisky mare her head, exploding from the woods into the meadow.
Daphne had ridden this stretch of land hundreds of times and knew it like the back of her hand. Even so, she expected the magnificent Pasha to overtake her much smaller Carmel any moment. But Hugh had still not caught up with her when she reached the rise at the other end of the bowl-shaped meadow. She reined in, expecting him to fly past and surprise her. But when she swung Carmel around and swept the meadow, all she saw was Pasha, prancing near the trailhead into the woods. Riderless.
“Good God!” She drove Carmel back down the hill, her pace beyond reckless. Hugh’s body lay crumpled in the grass a short distance from his saddle. Daphne slid gracelessly to the ground before Carmel had even stopped and dropped to her knees, lowering her cheek against his nose and mouth, holding her own breath to listen. A puff of warm air grazed her skin and she choked back a sob and kissed him hard on the mouth, weak with relief.
Naturally he chose that moment to open his single eye. His lips moved.
“What was that?” Daphne leaned closer.
“The lengths to which a man must go for a kiss,” he whispered and then laughed, the action sending a spasm of pain across his face. “Blast!” He squeezed his eye shut and that was when Daphne noticed his head rested on a rock, and there was a smear of red on it.
Cold fear slithered down her spine. “Hugh, can you move your hands and feet?”
He opened his eye and shifted his legs and arms, wincing.
Crippling relief replaced fear; thank God he was not paralyzed as Thomas had been after his fall.
She met his puzzled gaze. “You hit your head. Hold still while I check.” She pulled off her gloves and tossed them aside before sliding her fingers into his hair. There was a sizeable goose egg oozing blood, but not heavily.
“Where else do you feel pain?”
He lifted a hand to shield his eye from the sun and then quickly lowered it. “It feels like I have broken my collarbone, something I’ve done before.” He gave her his standard teasing smile, but it was shadowed by pain. “It is also bloody uncomfortable when I breathe.”
That sounded like broken or bruised ribs.
“We need to get you back to the house, and I think a carriage would be the best thing.”
His face wore an expression she’d never seen before: embarrassment. He nodded. “While it crushes my masculine pride to agree with you, I doubt I could mount Pasha at this point.”
“I’m going to fetch your saddle and put it under your head so you are more comfortable.”
His saddle lay not far from where Pasha was calmly cropping grass.
She lifted it and swep
t a hand beneath it to flip the girth-cinch on top and keep it from dragging. That’s when she noticed it was only half as long as normal. She peered at it and saw the tightly woven strap was torn: the tear straight and without ragged edges. Almost as if it had been . . . cut. Her body froze while her mind raced. This wasn’t an accident, this wasn’t—
Movement in her peripheral vision reminded her of the man who lay injured and waiting, and she swallowed her worry, hefted the saddle higher and carried it toward him. He watched in silence as she removed her riding coat, folded it into a square, and slid both saddle and coat beneath his neck, adjusting them until some of the tension seemed to drain from his body.
“Better?” she asked, her hand stroking the damp hair from his forehead before she knew what she was doing.
His wicked smile had returned. “Much better, thank you.”
“If your skull is concussed you should not sleep—try to keep your eyes open. Count sheep or doubloons or . . . or women to keep awake.”
His white teeth flashed. “I’ll count Daphnes.”
Daphne had to swallow down her heart, which had leapt into her throat yet again. “I will be back as soon as I can.” She began to push herself up.
He caught her hand, his single pupil large. “Be careful, Daphne.”
A chill shot up her spine at both his eye and his words but then she realized he could not possibly know about the cut girth—at least not yet.
Daphne nodded and roughly squeezed his hand. “Stay awake.”
She caught Carmel’s bridle, used an old tree stump as a mounting block, and headed for Lessing Hall as if the Devil himself were on her heels.
Chapter Ten
The carriage journey to Lessing Hall took no more than a half hour, but Hugh’s face was gray and the lines of pain around his eyes and mouth were deeply etched by the time it was over.
Daphne left him in Kemal’s capable hands and hastened to her room, where she changed out of her habit by herself rather than ringing for help. The process took longer but she needed time alone to compose herself, to think about the cut girth. And most of all, to pray Hugh Redvers had not taken any permanent harm.
Garbed in a dress of somber dark gray, she headed downstairs three-quarters of an hour later.
Gates met her in the Great Hall. “Doctor Nichols arrived not long after you did, my lady.”
“That was very fast.”
“It was fortunate he was home at the time.” Gates opened the door to the Yellow Drawing Room and followed her inside. “Would you like me to have tea sent in, my lady?”
“Yes, but wait until the doctor is finished and send him in. Did he say how long he would be?”
“He was just—”
A knock interrupted whatever he was going to say and the door opened to expose Doctor Nichols with his scuffed black bag.
“Thank you for coming so quickly, Doctor.” Daphne smiled at the older man, pushing away the memories his kind, weathered face unfortunately evoked—memories of Thomas slowly wasting away in his sickbed.
He regarded her through keen, gray eyes and bowed. “I am sorry I am once again needed, my lady.”
“Will you stay for tea?”
“Tea would be lovely.”
Gates left and Daphne gestured to one of the comfortable, overstuffed chairs.
“How is Lord Ramsay?”
“His lordship has at least two cracked ribs and a few more that are bruised,” he began in his abrupt way. “He also has a broken collarbone and a badly bruised muscle in one leg. Those injuries can only be treated with time and rest. My biggest concern is his head. He is showing no signs of concussion but there is a sizeable lump and I would like to keep him under observation for forty-eight hours.”
Daphne nodded. “Of course.”
“I want to keep watch for any forgetfulness, confusion, slurred speech, or a persistent, severe headache. If you notice any of those symptoms, send for me at once.” He hesitated. “He is rather a determined man and I fear he might not stay abed.”
Daphne thought of Kemal’s serious, intelligent—and equally determined—eyes and smiled. “I believe his manservant will be of some help in that regard.”
“Yes, I spoke to him already—a most sensible gentleman.”
The door opened and a servant entered with the tea; Gates must have anticipated her orders to have had it ready so quickly.
She dismissed the maid and turned to the heaped tray, allowing the tea to steep a moment longer while she prepared a plate. The doctor’s eyes widened at the selection of pastries and sandwiches she handed him.
“Ah, you are too kind, my lady.” He ate a small sandwich in two bites and then smiled sheepishly. “I’m afraid I’ve been too busy for breakfast or tea today.” He accepted the cup of tea and gulped down a steaming mouthful, eating a lemon tart before sighing, an expression of contentment on his worn features.
“I gave him a mild sedative—which I would not have done if I’d been terribly worried about a concussion—only because I believe it might keep him in his bed and he needs rest more than anything. His ribs are bound and should be tightened periodically. Aside from that”—he shrugged—“time and rest.” He sipped his tea before continuing. “Keeping him under observation might seem unusual when I’m not overly worried about concussion, but I saw signs of prior head trauma—rather severe.” He fiddled nervously with the handle of his teacup. “I’ll be frank, my lady. Lord Ramsay has been exposed to extremely brutal treatment.”
Daphne’s cup and saucer rattled as she set it down and the doctor glanced away, swallowing loudly. “He has . . . well, he has a great number of scars. Some of them—” He broke off, his cheeks puffing out as he noisily expelled a mouthful of air. “I would go so far as to say he’s been tortured.”
The room was silent but for the ticking of the gaudy ormolu clock on the mantelpiece.
Daphne struggled for something intelligent to say, but all she could manage was, “Torture?”
His kind eyes were bleak. “In addition to evidence of several skull fractures, there are dozens—maybe even hundreds—of scars on his chest, back, and arms—” Again he stopped, and then nodded abruptly. “Yes, it is my professional opinion he was tortured.”
They sat in silence.
It was the doctor who finally broke the spell when he set down his empty cup and saucer and cleared his throat. “I hate to eat and bolt away, but Kitty Fenwick is in the straw and it’s her first child.”
Daphne nodded absently, still reeling.
The doctor heaved himself to his feet. “I’ll be back tomorrow morning if I have no word from you in the interim. I can see myself out, Lady Davenport.” He retrieved his bag and quietly left the room.
Daphne had been a fool to think life as a slave would leave no scars, but should she have guessed he’d been tortured? She’d assumed the scar across his face was the result of one of the many sword battles she’d imagined him engaging in. She recalled the cut girth and closed her eyes, a sick feeling blooming and blossoming inside her. Will Standish would have seen the girth by now and Daphne already knew what he would say: somebody had cut it—somebody had wanted to hurt Hugh. If the girth had broken only seconds earlier—while he’d been tearing through the trees . . .
Daphne told herself not to borrow more trouble. She needed to focus on what had happened and why. Hugh Redvers had been gone from England almost two decades; who could possibly gain from his death?
Daphne could think of no one.
No one except herself and her sons.
* * *
Kemal was in the dressing room when Daphne entered the Rose Room—a bedroom her husband had occupied for the six months before his death. She fought down the thick, noxious fog of emotions the room elicited and turned her attention to its current occupant.
Hugh’s sleeping body dwarfed the enormous four-poster bed. He was breathing deeply and regularly, his torso bare but for a stark white bandage. The patch that covered his eye had been re
moved and she saw the eyelid was undamaged, the skin above and below pulled by a thin white line. She shuddered when she realized his eye had been open at the time of his injury; he would have witnessed whatever had delivered such a punishing cut.
Her gaze slid from his eye to the white scars that crisscrossed his massive shoulders and chest. The doctor had spoken the truth: they were too numerous to count.
She reached out to touch the raised lines that were only partially hidden by the golden hair, her mind unable to absorb what she was seeing. Who or what had done this to him—how could any human survive so much pain?
Only when she saw the tears on his bandage did she realize she was crying. She looked up to find Kemal standing across from her, his face an unreadable mask. She lifted the blankets higher, covering the terrible secrets carved into his skin, and then gestured toward the dressing room. She shut the door so they might speak without waking their patient.
“Doctor Nichols told me Lord Ramsay had prior head injuries?”
“That was before I was with him, my lady.”
Daphne wanted to prod and pry, but she suspected this man was too loyal to speak about his captain.
“The doctor wants somebody with him at all times. You take the first watch and I will relieve you at midnight.”
“I am capable of staying awake for many hours, my lady. I do not require any assistance.”
She smiled at him. “There are two of us to share nursing duties, Kemal. There is no reason for either of us to become exhausted.”
He bowed his head. “As you wish, my lady.”
Daphne left Kemal to his duties and went to the schoolroom, where the boys were anxiously waiting for her.
“Mama, what happened?” Lucien demanded, his forehead wrinkled with worry.
Daphne turned to Rowena, who often spent time with the boys to give their somewhat elderly nurse relief from her boisterous charges.
“I will speak to the boys in private,” Daphne said, leading her sons toward the battered table where generations of Redverses had done their schoolwork—or not.
She waited until the boys were seated. “Lord Ramsay had an accident while riding Pasha. He is doing well and resting in the Rose Room.”
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