by Gina Lamm
And when the carriage, on its fourth set of horses since their headlong journey across England began, turned and began to roll down the long, curving drive that led to Meadowfair Manor, Patrick wanted to shout with relief.
“Ella,” he whispered down to her. The afternoon light was slanting across her face, making her skin look gray. He didn’t care for that, not at all. “We’ve arrived at my home. I shall see you installed in the largest bedchamber and have the doctor fetched straightaway.”
There was no answer from Ella, not that he’d expected one.
“I suppose you’ll want me to see about fetching the physician?” Iain’s dry tone covered up a good deal of his own worry, and Patrick couldn’t help but be grateful for the blackguard’s company.
“Please.”
The carriage lumbered to a stop in front of the huge carved oak door of Meadowfair Manor. Patrick had just climbed down, his arms open and waiting to take Ella from Iain, when that same door blew open like a tempest had suddenly appeared on the other side.
“Oh, my lord, you’ve returned! And so unexpected, here in the middle of the Season.” Sharpwicke, his butler, was grinning like a vicar in a room full of sinners. He clapped his pudgy hands together and rubbed. “Mrs. Templeton! His lordship has returned. Ah, the excitement you’ve missed. Baron Brownstone’s two footmen were here not two days past, asking for you. Not to worry. I told them you were in London, but now here you are! And who is that with you, sir? Surely you’ve not gone and taken a bride without a word to us. I would have assembled the staff to greet you, my lord, not that there’s above seven of us here, with the rest seeing to your home in Town. Mrs. Templeton, oh, where can that mad old woman be?”
“Sharpwicke,” Patrick said in a mild tone as he carried Ella up the front steps to the door, “please cease your prattling. This is not my bride. This is Miss Ella Briley, and she is very ill. And after she’s settled, I would like to hear more about Brownstone’s emissaries.”
“Hello there, Sharpwicke.” Iain clapped the butler on the shoulder, nearly knocking the old man over. If possible, the butler grinned even more broadly at the familiar greeting. “Can I prevail upon you to have a horse saddled for me? I must fetch the doctor. Quick as you can, there’s a good man.”
“My lord?” Mrs. Templeton appeared then, her arms full as she held a furry cat. She spared a glance at Sharpwicke, who was scurrying toward the stables, his bowed legs nearly a blur as the tails of his coat flew out behind him. “Oh my goodness, it is you! Welcome home.”
His housekeeper bobbed an elegant curtsy.
“Thank you, Mrs. Templeton.” Patrick didn’t stop; he continued through the foyer and mounted the stairs. “I shall need the fire stoked in my bedchamber, as well as warm water and some tea brought up. I shall put Miss Briley in my bed, and we’ll tend to her there.”
Mrs. Templeton gasped, and Patrick glanced back at her. Elspeth, the cat, gave a yowl of protest and leaped to the stairs, dashing off with her tail as fluffy as a bottlebrush.
“My lord, are you sure? Your own bedchamber? Surely that is not proper, do you think?”
Patrick kicked the door open without ceremony, and Mrs. Templeton wrung her hands as she followed.
“It is a simple matter of logistics, Mrs. Templeton. Miss Briley is very ill, and this is the largest bedchamber in the house. Therefore it makes sense to care for Miss Briley here. Now please, make haste and get me the warm water and tea. Oh, I shall need some clean bandages as well. And send the stable lad to Brown Hall. Under no circumstances is he to let on that I have arrived, but have him see if Miss Amelia is there. Go, quickly.”
Hands wringing, Mrs. Templeton left to do as he bid.
Gently as he could, Patrick pulled back the coverlet and laid Ella down upon the sheets. She moaned low, deep in her throat, and a tear escaped from beneath her closed eyelid.
“I know it hurts,” he said, smoothing her black hair across the pillows. “Do not worry. Iain will have the physician here in a trice.”
Sinking onto the bed next to her, Patrick laid a hand across her brow. Still hot—agonizingly so. She could not go on like this much longer.
He’d known her so briefly, but he could not imagine life without her, were she to perish. The thought sent chills down his backbone. Never before had he felt this strongly for someone, not even Amelia.
And for just a moment there, staring at Ella’s face, drawn with pain and fever as it was, he thought he might understand Amelia just a little bit more. He understood how she could brave her father’s wrath, and society’s bad opinion for the man she loved.
He thought that maybe, if things were different, he and Ella might—
The door flew open and Mrs. Templeton bustled into the room, followed by the only footman still on duty at Meadowfair Manor; the others had all accompanied him to staff his house in Town. When the buckets of warm water had been set in front of the hearth, the footman bent to start the fire.
Mrs. Templeton set her burden down on the table in the corner of the room. “Here we are, my lord—a tea tray, and some biscuits for you as well. If you’ve traveled as fast and as far as I suspect, then you’ll be needing the nourishment. Here, allow me to undress the young lady. You’ve left her boots on, and now there’s dirt on the sheets.”
Patrick stood and allowed Mrs. Templeton to see to Ella. He didn’t know what to do, not with her, not with himself.
Something had changed, and he was not sure what.
* * *
Amelia was not at Brown Hall. Honestly, he hadn’t expected her to be near if she was not in his own home, but he could not regret the effort of discovering the fact. Now all he could do was wait. Until Ella was better, he would not leave her side. He was standing with his back to the fireplace, hands clasped behind him, watching Ella breathe, when a knock came at the bedroom door. Sharpwicke poked his curly gray head in through the crack.
“Doctor Reston has arrived, sir.”
“Bring him up, please, Sharpwicke.” Patrick couldn’t hide his relief at the physician’s arrival. Finally, a bloke who knew what was what, who could look at the wound on Ella’s foot and know what to do about it.
When Iain appeared at the door, Patrick was quite prepared to hand him every single cent of his fortune that wasn’t entailed. But the Scotsman’s face was drawn and dark.
“What is the matter, Cousin?” Patrick said, losing a bit of his cheer.
“You’ll see in a moment,” Iain murmured, glancing back over his shoulder. “No matter what the man says, do not leave her side.”
Patrick drew himself up to his full height. He’d not planned to leave her anyway, but with Iain’s warning ringing soundly in his ears, he’d make double sure to watch over her.
“This is Doctor Reston, my lord,” Sharpwicke said, his normally ebullient manner somewhat subdued as he held the door open for the physician.
Patrick blinked. Twice.
Dressed all in black, with a somewhat beaten leather bag in one hand, the doctor meandered his way into the room. His dark hair was lank and stringy, showing thin as it hung over the center of the man’s head, and was obviously in need of a good washing. He was tall and thin, rather like a fence post, really. He gave Patrick a smarmy, toadying smile.
Patrick disliked him on sight. But what choice did he have? Since Thomason’s death, Reston had taken over in Cromer. He was the only physician in the area.
Patrick stepped forward. “I am Fairhaven. This young lady is Miss Briley, and she is in need of attention.”
A filmy monocle appeared in the man’s hand, and he put it up to his eye with a sniff. “Yes, my lord, I can see that she is.”
The man set his bag down on the edge of the bed, and Patrick fought the shudder that ripped down his spine at the man’s proximity to Ella. He stepped closer, well aware of Iain right behind him.
“P
lease tell me what occurred before the young lady found herself in this position?” The doctor opened his bag and began rummaging through it.
“She has an injury to her heel. She stepped on something sharp, and the wound has worsened since…” Patrick trailed off as he caught sight of the man’s hands. They were streaked with dirt, but under the man’s nails was a thick, reddish-brown substance. Patrick slammed his eyes closed, trying to get his temper under control.
“Since what, my lord? Pray continue.”
A clinking sound wrenched Patrick’s eyes open, but then a red mist descended over him. The man had put a basin beneath Ella’s arm, shoving the nightshirt Mrs. Templeton had dressed her in all the way up to her shoulder. He’d laid out a row of none-too-clean knives, and was selecting one as he prodded the soft flesh of Ella’s arm.
She had spoken of this before. He could picture her face, drawn and fearful as she described how harmful the practice of bleeding a patient was. He would not allow this.
Patrick launched himself forward, not heeding the man’s panicked cry as he grabbed the doctor by the back of the neck and slung him into the wall. The knives clattered to the floor, the basin banging against the washstand before rolling to a stop beneath the bed. Bouncing to the ground, the man began to bluster and blubber. Patrick did not care. He’d gone past caring the minute that filthy demon had presumed that Ella could afford to lose one drop of her precious blood.
“Get out,” Patrick snarled, glaring down at the man at his feet. The doctor scrambled to pick up his instruments of torture, but Patrick slammed his boot on the man’s hand before he could reach for another knife. “Leave these, and get out. You shall never harm another person in or around this area. Your tools are filthy, your methods barbaric, and if you even presume to breathe the same air as Ella again, I shall—”
“Easy, Cousin,” Iain said, grabbing Patrick’s shoulder and pulling him back. “Let the man leave. I think he understands you.”
The man shot them a fearful look, but he did not say another word, just gathered his bag, leaving the knives where they were, and quit the room.
Patrick moved to Ella’s bedside, staring down at her, while an unnamed emotion started curling through his chest. It was intense, like his anger had been moments ago, but it was different. Somewhat soothing but frightening, it roiled and bubbled and grew until it filled his torso, trickling its way to his fingertips, then back to his heart.
He closed his eyes and then moved away from the bedside. He gathered what he needed, then returned to her side. Iain said nothing, just watched as Patrick dipped the soap into the warm water, and began slowly, tenderly scrubbing her arm where that man had dared to touch her.
“Don’t worry, you are clean now,” Patrick said as he rinsed the dirt from her skin. “And that man is gone.”
“I grant you, the man was in need of a good scrubbing,” Iain said as he sank into a chair by the fireside, “but why did you not force him to wash and then bleed her?”
Patrick shot Iain a dark look. “You were not in the war. You have not seen the men that I saw die, Iain. I am convinced that bleeding does nothing but weaken the sick body. And from what Ella has told me, in her time, there is no such practice.”
Iain sat forward, bracing his arms on his knees as he speared his cousin with a piercing look. “You are prepared to gamble her life on this?”
“I am.”
Shaking his head, Iain smiled. “Do as you wish, Cousin. I believe that you might save this girl, you know.”
“I fully intend to.” Patrick placed a pillow beneath Ella’s legs, propping her feet over a basin. He’d need to clean those wounds again. They’d not been able to do so on the road, and that fact had worried him sorely.
Iain stood, stretching his back. “I believe I shall visit your kitchens. I find that such a long journey has made me famished. Shall I have Mrs. Templeton send you up a tray with your dinner?”
Patrick nodded, but before his cousin could leave the room, he stopped him.
“Iain, may I ask a favor?”
A grin spread across Iain’s face, his white teeth contrasting with the two days’ worth of dark beard that was sorely in want of trimming. “Of course.”
“I cannot leave her until she is well,” Patrick said, looking down at Ella. Her chest rose and fell a little more evenly, he thought. Perhaps she was resting better now. He hoped so. “But I must discover what has befallen Amelia as well. She is not at Brown Hall, and Baron Brownstone has already sent men to find me here. Can I count on you to visit George Harrods, the vicar in Cromer, tomorrow? If anyone knows Amelia’s whereabouts, it will be he.”
Iain nodded. “Of course. I shall visit the vicar, and you shall play the physician for Miss Briley.” Gripping the door’s handle, Iain sobered. “She is very ill, you know.”
“I know,” Patrick whispered, smoothing the hair from her forehead. “But I promised I would help her. I cannot break that vow.”
The door slowly closed behind Iain, leaving Patrick alone with Ella.
He thought he saw her eyelids flutter for a moment, but all too quickly, she was still again.
“I will help you,” he said again, running a finger along her soft cheek. “I may not have the power of magic on my side, but I do have determination. You will be better. I demand it.”
He just hoped she was listening.
Fifteen
Ella was floating somewhere in the dark. She blinked, but there wasn’t any light anywhere that she could see. Something hurt, and it was hot, kind of like that kerosene heater in her grandmother’s house, but that was years ago. Her grandmother had passed away, but that was years ago too. Her mom had cried, and Ella had worn her Darth Vader pajamas to bed that night, using the hem of the black T-shirt to dry her tears.
She wore them to a sleepover once, and a girl had sneered, said that they were “for boys.” Ella didn’t care. She wore them every night until they got too small for her.
Words came from somewhere, and Ella strained to hear them.
“…how do you know the vicar is gone?”
“I spoke with the verger. He said that George Harrods left a week ago.”
“And he had no idea where the man had gone?”
Ella frowned. Who was George? Why did they care that he was gone? She hurt—oh God, her foot was on fire. She opened her mouth, wishing she could yell.
“Ella? Ella, love, can you hear me?”
She wanted to open her eyes, to see the man who was talking, but she couldn’t do it. She could see his face in her mind’s eye, though. He was handsomer than Henry Cavill, and he was so noble. But funny and witty, and he’d bandaged her foot. While she was on a horse named after breakfast? God, why were things so confusing?
“Try and drink some of this tea. You’ll feel better.”
Warm porcelain touched her lips, and lukewarm liquid streamed into her mouth. Ugh, it tasted like muddy water. But she swallowed obediently, mostly because her mouth and throat were so dry. It was like the Sahara in there.
Was she in the hospital again? They’d said after her gallbladder surgery that she was fine; they’d just kept her for observation. She’d hurt like this then, but it had been fine.
When the cup was drained, Ella closed her mouth. She wished she could open her eyes, but they were so heavy.
“I’ll track him as far as I can and send word to you.”
That voice was familiar too—a player, the kind of guy who knew his way around women and didn’t mind charming the panties off them. Ella liked him, but not like Patrick.
Patrick!
She yanked her lids open, and they scraped like sandpaper. She couldn’t see a thing—there was a weird, clingy film over her eyeballs. So she blinked and blinked again, until they were clear.
“Patrick?” Her voice was a croak.
A motion by the bedsi
de table caught her attention, and she looked toward it. There he was, looking like hell warmed over. His fancy clothes were wrinkled, his hair was disheveled, and his shirt was open at the throat.
He was beautiful.
“Ella, you’re awake!” He rushed to her, grabbed her hand in both of his, and brought it to his lips.
“Sort of,” she said, letting her eyelids slide closed again. When had holding them open become so hard to do? “Want to go ho-home.”
He was quiet, and she forced herself to open her eyes again. Had she dreamed him? Was he even there? But he was, the corners of his mouth drawn down in worry as he stared into her face.
“I know, and I shall help you get there. As soon as you are better, we shall find a way for you to escape my world, and you’ll never have to see it again.”
“N-no,” Ella said, frustration bleeding through her. It was so hard to make words! It was almost like her mouth was filled with marbles or something. Just moving her lips took more energy than she had, but she had to try. He didn’t understand.
“Hospital. Need to…go to a…hospital. Home.” Her lungs squeezed, and she coughed.
“Shhh,” he said, dropping her hand and standing. “Don’t try to talk now.”
Don’t go, she wanted to scream. Come back! Hold my hand! Don’t leave me alone!
Her lids fell closed, and hot tears streamed down her cheeks. She hadn’t realized exactly how alone she’d felt. Back home, she buried herself in make-believe, drawing fantastic worlds and imagining magical things, but none of it was real. Her parents loved her, but they’d never been close, and she lived two states away from them now. Ella had friends, but they had their own lives. She’d been lonely for a long time, but she didn’t want to be. Not anymore.