But Blackwood might not endure that long. Meg pressed her hand to his brow. The fever was already setting in. His eyes fluttered open and he smiled wanly up at her. “So what sorcery are you plotting to use on me, milady?”
“No magic, but I believe I can brew an antidote.”
“Will it cure me?”
Most certainly she longed to assure him, because she wanted to believe that herself. But she could not lie to him. “I hope that I can, but in case the worst should befall, is there anyone you would wish me to send for?”
“For some maudlin deathbed parting? I think not.”
“Not even Sir Patrick?”
“Hellfire, no! He’d plague me to death with his paternosters, praying for my soul. And besides, he’d not approve of you being here with me.”
“I realize Sir Patrick considers himself my protector, but he is no kin to me, and under the circumstances, he can hardly think you are out to seduce me.”
“It would be the other way around, my dear. Graham thinks that you have been bewitching me.”
“What nonsense. He can’t possibly—” Meg broke off, realizing that Graham could and very likely did believe that. It would explain the tension she had sensed in him, the disapproval of her even though he had denied it. If he truly was Robert Brody, he would have every reason to mistrust any woman he suspected of being implicated in the darker arts, like the witch who had ensnared his sister. He might well despise Meg as much as he did King James. But then why would Sir Patrick have sought her out, fetched her back to London to cure the king?
Meg had so many questions about Sir Patrick and she was sure Blackwood could answer many of them, but now was hardly the time.
She stroked Blackwood’s forehead. “Is there no one else who should be told how gravely ill you are? No member of your family?”
Her question appeared to give Blackwood pause. But he shook his head. “No, it is far too late for any tender reunions. If I am dying, there is only one thing you can do for me, Margaret.”
“Anything. You have but to name it.”
“Kiss me.”
“Dear God, Blackwood, can you not be serious, even at a time like this?”
“I am being serious. What! Would you deny a dying man his last request?”
He secured her hand and tugged her down to sit upon the bed beside him. He attempted to smile, but his voice was infused with a wearied resignation. Blackwood believed he was dying, but he didn’t much care. The thought saddened and angered Meg.
Impulsively, she leaned down and pressed her lips to his far harder than she intended. She sensed his surprise and then he slipped his hand beneath her hair, cupping the nape of her neck.
He returned her embrace with a ferocity that should have been beyond his strength. Holding her captive, he kissed her with all the desperation of a drowning man who had been thrown a rope.
Or perhaps the desperation was hers. Her lips parted as she tasted of his heat and a passion the like of which she had never known. She kissed him greedily until the healer in her reasserted itself, reminding her that the fire on his lips was not merely the product of desire.
She yanked back, gasping out an apology. “I—I am sorry. I shouldn’t have—” She pressed her hand to his brow again. “Your fever grows worse. You are burning up.”
“I certainly am.” He gave a shaky laugh. His gaze met and held hers with an intensity as deep as their kiss.
“I fear Graham was right. You have bewitched me. You almost make me want to—”
“To what?”
He swallowed. “To live.”
“Then do it. I am not in the habit of losing the people that I care for so easily.”
“You mean the people in your care.”
“Yes, of course that is what I meant,” she said, although she was not so sure herself. Confused by her own emotions, she leaped off the bed and paced to the window.
Where was Tom with the firewood? What was keeping the wretched boy? She glanced at Blackwood, who had closed his eyes. Despite his bravado and feigned nonchalance, she saw the way he ground his teeth against a spasm of pain. It was only going to get worse as the poison ran its course, until every muscle in his body would feel as though it was spiked with hooks ripping sinew away from bone.
When she heard Tom’s footfall on the stairs, Meg flew partway down to meet him, helping the boy haul the bundle of wood to the hearth. As they began to prepare the fire, Blackwood scowled at them. But other than muttering something about “damned waste of wood,” he made no further protest.
Once the fire blazed on the hearth, Meg worked as though possessed of a fever herself, grinding herbs, measuring and tossing them into the boiling kettle. The poison had started its course through Blackwood’s veins this morning and Meg felt like a frantic hunter racing to overtake her prey, all the while knowing there was nothing more dangerous than a cornered beast.
She stirred the pot, wishing she could allow the infusion to steep longer, but she cast a glance toward Blackwood. Complaining of the heat, he shoved the coverlet down, exposing the bare contours of his chest, his skin glistening with sweat. She was running out of time and she knew she would have to take an action that was so drastic and strange that Tom would never understand.
She would only alarm the boy, so Meg dispatched him in quest of more wood. As soon as he was gone, Meg delved deep into her bag and drew forth the implement that she seldom used and was most careful to keep hidden. Folding back the soft piece of leather, she uncovered a thin stiletto with a needle-sharp tip. The hilt could be twisted so the knife could be filled with liquid that would be injected beneath the skin.
A witch blade. That was what her mother had called it, and the implement had been but one more means for the followers of Cassandra Lascelles to dispense her poison. The hilts had all been adorned with a silver rose, but the one Meg had created for her own use was plain. As a child, Meg had loathed and dreaded the witch blades, but as an adult, she had realized that an object that had been designed for evil could be employed for good.
Carefully she filled the hollow of the blade with the antidote she had brewed. When she approached the bed, she saw that Blackwood had drifted into a troubled sleep. She wished he could remain that way. It would make what she was about to do so much easier.
But he wakened as soon as she bent over him and touched his arm. His eyes were clouded with confusion for a moment and then widened when he noticed what she had clutched in her hand.
“What the devil is that?”
“It—it’s—um—something I learned about from an ancient text that I read. It was difficult to translate the word for it, but I believe it was called a syringe.”
Blackwood drew his arm protectively back to his chest. “Never mind what it is called. What does it do?”
“Well, the blade is hollow, filled with the medicine that I brewed. By inserting the needle into your arm, I can send the antidote through you more swiftly than having you swallow it.”
When he frowned, she added, “It is no worse a proceeding than the way you are always bleeding people and much more effective, I assure you.”
“I expect you had best get on with it then.”
“I can show you exactly how it works. If you look closely at the hilt—”
“Never mind the explanations. Just do it.” He allowed his arm to flop back to the bed, exposing his wrist. Meg propped the blade upon the table while she prepared him, thoroughly scrubbing his skin. She tied a length of cord around his upper arm, and then felt for a vein, finding a large strong one.
Blackwood watched her proceedings with a cool detachment, the kind she was usually able to summon when working to heal someone. But to her dismay, her fingers trembled.
She had employed the witch blade before to dispense other potions, to save other lives, but she had never attempted to combat her mother’s poison before. Cassandra Lascelles would have never allowed her to do so, although Meg had always believed that she could defeat her mot
her’s venom if she ever had the chance.
Her moment had finally come and she was terrified. She could be about to save Blackwood’s life or she could be on the verge of killing him herself.
She felt paralyzed until Blackwood startled her by reaching for her hand and carrying it to his lips.
“I trust you, Margaret, but if this doesn’t work—”
“It will work,” she cried. “It has to.”
“Then make haste, love, because my fingers are getting numb.”
Meg took a deep breath. Steadying herself, she reached for the blade. She found his vein again and poised the tip over it.
“This is going to hurt. It will feel like I am setting your veins afire.”
“You already do that just by touching—” He gasped as Meg plunged the blade tip into him and depressed the hilt.
“God’s blood!” He bucked upward so violently Meg cut him deeper than she intended. She made haste to pull the blade out and apply a bandage to the wound, a task made more difficult by the way he was thrashing.
Somehow she managed to secure the bandage and wrench away the cord that bound his upper arm. Blackwood had flushed a dark red and his lips were clamped in an effort to halt his flood of obscenities.
Meg caught his face between her hands, terrified he was on the verge of a seizure. “Blackwood! Armagil, please tell me what you are feeling.”
“Like a ruined castle assaulted by an army of torch-wielding peasants.” He groaned. “And I think the peasants are winning.”
“Then let them. Let them burn the poison away.”
“Easy for you to recommend. You aren’t the one being sacked and pillaged.”
He clutched at her wrists, his entire body rigid. Meg watched him, feeling more helpless than she ever had in her life. The moments seemed to grind on with agonizing slowness.
Blackwood panted for breath, but little by little Meg could feel his body relax, his grip on her wrists easing.
“Are you feeling any better?” she asked.
“Better than what? Having a hot spike shoved up my arse?”
She felt relieved when he was able to force a laugh.
“Aye, it seems a trifle better,” he said, letting go of her. The dark red ebbed from his cheeks, leaving him appearing drained.
“So now what happens?” he asked.
“Now comes the hard part.” Meg massaged her sore wrists. “We wait.”
THE AFTERNOON FADED INTO EVENING, THE DARKNESS OF THE oncoming night staking its claim upon Blackwood’s chamber. Meg lit what candles she could find, taking care to keep the candelabrum well away from the bedstead lest she disturb Blackwood.
But he had fallen so deep asleep, it would take more than the soft flicker of a few candles to rouse him. Meg told herself she should be relieved. She had feared he would be more restless, more wracked with pain, even delirious with his fever.
She knew how virulent her mother’s poison was. Even injecting her antidote directly into his veins, Meg had never expected it would work so quickly, that Blackwood would be able to lie so still, that he could sleep like—
Like the dead.
The thought chilled Meg and she swept it from her mind. She paced to the bedside and groped for his hand, taking his pulse for about the hundredth time. He didn’t even stir at her touch, his hand heavy and limp in her grasp.
But his skin was cool and his pulse steady enough. She only wished that it beat a little more strongly. Behind her, Tom added more logs to the fire. He had been silent for so long, Meg had half forgotten he was still there. He used the poker to stir the embers until the flames licked around the new logs. Rising to his feet, he dusted his hands off on the back of his breeches.
“I am going to have to go now, Mistress Wolfe,” he said in a loud whisper. “I am already late to supper and my mother does not like me abroad after dark.”
“Very wise of her.”
The boy shuffled his feet and stared at the floor. Earlier he had badgered Meg with so many questions regarding Blackwood’s condition, she had been unable to endure it and had silenced the boy with a gentle reproof.
She sensed now what Tom was bursting to ask her and that he was afraid to do so. Coming away from the bedside, she said, “I believe your master is doing better. I hope in the morning when he wakes, he will be more himself.”
If he wakes. Meg looked quickly away so the boy could not see her fear.
Tom heaved a deep sigh of relief. “Thank you, mistress. There will be many more than me right pleased to hear it. I know master wouldn’t have wanted me telling anyone how sick he is, but I couldn’t help it. I was so worried and there are many folks hereabouts that care much about the doctor. They sent him a few things to help him recover.” The boy gestured toward a basket he’d set atop the oak wardrobe chest.
Meg had been so caught up in tending to Blackwood, she had not even noticed. She went to inspect the basket of simple gifts, a small loaf of brown bread, a few apples, a wedge of cheese, a pot of honey.
“I thought—that is, I was led to believe that Dr. Blackwood’s only friend was Sir Patrick Graham.”
“Er—well, these others are not as noble or respectable. Mostly they are the street people, the vendors, the tinkers, and the doxies that ply their trade down by—” Tom broke off, looking sheepish. “Not that I know anything about such women.”
“No, of course not,” Meg soothed, anxious to keep him talking and to learn something more about Armagil Blackwood. “So these tinkers and—and doxies are Dr. Blackwood’s friends?”
“No-ooo, more like people he has tended to, stitching up cuts, setting broken bones, even delivering a babe or two, things most physicians would scorn to do. Most poor people could never afford a doctor anyway, especially not one trained at Oxford. Master practices his healing in places most doctors would be too proud or afeard to go, the poorest tenements and taverns in the city, and folks are right grateful to him for it.”
“I imagine they would be. He must not receive much else by way of compensation.”
“Wouldn’t do the doctor any good if he did. He empties his purse for any beggar with his hand out. My mother says it’s not prudent for a man to be that softhearted. I told Dr. Blackwood that, but he just laughed and said, ‘Do you know what would happen to me, Tom, if I amassed too much coin? I’d have to fight off droves of wenches determined to end my bachelor days and wed me for my fortune.’ ”
Meg smiled. That sounded exactly like something Blackwood would say. She could almost hear him. The thought brought a curious lump to her throat as she gazed at the unconscious man on the bed. She had to resist the urge to check his pulse again or try to rouse him. Surely he was but lost in a deep healing sleep. He would awaken come morning. She had to believe that.
Turning back to the boy, she said, “Dr. Blackwood appears to confide in you a great deal, Tom.”
“Oh yes, especially when he—” The boy flushed.
“When he drinks too much,” Meg filled in gently.
The boy bristled, squaring his thin shoulders. “Most men enjoy their ale, mistress, and—and the master is never a mean drunk like some. He mostly takes a drop too much those days when he loses someone in his care.”
He added so quietly Meg had to bend closer to hear him. “Master was drunk for three days after my sister died.”
“Dr. Blackwood sought to cure your sister? And he failed?”
“It wasn’t his fault. It was the cursed pox. Our whole lodging was under quarantine. No other doctor or apothecary or even a cunning woman would have come.” Tom’s eyes flashed an angry challenge at her. “But Dr. Blackwood did and he brought me and my mother through it. But not my grandfather and not Bess.”
Meg studied the boy and noticed the few pits the pox had left on his face. Tom had to have been one of the more fortunate ones, surviving a disease that either killed or left its victims horribly scarred. The pox was a most virulent affliction, and even with all the knowledge she had culled from the an
cient texts, everything she had learned from Ariane Deauville, Meg had lost more than one person to its ravages.
“I am so sorry, Tom.”
The boy’s anger faded, his eyes welling with tears. But when Meg attempted to press his hand, he pulled away from her and shrugged.
“You don’t have to be. My grandfather and Bess are in heaven with my father. That is what my mother says and she knows such things. She tried to tell that to Dr. Blackwood when he got so bitter, blaming himself, especially for Bessie dying. Sh-she was only twelve.
“But my mother said that when the Lord calls, you have to answer and it was Bessie’s time. All any of us could do was light a candle and pray for her. But Dr. Blackwood—” Tom shook his head sadly. “He doesn’t put any faith in God. He said, ‘I won’t be praying to any deity that would cut down such an innocent girl and leave a useless wretch like me still breathing.’ So my mother and I, we pray for Bessie every Sunday and we pray for Dr. Blackwood too.”
Tom gave a loud sniff and wiped his sleeve across his eyes. Meg’s heart ached for the boy and even more for Blackwood. She knew how it felt to strive so hard to save someone and have that life ebb from your grasp. She had never sought to drown that sense of failure in a bout of strong drink, but there were times when she had wished she could.
She glanced toward Blackwood, fighting a ridiculous urge to rush to his side and comfort him. A comfort he would be quick to laugh off or reject even if he could feel it.
Tom must have misinterpreted the nature of her glance because he snapped, “Don’t you be looking at master that way. He did his best to save my sister. He’s a good doctor, no matter if you don’t think so.”
“I never said—”
“Yes, you did. He told me you consider him a charlatan.”
“He told you that? I did not think my opinion would be of any consequence to him.”
“Well, it is, although he hates that it matters. But he said he has never met any other woman like you and he—” Tom cast a guilty look in Blackwood’s direction. “Oh, lord, he wouldn’t have wanted me telling you that. Master says I chatter worse than a gossiping fishwife. He is always threatening to sew my lips closed. I daresay he’ll do it now.”
The Lady of Secrets Page 20