Dawn Thompson

by The Ravencliff Bride

  He said no more. Pacing and prowling throughout the day, he kept a close eye upon the bedchamber door, but it remained locked. There were no more sounds from inside, and Mrs. Bromley didn’t emerge again. Was that a good sign? There was no way to tell. If only one of them would come out and tell him something.

  Smythe went to the drawing room several times at Nicholas’s insistence, trying to persuade Captain Jenkins to leave, but the man refused to go, which only served to infuriate Nicholas more and more with each attempt as the day wore on. The butler returned with word that the captain wasn’t about to leave until he knew how Baroness Walraven fared, since it was his bullet that brought her down, but that was the least of Nicholas’s worries. On the other side of that towering door his bride lay suffering on what could well be her deathbed, and it was his fault. That challenged his sanity, and Nero waited just under the surface of his departure from progress.

  When twilight robbed the light, and Mills lit the candles, Nicholas could stand no more. He strode to the bedchamber door, and called out: “Breeden! In God’s name!”

  After a moment, the doctor stepped into the sitting room, and closed the door behind him. Haggard and pale, he took a ragged breath, his sharp eyes lusterless in the nimbus of candle shine.

  “Is she . . . ?” Nicholas pleaded.

  “She is holding her own,” the doctor replied. “There’s fever, but Mrs. Bromley’s remedies are addressing that. We should know more by morning.”

  “Is she conscious?” said Nicholas.

  The doctor shook his head. “No, my lord, and that’s a mercy. We have the laudanum, and Mrs. Bromley’s herbal remedies to thank for it, and that she’s healthy, young, and strong.”

  “I want to see her,” Nicholas said. “I must!”

  “You cannot disturb her, my lord. She needs to rest.”

  “I shan’t wake her, Dr. Breeden. I beg of you . . . just for a moment—only that . . .”

  The doctor hesitated. “I expect we’ll have no peace unless I allow it,” he said. “Two minutes. No more.”

  “Granted,” said Nicholas, pushing past him into the bed-chamber, as the housekeeper left it carrying more linens and an empty tray.

  How pale Sara looked, like a ghost in the soft semidarkness. Nicholas swallowed his rapid heartbeat, and knelt on one knee beside her, taking her hand in his just as he had before, and as before, it was lifeless and cold. She drew shallow, rapid breaths, and he turned to the doctor at his side.

  “The fever,” Breeden explained.

  Nicholas leaned close, whispering in her ear. “I’m here, Sara, and I . . . we have come to no harm. Come back to me, Sara. My God, don’t leave me . . . !”

  The doctor gripped his shoulder. “Come away, my lord,” he said. “She doesn’t hear you.”

  “I’ve heard it said that those in coma do hear what goes on around them,” Nicholas said. “I pray it’s true, because if she dies thinking it was all for naught . . .”

  “Believe me, the moment she is coherent, I will personally tell her that you were not harmed. You have my word. Now come away.”

  Nicholas got to his feet, staring down through misty eyes.

  “Mrs. Bromley has gone off for a lie-down,” the doctor said. “We shall spell each other through the night. If there is a change, you will be summoned at once.”

  “You shan’t have far to go to find me,” Nicholas snapped, storming out of the room and into the sitting room, where Mills waited.

  “How does my lady fare?” asked the valet.

  “She is alive,” Nicholas told him. “She isn’t conscious. There’s fever. We won’t know more until morning.”

  “She is in good hands, my lord,” said the valet. “Please come away and rest. You need to keep control. It’s too dangerous here now to take risks.”

  “Control, Mills?” snapped Nicholas. “If I do not occupy myself with some task here, I will run stark staring mad. Fetch me my turned-down boots, and my pistols.”

  “What are you going to do, my lord?” the valet breathed.

  “First, I shall evict that bastard waiting in the drawing room—for his own damned good, I assure you. Then, I’m going hunting.”

  Thirty

  Was it the wind whispering in her ear? It sounded so desperate. But then, the Cornish wind had moaned like a creature possessed since first she’d experienced it in the buffeted post chaise, the day she arrived at the brooding manor. All that seemed a lifetime ago. This wind had no motion, only sound. A pity. She would have welcomed it to cool the fever raging in her. Was it calling her name, or was she dreaming?

  The sound came again, and she stirred. Why couldn’t she open her eyes? Her eyelids were so heavy, and her head was swimming. There was pain, too, a dull nagging pain in her back and shoulder. Why was she propped on her side?

  Someone groaned. It was a moment before she realized that the sound had come from her own dry throat. The whispering grew louder . . . no, not the wind . . . someone was calling her name.

  Her eyes fluttered open a crack, but she couldn’t see. Everything in her line of vision resembled moiré silk: all wavy, shifting and fluid. Was it day or night? Whose hand was that on her forehead, so gentle, and cool? She leaned into it, and groaned again.

  “Nicholas . . . ?” she murmured.

  All at once the featherbed sagged with his weight, and strong arms slipped around her without changing her tilted position. Cool lips brushed her brow, so soothing against her hot, moist skin. What a delicious dream.

  “Have a care, my lord!”

  Was that Dr. Breeden’s voice? Someone else cried out. Could it be Mrs. Bromley? What were they doing in her dream? Another voice bled into the rest that she didn’t recognize. At first, she couldn’t make out what it was saying. It sounded far off in the distance. Then, as it gained volume, the strong arms holding her fell away, and the body weight bringing the featherbed down was lifted sharply.

  “That was a damned fool thing to do,” said the strange voice. It was gruff, and common. She didn’t like it. It hurt her ears. “Running straight into the line of fire like that,” the voice was saying, “interferin’ with Guard business. She could’ve been killed, and that’s a fact.”

  “Well, you can thank Divine Providence that she wasn’t,” Nicholas’s voice growled. “As it is, your superior will have my report of what occurred down on that strand, sure as check. You can bet your blunt upon it!”

  “You wasn’t even there, m’lord!”

  “I saw nonetheless, from the Manor. I was on my way down to tell you, you were firing on the wrong animal. You haven’t heard the last of this, Renkins.”

  “Oh, so now you admit there was a dog out here all along, do you, Walraven?” the stranger barked. “I thought as much. If you had owned up to it when I came out here the first time, we wouldn’t be having this here now, would we? It’s your fault the baroness is lying in that bed. You may as well have shot her down yourself!”

  There was a scuffling sound, loud shouts, and . . . was that Mrs. Bromley screaming?

  “Let go of me, Mills!”

  Nicholas?

  “Enough, my lord!”

  “Hold him, you lot!” the gruff voice boomed. “If he lays a hand on me he’ll go before the magistrate—baron or no!”

  Sara flinched, and moaned, wishing the bizarre dream would end.

  “There are two animals on this estate, you nodcock!” said the voice that sounded like Nicholas. “One is my own, the other a stray that we have been trying to get shot of. I chose not to divulge that when you first came ‘round, because I didn’t want to chance harm coming to the wrong one. That is neither here nor there. If you’d bothered to consult me before going off half-cocked out there, all this could have been avoided. Her ladyship knew you had cornered the wrong animal. She knows the difference, and since you and your men obviously do not, I shall find and destroy the animal that killed my servant. You, sir, are a menace! I want you off my land.”

  “You kn
ew we was comin’,” said the captain. “You should’ve chained that dog up, then.”

  “I must insist that you take this elsewhere,” the doctor said, his voice raised and edged. “You are disturbing my patient. My lord, please.”

  Heavy footfalls receded then, carrying the voices away, though Sara heard them still, arguing and shouting, even after the door closed upon them. Then she slept.

  It took three days and a gradual reduction of the laudanum dose before Sara fully regained consciousness. The captain of the guards had gone, and Nicholas hovered despite the insistence of Mills and the doctor that the crisis had passed. The fever had broken. There was no sign of infection, and no reason to believe she wouldn’t make a complete recovery.

  Mrs. Bromley’s herbal salves, poultices, and tinctures were given much of the credit for her recovery. The salves and poultices of flaxseed, foxglove leaves, and milk thistle healed the wound and dulled the pain, and her borage and balm tinctures, and fresh-squeezed black currant juice addressed the fever. The latter, sweetened with honey, was the most palatable, but Sara endured it all with a cheerful heart, despite her worries over Nicholas who, during his absences from the tapestry suite, prowled Ravencliff like a man possessed, loaded flintlocks at the ready. Thus far, to no avail. It was during one of those absences that she decided to speak to the doctor about the one nagging matter that only he could help her resolve.

  She was never left unguarded. When Dr. Breeden took himself off for a lie-down or one of Nicholas’s treatments, Mrs. Bromley attended her, Nicholas relieving her in his turn. That evening, she was alone with the doctor, who had just finished changing the dressing on her wound.

  “If you continue to improve at this rate, I shall allow you out of bed for short intervals commencing tomorrow,” the doctor said, dosing her with one of his rare smiles.

  “Dr. Breeden,” she said, “there is something I wish to discuss with you . . . some questions I need to ask you regarding Nicholas’s condition.”

  “Whatever I can impart without betraying professional confidence, my lady.”

  “This shouldn’t encroach upon confidentiality,” she said. “Much of it concerns the condition, rather than Nicholas himself.”

  “I see,” said the doctor, taking a seat in the Chippendale chair beside the bed. “How may I assist you, then?”

  Asking intimate questions would not be easy. It went against her sensibilities, but this was far too important to let refinement stand in the way, and he was a doctor after all. Nevertheless, the hot fingers of a blush crawled up her cheeks, hotter than the fever she’d just overcome.

  “Is th-the . . . condition always passed on through the blood?” she got out, despite the lump in her throat. “That is to say . . . if we were to have children . . . ?”

  The doctor hesitated. “His lordship doesn’t want to take that chance, my lady.”

  “I know, Dr. Breeden. What I’m asking is . . . would there be a chance that a child might not be . . . infected, if that’s the right word? I am ignorant of such things. All this is so new to me.”

  “We simply do not know,” said the doctor. “There’s precious little precedent to go by in these cases, and what documentation there is, isn’t conclusive, I’m afraid. That is why his lordship does not want to risk it.”

  “It isn’t that he doesn’t want an heir, Dr. Breeden,” said Sara, “it’s that he’s afraid to want children. I’m certain of it. He would rather deny himself the right of fatherhood, than inflict such a thing upon his offspring.”

  “Has he said that, then?

  “No,” said Sara. “He didn’t have to. I see it in his eyes—in the sadness I see there whenever we discuss it.”

  “I see,” said the doctor. “You have discussed it, then . . . at length, my lady?”

  Sara was silent. How was she to tell him that the husband she worshipped withdrew himself from her body to prevent conception? Nicholas did say, however, that she ought to have this conversation with the doctor. She decided to begin with that.

  “His lordship did suggest that I speak with you . . . about alternatives,” she murmured.

  “Ah!” said the doctor, “of course. There are several methods that you might employ, herbal salves for one. The right combination of herbs can be quite effective. And then there are devices that courtesans have used since time out of mind. A sponge affair, infused with the herbs of which I speak, has proven quite reliable for some time now. French courtesans have used it for ages. It’s only just gained popularity here over the last decade, but it is easily obtained, my lady.”

  “How . . . unnatural,” Sara mused. She couldn’t imagine how such a device should be used, and she wasn’t brave enough to inquire. “Is there nothing . . . else?”

  “Do your courses come regularly, my lady?”

  “Yes . . .”

  “That being the case, halfway between would be a dangerous time, during which you could abstain, but the calculations would need to be precise, and there’s no way they can be. Each individual is different. There is no set pattern. Your physical makeup is peculiar to yourself, and what might be the case one month could be entirely different the next. Many outside influences affect the female cycle. That would without a doubt curtail the instances of safe cohabitation drastically, and you might well conceive once or twice before you’d gotten it right. It is the most natural method, but the least effective, and if you are thinking of suggesting such to his lordship . . .” He shook his head. “I wouldn’t. There’s just too much risk involved.”

  This was not going well. Her embarrassment was profound, and had gained her nothing. Hot tears stung behind her eyes. She blinked them back. She would not outfit herself like a whore, and he was right, Nicholas would never agree to anything as risky as second-guessing nature. She would not trick him, either, but neither would she have his solution to the problem continue. It was her coil to unwind, but maybe . . . just maybe the good doctor might be able to point her in the right direction. It would mean being frank with the man, but she’d come this far. . . .

  “Dr. Breeden, perhaps I should rephrase my original question,” she said. “Is it a certainty, in your opinion, that his lordship would pass on his condition to his offspring?”

  “Of course not,” he responded. “Nothing is known for certain. That’s the insidious element in this.”

  “That being the case, is there a direction you might suggest I take that might persuade his lordship to leave such matters to Divine Providence?”

  The doctor smiled. “You do not need my suggestions for that,” he said. “Women’s wiles have always had the ability to conquer we unsuspecting males. If such a thing can be done, you are the only one to do it—of that I’m as certain as I am that the sun will rise tomorrow.”

  “I wish I shared your confidence,” said Sara.

  “This is very important to you,” said the doctor, epiphany in his voice.

  “It is vital, not only to me, but to him, and he doesn’t even know it.”

  “Explain.”

  How was she to tell him that she’d felt the pent-up power of emotion in him longing for release in her arms; felt his ache to embrace that release, and how he beat back the temptation to yield to the surrender that would make him whole?

  “I am not just speaking of pleasuring a husband. There are many ways of doing that. What I want goes much deeper. It involves the spirit, and his God-given right to reproduce. He will never be whole no matter how we love, unless we love . . . completely.”

  “And what of you, my lady,” said the doctor. “Are you not complete?”

  “I am not the issue, Dr. Breeden,” she said. “It is not my fulfillment in question, it is his. I want to give him this. I simply do not know how, but I do know that I shan’t rest until I have accomplished it.”

  “Accomplished what?” said a deep sensuous voice from the doorway that shot her through with heart-stopping waves of liquid fire. Nicholas strolled closer. His lopsided smile broke sunshine
over her soul despite the dreary gray mist pressed up against the window, and the awkward conversation.

  “Getting out of this bed,” she said, without missing a beat.

  “Is that something in the offing?” Nicholas asked the doctor.

  Breeden nodded. “If she behaves, I might allow several brief periods out of bed tomorrow,” he said.

  “But that’s wonderful news!” Nicholas said, sinking down on the bed beside her.

  “If I may trust you to see that she does behave, I shall go and consult Mrs. Bromley about the dosage.”

  “Don’t worry, she’s in good hands,” said Nicholas.

  “Hmmm,” the doctor growled. “I shall return directly.”

  The minute he crossed the threshold, Nicholas took Sara in his arms. Burying his hand in her hair, he took her lips in a burning kiss that left her weak and trembling.

  “Nicholas . . . I’ve been wanting to speak with you alone,” she said.

  “Well, we’re quite alone now, my love,” he murmured while showering her face with soft kisses.

  “Don’t,” she said, resisting. “I’m serious, Nicholas, we need to talk.”

  Now was the perfect time to broach the subject of children. There wouldn’t be a better moment. He would never agree for himself. Would he agree for her? If it were true that he wouldn’t want to live without her, maybe . . . just maybe . . .

  “I spoke with Dr, Breeden as you suggested,” she began, “and I’m afraid that I do not find his . . . unnatural alternative methods of preventing conception acceptable. May I speak my mind?”

  His hands slipped away. “Of course,” he said his voice like fingernails drawn across slate. He was steeled against what she was about to say; that was evident. His posture clenched. The muscles in his jaw were pulsating in a stiff, steady rhythm. The sinews in his rock-hard biceps, stretched to their limit of strain, were visible bulging through his cotton shirt, but she had begun, and there was no turning back now.