by Henke, Shirl
“Wait here while I scout around,''Drum instructed after pulling the rig off the road into a thicket of olive trees.
Derrick would have protested that he should lead the way, but suddenly he felt quite woozy. The way his luck had turned this night, he would probably stumble into Bourdin's gunsights before he got within a hundred yards of the villa. He leaned back against the squabs and waited. The next thing he knew, Drum was shaking him awake and whispering.
“There are two of those buffoons from the palace guard nattering about the front drive, but if we approach from the rear, there is an open door leading from the portico into the first floor of the east wing. I say, are you up to climbing through a hedge or two?”
“I shall have to be,” Derrick replied, gritting his teeth against the pain. As they made their way to the east wing, he described what had happened at the palace in greater detail, concluding, “So you see, we have no time to waste. Bonaparte is already halfway to France. I shall cross the Apennines and sail from Pescara to Trieste, then ride directly to Vienna. But in case I do not make it, you must leave for Rome immediately. The Austrian ambassador to the Papal States will move the very Alps to alert the allies.”
“ 'Tis to be hoped Sir Percival has succeeded in his quest and a third messenger is already enroute to Leghorn to alert the Royal Navy. Perhaps they'll catch Boney before he sets foot on French soil.”
Derrick grunted. “That damned little Corsican has the devil's own luck. I wouldn't count on it.”
They made their way through the contessa's gardens, which were lushly overgrown with willows and almond trees, providing ample cover as they slipped silently toward the portico. The guards must have awakened the household some time ago. A dim light flickered in the main salon, and they could hear a servant complaining because he had been dragged from his bed at such an ungodly hour. The east wing was dark.
“Do you suppose Beth is with the contessa?” Drum whispered as they hid in the blackness of an alcove off the main rooms.
“No matter. I can make my way to her quarters from here. You must head pell-mell to Rome.”
“I mislike leaving you to stumble about in the dark, dripping blood.”
“The bleeding's stopped.”
Drum lifted one eyebrow. “If so, tis only because you’ve none left.”
Derrick grunted. He was not at all certain of his welcome now that Beth knew of his deception. She might scream the house down, and then both of them would be arrested.
Without further ado, Drum once again seized Derrick's arm and started toward the stairs to the second floor.
Beth lay in her bed, drowsing, unable to return to a sound sleep after being awakened some time earlier by what sounded like hoofbeats on the front drive. She'd had considerable trouble getting to sleep, tossing and turning for over an hour thanks to Derrick Jamison.
Just then a soft click broke the silence. Beth looked at the window near her bed. It was nowhere near false dawn. None of the servants should be stirring yet. She sat up and started to swing her legs from beneath the light cover when a familiar voice spoke from the darkness near the door.
“Hello, puss. Will you forgive me for deserting you tonight?”
Chapter Nine
Beth peered into the blackness, her heart suddenly hammering, her mouth gone dry. “Derrick?” Her eyes strained against the darkness, now seeing two shadows moving toward her. Derrick was slumped over, being supported by someone much smaller than he. His manservant Drum?
“ Tis I, Beth.” His voice was a hiss of pain.
She recognized Drum's voice as he said, “Slowly, old boy, have a care you don't start the bleeding again.”
Bleeding! She seized her robe with unsteady hands and slipped it on as Drum helped his master to the opposite side of her bed, where Derrick took a seat. “You've been injured?” she asked, knowing something was horribly wrong as she fumbled to light a candle. Seeing the blackened crust of dried blood that covered his midsection, she gasped.
“He's been shot,” Drum said matter-of-factly. “Just scraped a rib or two, but he's lost sufficient blood to make him quite loggerheaded.”
“What is going on?” she asked, kneeling beside Derrick to see the extent of his wound as Drum began unwrapping the makeshift bandage. When his companion pulled the dried cloth away, Derrick cursed beneath his breath. “Here, let me. You're too clumsy,” she said, steeling herself as the long ugly furrow across his side began to seep blood.
“Cow-handed? I? Not likely. Tis this buffle-headed maggoty-brain who is guilty of that, else he'd not be bleeding over your bed linens,” Drum replied.
“We’ll need yarrow to stop the bleeding and clean bandages,” she said in a businesslike manner, reaching for the bellpull to summon her maid.
“No, puss,” Derrick replied, his hand shooting out with surprising strength and steadiness to grasp her wrist. “You cannot disturb the household unless you wish to bring the king's guards from without to arrest me.”
“Arrest you?” She looked from Derrick's to Drum, her shock and fright giving way to anger. ”I will personally drag you to King Joaquim's gaol if you do not explain at once.”
“You had best be on your way, Drum. I will handle matters from here on,” Derrick said to his companion.
“I can see how swimmingly tis going thus far,” Drum replied dryly, showing no sign of leaving.
“You aren't a servant, are you?” She had noticed from the first time she'd met the little man that he did not act the way servants—especially English servants—acted in the employ of an earl's son.
“The Honorable Alvin Francis Edward Drummond, at your service, Miss Blackthorne. ” He executed a most proper bow, which should have seemed ludicrous with her in her night clothes on her knees beside the bed. Somehow it did not. “I have the honor to be a good friend of your cousin Alex.”
“Alex? You knew Alex in London? But why—” Then it struck her with the force of an avalanche. “Vittoria warned me, but I didn't want to believe her,” she said, turning back to Derrick. “You're spies—she was right, wasn't she? You've used me to get to her.”
“Go now, Drum.” There was steel in Derrick's voice, but his eyes never left Beth's face.
The little man looked between them for a moment, then reached his decision. “Do be the one who exercises some modicum of intelligence, Miss Blackthorne, and see that he neither hangs nor rides away to die. I”m off then.” With that pronouncement, he vanished into the blackness.
“He's right about one thing, Beth: If Murat captures me, he shall hang me. After a bit of...interrogation. His emperor has escaped from Elba. If Bonaparte reaches the French army, all Europe will go up in flames again.” He studied her face, trying to read her expression.
Pain lashed at her as she asked, “Three years ago in Washington, were you spying on my country, too?”
“I was sent to learn about American incursions into Spanish territories,” he admitted.
“You used me—from the first time we met! Was that gallant rescue in the palace garden arranged for my benefit? What a blind, trusting fool I've been.”
“I did not use you—neither when that pig Bourdin attacked you nor back in Washington, although it would have been child's play if I'd chosen to charm you at Dolley Madison's salon. Instead, if you'll recall, I let you off the hook, puss, albeit not very gently,” he said softly, realizing for the first time that he still held her in his grasp, and that she had not pulled away in spite of her anger.
She followed his eyes to where his large dark hand encircled her slender wrist, then jerked free with a colorful oath she'd picked up on the Neapolitan waterfront. “How very charitable of you, Derrick. Oh, it is Derrick Jamison, isn't it—or is the name a sham, too?”
“No, the name's all too genuine,” he replied darkly.
“Well, then, I warrant 'tis the only thing about you that is genuine.” Did you care for me even a little bit, Derrick? She wanted desperately to ask, but pride forbade her. He kn
ew what she wished to hear...if only he would say it, she would risk the world for him, even betray her best friend.
There was no time to waste and he had already told her more than his superiors would countenance. ”I must get out of Naples. It was cork-brained of Drum to bring me here,” he said, struggling to rise. But the room began spinning as soon as he tried to take a step.
Beth rose with him, reaching out when he started to crumple, throwing her arms out to break his fall, then easing him back onto the edge of the bed. “Drum's right—you are maggoty-brained. Now you've started the blood flowing again. Only a madman—or an Englishman—would think to ride in this condition.”
“We're a stubborn lot,” he said with a faint smile that quickly turned into a grimace.
“Let me remove that jacket,” she said, pulling the ruined garment from his good side, then reaching around to tug more gently on the other until he was bare from the waist up.
He had not the strength to argue. The least bit of movement not only hurt like bloody hell but caused the gash to bleed more rapidly. He cursed beneath his breath. There was no time to lie unconscious while Bonaparte was on his way to Paris!
“Lie down so I may take a look at your injury,” she commanded.
“And you shall ascertain the extent of damage from your vast reservoir of experience with gunshot wounds,” he said through gritted teeth as she probed the raw flesh.
“Not gunshot wounds, no, but I've a deal of experience with deep gashes. My brothers and cousins were forever getting into scrapes with everything from mountain lions to wild pigs to each other. I shall need to fetch clean water, bandages and medicines. Lie still until I return.”
He said nothing as she stood up and lit another candle, only studied her with those compelling blue eyes.
“I will not betray you, Derrick.”
Even though I betrayed you.
There was no need to say the words. They hung in the air, heavy as the fog outside. He watched her walk barefooted into the hallway, regretting the loss of her trust...and something more...something to which he would not put a name.
He must have dozed, for when he looked up she was seated on a stool beside the bed, pouring water from a pitcher into a bowl. He nervously licked his lips as he watched her thread a nasty-looking curved needle with black suture. “Are you certain you can sew me up?”
She studied his dubious expression and arrogantly cocked an eyebrow. “Are you certain you can endure while I do?” she replied sweetly.
“It will not be the first time I've been stitched...only the first time by a woman. Perhaps your sex is better suited to the task than the leeches.”
She focused on the job at hand, carefully cleansing the caked blood away from the wound to see how deep it was. Although she had assisted as her Aunt Charity sewed up numerous cuts and gouges, she had never been forced to perform the delicate task herself. Could she do it on her lover's flesh? Her gaze roamed over his long body and powerfully muscled bare chest. His breathing was ragged. She almost reached out to place one palm against his crisp black chest hair to feel the reassuring thump of his heart as she had done so often after they made love.
He watched the play of emotions on her face, so enigmatic and lovely in the flickering candlelight, so intent with concentration. When she reached over to the bedside table, her robe gaped open, revealing the lush swell of her breast, the pale pink tip of a nipple clearly visible through the sheer silk of her night rail. He felt his body harden in spite of the pain in his side. “Twill be difficult to leave you, Beth,” he said aloud before realizing it.
“I doubt you will be going anywhere soon,” she replied tartly, daubing the coagulant paste into the ragged edges of the wound, so intent on what she had to do that she remained unaware of the growing bulge in his breeches.
He sucked in his breath on a hiss of agony, then gritted his teeth and remained silent as she completed the task. “The yarrow will stop the bleeding, but the gash is deep. Twill not heal properly unless I sew it.”
He watched her pick up the already threaded needle. “I take it you are not asking my permission,” he said dryly. “Pray proceed.”
She could tell that he knew this was going to be exceedingly unpleasant. “How many times have you been stitched before?” she asked as the needle punctured skin, knitting one side to the other. “I have seen only one other such scar on your body.” The moment she said the words she wished to call them back—and with them all the memories of the two of them lying entwined, naked and sated.
“There were three others, not counting direct punctures. I heal quite well. Don't tend to scar much, so the leeches tell me. Something that runs in my family.”
“Like lying?” she muttered, concentrating on the rhythm of stitching, in and out, pierce and pull.
His hands dug into the bed linens, clenching in fists, but he did not otherwise move, nor give her the satisfaction of crying out. For all her anger, she still had a far more skilled touch than any of the medical practitioners who had tended him. As she tied off the last stitch, he managed to say, “You would have made as fine a physician as an artist, puss.”
“Don't call me puss,” she snapped.
“I never intended to hurt you, Beth,” he said simply, knowing no way to excuse the pain he had inflicted.
“And what did you intend, Derrick? To just ride away without a word, never to return, leaving me to wonder if you were dead in some back alley?”
The accusation struck too close to the truth. If not for his being wounded.and Drum's insistence, he would have done as she accused. But would he have returned to her when the war was over? If she had never learned of his subterfuge, she would still love him. That sudden thought shocked him to the core of his being.
Beth is in love with me. Or she was.
He knew it beyond certainty. But was he in love with her? Perhaps so. Having never experienced that tender emotion before, he found it difficult to decide. But it did not signify either way, for he was who he was and she hated him now for his betrayal. He had killed her love.
When he did not respond to her question, Beth stifled her sigh of resignation and said in a flat voice, “In order for me to bandage you, you must sit up. I'll help you.”
When she leaned down to place her arm around his shoulders, he could smell the light floral fragrance of her skin. The weight of her unbound hair fell around him like a cloud of burnished silk and he fought the desire to bury his fists in it and pull her down into a fierce kiss. Madness! The pain helped him to break her spell. When he sat up, the agony in his side felt like a hot poker thrust against it.
She felt his reaction to the pain. “Sit still and move your arms away from your sides, like so.” She demonstrated, helping him to brace himself upright by pressing his palms against the mattress behind him. Then she reached for the pile of bandages and took one end of the linen, placing it against his uninjured side, pressing his hand to it and saying, “Hold this.” When he complied, she began coiling the cloth around the stitched side. He trembled but made no sound as she pulled the bandage around his back and repeated the process, tightening the linen with each turn.
Derrick was grateful for the pain. It helped him get past the soft pressure of her breast pressing against his chest as she reached around him. When she finished tying off the bandage, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and straightened up. More pain, but it was bearable after a few steadying breaths. The light-headedness was fading as well. She had done a good job. The bleeding would not resume now that the slash had been sewn shut.
Beth poured a spoonful of the liquid from the bottle in a glass of water, then turned back to him. “Drink this.”
He looked at the bottle. “What is it?”
“Laudanum. Twill help you to sleep.”
“I have no time to sleep,” he said, pushing the glass away. “Every hour counts. Bonaparte may have already landed on French soil.” He stood up, not without considerable difficulty, but steadily enou
gh to satisfy himself.
Not enough to satisfy her, however. “Are you mad! You can't ride in this condition. Drum was right; you'd bleed to death before you got anywhere near Vienna.”
He looked at her with narrowed eyes. ”I don't recall mentioning Vienna.”
She scoffed. “You've already made a fool of me once. Do not further insult my intelligence. I know that the congress of allies is meeting in the Austrian capital to carve up Europe now that Napoleon has been vanquished.”
“Not vanquished yet,” he replied, taking an experimental step, then two, to see if his legs would support him.
“Let your friend Drummond see to it. You're in no condition to—”
“I must go, Beth,” he interrupted. She blocked his path, pressing her palms against his bare chest. He took her hands gently and raised them to his lips.
The heat of his mouth on her fingers made her feel faint with wanting him. The very idea was detestable. He was her enemy, a spy who had used her, deceived her...and did not love her. But she loved him still and would not see him die. “No, Derrick, you cannot go. I'll raise the alarm if you try.”
“And see me dance on Murat's gallows? Two of his guardsmen stand ready to arrest me in the courtyard out front. Your friend the contessa would turn me over to them. I know she's a patriot who wants Murat to unify Italy with Bonaparte's help.”
“Have you reported her to your English masters, too?” Her voice was cold.
“They have little interest in Murat, even less in Vittoria di Remaldi.”
“How fortunate for her,” she replied.
“'Tis only Bonaparte who concerns them.”
“And you. Will you die because of him?”
“To stop him—if I must. But I shall endeavor to live through this,” he added lightly, attempting to reassure her. He realized that he was still holding her hands. “Ah, Beth, I do hate to leave you this way.”
She pulled free and wrapped her arms protectively around herself. “But you always intended to leave me. What shall you do if you accomplish your mission?” What had made her ask that?