“Mr. Walker will tend the woman’s leg,” Ruel told his father, slipping an arm around the duke’s shoulder and turning him toward the door. “She, in turn, will assist me in a small venture.”
“She plans to marry you, my boy. I hope you know that.”
“An alliance of uncertain duration, Your Grace, I assure you.”
The duke cast a glance toward the bed. “I rather like the girl. She is a minister’s daughter, did you know? Her father is a Luddite, of all things. Imprisoned in Nottingham for smashing lace machines. He has bequeathed her quite a quick tongue. I should think she will be good for you.”
Ruel smiled. “I should hope so.”
“If you insist on permitting the savage to try his heathen magic on her, I shall send the physician to tend your mother. The duchess continues to complain of a most tiresome headache.”
“Yes, Your Grace.” Ruel watched as his father and the others left the room. Once they were gone, he nodded to the Indian.
“Walker, do whatever it takes,” he said.
“You should not disappoint the duke with your behavior, Blackthorne.” The tall Osage blacksmith removed a damp white cabbage leaf from Anne’s leg and dropped it into a bucket. “He has been more than good to you.”
“How does her wound look?” Ruel tried to peer around the tent of sheets Walker had erected over his patient.
“White cabbage leaves absorb pus,” the Indian said. “They reduce swelling, too. As soon as the leaf grows hot, I take it away and place another under the bandage. I think the wound is almost clean.”
“She seems to be sleeping.”
“No, she is awake. The drug they gave her numbed her mind.” He placed his palm on Anne’s pale brow. “She feels some relief now, as the fever begins to subside. Blackthorne, you must take great care of this woman when she is your wife. You must protect and honor her. There should be no greater love than that between marriage partners. Not even the love between parent and child should be as strong. The duke honors you as his son, but his love for his wife is enduring.”
Ruel grimaced at the thought of his self-absorbed, unaffectionate mother and lifted the bucket of cabbage leaves. “I shall take these out.”
“Have I not taught you that the bonds of a family must remain unbroken? To the Osage, family ties are as strong as the sinews of the buffalo.”
“And yet my mother has not laid eyes on me since my return.”
“She is not well. You should leave this woman to me and see to the duchess. With no one to stop him, that London doctor will start some foolishness like filling her stomach with laudanum or draining her veins of her lifeblood.”
Ruel held out a fresh cabbage leaf. The Osage waved it away.
“Now it is time for garlic. Put down the bucket.” He drew two clusters of cloves from his cloth bag. “The Little People used crushed seeds of the wild columbine to make a drink for fever. For wounds and infections, we use the wild four-o’clock or the butterfly weed. Here, I cannot find such plants, so I make this paste.”
Ruel observed as Walker mashed the garlic cloves in a small bowl. The pungent aroma drifted into the room. The Indian spread the paste over the injury to Anne’s leg and covered it with a warm flannel bandage. When he had wrapped and tied the cloth around her leg, he lowered the tented sheets and tucked them under the mattress.
“She must rest,” Walker said. “Her friend can tend her. You should go to your mother.”
Ruel sat in the chair at the edge of the bed for a moment longer and studied his laced fingers. In the passing hours, some of his fears for the housemaid had eased. Now he felt dismayed—almost embarrassed—at the lengths to which he had gone to save her life. Had the laudanum he had been given caused him to take leave of his senses?
“If I am to make this worth the time I have spent on the woman,” he said finally, “I have got to finish it. I must marry her.”
“Worth the time?” Walker regarded him through narrowed eyes. “Are the lives of some humans worth less than the lives of others?”
“Of course.”
“I see. You told me you planned to marry Miss Webster. I assumed you loved her.”
“No, nothing like that. The woman is a part of my plan.”
“Is Miss Anne Webster only ‘the woman’ to you, Black-thorne? This marriage sounds like nothing but a sham.”
Ruel frowned. “You can be tedious, Walker.” He lifted his chin and dismissed his valet with a wave of the hand. “Foley, send for the vicar, and tell my father the wedding will take place within the hour.”
“You intend to marry your woman today? She can hardly open her eyes. What is your hurry, Blackthorne?”
Ruel raked a hand through his hair. “Listen, Walker, I mean to make something productive of my life. I shall not spend my time in the company of Society, dancing jigs and penning riddles. I will not give myself to countless hours spent doing as my father does—having the vicar to tea in the drawing room. Riding through the village and lording it over peasants. Hunting foxes, for heaven’s sake. Even you, whom I admire, have lived a futile life, have you not, Walker? Hammering steel day after day—sweat pouring down your body, the smell of sulfur in your nostrils. You might as well be living in hell.”
The Indian’s eyes went as dark as ink. Ruel knew he had struck a raw place in his friend’s heart. Yet he could hardly restrain his tongue. What good was a life so empty?
“My life can mean nothing to you,” Walker said, his tone harsh. “What will you make of yours? What is it you really want, Blackthorne?”
“Adventure. Money. Freedom.”
“So you will join yourself to this girl as though she were another cog in the machine you are building to glorify and amuse yourself. In all those afternoons we spent together, did I not speak to you of tender affection, Blackthorne? Did I not tell you of the joys of family, of the blessing of a wife and children? Do you not wish for love?”
Ruel shook off the resonating pull of the Indian’s questions. “Come now, Walker, it is not like you to speak such pretty words. Family, blessing, tender affection, love? Good heavens, you will drown me in sugar syrup.”
“Not pretty words. True words.”
“Words have no power, Walker. None. I have never lived with family joy, blessing, or tender affection. Such drivel is the stuff of dreamers. Action has power. A man’s own experience is his greatest teacher. I have been taught by my parents’ example to value wealth and prestige over love.”
“Oh, my boy.”
“Enough of your lamenting. Just keep your eye on me, Walker. You will see I am right in the end.”
Ruel leaned back in his chair and stretched out his legs. He closed his eyes and gave a deep yawn. Hours of tending the ill did not suit him. He needed to be up and about, paying a visit to Mr. Heathcoat, the lacemaker, investigating the shooting incident, calling on old friends, making preparations for his trip to France.
He opened his eyes. Anne was staring at him. The dark brown-gold of her gaze ran through him like a shower of sparks. In spite of himself, he leaned forward, elbows on his knees.
Heavens, she was a beauty. Even this close to death, the young woman shone with a strange inner light. Her skin was luminous alabaster. Her cheeks glowed a soft pink. The outer corners of her eyes tilted up, so she seemed to be smiling at him even though her lips were still.
“Miss Webster,” he said, unable to hide the concern in his voice, “are you still quite content to die?”
The Duke of Marston marched into the chamber, his cane fairly piercing holes in the carpet as he hurried toward the bed where Anne Webster lay. “Now then, Ruel,” he sputtered. “What is this news I am told? Can you really mean to wed the girl this very afternoon?”
He paused before his son and glanced at the young woman. With a gasp of shock, he turned to his butler. “What have you done to the girl, Errand? Not an hour ago, she was plain! Now look at her!”
The butler regarded Anne. “I believe she has been improve
d upon, Your Grace.”
Ruel understood the men’s astonishment. The moment he had stepped into the room late that afternoon, surprise tumbled down him like a spray of icy water. “Come, Father, admit it,” he now addressed the duke. “She is an angel.”
Disconcerted, Anne touched her hair. Artfully curled and pinned into the latest fashion, it shone a deep bronze in the candlelight. Ruel realized that although one of the maids had performed this magic, Anne had no idea how she looked. The dress that her mistress, Miss Watson, had selected from her own wardrobe was positively entrancing. The gathered skirt fell to her ankles in a whisper of sapphire blue silk. Soft puffed sleeves hung halfway to her elbows, and were met by white gloves that covered her hands and forearms.
“But . . . but . . .” The duke fumbled for a moment. “Altered though she is, Ruel, you cannot mean to marry the woman today.”
“You can hardly be troubled at my failure to publish the banns, Father,” Ruel said as the duke approached. “I should imagine we must keep the wedding as quiet as the regent’s secret marriage that preceded his alliance to our current queen. Two wives at the same time. Imagine that.”
“Do not speak of such things, boy! As it is, your mother can hardly move without smelling salts to rouse her. She cannot believe you intend to marry a housemaid. Dire, dire misfortune, she assures me. I informed her the lady was a minister’s daughter and not entirely unacceptable, but the duchess is not to be swayed. A minister has no money, she reminded me. I certainly cannot acquaint her with the uncomfortable news that this particular girl’s father is doomed to execution. The daughter of a criminal, no less! No dowry, no money, no grand wedding at St. James’s in London. Your mother is beside herself. Quite, quite distraught.”
Ruel drew back from Anne and crossed his arms over his chest. “My mother will not attend the wedding, then?”
“No, of course not. She is predicting the stars will fall from the sky.”
“May I have the pleasure of your blessing, Your Grace?”
The duke waved his son away. “Is the young lady expected to live?”
“Indeed.”
“Then how can you think of actually marrying her today? I understood you hoped to spend at least a year in mourning to escape my constant pressure for you to wed in Society.”
“No indeed. I plan to make good use of my wife.”
“And then? What will you do with her when she has served her purpose? Cast her aside?”
“I shall see to her welfare, of course. I am an honorable man. To my way of thinking, this situation is hardly uncommon. You asked me not to speak of the regent, but I believe he has set a fine example. Thirty years ago he married a commoner, Mrs. Maria Anne Fitzherbert, a Roman Catholic widow. Ten years later, without benefit of divorce or annulment, he married Caroline Amelia Elizabeth of Brunswick. The future king of England—a bigamist. No one is troubled by it.”
“Nonsense! You would never do such a thing. Besides, the regent had a friend deny the first marriage in the House of Commons.”
“Would it be so difficult to deny a marriage made under these circumstances?” Ruel gestured to Anne. “A dying woman. A deathbed wedding. A marquess and a housemaid. When I elect to terminate the arrangement, surely the good vicar will be able to come up with some rule or regulation we have violated here.”
“Upon my word, Ruel, would it not be simpler just to take Miss Webster as your mistress? If you want royal example to follow, why not emulate the regent’s brother, Prince William, Duke of Clarence? He has spent twenty years with that actress.”
“Dorothea Bland?”
“Ah, yes. She is known as Mrs. Jordan, you know. Prince William’s mistress has given birth to ten children by him, and certainly no one has condemned him. Should he accede to the throne, I suspect he will ennoble every one of his illegitimate offspring. So why not take Miss Webster as a paramour?”
“The daughter of a minister? I hardly think Miss Webster would agree to that. You have met the woman, sir. She has a mind of her own and a barbed tongue to match it.”
“Ah, yes. So she does.” The duke turned his attention to Anne. He tilted forward on his cane and ran his gaze up and down her. “Going to live, are you, young lady? Well, I hope you have kept your wits through this ordeal. You will speak to the marquess as you spoke to me earlier, will you not?”
Anne managed a nod.
The duke chuckled. “Very good. Then I shall give your union my blessing, though one cannot deny this is dreadfully irregular. Dreadfully. Ruel, in spite of your ill-conceived marriage and common wife, you must promise that after you inherit, you will behave in a manner befitting your title.”
“Of course, Your Grace. I shall do my utmost to honor your name and bring fortune to your property.”
The duke glanced at Walker, who had warily backed into a corner and stood half hidden in shadow. “The Indian is responsible for Miss Webster’s improved health, is he?”
“Indeed. We owe him our gratitude.”
“Gratitude?” He pointed his cane at the blacksmith, but at that moment the vicar entered the room. As Walker quickly exited, a cluster of curious gentlemen hurried in. Ruel recognized various church and town officials, as well as several of the duke’s comrades who had been summoned earlier in the day to observe the momentous occasion of the wedding of a marquess.
Amid the hubbub, Mr. Errand called for order. Footmen rushed to bring chairs into the bedroom for the guests. Housemaids folded away blankets and put out urns of fresh flowers they had snatched from other rooms in Slocombe House. Kitchenmaids brought in silver trays laden with sweets, which Mrs. Smythe had managed to prepare upon hearing the shocking news. A lady’s maid slipped a fresh rose blossom into Anne’s hair. Another dusted scented powder on her neck. A third arranged her dress as two footmen lifted her from the bed.
“I declare it smells of garlic in here!” The Duchess of Marston waved a silk handkerchief across her nose as her younger son escorted her into the room. “Someone fetch my smelling salts lest I swoon again.”
“Mother.” Ruel stepped away from his valet, who was attempting to tie on a fresh cravat. He could hardly believe she had come. Like a child surprised by an unexpected pat on the head, he took the woman’s arm. “May I show you to a chair, Your Grace?”
“Leave me be, Ruel.” She swatted his hand with her fan. “Alex, do tell your brother to attend to the matter at hand. I understand he has come up with yet another way to vex me.”
Ruel’s jaw tightened as Alexander led their mother to a wide settee. She patted her hair, waved her fan beneath her chin, and fussed at the maid who was arranging her skirt. Nothing had changed. Ruel covered the familiar hurt with grim determination and turned away.
“Let us begin.” He strode to the settee where Anne had been seated and took his place at her side.
Leaning back against the velvet cushions, Anne tried to make sense of the unreality before her eyes. Somehow she had gotten herself into a private bedroom with the Duke and Duchess of Marston, their two sons, the vicar of Tiverton, and at least a dozen other people. Gentlemen sipped from delicate glasses and nibbled at cakes. The sweet scent of perfume mingled with the pungent smell of garlic—and both seemed to be emanating from her own body.
It was worse than a nightmare. Most confusing of all had been the snippets of conversation that now played a game of chase inside her head:
“Miss Webster will do us little good without her leg, and no good at all dead. If I am to make use of her, I shall need her whole and healthy. . . .”
“You make an engagement of marriage with this woman who is so far beneath you as to bring ridicule upon your name. . . .”
“I actually like the woman. She is a minister’s daughter, did you know? He has bequeathed her quite a wicked tongue. . . .”
“There should be no greater love than that between marriage partners. . . .”
“I do not believe in such drivel. I have been taught by my parents’ example to desire w
ealth and prestige, not love.”
Anne searched the room for the source of the words she remembered. The duke, there by the fire. The duchess, fanning herself on a settee. The healer, gone.
“Dearly beloved . . . ,” the vicar of Tiverton began.
A wedding. Her own wedding.
A tall man with dark, curly hair took her hand. She shut her eyes, confused. For what seemed like hours, she had listened to the Marquess of Blackthorne hold forth. The man was full of himself, vain and obnoxious. He had not the slightest concern for others. Could not believe in love. Enjoyed using people. Cogs in a machine.
“Anne?” That deep voice again. So near. So gentle and warm.
She opened her eyes. Ruel. Sitting beside her, his black hair in a tumble over his brow. How kind he was. Protecting her. Bringing that dark-eyed physician to heal her. Ruel had saved her life. Just as he had promised.
“Ruel . . .” She looked into his gray eyes. She thought . . . hoped . . . prayed . . . the man she was marrying was Ruel . . . but she had the terrible feeling he might be the Marquess of Blackthorne after all.
Seven
Whatever the name of the man Anne had married, he did not show himself again after the wedding. She was told he had gone to London on business. In place of a husband, the black-haired physician came every morning to the large, drafty bedroom to tend her. He changed the garlic poultice— which sent Prudence Watson and all the other attendants scampering from the room—bathed the bullet wound with calendula lotion and sage tea, and then replaced the bandage with a clean garlic-paste poultice.
Within a week, the man—who called himself Walker and claimed to be an Indian from America—began washing Anne’s injury with diluted calendula tincture and peach-pit tea. He made a fresh goldenseal, plantain, and comfrey ointment and packed the wound. By the end of the second week, the wounds where the ball had entered and exited Anne’s thigh had closed. Any sign of the bits of fabric the bullet had driven into her flesh finally vanished.
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