"Gwenllian?” He seemed to be having difficulty focusing.
"Yes, I'm here.” Her voice verged on sobbing.
"That should be twenty.” Daniel weakly indicated the carnage around him with a toss of his head. His blond forelock fell forward into eyes feverish with pain but he grinned at her nonetheless.
She choked, caught between laughing and crying. She wanted to take him in her arms but she feared aggravating his injuries. He bled from what seemed at least a dozen places. Her hands fluttered above him like birds afraid to land.
"You've sprung a leak,” he teased, eyeing the tears streaming down her face. His gravelly voice trailed off into another strenuous fit of coughing and blood oozed from his mouth. He collapsed back on the ground. “Think I have as well."
She screamed for the Baron and Mr. Faircross to come and ordered one of the footmen to fetch a surgeon. “Hold on, we shall get you back to Primroselea,” she told Daniel.
"What about, Ber...” He licked his lips and tried for the shorter name. “Geoffrey?” he whispered.
"Geoffrey!” She had completely forgotten about him. “I lost track of the damnable man.” Quickly her eyes raked over the general area, including the bodies close enough to be identifiable. “I do not see him."
"Jumped?"
As they were practically on top of the precipice, she tore herself away from Daniel long enough to crawl to the edge and look over. Serene waves caressed lifeless bodies on the pebbly beach below, but it was impossible to tell if one of them was Geoffrey. She crawled back to Daniel's side.
"For his sake, I hope he jumped. I shall certainly push him over if ever I see him again."
Daniel smiled weakly. “Bloodthirsty Celt."
Then his eyes closed and he lapsed into unconsciousness.
* * * *
Gwenllian flipped the corner of the clean, crisp sheet down once more to take Daniel's pulse. Not that she knew what the weak, trembling beats meant. But the Baron's apothecary, Mr. Sanderson, did it every time he called so she reckoned she had better monitor it as well, just in case there was a change. But Daniel's distressing condition had yet to improve.
The militia's surgeon had come the first day, though not before her anxiety at his seeming delay had driven her to vow to bring him to Primroselea at the point of a pistol. He had done what he could, but the suffering on Daniel's face and the sound of his tortured groans under the surgeon's excruciating ministrations had driven her half mad with empathetic anguish. Mr. Sanderson had continued to call on a daily basis—sometimes two or three times a day—and always with a new poultice or the ingredients for another salutary infusion. But each healer had intimated ... well, the surgeon had come right out and said that there was little more to be done for Daniel but wait.
So she had waited. And waited. It had been three long days and nights now. And still she sat on this uncomfortable chair at his beleaguered bedside, tending to him for hours on end.
She had helped Letticia wash him when he first was put to bed. Since then she routinely bathed his face with cool water. She applied compresses and poultices. She changed his dressings on a regular basis, smearing a thin coat of honey on his wounds, as the village wise woman had advised, before covering them with fresh bandages. She helped him drink the apothecary's infusions to facilitate mending and cordials to lessen his pain during the rare, fleeting moments when he was conscious. She wet his lips with the concoctions when he was not.
And while she undertook all this, her patient spoke not a word. There was no delirium, which she took to be a good sign, but neither was there awareness.
Tonight, insensible to the world but not to pain, Daniel shivered and writhed in his sleep. She moistened his lips with cordials and miserably wished that he would awaken so that he could drink the remedies properly.
Gwenllian sat back in her chair. She was so tired. Her brain felt fuzzy, like mold on cheese. If only she could sleep.
At least everyone else who had survived the battle was on the mend. Well, Mr. Faircross had emerged from the battle remarkably unscathed, and no one spoke of the missing Geoffrey, but the Baron had sustained a flesh wound which Mr. Sanderson's talents had kept free of infection. It was healing nicely.
Several of the footmen had died in the battle. Others had received severe injuries, but the Baron saw to it that they received as good care as he. According to Letticia, who kept her apprised of what was happening elsewhere in Primroselea, yesterday had marked the convalescence of the last footman not already recovering.
So now it was only Daniel around whom Death still hovered, thanks to the grave wounds he had received while he was holding the cliff top alone. And it was only she who still went long nights without sleep. But she could not rest until Daniel was out of danger.
A particularly extended pug snore pierced the stillness of the sick room. Oliver had spent these past days and nights either sitting on one of her feet or sleeping on the floor beside her chair. His comforting presence was about the only thing keeping her sane. She leaned over and petted her pug's hairy back. He raised his head and his velvety muzzle inspected her hand. Then his head dropped back down to the floor. Oliver sighed heavily.
"Seconded,” she murmured in response.
The sick room door opened. Weary Gwenllian did not bother to look behind her. She recognized her sister's footsteps, even muffled as they were by the carpeted floor. Letticia quietly greeted Oliver, then placed a comforting hand upon Gwenllian's shoulder.
"Any improvement?"
"Not yet,” she replied listlessly.
"Come to bed."
"Not yet."
Letticia squeezed her shoulder, then gave her a little shake. “Don't do this to yourself. You told me he's a soldier—"
"Cavalry officer,” Gwenllian interrupted, her voice still a monotone.
"The point I'm going for is that they're a hardy sort. He'll pull through. I'll watch him, if you want, but you need some rest."
"Not yet."
Letticia squeezed her shoulder again. “You have done everything a person could do. You have procured advice from every quarter, you have applied concoctions at all hours of the day and night, and I hear from Patsy that you are determined to launder some maggots if any of Mr. Wyckliff's wounds become putrid."
"Not launder, wash,” Gwenllian corrected, the words dragging from her exhausted body. “They must have to be clean, do you not think so? Everything else must be clean. Clean bandages. Clean maggots."
"Well, whatever one does with maggots, then.” Letticia waved her hand impatiently. “Cut along to bed before you become delirious."
A thought struck Gwenllian, sparking an involuntary fit of giggles. She glanced up at Letticia. “I had not considered...” She took a deep breath, trying to recapture a dignified air. “Where does one find maggots? Do you think there's a shop?"
"That's torn it. You are coming to bed immediately."
Gwenllian's mad little giggles continued until Letticia tried to pull her out of the chair. She grasped hold of the mattress, her fingers sinking in as if to root her in place.
"No! Staying!” She was unmovable. Letticia gave up.
"Then sleep here, but sleep.” With gentle pressure, her sister pushed her over so that while her hips remained in the chair, her top half rested on the bed. Gwenllian did not resist. But she did shift her position slightly so her cheek could nestle against the back of Daniel's hand.
The restlessness of Daniel's slumber often seemed to ebb when Gwenllian touched him, and contact with her worked its charm again. His breathing became more regular and his body ceased to toss back and forth. As Letticia left, the only sound was Oliver's contented snoring.
* * * *
The following day Daniel's pulse seemed stronger. Gwenllian tried not to get her hopes up, being as all hope centered upon something she was still uncertain she knew how to read correctly. But once present, hope was too stubborn to evict. Didn't his complexion seem to retain more life now? And his breathin
g had certainly eased. When Mr. Sanderson arrived, he agreed that Daniel's condition reflected a definite improvement.
Letticia came to visit the sick room after Mr. Sanderson left.
"I hear he's doing much better."
"Yes, according to Mr. Sanderson, he is out of danger now,” Gwenllian replied. “Though I won't believe it until he opens his eyes."
Letticia nodded. “What will you do then?"
"How do you mean?"
"I don't wish to fight again."
"I am sorry about that, by the by. What I said. When we fought ... it seems so long ago.” Gwenllian shook her head. “I don't wish to fight either. But that reminds me, Geoffrey knew about you. Where is Mr. Faircross? Is he still here?"
"No, he left days ago. Isabella and Mariah are still here, though Isabella has made plans for her departure. Mariah has said nothing of parting from us, of course. She's worse than an infestation of fleas, that girl. One just cannot get rid of her."
Gwenllian chuckled. That was certainly the way she felt about Mariah. “Anyhow, Geoffrey knew, so you had best keep to yourself for a while."
"I already intended to,” her sister responded haughtily.
"Oh. Well, good. Now what did you not want to fight about?"
"Him."
"Mr. Wyckliff."
"Yes.” Letticia folded her arms across her chest. “You have compromised yourself somewhat regarding this man, but you cannot possibly marry him."
"Why not?"
Letticia rolled her eyes. “Must I spell it out?"
"Depends what you are spelling. Snobbery? Pretentiousness? Can you spell pretentiousness?"
"Don't be flippant. Our parents would have an apoplectic fit if you married so far beneath you. And you know they'd blame me. I would never hear the end of it. You cannot do it."
Gwenllian sighed. “Do you have any reasons not directly involving yourself?"
Letticia answered immediately, “He cannot love you."
"Thank you very much."
"Think on it. He was on some, mission. If you hadn't been his voucher into Primroselea he would never have looked at you twice."
Gwenllian frowned but said nothing. Part of her brain agreed with Letticia. Of course his love was false. How could it be otherwise? She should have known from the first. Why would such a handsome man as he wish to be in her company when no other man would? Clearly an ulterior motive was present. She had been a goose not to see it.
And yet, how pleasurable it had been to be a goose.
"He would have cultivated the acquaintance of whoever could get him into Primroselea, and you know it,” her sister continued. “How could you ever trust a man like that? Now, granted, if anyone but ourselves had witnessed your transgressions..."
"Well, really,” Gwenllian huffed.
"I would have had to insist on his marrying you. But I don't think your situation has sunk to such a state of affairs, and I'm not forcing you into a marriage without love."
Gwenllian sighed again. Letticia meant well. She knew firsthand the heartache such an arrangement could inflict. She was trying to be helpful.
"You need not worry. He specifically said he would not marry me."
"Of all the nerve,” her sister snapped, outraged on her behalf. “I don't see why you waste your time on him."
"Let us say ‘tis better than being out there with Mariah."
"La! That's true enough.” Letticia chuckled. “Do you want me to bring you anything?"
"You could bring me Oliver. Is he still in the kitchen?"
"As it is dinner time, I would venture to guess yes.” Letticia headed for the door. “I will even walk him for you first. Never say I do nothing for you."
* * * *
The next night, Daniel opened his eyes.
Gwenllian had been resting her head upon the edge of his mattress when she felt him stir fretfully. She jerked upright and moved to watch his haggard, unshaven face, dreading that the candlelight would reveal the return of his pain. Instead she was rewarded by the sight of him blinking slowly, several times. He was regaining consciousness.
Her heart raced with joy. He blinked again and then suddenly he was gazing up at her. His entire countenance seemed to change in that moment, as if jolted back to life. His eyes sparked with vitality that his body could not match yet. Her breath caught in her throat. How she had missed his mesmerizing hazel eyes.
She inhaled. “How do you feel?"
His lips gradually formed a lopsided grin. “Better for seeing you.” His voice was hoarse and each word cost him some little effort.
Limbs stiff from long hours of sitting, she lurched for the cup resting upon the bedside table near the graceful candelabrum. “I have a tonic here. It has honey in it."
She leaned forward, one hand resting on the mattress, and helped Daniel take a sip.
"I am so relieved I cannot tell you. No, you must finish all the tonic. I feared you would never wake again. This is such good news.” She paused, trying to control the tumult of emotion squirming for release within her: elation, relief, gratitude, hysteria. She took a deep breath before continuing lightly, “For one thing it means that now I'll be away to my own bed."
Her supporting hand still resting on the mattress, she twisted to replace the empty cup upon the table. As she turned back, she saw Daniel's hand creeping toward hers upon the coverlet.
When his fingers touched hers, it was a light, cautious touch, as if he feared she might snatch her hand away. She did not. He covered her hand, took her hand in his. His skin was warm and dry, his grip gentle. “Stay."
Gwenllian shifted so she might rest her hip against the bed and yet continue to allow him to hold her hand. “You may not know it, but I have stayed. I have stayed here so long that my back is comprised of pain and aches rather than bones and my legs have become one with that chair. What I would give to lie flat.” She stopped, dreadfully aware of how her voice quavered. What must he think of her? He was the one who had suffered and here she was bleating and moaning.
But he continued to grin at her.
Oliver, who had been standing alertly beside the chair ever since Gwenllian's lunge to her feet had awakened him, now hopped about at the side of the bed, huffing and wheezing. Even he did not deign to whine. But he could not have been more articulate with words that he wanted to be up on the mattress where the action was.
"No, Oliver."
Oliver scrunched down, readying to launch himself into the air. Clearly he was determined that if she would not pick him up, then he would do it himself.
"You shan't make it,” she warned. “This bed's too tall."
Daniel made a sound somewhere between a cough and a chuckle. “Put pudgy pug up here."
"Are you certain?"
He nodded. “You can all climb in."
She tried not to scowl. But his words hurt. They reminded her of reality. He did not actually want her in his bed. He said that only because he knew she would not take him up on the offer. He had told her plainly he did not wish to marry her. She would have to be featherbrained to compromise herself with him after that. She took back her hand and stepped away from the bed.
"No, thank you, sir. And if you are well enough to tease me then I feel confident enough in your health that I may take my leave of you."
He struggled to prop himself up on his elbows. The sheet slid down as he did so, revealing the bare skin of his sleekly muscled chest. “Beg pardon, lass. Don't leave."
With a mighty leap, Oliver propelled himself up onto the bed. His hind feet had to scrabble on the edge of the mattress while the bed boards squeaked and the mattress slightly swayed but then he was up and waddling toward Daniel's face. Gwenllian skipped forward to rescue Daniel from unrestrained pug enthusiasm.
Pointing Oliver's hairy body toward the foot of the bed, she gave to Daniel the smile which her pug's antics had raised. “No, I beg your pardon. My emotions are all fluttered together tonight."
Daniel patted the mattress at
his side. “Come rest."
"I couldn't possibly."
"Rest."
"Just because my dog is mad for your bed doesn't mean I am."
"Rest.” He growled the word like a command but she could tell he did not mean it harshly.
She smiled. “I take orders from you, do I?"
"Aye, Princess, tha does."
His voice, especially when it slipped into that husky accent, lit such pleasurable fires in her belly. She shook her head. She would have to be featherbrained. She certainly felt lightheaded and featherbrained. It would be so nice to lie down. And it would be so deliciously decadent to lie down on his bed. After all this, she deserved something deliciously decadent.
Drat. She was as determined as her pug to get into his bed. Would Oliver qualify as a chaperone? Nevermind.
"I shall take you up on your solicitous proposal. But if we are discovered, you will be forced to offer for me and you shall only have yourself to blame."
"Duly noted."
She put out the candles and then crawled up on the mattress, unsuccessful in her attempt to limit the subtle rocking and creaking caused by her joining him, and lay down on top of the bedclothes. Oliver trundled up the bed, snorting happily, always pleased to have company. Gwenllian turned on her side, her back to Daniel, and threw her arm around wriggling Oliver to keep him from snuffling her face. After a moment he flopped down next to her stomach and heaved a relaxed, snorting sigh.
But Gwenllian could not relax. Heart thumping in her ears, she held her body rigid, careful not to let herself touch Daniel for fear of aggravating one of his injuries. He, however, seemed to have no such concerns. She had not been settled long when she felt the bed shift as he awkwardly inched over. She held her breath.
Only a sheet, a blanket, and a coverlet separated her body from his. She might be fully clothed but she knew from having helped to bathe him during his infirmity that he wore nothing underneath that sheet.
The Secret Hunter Page 18