by Anne Stuart
Emma stirred before he said something he’d regret. “Don’t. . . squawk,” she said sleepily, increasing his worry. He’d seen how trivial a bloody head wound could be, but he’d also seen men take a blow to the head, walk around and joke for hours afterwards, and then suddenly keel over dead. He wasn’t going to let it happen to his Emma.
His Emma? What the bloody hell was wrong with him? He could feel Benedick behind him as he moved quickly down the hall, careful not to jolt her more than necessary, and he knew he ought to hand her over, walk away, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. He’d worry about his foolishness later—right now getting her safe was all that mattered.
“Bring her in here, Brandon,” Melisande said, pushing open a door, and he headed into Melisande’s salon. He still didn’t want to release Emma, which was patently absurd, so he set her down on the chaise, reluctantly giving way as Melisande moved ahead of him, but he drew the line at the tall woman who pushed past him as well. “Who are you?” he demanded rudely, prepared to stand his ground.
“Miss Bonham’s companion.” Her voice was acerbic, her eyes sharp behind her glasses. “I have experience in treating injuries.”
“So have I,” he said tightly.
The woman looked at him, and her withering expression might have daunted another man. Not even a hoard of furious Afghanis would make him blink.
“You’re a man,” the woman said, as if that explained everything.
“And. . .?”
The woman just rolled her eyes, and he remembered that she was part and parcel of his marriage deal. He’d told Charles “yes.” God, what had he done?
“You’re bleeding,” Melisande said in a practical voice. “Someone needs to look to you as well.”
“I’m fine. It’s a scratch, nothing more,” he said, still on the edge of fury and a panic that was completely foreign to him. Never in his life had he been afraid, but he was now.
“Sit,” Melisande snapped, fully as bossy as the tall woman whose name he couldn’t remember. He sat, reluctantly, unable to tear his eyes away from Emma’s pale, blood-streaked face when he realized there was someone else in the room. Oh, Christ, it was his so-called fiancée, looking everywhere but at him.
“You look awful, Emma,” Melisande said briskly.
“I expect she looks worse than she feels,” Brandon offered, hoping to goad Emma into a reaction.
Sure enough, it worked. “Nice of you to speak for me,” she said weakly. “How do you know how much I’m hurting?”
“You told me.” He turned his gaze to his sister-in-law, wanting to reassure her, wanting to reassure himself. “Head wounds always look terrible—they bleed like. . . bleed like the very devil,” he amended his speech for his fiancée’s delicate ears. “Once we clean her up she’ll look a lot better.”
Melisande fixed him with a fierce stare, not unlike some of the ones his mother had offered him in his adventurous youth. “There’s no ‘we’ in all this. Leave the room and Randolph will see to you.”
“I’m not leaving her until I’m certain she hasn’t been seriously injured.”
“I thought you said she wasn’t!” Melisande snapped.
“I’m not a doctor.” He rose from the chair, moving to Emma’s side. She did look like hell. Picking up her filthy hand in his, he searched for her pulse. It was a little fast, but steady. Knowing battlefield medicine was necessary for any soldier who wanted to survive, and Brandon had never wanted to die. Not until he returned to England.
“I need to wash her, put her in something clean and comfortable, and you can’t be here,” Melisande said stubbornly. “Besides, you need your own wound looked at.”
“My damned wound can wait—it’s a scratch. I won’t leave.” He could be stubborn too. If he hadn’t decided to go after Emma, if the disapproving cook hadn’t told him which way, she might not have been found. The logical assumption would have been that she found a way to get back to the city, and no one might have found her body for weeks.
“I’ll have Benedick remove you,” Melisande threatened, her eyes narrowing.
“Benedick is ten years older than me and he’s never been a soldier. I doubt that he and Charles together could make me leave if I’m determined to stay. And I am, you know. Very determined.”
There was a long, pregnant silence between them, broken only by the soft crackle of the fire. Melisande was someone who didn’t like to admit defeat, he thought, and if it had been up to him he would have avoided such a confrontation. Emma’s attempted murder changed everything.
He could practically see the possibilities flitting through Melisande’s face. After a moment she nodded briskly. “All right,” she said. “But you are to go to the corner and keep your back turned while we change her clothes.”
He glanced at the two other women, expecting severe disapproval, but they ignored him. It didn’t matter, as long as he got his way. “As you wish,” he said curtly. He was still holding Emma’s wrist and hadn’t even realized it, and he started to release her and step back when her hand turned and caught his, holding on to him like a lifeline.
“Don’t go,” she whispered. Her eyes, usually sharp and hostile, were frightened. She’d be kicking herself later when she remembered she’d held on to him, and that was incentive enough.
“I won’t,” he said in a low voice, looking down at her. A mistake, he realized too late. For the first time she looked as vulnerable as he had suspected she was beneath her spiky exterior, and he wanted . . . God, he wanted all sorts of things he could never have.
Pulling his eyes away from hers was almost painful, but the moment he did hers closed again. He looked at his sister-in-law. “I’m staying,” he said again, his hand clasping Emma’s. She had strong, capable hands, but they still disappeared in his rough, scarred one.
Melisande let out a long-suffering sigh. “You will avert your gaze,” she said crossly. “And don’t try to tell me she has nothing you haven’t seen before—that’s neither here nor there. If she realizes you’ve seen her in dishabille, she’ll be horrified and embarrassed once she’s feeling better.”
“You may blindfold me,” he said flatly, sliding one foot under a nearby chair and dragging it closer, all without letting go of Emma’s hand. He sat, glaring at everyone and not exactly sure why, as the nameless companion decided to get down to business, washing the blood and dust off Emma’s face while Melisande was beginning to undo her severe jacket.
His unwanted fiancée was watching all this with no expression on her face, keeping out of everyone’s way, and he wanted to laugh. He couldn’t have chosen a more useless bride. Then again, she’d hardly been a choice. She was a duty that he had no way of avoiding.
He had more important things on his mind than the woman who was now his burden. He turned back to Emma, watching as the other woman. . . Miss Trimby, he suddenly remembered. . . cleaned her bloody face.
It was almost as pale as the white sheet someone had placed beneath her. He cursed beneath his breath, accepting the tightness in his belly. “Be careful,” he told the woman. “She’s got some kind of head injury.”
“I know how to deal with injuries.” Miss Trimby didn’t bother to glance at him, but Melisande was giving him a look that could have sliced his bollocks off.
“Kindly keep your mouth shut if you stay here, Brandon,” she snapped, trying to pull the wet, blood-soaked jacket down her arms. “But I take leave to tell you that you are an arrogant bully, forcing your way on helpless females.”
“My dear sister—” his voice was a deliberate drawl, “—I have never known anyone less helpless than you in my entire life, and that includes war-hardened soldiers. Except,” he added, “for Mrs. Cadbury, who I imagine could rule the world if given half a chance.”
Melisande’s grim expression softened infinitesimally. “You’re not as big an idiot as I thought you,” she said, forcing Brandon to release Emma’s hand so she could free her from the jacket. “There we go. Miss Bonham, woul
d you please hand me a clean rag? I want to get the blood and mud off her arms.”
Miss Trimby stepped forward, a fresh rag in her hand. “Frances is unused to this sort of thing,” she said. “I think it best she sit by the fire while we take care of this woman.” She looked down at Emma’s limp body, and Brandon waited for some snippy, disparaging comment—after all there was no chance she wasn’t fully aware of Emma’s history. If she dared pass judgment on Emma, he would remove her and her charge from the room by force.
“She’s a strong woman,” Miss Trimby continued. “I admire strong women.”
“But Marnie. . .” came his fiancée’s soft voice. “You know what she was!”
Miss Trimby cast her a quelling glance. “I do not feel we are in a place to judge,” she said. “Let she who is without sin cast the first stone.”
Oh, Christ, was he going to be leg-shackled to a religious fanatic? Now was not the time to worry about it, not when Emma was making an occasional soft, distressed sound, her hand jerking in his. He rose, looking over into the wound, ignoring Melisande’s hiss of disapproval. “It could be worse,” he said. “She’s got a deep little cut across her eyebrow—those always look worse than they are. She’ll need stitches, however. Are you up to it, or would you rather I did it?”
“I am perfectly capable of setting stitches, Brandon. I’ve done it more times than I can count. And now that you know what’s wrong with her you could always. . .”
He sat down again before she could continue her helpful suggestion. “We’ll need some laudanum for her to help with the pain. You must have some on hand.”
“No.” The word was soft, a little hoarse, but very, very clear. Emma opened her eyes. “I don’t need it.”
“It’s going to hurt like the. . . like the dickens,” he amended. “You’ll need something to take the edge off it.”
“No!” It was only a whisper, but it was firm and clear. Her eyes were still closed, and there was dried blood stuck to her eyelashes.
“I could make you.”
“You will do no such thing!” Melisande forced herself between them. “Don’t worry, Emma, my dear, I won’t let him.”
His irrational panic had now turned to annoyance and frustration. He knew exactly what she needed, and he could take care of her with a great deal more dispatch than Melisande was offering. “You’re being a fool,” he said, more to Melisande than to Emma, since his sister-in-law would be the one to enforce it. “There’s no need for her to suffer needlessly. . .”
“We are in agreement that Emma is a strong woman, are we not? She has little fear of physical pain. You may distract her while I take care of the wound.”
“Oh, may I?” he countered, sarcasm heavy in his voice. “What would Benedick say if he knew you were going to torture your friend unnecessarily?”
“I agree, my lady,” Miss Trimby said. “Surely she should have something. . .”
“Enough!” Melisande raised her voice, and he felt Emma’s jerk of pain. Oh, yes, she was going to have one monster of a headache. The thought of a needle slicing through her skin made him wince, he who had, on one occasion, had to assist in the amputation of a soldier’s leg and done so with sang-froid, and he opened his mouth for one more protest, when Melisande silenced him for once and for all.
“If you were in her position, would you want me to dose you with opium?”
He stiffened. “The situations are entirely different.”
“No,” said his sister-in-law, “they’re not.”
He closed his mouth with a snap. “At least get her some brandy.”
“No,” Melisande responded sharply.
Emma’s whispered voice drifted into their argument, though her eyes were still closed. “Stop fighting and get on with it. I feel like a bone between two dogs.”
“A very pretty bone, my dear,” Melisande said tenderly. “Even if you’re a little worse for wear. Brandon, go find one of the servants and have them bring fresh clothes. . .”
“Trying to get rid of me! I’m staying right here. Send a maid, or Miss Bonham.”
“Oh, for God’s sake!” Emma’s weak outrage stopped them. “Just get on with it. I want to curl up in bed and sleep for days.”
“That’s the last thing you’ll be doing, my girl,” Brandon said with no attempt at compassion. Emma would prefer plain speaking, he was sure of it. “Head injuries need to be watched constantly, and you won’t be allowed to sleep for long periods in case there’s some hidden injury.”
It was a fortunate thing that Emma’s response to that was quiet enough that it didn’t reach Miss Bonham’s ears, though he suspected that Miss Trimby heard. He fought back his grin. Sinking back in the chair, his eyes never left Emma’s angry face. “Don’t worry, darling,” he said deliberately. As long as he could annoy her, it would keep her alert. “I won’t leave your side.”
He was expecting another shocking, whispered outburst, but she simply closed her mouth in a thin line. He glanced over his shoulder at Melisande, who was busy threading a needle. And then he saw Miss Bonham’s expression.
She hadn’t missed his term of endearment, and she had no way of knowing it was mocking. As if he would ever call a woman darling, ever again. Not when he was incapable of offering anything but shame and sorrow to someone he loved.
Loved?
Where the hell had that come from? He tore his gaze away from his troubled fiancée to look down at Emma Cadbury. Her eyes were open, and she was looking up at him.
“Don’t,” she said in a whisper, and he didn’t pretend to misunderstand. Don’t stay by me, don’t care about me, don’t get in my way, don’t love me. But her grip on his hand was strong.
And he wasn’t going anywhere.
Chapter 12
“Hell and damnation,” Emma said in a rough, raspy voice. It was twelve hours later, the middle of the night, and once again she couldn’t sleep. Despite the uproar of the day, which should have left her a little pool of exhaustion, she was awake, staring at her ceiling once more.
She’d been bathed, stitched, and put to bed, and she’d immediately fallen into an exhausted sleep as her body started to mend her injuries. She should have known, though, that sleep would again elude her, and now it was probably two or three in the morning.
Perhaps it wasn’t that surprising. She wasn’t in pain, per se, but the aches of her wild struggle were reminding her every time she tried to turn over. The stitches at the edge of her scalp were a more insistent throbbing, but she’d learned to soldier on no matter what insult her body or soul had been subjected to, and nothing had changed.
She could ignore stitches, twisted ankles, body blows that left ugly bruises. She had a harder time with her stomach.
She was starving. She’d grabbed a biscuit from Mollie’s kitchen, but she’d skipped breakfast in her hurry to escape, and she’d fallen fast asleep once Melisande and the surprisingly efficient Miss Trimby finished with her. She’d had the hazy idea that she should talk to Frances Bonham’s companion to see whether she might be interested in furthering her education in the healing arts. She was tired of being the only unicorn in a herd of jackals, and she knew Benedick would be more than happy to sponsor the woman, particularly if Miss Trimby’s mistress was going to be part of the family.
She refused to think about that, though it doubtless would have destroyed her appetite. Instead the thought of strong tea with lashings of sugar and cream, fresh warm buns, and even some cold chicken and cheese were filling her head with sensual dreams, and the longer she lay still in the darkness, the more her stomach protested.
She gave up the battle, trying to pull herself up in bed, but dizziness and pain hit her with brute force, and she almost sank back on the soft mattress. She knew if she did she wouldn’t be able to try again, so she braced herself with her left hand, staying utterly still until the dizziness abated. So far, so good.
Swinging her legs over the side of the bed was a little more challenging. Everything seeme
d to hurt, even her teeth, and she wanted to moan. Strong women, survivors, didn’t moan, and she clamped her mouth closed, ignoring the tenderness. Lifting her hand, she touched her skin, checking for swelling, tenderness. She must look a fair sight, which was probably a good thing—her so-called beauty had been nothing but a curse to her and those around her.
She pushed herself to her feet, then quickly steadied herself. She was already feeling a little more human—a short hike down to the kitchens and a decent bit of food would do wonders.
The hallway that encompassed the family rooms was shadowed. It wasn’t pitch black—the sky had cleared after the torrential downpour, and a sliver of moonlight came in through the tall windows at the end of the hallway. The family staircase lay at the center of the hall, and she started forward, moving slowly, waiting for her customary brisk energy to return, but she was breathless, dizzy, exhausted. She had just reached the top of the staircase when her strength deserted her entirely. Feeling her legs give out beneath her, she put out her arms in a blind attempt to stop her fall, only to have them caught in someone’s strong hands as she was pulled back against a strong, male body.
She knew who it was. Fate wouldn’t be kind enough to have Charles or Benedick Rohan wandering the family corridor—oh, no. Besides, Charles would have let her fall. For a moment she let Brandon hold her, closing her eyes and breathing in the scent of him, the heat of him, before she turned, trying to push free.
“What the hell are you doing wandering around in the middle of the night in your condition?” Brandon demanded in a rough, low voice. “You could have fallen and broken your silly neck.”
Move away from him, she ordered herself, but that other Emma wasn’t listening, too weary to fight her own base nature. As long as he held her, she didn’t have to meet his gaze, and for all his voice was harsh his hold on her was infinitely tender.
“I was hungry,” she said to the clean white linen of his chest. He was not wearing a coat, and she wondered whether he was in his night rail. The thought was disturbing, but instead of pulling away she pressed just a little closer. No, the feel of his breeches through the thin material of her own nightgown was. . . confusing. Reassuring, disappointing, disturbing. . . God, she must have been concussed after all.