by Anne Stuart
He sighed. His chest rose and fell with it, and she could feel her tangled hair stir. “Why didn’t you just ring for the maid?”
“I don’t ring for maids,” she said, trying to sound brisk but failing miserably. Maybe he’d carry her back to bed. Maybe he’d climb in bed and hold her, and she could keep breathing him in, feel the strength of his arms around her, holding her, keeping her safe where nothing could harm her.
She pushed back, wobbled slightly, and then gave up as his hand clamped around her arm, pulling her away. “Let’s have this conversation away from the stairs, Emma,” he murmured. “I don’t want you breaking your bloo— your silly neck.”
“You can say ‘bloody.’ I do.” Her verbal efforts to keep him at a distance were failing miserably, and she shook her head, trying to sharpen her mind, but it only succeeded in making her feel dizzier.
“Emma.” In the dark his voice was even more mesmerizing, rich and deep. It was the kind of voice that could soothe her to sleep, warm her, enchant her. . .
“Don’t call me Emma,” she muttered, squirming a bit to break free of him. He didn’t let go. “What are you doing up here?” Was he going to say, looking for you, Mrs. Cadbury? And she would ask why, and he would say. . .
“My rooms are here. In fact, I know for certain your rooms are in the opposite direction. Allow me to escort you back and I’ll have some food brought up to you.”
Noooo, she wanted to shriek, but she kept her inexplicable panic under control. “I assure you there’s no need,” she said, pleased to sound more alert. “I’m not really hungry after all.”
“There’s every need. You must have met my mother on one of your many visits—she would box my ears if she heard I was capable of such shabby behavior.” There was a moment’s silence between them. “I know what you’re thinking. I’ve done far worse than a slight lapse in courtesy, worse than you could even imagine. Nevertheless, I am doing my best to atone for at least some of my misdeeds, and you are being escorted back to your room whether you like it or not.”
The darkness was disorienting. She could make out his outline, and he seemed to loom over her, for all that she was a tall woman. “I don’t need imagination to know of the hideous things men are capable of. I doubt it would hock me.” She was trying for a practical note. “Anyway, I’ve visited here far more often than you have, and I’m sure I know it better,” she said. “You’d probably get lost getting back.”
“I never get lost. Not even in the Afghan mountain passes.” His voice was expressionless. “What are you afraid of, Emma? Do you think I intend to force my way into your room and ravish you?”
“Most people wouldn’t believe it possible to rape a whore.” She should never have said such a thing, she thought belatedly. Standing there, cocooned in the dark with him, the last thing they should be discussing was sex.
She sensed more than saw him shrug. “That’s a matter requiring vigorous intellectual debate and I’m not in the mood. If you don’t want to prolong our time together you should stop arguing.”
“I’d adore to have you escort me to my room, Lord Brandon,” she said promptly in a breathy little voice, a perfect imitation of a society miss.
His short laugh was more disturbing than almost anything else—it was warm and good-humored, sounding more like the wounded soldier and less like the embittered man who’d returned to her life. “I should have threatened you earlier.” He released his grip on her. “Your arm, Mrs. Cadbury?”
It was too dark to see him clearly, and the last thing she wanted to do was touch him more than socially necessary. Maybe Mr. Perfect who never got lost had excellent night vision in those quite remarkable eyes. She raised her arm blindly, only to accidentally hit him in the chest. She tried to leap back but he caught her, pulled her back against him, his strong arm going around her waist.
“You are the most skittish female I’ve ever known,” he said dryly. “I can’t believe you’re capable of slicing into human bodies without a qualm when you can hardly stand to be in the presence of a male. Unless, for some reason, it’s just me who seems to unnerve you.”
“Given my previous profession, I have a very reasonable fear of your sex, Lord Brandon,” she said, inwardly groaning at her inadvertent use of the word “sex.”
There was a moment of silence. “I assure you, Emma, that you have absolutely no reason to fear me,” he finally said, and in the darkness her heightened senses thought she could hear guilt and regret in his voice.
No reason at all, she thought, letting him guide her through the darkness. She needed to get away from him so desperately that she was willing to do anything. He could even slam her up against a wall and take her if that would hurry things along—at least it could clarify her unsettled feelings. Then she could simply hate him.
He wanted her, and she knew it. He wanted her body, she clarified in her mind as they moved through the darkness, and he was a soldier, a gentleman, someone used to taking what he wanted, and she was a whore. If he decided to take her there was little she could do to fight him. She’d survive, as she’d survived far worse.
But if her sweet, broken boy forced himself on her that might truly break what tiny portion of her heart had remained whole. He wasn’t the gravely wounded, charming man in the hospital bed who spent the long dark nights of pain holding her hand and telling her stories. Once they’d taken him away from her he’d sunk to the very depths, and then managed to patch himself up, an inexpert job, to be sure, but serviceable. The lost boy was gone forever, and the man with his strong arm around her waist was a dark, troubled stranger.
They traversed slowly, in silence, so close that she could feel her skirts brush against his long legs, so close that she could feel the almost infinitesimal hitch in his left leg. She’d seen the ruined disaster, she’d changed the dressings on the torn muscles, the shattered bones. The fact that he could walk at all was astonishing—that he could disguise the lingering effects of such a wound so well was a testament to his strength and will.
Suddenly he halted, and his arm dropped free, so that she was alone in chilly darkness. “Tell me one thing, Emma, and if you lie to me I’ll know it.”
“I don’t lie,” she said stiffly, a perfect lie. Oh, God, what now? The truth was a dangerous commodity, one she used sparingly. She was so versed in dissimulation that he would never guess.
“Did we meet during that dark time in my life? Did I cause you some injury? Those months are clouded in my memory, but I know full well I did terrible things. Did I do them with you?”
She didn’t have to feign her shock. “Of course not, Lord Brandon. Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Call me Brandon.”
“No!” She moved a step back, and he let her, still close enough to catch her if she wavered again. She was still in danger. It had been so long since she’d been near a rutting male, but she recognized the breed. It didn’t matter if he was a far cry from the soft old men she’d pleasured. Her body could feel his tension, his desire. “How would I have ever frequented your circle of acquaintance?”
“Emma, I was a member of the Heavenly Host. We had orgies, we hired women, we debased them and ourselves in unspeakable ways. Were you one of them?”
A measure of relief swept through her. She didn’t even need to lie. “I was never in the company of those depraved ‘gentlemen.’” Her voice dripped with contempt. “And I had ceased practicing my profession years before you returned to England.”
He was silent for a moment, and she congratulated herself. Too soon, she thought, when he spoke again. “And we never met before this week?”
“Never.” Her voice was strong, sure, incontrovertible. “Now that’s settled will you guide me the rest of the way to my room or allow me to find it myself?”
“We’re at your door.” He moved toward her, brushing against her, and opened the door, letting the faint glow of the fire out into the hall. She could see him then, his dark and light beauty, his troubled eyes.
“Brandon,” he corrected her.
The moment stretched. “Are you expecting me to invite you into my room, Lord Brandon?” Her voice was steady, and she congratulated herself on sounding so unmoved. “I don’t think you have the price.”
“You’re right,” he said slowly. “The only man who’s going to get in your bed is going to have to love you, and I’m afraid that’s a part of me that never healed.”
It felt like a blow. Why should the word “love” even be mentioned between them? “You’re stronger than I am,” she said calmly enough. “You could take what you wanted. I’m a professional, remember? I know when a man wants me.”
His smile was wry. “Oh, I want you very much. I doubt there’s a man who sees you who doesn’t want you, with the possible exception of my brother Benedick. Even a stuffy old prude like Charles wouldn’t be immune. But you’ve been hurt, you’re weak and trembling, and I don’t make a habit of taking advantage of frightened little girls.”
“I’m not. . .” she started to protest, when he bent down and brushed the softest, sweetest kiss against her mouth, gone almost before it had begun, so quickly that she could do nothing more than stare at him in astonishment.
“You are,” he said softly. “Good night, Emma.”
She stood outside her door, bemused, as he faded into the shadows. She put a hand to her lips, expecting some monumental change. They were no different—soft, slightly open. He’d kissed her, and life would never be the same.
Chapter 13
She climbed into bed with his taste on her mouth. The feel of his body against hers as he caught her before she tumbled down the stairs. The warmth of him. . .
Stop it, Emma Margaret, she reminded herself sharply. There’s no room in your life for such lollygagging. Concentrate on your work, not schoolgirl fantasies.
But she looked at the heavy medical tome on the desk and simply sank deeper into the bed. She felt peculiar, almost dreamy, and she wanted to hug that feeling to herself for just a little while. Oh, she had a thousand plausible excuses not to get up and get her mind back where it should be, but she knew the essential truth. She wanted to curl up in bed and think about Brandon Rohan.
It had been a cold, rainy evening when she’d arrived at St. Martin’s Military Hospital. She’d rolled up her sleeves and put on one of the unfortunate leather aprons they were required to wear, not unlike those worn by butchers to repel blood. There were few women who worked as volunteers at night—most of them were required to earn their living in the dark hours, either on the streets or in a house and they couldn’t afford the time. Yet the nights were hardest for these poor lost boys, and that was when she was needed.
“You’ll need to go stay with Number Thirty-seven,” the nursing sister told her. “He won’t make it through the night and he’s restless. See what you can do to soothe him. The rest are all doing as well as can be expected.”
She’d nodded. Number Thirty-seven had come in with a new shipment of the wounded from the Afghan Wars. The worst ones died on the trip and were buried at sea. Few in his condition survived this long, though there were a handful who held on until they reached their home shores—only to die once they’d accomplished that. Death was a strange thing, she’d observed. The body made its own decisions, regardless of medical wisdom, and when a patient decided to die all the brilliant treatment in the world couldn’t save him.
Number Thirty-seven was one of those. He had no name or memory, in fact the thirty-seventh in that condition to die like that. She wove her way through the parallel rows of beds to the alcove near the fire—the place the patients ghoulishly referred to as “the Styx” in reference to the Greek river leading to hell. It was believed that moving a mortally wounded patient there eased the others, but in truth it only made the entire process more mysterious. Death was a fact of life, Emma knew, and it was only through these checks and balances that things began to make sense.
The boy was still and silent when she sank down on the stool beside him. He was very bad indeed—the entire left side of his body had suffered terrible damage, including his face, but he had managed to survive the long trip home despite it. He’d spoken very little since he’d arrived, and she had known he wouldn’t be with them long.
She reached out and put her hand on his thin, almost claw-like, one—not bothering to wonder at her compassion for these poor, lost boys. As a rule, she despised men, but these were the wounded who needed nurturing, not unlike the women she lived with in Melisande Carstairs’s vast house. Their need put everyone on an even footing, and she looked at him with tenderness.
He’d opened his eyes then, looking up at her. They were clouded with pain and acceptance, and he pulled his hand from hers. “Don’t waste your time on me, sister,” he said. “The living could use your sweetness more than I.”
If she’d taken his dismissal, things would have gone very differently in her life, but her contrary nature had kicked in, She caught his hand in hers, holding it tightly. “I’m not a sister,” she’d said. “I have no medical training—I come in here to help.”
“Then help me by leaving me alone.” His voice was far from strong. He would die that night—she recognized all the signs. Except that she wasn’t going to let him.
And he wasn’t a boy, though they all seemed like boys to her, helpless and dying. He was probably near her own age, and he didn’t have the hard look of a life of toil. He didn’t belong in this hospital—somewhere he had family looking for him, and they would never know he died.
He wasn’t strong enough to pull away from her, and she could see his frustration. “Go away,” he choked out.
“Stay,” she said to him.
Her single word seemed to startle him, and he looked at her in shock, no longer struggling. “Why?” he whispered.
It seemed as if the two of them were alone in the vast building, the moans and snores simply background like the crackling of the fire. “Because I did,” she said simply. “I stayed. Dying is easy. It’s making a good life, despite all the terrible things you’ve done, that’s hard.”
“You don’t know the terrible things I’ve done. The things you do in a war. You can’t even imagine it.”
She’d been thinking of herself, of her choice to sell her body, because at one point it had been a choice. His words hinted at things that were far, far worse.
“You can’t change what you’ve done,” she said. “You can only accept responsibility and move forward.” Her hand tightened on his. “You do not strike me as a coward, Thirty-seven.”
She almost thought she saw his grim mouth curve at the name. “I am everything despicable,” he said flatly, his voice weak. “If you knew what I’d done you would agree.”
“Tell me, then. And I will tell you honestly if death is what you deserve. There are a great many men here who are fighting to survive. My time could be better spent with them.”
“Go then. I told you to.”
“Tell me,” she repeated. And he did.
In fact, that had been the last time she could remember even coming close to tears. He made his confession in a rough whisper, holding her hand in the darkness, and while he talked he held off death. He talked for hours, alone in the darkness with her, and when he was done the sun was coming up, a faint glow coming in the windows set high in the walls, and he had made it through the night.
Death had left him—he seemed as if a huge weight had left him as well, and his eyes were clearer when he looked up at her. “You’re a harpy, you know,” he said, his voice stronger. “What’s a man to do to get a little peace in this world?”
“Not die,” she replied flatly, hiding her emotions.
He had surveyed her, considering. “I will make a bargain with you. I won’t die today. Come back tonight and convince me to last another day.”
“Perhaps,” she said, planning on doing ju
st that. She stood up. The day was beginning, and she needed to return to Melisande’s household to see what needed to be done. Whether he lived or died, she would still be back.
“And one more thing. Give me something to live for?”
She eyed him warily. “What is that?”
“Kiss me, sister.”
She’d frozen. “I told you, I’m not a sister. And I’m not someone who kisses strange men.” She wasn’t someone who kissed any man. The men who had bought her favors hadn’t been interested in kisses—to them paying money had precluded the need for kisses, or kindness, or tenderness. The dismal, unlikely truth was that she had never kissed anyone.
“I’m not a strange man. You know me better than anyone in this world.”
She could sense rather than see the wariness in him. He was testing her—his injuries, the terrible things he’d told her should have made most women recoil in horror.
If she hesitated, she wouldn’t do it, and she knew he would be dead when she arrived that night. Leaning over, she cupped his bandaged face gently in her hands and pressed her mouth to his.
His lips were cracked and dry from fever, and when she drew back he’d closed his eyes, tension leaving his body. There was even the faintest trace of a smile on his mouth. “Tonight, Harpy,” he’d said.
She’d wondered then whether she’d misjudged things. Whether he’d wanted the kiss as a last blessing on earth, and she half-expected that there’d be a new soul in the Styx when she arrived the next night. She was right.
The man lying in the alcove was a stranger, one whose amputation had turned septic, who’d been secured to the bed with straps to keep him from tossing himself onto the floor. She stood at the entrance, her eyes barely seeing the poor man, as grief filled her heart.