Countess of Scandal (25 page)

When they were alone, Eliza took Will's hand in hers, raising his fingers to her lips. He tasted of the salt of sweat, the tang of blood, but underneath there was still the familiar essence of her Will. That hand had caressed her,
brought her delight and joy and life. Now it was cold under her touch.

"Don't leave me," she whispered. "Please, please, Will, don't leave me."

His eyes fluttered open. For a moment, they were unfocused, clouded, their usual blue a pained gray. But then he saw her, and they sharpened, his hand flexing in hers.

"Eliza?" he muttered hoarsely.

"Yes, my love, it's me," she said, trying to smile reassuringly. "You're at Killinan now; you're safe."

He shook his head. "Another dream."

"No, I'm not a dream." She kissed his hand, again and again. "I'm here! I'm sorry, Will, so sorry. I'll take care of you."

"No, she hates me now." Suddenly, his back arched, as if in a great spasm of pain. "Tis Morrigan!"

Morrigan, the black-cloaked death goddess. "I won't let her find you."

Yet still he cried out, as if at visions far beyond her. His head tossed on the chaise, and his hand tightened painfully on hers.

"Here, I have laudanum," Katherine said, kneeling again beside Eliza with her black leather medicine case. Eliza remembered that case well from her childhood—it had always seemed full of magical elixirs to cure anything. Could they now cure Will?

They had to.

"Hold his head," said Katherine, unstoppering the bottle. Even as she carefully counted the drops into Will's mouth, she directed Anna and Caroline as they rushed in with their burdens of sheets and water.
 
                             

"We'll have to move him to put the sheet under him,"
Katherine said. "And clean the wound thoroughly so we can find the bullet I have pincers and scissors and yarrow to stop the bleeding. Girls, tear up this sheet here for bandages, but in the library, please. You should not see this."

Will quieted under the laudanum, enough that they could move him and slide the sheet over the stained brocade upholstery. They cut away the rest of his shirt, and Eliza dabbed at the crusted blood with a wet rag. Cleaned up, the wound seemed smaller, the edges not so ragged, so it was slightly less fearsome. At least his breath was more even.

"You will have to find the bullet, Eliza," Katherine said, taking the pincers from her bag. 'Tour hands are steadier than mine. But I will be right here to help you."

Eliza smiled at her wearily. "Thank you, Mama."

Katherine gazed down at Will. "I took him from you once, my dear," she said quietly. "I won't do it again."

Chapter 20

"It's an ambush!" Will barely had time to spin around at the panicked shout behind him, barely had time to level his firearm before a burning pain seared down his left side. Stunned, he stared down at the charred hole in his coat, at the red blood blossoming on the red wool.

For an instant there was fury, the rush of battle-readiness. Then... nothing. A cold numbness that spread over his whole body, his mind. He collapsed to the ground, lying there on the dirt path between the beautiful silvery ash trees.

All around was a nightmare. A sea of pikemen flooded out from the cover of the trees to engulf his men. Screams of agony filled the hot summer air with curses and pleading. The stench of rich black earth, powder smoke, fear, and blood. So much blood.

He reached painfully toward his shoulder, feeling the stickiness there. It was his own blood he smelted, then. His and that of his men, who fell all around him in terrible carnage.

Beneath the sodden wool, he touched a small, flat object, and something about it dragged him from that cold emptiness. Frantically, he clawed open his coat, pulling out Eliza's portrait.

Her painted image smiled down at him, so beautiful. Somehow he always thought he would find her again. That once all this horrible conflict ended and Ireland was at peace again, he could find her. That somehow, despite everything that drove them apart, they could find a way to be together. Now that was gone.

"Eliza," he whispered.

A young captain landed in the blood-soaked dirt next to Will, his glassy eyes staring at nothing. His murderer pulled the pike from his back and turned to Will.

"And what have we here ? " the pikeman gasped roughly. "A fancy limey major, from the looks of it."

Will struggled to reach for his gun or sword, to make one last stand for his life, but that paralyzing numbness spread over his whole body now, an icy blanket. With one last desperate surge of strength, he curled his fist around her portrait, holding Eliza in his mind as the last thing he would see.
Eliza, Eliza, I'm so sorry I left you ...

That blood-stained pike touched his chest, piercing just below the gunshot. "Here, now, what's that in his hand?"

"Doesn't matter," someone else said, terribly distant. "Just kill him."

"Will!" Eliza called, her frantic voice drowning out the words of the rebels. "Will, wake up now, please."

His eyes flew open, his hand instinctively reaching for his pistol. A burning pain shot down his arm at the sudden movement, and he fell back with a groan. He could still
smell that blood and dirt, but there was something else, too. The sweetness of rose perfume.

Eliza's face swam into view above him, her forehead creased in concern. Her eyes were red-rimmed and exhausted, but she smiled as she smoothed back his hair. Her hands were soft and cool.

This was a new part of the nightmare, one he did not understand. "Are you dead, too?" he muttered.

That crease deepened, but so did her smile. Her beautiful smile. "Neither of us is dead, Will. You were having a nightmare; that is all. But you're awake now finally."

Slowly, he became aware of other things. He lay not on hard, dry-packed dirt but on a bed, amid clean sheets and feather pillows. Above him was an embroidered green velvet canopy, candlelight casting strange, shifting shadows on the flowery patterns. A window was open, letting in a warm night breeze that mingled with her rose perfume and the sickly sweet scent of medicine. -

"Where am I?" he asked.

"You're at Killinan Castle. You're safe."

Safe?
None of them were safe, not even in their own homes. He clutched at her hand, feeling her fingers curl around his. So familiar, so sweet He had feared never to feel that touch again.

His Eliza. How she would hate him when she knew of all he had seen since they parted, all the loathsome things he had done. She would not want to touch him again. But for now he held tightly to her, as a drowning man held to a lifeline.

"How did I come here?" he said. "The last thing I remember..."

"Was a battle?" she said hoarsely.

"An ambush. I was shot right away, could not even fight back as my men died around me. I thought I was dead, too." Dead . . . and holding her in his mind as his last thought His beautiful, fierce Eliza, who believed so fervently in her idealistic freedom. Her Ireland. What did she think of it now?

"My portrait was found with you," she said. "You were left on our doorstep. At first, I thought you
were
dead."

Will tried to picture the scene. Eliza opening her door to find him bleeding all over Killinan's pristine marble steps. 'I'm sorry, Eliza," he said, kissing her hand. "I never wanted to bring any danger to you. Not a single moment of fear."

She laughed wryly. "We have had more than a moment of late. I came home because my mother was scared to be alone in her own home, and yet I have been able to do nothing of use. Just wait and worry, like a bacon-brained ninny."

"I think saving my life was of use. At least to me."

"That was mostly Mama's doing. She is an excellent nurse."

"I daresay it was not
all
her doing," Will said, watching as Eliza eased her hand from his and reached for a basin of water. She soaked a cloth in it gently bathing his warm brow. The water smelled of lavender, which added sharpness to her sweet roses and slowly washed away the last stinking vestige of blood and dirt from his dreams.

"I take it Lady Killinan has forgiven our youthful romance," he murmured, closing his eyes to revel in her touch. To convince himself it was real at last.

"That was a long time ago," she said softly, tracing the cloth over his cheekbones and along his throat That
cool caress seemed to restore life to his nerves, his blood, his heart, wherever she touched. "I am finding that even Mama can change."

And Eliza herself? Did she change, too, in the face of these terrible events? "Why did they bring me here? Why not just kill me?"

Her touch stilled for an instant before moving on. "They said Mama had been kind to their families. When they saw my portrait, they knew you were connected to Killinan."

"But that was not all they said to you, I'm sure."

"It is all you need to know right now. You should rest"

Will opened his eyes, staring up at her. Her gaze met his, and for a moment she was unguarded and vulnerable to him. And she looked so very young and unsure. Not the revolutionary countess, not Lady Democratical, just Eliza. The girl with the shining ideals. But now so sad. What
had
she seen the night they brought him here? What had she done since they parted in Dublin?

But then she smiled, a veil coming down over her eyes, hiding that sadness from him.

"I don't want to rest," he said. "It's been too long since we were together, Eliza. I just want to look at you, be with you."

She laughed. "William Denton, you
are
a charming rogue! But I don't think you are quite in any condition—"

He suddenly reached up, threading his fingers in her hair to tug her down to him. He claimed her lips in a kiss, hard, frantic, full of the dreams, fears, and memories of their months apart. She tasted of cool water and mint, of Eliza. Of
life,
glorious life that was his again.

For an instant, she stiffened, tried to pull away, but then she seemed to feel it, too, that connection between them,
unbreakable even when they parted. She moaned, kissing him back, their tongues touching and clashing as they tried to be ever closer.

Will arched up but then fell back to the bed, gasping at the sudden pain.

"Oh, Will!" she cried. "I am so sorry. I shouldn't have gotten so carried away."

"I'm not sorry," he managed to say, laughing through his gritted teeth. "I've been dreaming of just such a kiss for months."

She laughed breathlessly. "So have I, I confess. But this hardly seems the time for amorous activity, does it? Here, let me look at your wound."

"Are you sure that is
all
you want to look at, Eliza?" he teased.

She set her lips in a stern line, drawing back the bedclothes and unlacing his nightshirt "No flirting, William Denton. You don't want to distract me from my nursing duties. I might inadvertently pay attention to the wrong pain, you know."

"And now who is flirting, Nurse Blacknall?"

"I am not as good at it as you." She pulled the shirt away from his shoulder, and Will glanced down to see bright spots of blood on the stark white bandage.

A vision flashed through his memory of the dead young captain, red blood on red wool. The bitterness of knowing it was the end, and there were so many regrets left behind.

He swallowed hard, forcing himself back into the present to Killinan and Eliza. He watched as she peeled back the bandage to reveal a neatly stitched wound, blood seeping around its edges.

She frowned as she examined it "You see, the bleeding has started again."

"I don't care. It was worth it to kiss you, Eliza. I would do it again. In fact, I might do it again right now."

He reached his good hand toward her, but she seized it and forced it back down onto the mattress. "Don't you even think such a thing. You will lie still while I clean this up."

"Aye, my lady." He settled back against the pillows, watching as she reached again for her basin. "Who did the stitches?"

"My mother did," she answered, dabbing carefully at the blood. "After I dug out the bullet"

He stared at her in surprise. "You removed the bullet?"

"Of course. Do you want to see it? And you needn't look so surprised," she said with a little smile. "All that embroidery my mother made me practice wasn't for nothing. I have a delicate touch when needed."

He snorted. "I doubt you've embroidered an hour in your life."

"Not if I can help it, certainly. There are so many more interesting things to do. But every lady learns to sew a fine seam, and those old lessons we put to good use. We used the last of my father's best brandy to clean the wound, too."

"Such a waste."

"Indeed so. But at least it did not putrefy, and your fever is almost gone."

"I had a fever? That would explain it"

"Explain what?"

"The dreams. They're so... vivid."