Ecstasy Wears Emeralds (37 page)

“You cannot in good faith make that claim ever again, Miss Renshaw.” He crossed over to a nearby reading table, setting his bag down on the floor next to a chair, and came over to retrieve the bedside lamp to improve the light for his apparently makeshift examination room.

“I'm perfectly fine! I don't need—”

He didn't let her finish. “
I
need, Miss Renshaw.
I
need you to get a few glass splinters out of my hands and forearms, and oddly enough, out of the back of my skull. Michael has hands like an overgrown thug, so if you don't mind . . .” He began to lay out a white bandage and place on it some tweezers, a long metal curved wire, and a small scalpel. “Consider it practice.”

His expression and tone were neutral enough to catch her attention. She'd longed to see him, all the pent-up anxiety and practiced apologies fell away in the quiet that had fallen between them. No matter what else was about to unfold, for these few minutes, she would be given the chance to care for him and see to his needs.

She slid over to the side of the bed and reordered the tools to suit her reach, adding a saucer to collect the glass in. Then she surveyed the room, leaving him briefly to pour out some water into a basin, and returned with it, determined to do her best. “Would you . . . care to take your shirt off?”

Rowan slowly closed his eyes and shook his head. At last, he opened his eyes and carefully pulled up one bloodied sleeve past his elbow before taking a seat. “Here.” He held out his left hand. “If you could start here, it's stinging like I've been swarmed with bees.”

“We should use vinegar to clean the wounds, but”—she didn't risk looking up from his hand at his reaction—“perhaps it's better to just flush them all out afterward and then a warm bath.” She picked up the tweezers and began the painful process with as gentle a technique as she could manage. His skin was warm beneath her fingers, and Gayle did her best not to smile at the simple pleasure of touching him again. “Try to relax, Rowan.”

Rowan held still while she worked and finally began to speak. “The police are finished gathering their statements. It's over and they've taken away your Mr. James.”

“He is most certainly not
my
Mr. James!” She looked up through her lashes and realized he was teasing. “You never believed he was.”

“No, I never did. I know he's barely an acquaintance. I'm not blind to the knowledge that all those primal urges to strike out at any man between the ages of eighteen and eighty who might wander into your path are misguided.”

“No, but it's flattering to think you might.” She eyed the growing pile of red-stained bits of glass in the saucer.
All for me, these “stings” as he called them—would that I could kiss him for each one.

“Very well then, I have to ask, who is Mr. Chester?”

“My parents' solicitor and he's a toad of a man.”

Rowan nodded. “Good.”

A spark of hope came to life as they fell into a comfortable banter, and Gayle prayed that this demonstration of a lighter mood might bode well. “When Aunt Jane suggested him, that's when I knew just how desperate she'd become for me. Perhaps I should send the unfortunate man a note of thanks.”

“And what would you be thanking him for?”

“For being my Rubicon. I knew once I'd turned down Mr. Chester, there would never be any more offers.” She poured a little more water over his wrist, and then went on. “Quid pro quo. I owe you a few answers, don't I?”

“I've never pressed you for them. You don't owe me anything, Miss Renshaw.”

Gayle looked up at the neutral retreat in his tone, but his eyes were a storm of desire and uncertainty, and she plunged ahead. “Then consider this a gift, freely given, Dr. West. Aunt Jane was my father's sister, and I never understood much of the relationship between them, but they were never close. He left home when he was very young and apprenticed to become an engineer. My father was Richard Renshaw, and he designed a few machines for the textile industry and did very well. My mother was the only daughter of a knight. When my grandfather died, my family received his house and lands in the Lake District, and I remember my father teasing my mother for marrying beneath her. There was no title to pass down, but when I was little, before Emily died, I recall my father calling her Lady Rose to make her smile.”

“You come from a good family, Gayle. But then, anyone would have guessed you weren't from South Wales . . . or raised by wolves.”

She shook her head, turning to his right hand to continue working as she distracted him with her story. “No, but after they died, Aunt Jane seemed to think I should make a better match than the average girl in Standish Crossing—what with a knight for a grandfather!”

“How did your parents die?”

“I was told my father had cancer, but after studying with you these last few weeks, I'm sure it was something else. Near the end, he retreated to his hunting lodge and died there with an attendant at his side. It must have been something far more shameful than cancer of the stomach, because my mother began showing symptoms of an illness she refused to describe and took her own life a few days after he'd gone.” Gayle pushed his sleeve up farther to gently pull the last few slivers from his forearm and elbow. “I've never told anyone, Rowan. Even Aunt Jane was told it was cancer and that my mother simply died of grief. People think I'm odd enough wanting to be a physician, but my mother's suicide would give their arguments a little more bite. So you see, perhaps I'm not from such a good family after all.”

“Your secrets are safe with me.”

She nodded, secure in his promise, then stood to find the cuts on his head, parting his thick russet hair to meticulously locate the offending pieces of glass that had been embedded into his scalp during his fight with Peter. It was a wicked trick to make sure she stood as close as she dared so that he would feel her warmth at his back, but Gayle was shameless in her campaign to draw him out. “You saved my life, Rowan. But how? How did you know it was Mr. James? I never thought of Mr. James as the kind of man to harm anyone, but somehow you knew. When he appeared and I heard the bell announce that you'd left on call, I had the worst feeling. And then when he started talking about the money and leaving London . . . I feared I'd be found dead on that floor.”

“On my way to Blackwell's, I was going to take a headache powder but discovered by accident that it was poison. I went to Rutherford's instead, and Michael pushed me to consider that the poisoner might be a member of the household. And when I refused to believe it could be one of my own, because they're like family, it occurred to me that not everyone feels the same. Lately everyone I know in my field has been harping on how sentimental I am, and indulgent . . . because not everyone is when they run a business. And I thought of Fitzroy, and I knew I had to ask him the same questions that Michael was pressing on me. It started to come together, and when Fitzroy said that James had left for a delivery to my home and was already there and that we could just ask him directly—I just knew. I flew back to the brownstone while Michael went to the police to get help. As for the bells, anyone can trigger them, can't they? So I had Carter pull the bell to signal that I'd left to try to put Peter off his game. Then I came up to try to delay him long enough for the others to arrive and arrest him.”

“And it worked. It was mesmerizing, Rowan, to hear you speak.”

Reaching over to his bedside table, Rowan poured a glass of warmed cider out of the pitcher that Mrs. Evans had sent up and offered it to her. “I was going to try bribing him next, but that's when it all fell apart.”

“No, thank you,” she said, changing to the wire for one particularly elusive sliver at the crown of his head. “What was that about the Jaded? How do they come into play with all of this?”

“It's a long story, Miss Renshaw.”

“Just this once, Rowan. I-I would very much like to hear you tell a long story.”

For a moment, she was sure he would refuse, and that like Charlotte's tale, he would shield her from some truth in his past. But he took a deep breath, crossed his arms defensively, and spoke. “While I was India, my wild notion about tropical fevers had me off in Bengal, and when the Troubles began, I'm sad to say, I was obliviously filling up notebooks and rattling around with bug traps and my medical kit. My guides, however, were happy to deliver an Englishman to some insane raja who had decided to collect them. I never knew why, Gayle, but I spent most of my time in India in a dungeon in the dark wishing I'd stayed in London. There, the unheroic truth!”

“Oh!” Gayle was astonished.

“The other men I met in that hole became my very best companions, and I would not be standing here if it weren't for them. We had had no hope of escape, when suddenly, there was some sort of horrific attack on the place where we were held, and in all of the damage and confusion, the dungeon opened up and we walked out. Of the original eight, only six of us survived.”

“The Jaded,” she whispered, her brain beginning to spin with the implications of his tale. “But how is surviving such a dreadful experience a thing to make you all fearful of some murderer? Why are you being pursued?”

“Apparently, the treasure rooms weren't far off from where we were and . . . we picked up a few pocketfuls on our way out the door. At the time, it was simply because we expected to have to bribe our way across the country, and after over a year, it didn't seem outlandish to think the landlord owed us a bit of compensation for our time. Naturally, we've kept all of that secret. I'm telling you only because I trust you with my life, Gayle.”

“Thank you,” she echoed, amazed. She put down her tools and pressed the cloth against his head, hoping to soothe his cuts. Then she put everything down to sit on the edge of the bed facing him. “Your secrets are safe with me.”

“The bad news is that apparently, amidst all the jewels we took, we acquired something that has earned us a terrible enemy.”

“What is it?”

“We don't know. If we knew, trust me, we'd be happy to return it to its owner if the price of keeping it is our lives—or the lives of those we love.”

She shook her head, smiling sadly. “But, it's . . . so fantastical. I'm trying to picture you like a pirate with a hidden box buried in your garden full of diamonds, and it's—so silly.”

“That would be silly. But my share was emeralds, and I've already told you where they're hidden.”

“What! You never did!” She fisted her hands at her hips, slightly affronted. “I would have remembered a conversation like that, Rowan!”

“I told you that my fortune was tucked away in the books in my study. I meant it literally. I had the emeralds sewn into the spines of my reference books and favorite novels for safekeeping. Last year when the house was overrun in a search for the jewels, the thieves tore apart my furniture and upended everything. But they never thought to bother with dusty medical tomes or the family Bible.”

“Then you really are the first West to make his fortunes on his travels.”

“I'm not sure my father would have been proud of the accomplishment. Stumbling into wealth isn't the same as earning it, Gayle. The Jaded have been wise enough to know it and steer clear of unwanted attention. At least, until recently . . .”

“My! You do lead a life of adventure, don't you?”

“Not always by choice,” he conceded. “But now you understand why it's for the best that you've determined to leave.”

“I don't want to go.”

“Your bags are packed. Women intent on staying don't generally pack their things.”

“I didn't . . . know what else to do. You'd left and after Aunt Jane went home, I . . . I don't want to go.”

“I don't want you here.”

“You don't mean that.”

He held his ground, the granite in his eyes unyielding. “I'm not going to argue about this.”

“Rowan, there have been so many misunderstandings between us—all of them fall at my feet. You have to accept that I'm so sorry for—”

He stood abruptly and took a step back. “Don't. Don't apologize. You are just as you should be, and if we've clashed, it's because we are each of us dancing over daggers and refusing to look down.”

“I want to stay with you, Rowan.” She also stood, stubbornly matching his every move.

“Your imaginary tour of the Continent is over, Gayle. For all your talk of independence and a lack of concern about anyone's opinions, you certainly went to great lengths to lie about where you were.” He shifted his weight to lean against the bedpost. “Maybe it's time to stop lying and go home to Standish Crossing.”

She stomped her foot in frustration. “It was a mistake to lie to Aunt Jane! But I'm not going anywhere, and if there's a gauntlet to be run, I'll do it. I've stood up to her, Rowan. I've made my choice, and it's you.”

“And what of Charlotte? Have you decided to forgive me, Gayle, and just put the past aside?”

She started to say yes, but something in his eyes caught her attention and she froze.
I was going to, wasn't I? Because if you were so careless in your youth and so thoughtless, then . . . But Rowan was never careless or thoughtless. If he thought nothing of such things, then why not be careless with me? I was blackmailing him. I was horrible. What better way to keep me from interfering with the male world of medicine than to show me my place. If he truly were that kind of villain . . . he would never have protected me from an unwanted pregnancy.