Kathryn Smith (35 page)

“Piotr’s gone for a doctor,” Miles announced as he reentered the room. “Has he woken up yet?”

Blythe was about to shake her head when a low moan escaped Carny’s lips as if on cue. “I think he’s about to.”

Carny’s fair lashes fluttered lazily, opening just enough for his bloodshot gaze to see the face in front of his.

“Blythe.” His breath was so strong, Blythe felt light-headed just breathing it. “What happened?”

She frowned. “Do you not remember?”

He shook his head. “I remember we were talking and then nothing.”

“You fell,” she lied.

“On my face? My nose feels strange.”

She nodded. Later, when he was sober, she would tell him what he had tried to do. Just because she felt the slightest bit of sympathy for him didn’t mean she was going to let him off with it. His actions had driven Devlin to lose control, possibly had harmed Blythe’s marriage. There was no way she was going to let him forget that.

“Can I get you anything?” she asked, forcing a note of compassion into her voice.

“Teresa,” he replied, a fresh trickle of blood dribbling from his nose. “I want Teresa.”

Nodding, Blythe pressed the napkin to his nose again. “I’ll send for her.”

Carny patted her arm heavily, awkwardly. “Thank you.” His eyes shut and he slept again.

“Go fetch Varya and Teresa,” Blythe said to Miles.

He raised a brow. “Are you certain you want to be alone with him?”

Glancing at the unconscious man on the sofa, Blythe took the cloth away from his bloody nose. “He won’t try anything again. Besides, he should have someone here who will actually feel sorry for him.”

Miles’s expression was somber. “Are you going to tell Teresa what happened?”

“God no. That’s his decision, not mine. Hurry, my hand’s starting to fall asleep beneath his head.”

Turning to leave, Miles paused. “Blythe, you’re not angry with Devlin, are you? He did what any other man would have done in the same situation.”

A thin smile curved Blythe’s lips. “No, I’m not angry.”

He nodded. “Good. I think he’s going to feel badly enough about this as it is.”

Blythe didn’t respond. There was no point; they both knew he spoke the truth. She could only hope that Devlin didn’t emulate Carny and stay away rather than return home to talk to her. The damage a drunken, self-absorbed Devlin could wreak was far more frightening than Carny’s kiss.

That thought alone was enough to make her want to leave Carny there by himself and run out looking for her husband. But she wouldn’t know the first place to look. She could go to Fielding’s or Brahm’s, but that was it. Devlin wouldn’t go to either place. He wouldn’t want to talk about what happened as both men would try to force him to do. He would want to
be alone to think about what he had done, to berate and punish himself for it.

No doubt he would convince himself that he wasn’t good enough for her or was some kind of monster, knowing how his foolish brain worked. No doubt he would think losing her love suitable retribution.

And if he thought she didn’t love him, he might not come back at all. It was silly, but unfortunately, it was probably very close to the conclusion he would draw.

How could a man who had faced death so many times be so frightened of his heart—of hers? Outside he might be hardened and scarred, but inside he had a wound that was raw and as unhealed as it had been when it first opened. It didn’t matter that he knew the truth. It wasn’t enough that he was forgiven for all his sins. He still found it hard to accept the fact that he was loved—first by his brothers and parents and now by her. Believing himself unlovable was easier than taking the risk of loving and being loved.

“He’s a bigger idiot than you are,” she growled at Carny’s still form.

But he was the idiot she loved and she wasn’t going to lose him—no matter how hard he might try to make her.

The room was starting to spin.

Sitting at a corner table in a dark, noisy tavern, Devlin stared at the bottle before him and wondered if maybe he shouldn’t sit a little further away from the fire.

Wait. He was already sitting as far away from the hearth as he could get. Then why the hell was he so bloody warm? He wasn’t wearing a coat and his clothes were still damp. When he’d first arrived at the tavern he hadn’t thought he’d ever be warm again. Now it felt as though someone had dropped hot coals down his back.

If he’d been drinking he’d blame it on that, but the bottle
was just as untouched as it had been several hours ago when he’d ordered it. He had poured himself one drink, which he’d downed most of in one gulp. It had made his stomach roll violently in protest, and the rest remained untouched, but since he’d paid for the whole bottle, and probably because he looked half insane, the barkeep allowed him to stay.

Which was good because he didn’t know where else he could go. Going back to Blythe was not an option.

He’d gone to the little church, but the priest wasn’t the same one he had spoken to before so he’d left, hailing a hack to take him to the docks and this hopeless little tavern where light was as scarce as sobriety and cleanliness.

Nobody bothered him. It could be his size, it could be the state of his clothing, but more than likely it was because he already looked as though someone had tried to take him down and failed.

His right hand was swollen and discolored—or at least it looked it in the distant firelight. Dried blood crusted around his knuckles—whether it was his or Carny’s he couldn’t say. A little of both, perhaps.

Was Carny all right? As angry as he had been when he saw Carny kissing Blythe, he would never forgive himself for seriously hurting the drunken bastard. A broken nose was fine, and he was certain that he had achieved that, but he hoped nothing more.

Which of them was Blythe more worried about at the moment, him or Carny? He didn’t even want to try to guess, nor did he have hopes in either direction. If she was worried about Carny, then he could feel sorry for himself over that, and if she was worried about him, he could torture himself even further for putting her through such worry. Whichever way he went he could heap himself in as much misery as he wanted. He was good at that.

“Seems we are related after all,” came a voice from above him.

Devlin looked up. His older brother wavered before sliding into focus. “You doubted it?”

Brahm nodded at his glass as he slid across the bench opposite him. “What number is that?”

“It’s my first.”

“Bottle?”

“Drink.”

His brother laughed happily. “Or perhaps we are not related at all.”

Devlin smiled, knowing that Brahm easily could have finished six bottles in the same amount of time he’d been nursing one.

His brother had obviously come looking for him; it was the only thing that could draw him to a tavern now. Brahm was dressed in dark, simple clothing, hardly the kind of finery he usually chose. More important than his clothing, however, was the fact that Brahm was sober, Devlin would stake his life on it.

Just being that close to liquor must be difficult for him, yet he gave every indication of being completely unconcerned. That was why he was the viscount—he had control, unlike his stupid younger brother.

It was Brahm’s supreme control that had led to his dance with the devil’s drink in the first place. He drank to lose control, until finally drink controlled him. That same control was the one thing that kept him from giving in to temptation once more.

Devlin pushed the bottle and glass aside. Was it his imagination, or were his hands shaking?

“Are you certain you haven’t had more to drink?” Brahm asked. “You do not look so well.”

“I don’t feel so well.”

Like a nursemaid, Brahm leaned forward, stripping off his glove and placing his cool fingers against Devlin’s forehead.

“You are feverish.”

Devlin nodded. He wasn’t surprised. “I’ve been out in the rain.”

What did surprise him was the sharp cuff his brother gave him on the side of the head. Normally it would have merely stung, but this time it sent a large, throbbing ache all the way across his skull down into his neck.

He didn’t ask what the slap was for. He supposed it was for any number of things, none of which he felt like discussing.

“You should be at home,” Brahm berated. “Not in a place like this. You do not belong here.”

“How would you know?”

“Because people like
me
belong here.” Brahm shot him an exasperated glance. “You can’t even finish one drink.”

He didn’t make it sound like an insult, but Devlin couldn’t help but think his manhood had been deeply maligned.

Picking up his glass, he downed the rest of the whiskey in one swallow. It burned, hitting his stomach with a heat that made him shudder. Good Christ it was awful.

Brahm was unimpressed. “Now you are being an idiot—more so than usual, that is.”

“I already know what I am,” Devlin replied with a belch. He could still taste the whiskey. “I do not need you to tell me.” He hadn’t sunk that low yet that he wanted his brother to back up his own low opinion of himself.

“You really should stop this brooding self-punishment. It doesn’t look good on you.”

“I know.” Devlin leaned back in his chair and regarded his brother thoughtfully with eyes that felt as though sand had been sprinkled into them. “I’ve always blamed myself, ever since I was a boy. Everything was my fault.”

Brahm’s expression was a careful mix of disinterest and brotherly concern. “Only because you made it so.”

Devlin nodded. “I kept thinking that if I was better, stronger, braver, then everything would be all right and I
wouldn’t be to blame anymore, but it didn’t work. I’m a coward.”

“No one who fought with you could call you a coward, Dev.”

Laughing bitterly, Devlin rubbed his burning eyes. “I’ll tell you a secret. The only thing that kept me alive during that damn war was fear of death. I didn’t want myself or any of my friends to die over there. Bravery had nothing to do with it.”

Brahm shrugged. “What else is bravery but knowing what must be done and doing it?”

Devlin poured another drink of whiskey. “I don’t look very brave right now, do I?”

His brother took the glass away from him before he could raise it, and for one split second, Devlin saw craving in his brother’s eyes. As vile and awful as the whiskey was, Brahm wanted to taste it on his tongue, wanted it to burn his belly into sweet numbness.

Instead, the eldest Ryland brother set the glass as far away from both of them as he could.

“You look scared,” Brahm told him. “It is all right to be scared, but you cannot avoid life forever. Eventually you have to face what you have done. Believe me, I know.”

Devlin smiled understandingly at the rueful curve of his brother’s lips. “How did you know where to find me anyway?”

Brahm toyed with the cork from the whiskey bottle, flipping it from one end to the other on the table’s scarred surface. “When Blythe sent for me—”

“She sent for you?” Of course someone had to, otherwise Brahm wouldn’t have known he was missing, but the fact that Blythe had been the one to ask for his help gave him an echo of hope.

“She is very worried. I should cuff you again for all you have put that poor woman through. First you leave her to deal with that idiot Carnover and then you stay away for hours. I thought you loved her.”

“I do!”

“Then you should be with her. Christ, a man tried to force himself upon her earlier and you’re off feeling sorry for yourself.”

When he put it like that, Devlin thought he deserved another slap as well. He hadn’t thought of himself as abandoning Blythe. He had thought only of the angry way she looked at him and knew he couldn’t stand to be less of a man in her eyes.

He had proven himself less of a man by running away.

He met his brother’s gaze across the table. “Take me home, Brahm.”

His brother smiled. “With pleasure.”

Devlin pushed back his chair and stood, only to have the world tilt unsteadily around him. Was he foxed? He couldn’t be, not after one drink. Perhaps this fever had a deeper hold on him than he first suspected.

“Are you all right?” his brother asked. “You do not look well.”

Raising a hand to his face, Devlin felt the dry heat of his skin. His head swam, and now that he was standing, the air seemed cooler, but it was a cool that went right to his bones.

“Get me home,” he half pleaded, half ordered as he grabbed Brahm’s arm.

Brahm put his arm around his back, taking the weight of both of them on his good leg and cane. “Lean on me, but for God’s sake do not pass out. I won’t be able to carry you.”

Devlin only nodded, feeling his strength ebb with surprising swiftness. He never should have stood up. His vision blurred as they wove their way out of the tavern. The cool rain was sweet against his skin even as it made his bones all the colder. His teeth chattering, he stumbled into Brahm’s carriage.

Someone tucked a blanket or something around him. It warmed him somewhat, but not enough.

This was a sweet way to be going home to his wife, he thought. And then he thought nothing as darkness swamped him.

B
lythe met them at the door when Brahm brought Devlin home. It had been hours since Miles and Varya accompanied Teresa home with a somewhat coherent Carny, and Blythe had spent the time waiting, alone, for Brahm to bring her news of her husband.

“Oh, thank God you found him!” She froze, staring at the dead weight forcing Brahm to lean heavily on his cane, his face white with the effort. “Is he drunk?”

“Fever,” Brahm grunted, then audibly sighed in relief when she rushed to take Devlin’s other arm, bearing half his weight across her shoulders.

“Can you help me get him upstairs, or should I call for Piotr?”

“I can do it.” Her brother-in-law’s tone was a little defensive as they practically dragged Devlin toward the stairs.

Blythe knew better than to argue. One thing she had learned about the Ryland brothers was that it took a blunt instrument to get an idea out of their heads once it took hold.

“Where did you find him?” she asked halfway up the stair-
case, her breathing becoming more labored under the strain of the climb.

“At a tavern.” Brahm’s breathing wasn’t much better than her own. They really should save the conversation for when they got Devlin in bed.

“I thought you said he wasn’t foxed!”

“He’s not. When I found him he was still trying to get through his first drink.” Blythe didn’t miss the bitter irony in his voice.

They spent the rest of the climb in silence, both of them puffing from exertion by the time they dumped Devlin on the bed.

“Help me undress him.”

Taking off his coat, Brahm tossed it and his cane onto the foot of the bed. “You might want to have a servant bring a compress and cold water up as well.”

She unfastened the buttons of Devlin’s waistcoat. “When we have him in bed I will.”

Undressing Devlin when he was awake was an easy enough task, especially since he wanted out of his clothes as badly as she did, but when he was too weak to assist, it was an incredibly difficult job. He was six and a half feet tall, weighed over fourteen stone, with limbs so long she had to back up to pull the clothing off them.

“If I had known he was going to put me through this I would have cuffed him harder,” Brahm muttered, hauling on one of his brother’s stockings.

Blythe stared at him in shock. “You
hit
him?”

The viscount’s expression was all innocence. “It was just a tap.”

“What is it about your family that makes you brothers so inclined to hitting?” she demanded, relieving Devlin of his smallclothes. Her hand rested on his thigh. “It is like a compulsion. Hit first, think later.”

Brahm graced her with a rakish grin as he collected his coat and cane.

Blythe divided her attention between her brother-in-law and her husband as she covered Devlin with blankets. “You are leaving?”

He shrugged into his coat. “I’m going home to change. I would like to return later if that is all right with you.”

She nodded. “Come for dinner. Bring North and Wynthrope if you wish. I’m sure Devlin would appreciate having you near.”

Brahm cast another glance at his brother. It was deeply affectionate, despite the mocking curve of his mouth. “He will sleep through our entire visit, but I would feel better being close by. Thank you.”

It was then that Blythe realized just how much Devlin meant to his oldest brother. Perhaps the four of them weren’t overly demonstrative in their affection, but there could be no denying the love between them, not when it drove Brahm to face his own demons in search of his brother.

“Thank you for finding him.” Rounding the bed to where he stood at the foot, she kissed his slightly scratchy cheek.

He stiffened noticeably at the contact, his fingers going to the spot her lips had touched with a hesitancy that moved her. What a wounded lot these Rylands were if a mere kiss on the cheek could so discompose one of them.

“I just knew where to look for a self-pitying idiot,” he replied, making light.

Blythe put on an expression of mock astonishment. “How ever would a Ryland know about such men?”

Brahm chuckled at that, his unease dissolving. “It is good to have you in the family, Blythe.”

Warmed beyond measure at his words, Blythe said her good-byes, making him promise to return for dinner even if North and Wynthrope couldn’t. She liked Brahm, and she
wouldn’t worry so much about Devlin if he was there with her.

As soon as Brahm left the room, vowing he could see himself out, she rang for a maid to bring cool water and compresses up to the room.

Devlin’s flesh was hot and papery beneath her palm. A fever that came upon a person this suddenly was going to be difficult to tame, and would no doubt get worse before it got better.

Rolling up her sleeves, Blythe sat down on the side of the bed near Devlin’s hip. Starting at his head, she soaked the compress in the basin, wrung it out, and began swabbing his skin with it. By the time she reached his waist, his forehead was dry again.

It was going to be a long night.

Time ceased to exist for Devlin as the fever took hold. In and out of consciousness he faded, uncertain how many minutes and hours had passed each time he slipped into dream-riddled blackness.

One time when he awoke he was hot, the next time he was cold. Then he was thirsty. No matter how he felt or how often he woke, Blythe was there beside him. She stayed by his side, wiping his hot flesh with cool cloths or covering him when he shook with chills. Even if he couldn’t see her through the slits of his eyelids, he could smell her, the subtle spicy blend of her perfume, or he could feel her hands, so gentle and loving as they touched him.

She hadn’t tossed him aside. She didn’t despise him. She stayed by his side and nursed him. That was even more comforting than the blankets tucked under his chin.

Once he woke to find himself in almost total darkness, as silent as the tomb, and for a moment he feared that was exactly where he was. Then Blythe was beside him, candle in hand, and he winced at the light. He remembered asking her to move it from the bedside table last time he awoke because the light hurt his eyes. That was why the room had seemed so
dark. And it was the fever that made him warm, not the flames of Hades.

He had done nothing to be damned for. His brain could finally accept that now. It seemed so simple to believe. Perhaps he hadn’t always done the right thing, and Lord knew he had so many regrets, but God would never have given him Blythe if his soul was beyond saving. She was the one good, pure thing in his life and he was going to stop thinking he didn’t deserve her—he
knew
he didn’t deserve her—and start trying to be the man she did deserve. And that was a man who didn’t run away, who accepted who and what he was, and who took responsibility for his actions.

He had been given a great gift, and he was going to hold on to it and treasure it. He was also going to give all his own love in return. It might not be as unsullied as Blythe’s, but it was a rare and delicate thing, and it was all he had to give.

Her hand closed over his. “Devlin, are you all right? Did you have a nightmare?”

Yes, he had. He’d been living one entirely of his own making.

“I’m fine.” He didn’t sound fine. His voice was as rough and dry as sand in a boot.

“Drink some water.” She pressed a cup to his lips as she lifted his head. The water was cold and sweet, and he wanted to drink it all in one greedy gulp, but she wouldn’t let him. “Just sip it.”

He did as she bid, taking one small sip after another until he felt the hand supporting his head start to quiver with exertion and his own neck began to feel the strain. Lord, his head hurt.

He raised his gaze to hers, despite the glare of the candle. The sharp glow surrounded her with a hazy halo, lighting on the red in her hair, making it look as though her whole head smoldered like embers of a fire.

She looked like an angel with her hair down and a prim nightgown buttoned up to her throat.

Her hand touched the one on his chest. Slowly, he opened his fingers and allowed her to wrap her own around them.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

She smiled. “So am I.” Her free hand smoothed the hair back from his brow. “You should go back to sleep. You need your rest.”

His hand clutched at hers. “Don’t leave me.”

She squeezed his fingers. “I am not going anywhere. I will be here when you wake up.”

Devlin held her hand to his chest, her words ringing in his ears. Despite the fever’s hold, he managed to fall into a comfortable slumber.

A deep and dreamless sleep with his guardian angel watching over him.

The last person Blythe expected to have come to call was Carny.

It had been three days since that fateful afternoon. Devlin’s fever had waned and eventually broke altogether the day before. Still, he had spent most of yesterday in bed and was there now, which was perhaps a good thing as far as their guest was concerned.

Carny looked very much like his normal self, save for the discoloration and swelling about his nose.

“It is broken,” he said when he caught her staring.

Blythe nodded, hugging herself with her arms. “I wish I could say I’m sorry for that, but you did ask for it.”

He rubbed the back of his neck as he seated himself on the drawing room sofa. She didn’t want him in the sitting room—too many unpleasant memories that were still far too fresh.

“What exactly did I do? Teresa cannot tell me and I cannot remember.”

She could lie. Seating herself in the chair farthest away from him, she folded her hands in her lap, her fingers twisting the delicate bottle green muslin. She’d never felt scared
in Carny’s presence before his drunken attack, and while she wasn’t frightened of him at this moment, she wasn’t easy with him either. She didn’t know if she would be ever again.

“You kissed me and tried to force yourself upon me. Devlin walked in, and that’s when he…hit you.” Dropped him like a rag doll, more like. Never in her life had she seen an attack so quick and efficient in its brutality. It had scared her a little. It had also excited her. There was something about a powerful man, especially when one was the only woman in the world who knew just how vulnerable he was as well.

Carny looked horrified. His face was ghastly pale save for that awful bruise. “My God.” He lifted a hand to his mouth as though he thought he might be ill. His gaze shot to hers. “Blythe, I do not know what to say. That I’m sorry seems so inadequate.”

That he was sincere in his apology was obvious, and oddly enough, Blythe found it very easy to forgive him. Startlingly easy, given the fact that he had intended to molest her. Drunk or not, there was no excuse for that, yet she could almost understand the desperation that drove him to it.

“I accept your apology, Carny. Whether or not Devlin will is a completely different matter.”

Carny’s elegant fingers hovered just above his nose but did not touch. “Is he here?”

“He is upstairs in bed. He contracted a fever from being out in the rain that day. He is better now, but still a little weak.”

If it was at all possible, Carny turned even paler. “He was out looking for me, was he not?”

Blythe nodded. “Yes.” It wasn’t a lie. Devlin had been out looking for him, but that wasn’t what led to his fever. However, if Carny wanted to feel guilty about Devlin’s illness, she wouldn’t stop him.

“Do you think I might be able to go up and speak to him?”

Blythe didn’t bother to conceal her surprise. Carny was many things, but obviously a coward wasn’t one of them.

“Of course you may go up. Would you like me to announce you?”

“No.” Carny shook his head. “I prefer to go alone.”

Brave man indeed.

But rather than standing, he remained sitting, his gaze on the floor. He looked like a chastised child, so different than she was used to seeing him. Then again, she’d seen a totally different side of his personality a few days ago—a side she’d never known existed.

And to think she’d once wanted to spend the rest of her life with him. A man she didn’t know even after all these years.

“Teresa is increasing. Did you know that?”

Blythe nodded, not sure how to respond to this change in subject. “I did. She told me the morning you left and did not return.”

This news did not seem so shocking to him. “That was why she’d been acting so strangely—suspecting she might be, hoping she was.” He looked up, his face ravaged by guilt. “She thought I had changed my mind about wanting a child.”

Of course, none of this was new to her. She’d heard the whole sordid tale from both of them. “Had you?”

“Of course not! I wanted us to have a child so badly and when it didn’t happen I thought—”

Blythe’s hands stilled in her lap. “You thought what?”

His shoulders sagged. “That it was my fault. That there was something wrong with me.”

Odd how that desolate confession tugged at Blythe’s heart. Never in a thousand years would she have thought that Carny would lose that incredible confidence of his. Now she understood his odd behavior and why he had turned to her. Her worship of him had been such at one time that he had undoubtedly believed it could buoy him again. It hadn’t occurred to him that her love for Devlin made it impossible to feel the same way about anyone else. Perhaps he hadn’t given it any thought at all.

This generosity of feeling was odd—not unwelcome, just strange. He might have raped her, and yet she was less mad at him now than she had been when he jilted her two years ago.

“Now you know there is nothing wrong with either of you.”

He nodded morosely. “Yes. And almost too late.”

She didn’t respond. If Teresa knew what he had tried to do to her, Blythe suspected it would be more than “almost.” But Teresa would never hear the details from her, of that Blythe was certain.

“Oh Blythe.” A long, gusty sigh escaped his lips. “I have made such a mess of things.”

That was perhaps the biggest understatement she’d heard in a long time. “Yes you have. You are very fortunate to have been given the chance to make it all right again.”

He ran his palms along the tops of his thighs. “Yes, I am—on all accounts.” His meaning was clear. “Will you let me make it right?”