Lady Midnight (53 page)

Julian turned to Michael, as if in a blur of slow movement, his own gun extended. For a moment, it wavered there. Then it fell away, into the water. "Yes, squire," he said. "I have."

Then Julian turned and followed the trajectory of his pistol, down, down, into the embracing waves, and he was gone. Michael stood there for a long moment, his gun poised as if to fire after the vanished body, before he lowered it, still staring into the Semerwater. The Semerwater, which swallowed all in the end.

Kate leaned her cheek against Christina's sodden hair and wept. It was finished.

Chapter 29

"Mr. Lindley?"

"Yes?" Michael leaped up from his chair by the library fire to face the doctor, who stood in the doorway. It was seven in the morning, past time for the sun to appear, but it was still dark and dreary outside the windows of Thorn Hill. The storm had slowed to a mere rainfall, yet its effects still haunted his home and would for a long time to come.

Michael had scarcely known his own name by the time they'd stumbled into the foyer, his sister borne on a makeshift litter and Kate, who had fainted on the road, carried in Michael's arms. He was crazed by the cold and the grief, the wild fear, the bloodlust that had overtaken him when he saw Julian Kirkwood poised on the banks of the Semerwater, gun in hand. It took the combined efforts of the butler, the housekeeper Mrs. Jenkins, all the footmen, and most of the maids to persuade him to let go of Kate's cold hand, to let them carry the women upstairs and tuck them into their warm beds.

It had taken even longer for them to convince him to change his wet, filthy clothes and take a glass of bracing warm brandy by the fire. Safely out of the way as they scurried hither and yon, bearing blankets and pitchers of hot water up the stairs, escorting the doctor immediately to the chambers when he arrived.

Michael knew very well he could be only a nuisance to the doctor and the servants if he insisted on helping them, on being there in the middle of the nursing chaos. He had no medical training beyond bandaging superficial cuts in the fields, and he felt so wildly frantic with fear he could only clutch at his love and his sister and shout at the heavens for their recovery.

No—it was better for everyone if he stayed in the library. But his heart ached for any scrap of news.

He stared into the red gold, shifting flames leaping in the grate, yet all he could see was Christina when he grabbed her body in the water. White and stiff as a naiad, she floated in his arms like someone already lost. Her green eyes opened as they surfaced, but she did not see him. She just gazed up into the night, and whispered, "Julian."

And then Kate fainted at his feet on the long trek home, her lush mouth a thin grimace of pain. She had been beyond brave all night, through all the long nightmare, until the weight of it crushed her.

He was thankful that Amelia still slept tonight, watched over by her nursemaid. It was their only blessing.

Julian,
he heard Christina whisper again. Julian Kirkwood—the man who had brought them all to this dark nadir. There was no sign of the man's body in the lake or along the shore; surely he was dead. No one could survive such a deluge. The force of his own evil actions killed him, saving Michael the trouble, and the pleasure, in the end.

He still itched to pull that trigger, to be the one who sent the man to hell. It was never to be.

But if Kate or Christina died, Michael would follow the man into hell itself to take his revenge.

If they died
—they could not. They were young, vibrant, their lives full of promise ahead of them. He and Kate had a future together, a family to raise, nights of glorious passion to share. Christina had her studies to pursue, important work waiting for her.

They could not die. He would not let them.

When the doctor appeared at last in the library doorway, it was like a longed-for visitation, a tiny glimpse of hope. Michael jumped up from his chair, his gaze searching the man's face carefully for any hint in his expression of the women's fate. Dr. Burnside did not look grim, yet he did not seem overjoyed, either. Rather, he looked much as Michael himself felt—drawn, exhausted, worried, hopeful.

"How are they, Dr. Burnside?" Michael asked roughly.

"It is too soon to tell. I have set Lady Christina's arm and tended to her cuts and bruises. If the break heals correctly, she should be fine, given time and rest. She is a fortunate young lady indeed."

"And Kate—Mrs. Brown?"

A flicker of uncertainty crossed the doctor's face, and he turned away to fuss with his case. "I'm afraid Mrs. Brown has developed a fever. I have bled her, and left a tincture of arnica, which may serve to cool her temperature. She is sleeping quietly enough for the moment. If she awakens, give her some laudanum, and I will be back later this morning to look in on her." Dr. Burnside put on his greatcoat, turning up the collar in anticipation of going back out into the weather. "Now I have other patients I must attend to, if there is nothing else, Mr. Lindley? It is truly a nasty evening for our neighborhood."

"Indeed. Thank you, Doctor." As the man departed, Michael dropped back down into his chair. He was very grateful the doctor hadn't asked awkward questions about what they had been doing out in the storm. Michael feared his wits were scattered and he could never answer coherently.

Kate was ill—very ill. He felt numb, that one thought swirling around and around in his mind. His bonny Kate, brave Kate, who had overcome so much to begin her life anew, could be snatched away from him. Never had he felt so helpless, so
angry!

He buried his face in his hands. "Kate," he muttered. "You can't leave."

The library door clicked open, and his hands fell away as he turned toward the sound, half anticipating that Kate herself would be standing there, laughing at him for his despair. But it was his daughter, staring at him with wide, frightened blue eyes. She pulled at a long lock of her hair, a habit she had quite abandoned when Kate came into their lives.

"Rosebud," he said hoarsely, trying to give her a reassuring smile, though he feared it was more of a grimace. "You should be in bed."

Amelia stared at him steadily. "Someone is ill."

"Yes. Mrs. Brown and Aunt Christina, I fear." He held his hand out and she scurried forward to clasp it in her small fingers. He drew her up beside him on the chair, and she cuddled close.

"Will they die?" she said gently. "Like my mama?"

"No," he answered. "They just need some time to rest and recover."

Amelia considered this in silence for a long moment before nodding slowly. "We should pray for them."

"Yes, rosebud. We should pray for them."
And for ourselves.

* * *

Pray
—if only he could, Michael thought hours later as he sat by Kate's bedside, watching vigilantly for every breath, every flicker of an eyelash. He wanted to pray, but he could not remember how to, not properly. He could only whisper, "Please. Please." Over and over.

He held Kate's hot, dry hand in both of his, trying to force all of his strength into her soul. If only he could make her see his plea, his fear—make her stay with him. But she was so very pale, except for a hectic flush of crimson slashed across her cheekbones. Her hair was pushed back from her fevered, damp brow, falling over the white pillows in a river of black. She shivered, despite the thick blankets and the warm bricks at her feet, and occasionally she murmured something incoherent, tossing in agitated fever dreams.

She
was
living, but in some twilight world only she could see. A world where he could not follow, no matter how hard he tried. No matter how he struggled to keep her with him.

He reached for the basin of cold water on the bedside table and wrung a cloth out in the liquid, smoothing it over her brow and neck. Once, long ago, he had thought he had found contentment. A settled life, a family, a place where the past was finished, or at least where he could make amends for it. Could raise his daughter in peace. He liked his new world, his home and work. Yet there had been one thing missing from his life, and that was
life.
The color and dash leached from the planet when Caroline died, the sudden, dizzying joy of love and laughter.

He found that again only when Kate came to Thorn Hill. Kate, who was unlike anyone else he had ever met or dreamed of. As changeable as the wind, beautiful as the night, she made him laugh again. Made him feel. He loved her more than his own life. He needed her, and so did his family. She completed them, made them whole, and they couldn't lose her.

"Kate," he said, raising her hand to his lips. Her fingers, hot and bone-dry, trembled in his. "You can't leave. We have too many things still to do—watch Christina make her grand debut, see Amelia grow up. Grow old here at Thorn Hill together, playing with our grandchildren in the garden. This life is no good without you. I promise, if you come back, I will take better care of you in the future. No one will ever hurt you again."

Her fingers jerked against his clasp, and her head turned on the pillow. A soft rush of Italian words spilled from her lips, garbled sentences in which the only word he recognized was
mother.

"She wants her mother," a quiet voice said behind him.

Michael's gaze swung around to find Christina standing in the shadows. His sister wore a dark blue dressing gown, the bright white of the splint on her arm stark against the brocade. Her hair had been so matted with mud and muck that Mrs. Jenkins was forced to cut the long locks. It curled around her face in short, glossy ringlets, giving her an air of vulnerable youth.

She smiled at him gently, and moved to the side of the bed next to him. He saw that the impression of youth was very wrong. His sister might still be very young in years, but her eyes, deep grass green, were full of a wary, ancient wisdom. She looked so solemn, like an ancient Greek woman watching her men march to war against the Trojans. Stoic and serious. His baby sister had grown up in only one night.

"You know what she is saying?" he said quietly.

"A bit. She has been teaching me Italian, though I haven't learned very much yet." Christina reached out to smooth Kate's hair back with a gentle touch. "I believe she thinks she is a girl again. She wants her mother. She's talking about a party, or some such. A carnival celebration."

Michael thought of the portrait downstairs, still in its crate, sent to him by Elizabeth Hollingsworth. He would have it hung here, where Kate could see it as soon as she awoke. And she
would
wake soon. She had to.

"And what of you, Tina?" he asked. "Would you like to see
your
mother, too?"

Christina paused, her lips parted in sudden uncertainty. "I—of course. If she can tear herself away from the joys of Town."

"I will write to her later this morning, and send the letter by special messenger. I'm sure she will want nothing but to be here when she hears of all that has happened."

The uncertainty twisted into a humorless smile. "Must she know
all
of what happened?"

"What do you mean?"

"I don't want anyone else to know of my foolishness. I never should have gone after Julian alone, without calling for you. It was stupid of me to think I could manage him myself, could save you and Mrs. Brown the nuisance of it all. Now look. The pain is so much greater because of my arrogance."

There was a quiet sorrow, a depth of grief, in his sister's voice that Michael had never heard before. He studied her closely in the dim light from the bedside candle, the flame casting dancing shadows over the sharp angles of her exposed face. "Tina. Did that man hurt you? In any way?"

She shook her head, not meeting his gaze with her own. She smoothed the edge of the bedclothes, tucking them closer around Kate. "No, Michael. Not as you mean.
I
was the one who hurt
him.
I stabbed him in the shoulder and ran away into the storm. I surely did not know what I was doing! But he tried to save me when I fell into the water. He wouldn't let go even when we were both dragged down and he could never pull me up. And now he—" She faltered, her hand crushing the smooth linen. "Are you very sure you saw no sign of him when you came after me in the water, Michael?"

He shook his head. He could not tell Christina of that last scene, of how he pursued Kirkwood with his pistol until the man dived back into the consuming waters. She had not seen it. She would never need to know. "I did not. I'm sorry, Tina. The currents were very strong, and the water murky. I was fortunate to find
you.
Your pale gown was bright in the darkness, or I wouldn't have seen you." Michael shuddered at the memory of how close he had come to losing her, how easily she could have eluded his search in that freezing water.