Twilight of a Queen (12 page)

“Don’t call me that. I am known as Captain Xavier or just plain Xavier will do. I never use my father’s name. I—” He swore, nearly coming up off the bed as Jane peeled the last of the fabric away from his injured arm.

He sank back, panting, “I only mentioned that to—to—”

“To annoy Ariane? It might be less than wise to goad the woman who is about to set your broken arm.”

“True, but as you may have surmised, mistress, wisdom is not one of my more shining attributes.”

She smiled at that and he might have been tempted to smile back if he hadn’t felt so exhausted and engulfed in a world of pain and bleak prospects.

Jane walked over to the washstand where she splashed some water from a pitcher onto a cloth. She returned to him and proceeded to bathe his face.

“It really is going to be all right,” she murmured. “Although I know you don’t believe that.”

“I don’t, but thank you for lying. You do it so sweetly.”

He was grateful when she said nothing more. Another woman would have been tempted to continue jawing at him, either scolding or chirping brightly to distract him.

Jane quietly bathed his brow, the cloth cool and as soothing as her touch. He was startled to realize he was soaked in sweat. At least one good might come of Ariane Deauville mangling him in an effort to save his arm. An infection would be bound to set in and likely carry him off. That could only be a blessing. He was so tired. He felt like he had been fighting for so long, most of his life.

He closed his eyes, an odd memory coming back to him of his father, both of them standing on the deck of the
Miribelle
, one of their rare quiet moments together.

The chevalier had given him an odd bemused look.

“You know you are not like me, mon petit Louis. You are a deal tougher, a fighter. You will never back down from anything or run away. You are a survivor.”

It was the closest his father had ever come to exhibiting anything like pride in him or praising him.

But as Ariane returned, bearing with her a small but ominous looking chest, Xavier did not feel so tough. She was followed by a sturdy-looking girl with sandy hair and a smattering of freckles across her nose.

“This is Carole Moreau,” Ariane said. “She is going to assist me.”

“A mere chit of a girl? The devil she is,” Xavier said, gathering his injured arm against his bared chest.

“I am older than I appear, monsieur.” Carole smiled shyly at him. “I was one of the women who helped get you on the litter and carry you up from the beach.”

“What would you like me to do? Melt down my silver and cast you a medal?”

The girl’s smile faded and she hastily retreated to where Ariane was opening up her chest. Jane sighed and shook her head at Xavier reprovingly. He subsided, too wearied to launch any further protest.

He knew he was behaving like a wounded dog, snapping and snarling at everyone who came near him, but he could not seem to help himself.

Ariane approached, holding up a small vial. “This draught will ease your pain, help you to sleep—”

“No! Just give me a belt of whiskey.”

“I don’t have any whiskey.”

“What the bloody hell kind of healer are you?”

“This draught is better. It can—”

“I said no, God damn it.”

“Then I need to get more women in here to help hold you down.”

“No one needs to hold me down. Just stop nattering at me and get on with it.”

Ariane muttered something under her breath. Xavier scowled. Had he heard amiss or had the dignified Lady of Faire just ground out a curse that would make some of his crew blush?

Belatedly Xavier remembered Jane’s comment about his lack of wisdom. Grating his jaw, he said, “What I mean is, I don’t need the God-cursed draught. But thank you all the same.
”

Ariane shot him a dark look, then gave a reluctant laugh. “Ah, male heroics. Very well, monsieur. Let us begin.”

“Captain Xavier,” Jane spoke up softly. “He calls himself Xavier.”

“Xavier,” Ariane repeated as though testing the sound of it. She stared at him expectantly and he realized that he still was shielding his injured arm with his left hand.

No matter what Ariane averred, Xavier was certain she could not save his arm. If he became infected, he doubted she would just let him die either. Somehow he sensed this woman who shared half his blood could be just as stubborn as he. The arm would have to come off.

His good strong right arm, his sword arm. Why couldn’t it have been his left? He could have spared his left. But images
filled his mind of himself climbing the rigging, tossing a grappling hook, steadying the tiller in a violent storm. Actions that required the strength of both arms.

But what did it matter, because he likely no longer had a ship anyway. The
Miribelle
was probably gone, his lady sunk to the bottom of the channel, his crew with her, Jambe du Bois, Pietro, Father Bernard. Everything he owned, everything he cared about, lost. And he was quibbling over a mere arm?

Xavier was horrified to feel his eyes sting with tears. He blinked fiercely and slowly uncurled his fingers, surrendering his arm to Ariane.

As she eased it away from his body, he cried out before he could stop himself. When she offered him a piece of leather to bite down upon, he didn’t refuse. He had done the same thing for his first mate, the day Jambe’s leg had been crushed by the cannon careening loose across the deck.

“Buck up, man. You can survive this, you tough old scoundrel. You’ll be a more ferocious fighter on one leg than most men are on two.”

Jambe had ground the leather between his teeth, glaring at Xavier like he wanted to murder him. A look Xavier now fully understood. Easy to be so bluff and reassuring when the limb in question was not your own.

Carole Moreau handed Ariane a cloth soaked in some substance that stung as she cleaned his puncture wound. No matter how careful she tried to be, each little movement jarred, sending out fresh waves of agony. By the time Ariane began to manipulate his bone back into place,
Xavier bit down so hard, he felt his jaw would shatter. Unmanly tears streamed from his eyes and there was not a damn thing he could do to check them.

He crushed Jane’s hand in his own, trying to lose himself in her quiet eyes, trying not to scream.

J
ANE FLEXED HER FINGERS, WINCING AS THE BLOOD RUSHED
back into a hand that had gone numb from Xavier’s crushing grip. She’d scarce noticed, all of her attention focused on his pain-wracked features as Ariane reset the broken bone.

Mercifully it was over and Jane had managed to coax him to swallow the sleeping draught. Perhaps he had become too exhausted to resist or he was finally satisfied they were not going to hack off his arm. His lashes rested against his cheek, his face pale beneath its day-old shadow of beard.

Jane massaged her bruised hand as she studied Xavier, marveling at all he had endured. Flung from the deck of his ship in the midst of that violent storm, battling the waves
only to be flung up on a hostile shore, half-drowned, his arm broken, his body battered.

Ever since her exile from England, her hold on the world felt so tenuous. Feeling so purposeless and set adrift, there were days she could scarce bring herself to rise from her bed, moments when she entertained the wicked thought of how much better it would be if some obliging illness would simply carry her off.

She could not help being fascinated by a man so stubborn, strong, and determined to survive. Even now Xavier slept with his uninjured arm flung above his head, his hand fisted as though he was still fighting.

Ariane moved deftly, immobilizing the broken arm between two slats, teaching Carole to secure the wooden splint with leather straps. Every lady should have some knowledge of how to treat illnesses and minor injuries in her household, but Ariane’s knowledge went far beyond what Jane had been taught to consider proper and becoming in a woman.

All the same, she found herself listening hungrily as Ariane instructed Carole in the application of a dressing to the punctured flesh where the bone had pierced.

“With this kind of wound, it is better to use a poultice rather than stitches, far less chance of infection. You must apply the bandage snugly but not so tight it cuts off the blood flow.”

Carole nodded, attempting to follow Ariane’s directions. But she kept darting nervous glances at Xavier as though fearing he would awaken and roar at her. The girl was so clumsy that Jane itched to take over. She was relieved when Ariane did so.

“S-sorry,” Carole said, her face nearly as pale as Xavier’s. “It is just that—that we were obliged to hurt him so badly, Ariane.”

“Often that is what is necessary to effect a cure.”

“I know. But it is hard for me to watch anyone suffer so. I’ll never be as good at this as you are.”

“Yes, you will.” Ariane glanced up from the bandage to offer her a reassuring smile. “Detachment is a skill that can be acquired like anything else. In any case, you no longer have to fret over Captain Xavier. He won’t be feeling anything for quite a while.”

Ariane gazed down at the sleeping man, Carole and Jane doing likewise. Xavier’s fist had finally relaxed, his fingers slowly uncurling, his breath coming deep and even. He looked so peaceful while the three of them stood over him, wearied, their gowns sporting damp patches of sweat.

Ariane sighed and turned to Carole. “You had best get back to that rambunctious young son of yours. Jane and I can finish up here.”

“Well, if you are sure …” Carole mopped her hand across her brow, making a show of reluctance. But as the girl hastened from the cottage, Jane thought she looked considerably relieved.

While Ariane packed vials and strips of linen back into her medicinal chest, Jane lingered by the bedside. Her fingers itched to smooth the damp tangles of hair from Xavier’s brow. She buried her hand in the folds of her skirt to still the inexplicable urge.

“Do you think he will be all right now?” she asked.

“As long as infection does not set in. The poultice I applied
should prevent that, but one never knows. However, if he takes no fever within the next forty-eight hours, I believe he may do well enough. He is young, strong. It will be a matter of keeping him still long enough to allow the bone to heal.”

“After all he has been through, you don’t think he would be rash enough to leap up and go haring off?”

“You have spent more time in the man’s company than I have. What do you think?”

Jane studied the set of Xavier’s jaw, truculent even in repose. “I think we had better tie him to the bed.”

Ariane gave a dry laugh. “The draught will keep him quiet for a while, but someone will have to remain with him, keep checking for fever.”

“I can do that. It would be good to feel useful for a change.”

Jane became uncomfortably aware of Ariane’s steady regard. A soft note crept into the woman’s voice as she said, “You are of great use, Jane. I could never have managed today without you. Whether Captain Xavier knows it or not, he is greatly in your debt.”

“Me? What did I do that was of such importance?”

“You soothed him, steadied him. I don’t think he would have allowed me to touch his arm but for your persuasion. You won his trust. But I have observed that you have a gift for that.”

“Likely because I seem so dull and meek.”

“No, because you possess a quiet strength that radiates from your eyes. You are like the calm at the center of a storm.”

Although Jane flushed at the compliment, she shook her head deprecatingly. “That is truer of you, especially when you work your healing magic.”

“Usually mayhap, but in this instance my calm detachment was greatly tested. I am ashamed to admit how badly I wanted to march out of here and abandon this man to whatever devil was malevolent enough to cast him up on my island.”

Ariane stared at the man on the bed as though he were a ghost risen up from her past and one she would be only too eager to exorcise.

Jane had borne quiet witness to the exchange between Ariane and Xavier, the undercurrents that she had only half-understood. She hated to ever intrude on another person’s privacy. But Ariane looked so troubled, Jane could not refrain from asking, “Do you think Xavier really is your brother?”

“Half brother,”
Ariane corrected sharply. “I don’t know. I don’t want to believe it, but he is the image of my father. The likeness is rather unnerving. I see very little of that Maitland witch in him.”

Ariane’s mouth thinned. “You overheard enough, I am sure you must be wondering—”

“Oh, no, I am sorry. I should not have asked you anything. It is only that you looked so distressed, but I have no wish to pry into your family secrets.”

“Unfortunately, it is not such a great secret. Everyone on this island is well aware of how my father betrayed my mother. This man’s arrival will be sure to stir up all the old gossip. Far better you hear the truth from me.”

Even as she said this, Ariane fell silent, looking reluctant to begin. She strode over to the window, the shutters flung wide open.

Jane had always thought that any illness, any injury, was best treated in a closed chamber, all noxious airs kept at bay. That was the established practice among London physicians.

But the Lady of Faire Isle was a firm believer in the benefit of fresh air. Considering the healing miracles Jane had observed the lady perform, Jane had come to believe that Ariane was right and all those learned English doctors wrong.

As though the Lady sought healing for her own troubled spirit, she lifted her face, the salty breeze stirring the tendrils of her hair.

“I suppose most of the world would consider infidelity no great matter,” she said. “Many noblemen take mistresses, sire illegitimate children. It is the common way of things more often than not, a man’s prerogative. After all, marriage is reckoned as nothing more than a matter of convenience, a way of aggrandizing estates or continuing bloodlines.