What a Lady Most Desires (7 page)

 

Chapter 11

“H
e's well enough to make the trip, I suppose,” the doctor grunted, as if it didn't matter one whit to him whether Stephen was well enough or not, not now he was suspected of cowardice and theft. “He may not survive the voyage, of course, but—­” Stephen felt his skin heat, and indignation warred with fear in his belly. Didn't anyone believe he was innocent? Surely it was a mistake, or a nightmare—­the blindness, the accusations, all of it. He'd wake up, and everything would be fine.

“He'll survive,” Stephen heard Delphine say as the good doctor made his way to the door. There was a fierce certainty in her tone. His champion. He clutched the sheets against the bandages that swathed his chest, the pain biting deep into his bones.

He was in constant pain, and the charges against him were looking like a battle he couldn't win. It might be a blessing if he were to succumb to an infection, or trip over his own feet going up the gangplank onto the ship, and tumble into the sea. He wouldn't fight it.

He frowned. It would be a terrible disappointment to Delphine. She was trying so hard, was so determined he'd live. Anger rose. Who was she to decide that?

“Is there anything I can get for you?” Delphine asked, her hand gentle on his forehead, checking again for fever. He'd grown used to her touch. She was here every time he woke.

The washcloth swept over his brow, and he grabbed it from her hand and threw it. “Leave it,” he snapped. “Get out.” He was never rude to ladies. He'd been brought up to revere them, treat them kindly in every situation. His conscience stung, but she was driving him mad. He did not want her here, fussing, making him some kind of charity project. Not when tomorrow he'd leave, and he wouldn't ever feel her touch on his brow again. “Please,” he added gruffly.

She didn't move. He would have heard the rustle of her gown, or retreating footsteps. He waited for the sound of tears, or an angry rebuke, but it didn't come.

“Shall I read to you?” she asked instead, her voice calm. She had never once given in to panic, or fits of anger or tears, despite his mood or his wounds. Did that mean he was worse off than he thought, or better? He'd know if he could see her, could read the emotions in her eyes. He remembered the last time he looked into those eyes—­sparkling in the candlelight as they waltzed, full of mischief and promise and wit. A flirt, he'd thought, a snob. But if that was true, why was she here?

“My father used to read to me when I was sick,” she said. “He'd come and sit by my bed, and I'd close my eyes and listen to the sound of his voice. It was better than any medicine.”

“And what did he read? No doubt an improving tome, or a treatise on the divine rights of the upper classes.”

“He chose poetry, mostly. Shakespeare sonnets, Chaucer's tales.”

“The Earl of Ainsley?” he asked, surprised.

“He was just ‘Papa' to me.” She said it simply, without pride, a dutiful, loving daughter.

“When will—­” He stopped.

“When will you leave here?” she asked, and tucked the coverlet around him. He pushed it away again. She left it alone, and he felt triumph, as if he'd won at least that small victory.

“Nicholas is seeing to a few last-­minute things, but he's anxious to get Meg home to Temberlay. He fusses over her like she's the first person ever to have a baby.”

“I know the feeling,” he said sarcastically.

Instead of pouting at the setdown, she laughed, and the sound was like cool water on a hot day. It most certainly was a hot day. He could hear the crickets through the open windows, complaining bitterly about the heat. In the humidity her perfume mixed with the feminine scent of her skin. He was sweating, the bandages itchy and uncomfortable, but her hands were cool, pleasant. He wanted them back on his brow, touching him, but he tried instead to think of something to say that would send her away. He didn't want to grow used to her, to need her.

“We—­Nicholas—­has found a manservant for you, someone to assist you during the trip, and after, at Temberlay. His name is Alan Browning. He was injured—­here—­” She brushed her fingertip over his cheek, and he felt a shiver go through him. “—­and has lost his ability to speak. He's been most helpful around the villa, assisting the wounded where, um—­well, where a woman cannot.”

“I was beginning to think there wasn't anything you wouldn't do,” he said unkindly, seeing a way to drive her away. She was silent, again accepting his rebuke without retaliating. Yet the razor-­sharp edge of Delphine St. James's tongue was legendary—­she had verbally cut many a rival to ribbons, and left them bleeding. Her patience with him was infinite, it seemed. He wished she would fight with him, or argue. He was not used to being handled with such care, as if he might shatter at a harsh word. Her gentleness made him afraid.

“Sergeant Browning is a good man who needs employment,” she said. “He's strong and gentle, and I daresay he needs you as much as you need him just now. I shall bring him to you later.”

“Why wait? Have him come now. I need to—­” He had intended to say
piss
, but he could not. He was still a gentleman in the company of a lady, even if she was a very irritating lady.

“Oh, of course,” she said, understanding anyway. “You needn't worry, my lord. I have a very outspoken brother. You can't shock me so easily.”

Stephen felt his cheeks heat as she rose and went to the door. He wanted to bite his tongue in half. “How am I to communicate with him?” he called after her. “Shall we chat, or perhaps he can make hand signals when he wishes me to understand him?”

Her footsteps paused. “I remember you as a remarkable man, able to bring out the very best in anyone, to charm them, make them feel as if they were the most important person on earth. You're kind as well, to those most in need of kindness, or so I recall. I daresay you'll find a way.”

He thought about that, and felt shame at his behavior. He listened to her footsteps travel along the hall—­ten paces—­and then down the stairs—­seven steps—­until the sound of her faded completely.

He concentrated on the tick of the clock, heard the occasional groan of pain from someone below, and the sound of birds outside the open window. Delphine remembered him as remarkable and charming? They hadn't had more than a single brief exchange of banal pleasantries—­and one apparently unforgettable kiss. Yet she had the essence of him, apparently, or thought she did. But surely those characteristics belonged to every gentleman—­every whole, healthy gentleman. Did she expect him to be kind and charming now, broken, blind, and shamed?

Somehow, with every gentle touch, with her seemingly endless patience, Delphine St. James made him feel as if he still had worth.

He felt the loss of her already, the regret at leaving her behind when he returned to England. He realized he would have liked to know her better. Perhaps someday, when—­if—­he recovered his sight, if he didn't die of gangrene, he would find her and thank her.

If.

 

Chapter 12

C
ouldn't the stubborn, stupid man see how very much he needed her?

He'd been surprised that she was accompanying Meg—­and him—­on the journey home. Horrified, in fact. He was rude and curmudgeonly, when he spoke at all, but it was to be expected. He was in excruciating pain.

Still, as the coach jolted and bumped over every rut in Belgium, he refused to utter a word. Beads of sweat lined his brow, and his fists were clenched so tightly that his knuckles shone. Was he being brave for her sake and Meg's? She wished she could tell him he needn't be, that he could scream or groan or rage against the pain if he wished to, but he was a gentleman, a soldier, a diplomat. He'd gritted his teeth when Sergeant Browning carried him down the stairs as carefully as he could. He'd swallowed a cry as they loaded him into the coach.

The muscles in his neck stood out as they hit another rock in the road, and Delphine winced for him. He'd refused laudanum, and he pushed her hands away whenever she tried to mop his brow or adjust the rug that covered him. His face was as white as the sling that held his broken arm. She suspected he'd curse her outright if he'd been anyone else.

If not for Meg, she would have given him permission—­Sebastian had taught her all the wicked words there were, and hearing them now would not shock her. He had good reason. She repressed a sigh. Could such a brave man possibly be a coward?

Delphine felt the anger in him as much as the pain, and wished she could protect him from the darkness of that too.

Over the weeks since the battle, she'd touched other soldiers, held their hands, mopped their brows, held water to their lips, made them feel safe with a smile or a kind word, helped them see that the battle was behind them. She'd whispered that they could go home now, their duty done at last, to the loving arms of their wives, mothers, and sisters, and saw the hope and gratitude in their eyes.

But Stephen had no one waiting for him. He faced weeks of recovery, then a court-­martial, and after that—­even he had no idea, she was certain. He refused to let anyone write to his sister. Could a man die of invisible injuries? The shame, the fear, the loss of his reputation would do as much harm as any bullet. She was afraid that if she looked away from him, even for an instant, that the Stephen Ives she had known and admired would fade away and be lost forever.

If he couldn't be brave, she would give him courage. If he couldn't hope, she'd do it for him. Even if no one else in the world saw the honor in him, she did. She'd be his eyes until he could see again. She felt her own eyes fill with tears as the sun streamed through the window of the coach, illuminating the rings of exhaustion and pain under his eyes. The bruises on his face had faded to yellow, and the scrapes and cuts were slowly turning to the silver marks that would remain as scars. Delphine moved to close the shade.

“Leave it,” he said gruffly. “At least I can feel the warmth of the sun, even if I cannot see it. What time is it?”

“We're nearly at Antwerp,” Delphine said quickly as Meg looked at the tiny watch pinned to her bosom. Delphine silenced her friend with a shake of her head when Meg opened her mouth to say there was some distance to go yet.

“I could read aloud for a while, or we might talk to pass the time,” Delphine said.

“No!” he snapped. “God, I wish I was riding with Nicholas.” There was no reply to that, since it was impossible. He shifted restlessly, and she watched the muscles of his jaw tense with the pain even that caused him. Her hands moved to adjust the blanket on his knees, but he tore it out of her hands and tossed it on the floor like a petulant child. The air in the coach was as thick with tension as it was with dust and heat.

“When is Dorothea's child due?” Meg asked him with brittle brightness, trying to start a conversation. “She must be as excited as I am. Perhaps we could correspond, compare our experience. You must be quite pleased to be an uncle yet again, and I'm sure she could offer me some advice—­”

“No,” he murmured again.

“No?” Meg squeaked.

“Don't write to her, Meg. Don't tell her. I don't want her to know.” His tone was flat, an officer issuing a command, a diplomat dictating official policy.

Meg leaned forward to clasp his hand. “But surely she would
want
to know.”

The coach hit a rut and Stephen gripped Meg's hand for an instant, but gave no other indication of how much he was hurting.

“No,” he said again, letting Meg go. He turned his eyes toward the window, staring out at a landscape he could not see. “Doe could not cope with—­this—­and I won't cause her any more pain or worry.”

“I understand,” Meg said, but her face was filled with confusion and sadness. Women were far stronger and braver than men gave them credit for being.

Stephen regretted his brusque tone when the ladies lapsed into an uneasy silence. He suspected they'd be chattering like magpies if he weren't here. He knew they were trying to help, but he felt like an invalid, useless, weak, and broken, sitting with the women while the men rode alongside. Even poor voiceless Browning was mounted on a horse. Delphine had informed him that the sergeant was right outside the window, ready to come to Stephen's assistance at a mere wave of his hand.

He kept his hand firmly in his lap. He hated needing someone to take care of him day and night, but he could not do the simplest things for himself. He could not eat, or read, or walk across a room. He could not even piss alone. He had no freedom, no privacy, no life at all beyond the endless pain and darkness. Browning was silent, patient and gentle. A lance had pierced his cheek and severed his tongue, and he would never speak again. Nor could he write, aside from being able to carefully form the letters of his own name. Aside from that, his rank, and his regiment, no one knew very much about him. He was a dragoon, and that was sufficient for Nicholas to approve him.

Stephen closed his eyes, pretended he was asleep, felt the light coming through the window, hot when they rode across open road, cool when they passed through shady woodland. He listened to the sounds outside, the jingle of harness and the sound of male voices. Inside the coach, he heard the soft sounds of light fabric, the slight crackle of the pages of a book turning. He could smell Delphine's perfume again, and found he could even discern it from Meg's scent.

Delphine. He sighed. He imagined he'd be leaving her behind in Brussels, but it seemed she was returning to England with Meg and Nicholas, and by extension, himself. It was unexpected, unwanted.

When he had gone to Vienna, he'd hired a companion for his sister, someone to act as chaperone, friend, and nursemaid if necessary. He had never imagined that someone would play that role for him, especially not Delphine St. James.

Another bump in the road, another red-­hot shaft of agony pierced him, and he gritted his teeth, held his silence, though he wanted to scream. He would scream, if the journey took much longer.

Delphine began talking. “There's a horse in that field watching us, a big roan. He's scarred on one side. D'you suppose he was in the battle?”

He could picture the animal, thought of his own stallion, probably killed under him, poor creature, but he kept his eyes closed, stayed silent.

“I hope he's come back home, and the scars will heal with time, and he'll enjoy the rest of his life in peace,” Delphine mused, still speaking of the horse—­or was she? Despite her soothing tone, Stephen felt fear well in his breast. Would
he
heal? The carriage rolled on in endless darkness, and he listened to the sound of her voice, drew strength from it. It helped him endure in dignified silence. It was better than dissolving into gibbering misery. For that much, he was grateful to her.