CHAPTER TWELVE
Wilkins was barricading Anna’s way into the bedroom. “I tell you, he wouldn’t want it! No strangers. Doc Smith is all he needs!”
“That is the rogue doctor,” Anna confided to the gentleman beside her—a true medical professional, recommended to her by Moira and Lady Dunleavy both. “Francis Smith. He has been closeted with Lockwood for a day now, but I see no improvement.”
“I’m telling you,” Wilkins insisted. “This bloke can’t help. There’s a maid belowstairs that fetched up sick, too. How to explain that? Doc Smith says—”
“Enough!” Dr. Gardener, whom Lady Dunleavy had assured her was a favorite of the Queen, had lost his patience. “What manner of nonsense is this? You are lucky that the countess has not sacked you already!”
“In fact, I would call the police first,” said Anna.
This remark had the effect of causing Wilkins to wilt away from the door and slink off, muttering.
Anna followed Dr. Gardener through the sitting room into the darkened chamber where Lockwood lay. The rogue Francis Smith, she saw with disgust, was snoring in a wing chair, a pot of herbs burning by his feet.
“Repellent,” Dr. Gardener said on a cough. “Will you be so good as to ring a servant, my lady, and have them fetch that pot away, and open the windows to air the room?”
There was not a servant in this house whom she trusted. The chambermaids were serviceable, but they skulked about like mice, no doubt terrified of the menfolk who passed out on tables and floors. The men, meanwhile, were lost to hysteria. They had abandoned their duties to take shifts standing guard outside their master’s door. Lockwood had a terrible fever, but Francis Smith had filled their minds with some paranoid story about poison.
“I’ll remove it myself,” she said, and seized the burning pot, placing it in the hallway before returning to the room to throw open the curtains.
The flood of light woke Smith, who jolted to his feet on a protest. “What is this? Who ordered—”
“Out,” said Anna.
“Oh.” Smith rubbed his eyes. “You mustn’t disturb him, dear. He’s on the mend now, and—”
“Not in this state, he isn’t.” Dr. Gardener straightened from his patient’s side. Lockwood was a tall man, but he looked dwarfed by the heaping of quilts laid atop him, which Gardener now began to strip with violent jerks. “Where did you train, sir? Under whom did you study? This is the grossest malfeasance—”
“I learned my trade when you were still in swaddling clothes,” Francis Smith barked. Anna had thought him seventy at the least, but when he puffed himself up in a righteous fit, his belly straining at his waistcoat, her estimation dwindled to sixty.
But Gardener, lean and polished with a beard tailored into a well-groomed point, was not cowed. “And you’ve not read a study since then, I expect. Overheat a fever! Choke the air with toxic smoke! And is this laudanum you’ve been giving him?” He picked up the bottle between thumb and forefinger. “His respiratory system requires vigor, not sedation!”
“For a fever it would,” Smith bit out. “What we’ve got here is a poisoning.”
“Poison!” Gardener threw her an astonished look. “What claptrap is this?”
Anna sighed. A maid had taken ill after laundering Lockwood’s clothing the night of the brawl. Her symptoms followed Lockwood’s exactly—a sudden onset of fever and rapid heartbeat; a collapse followed by intermittent periods of muttering confusion. “He took ill very suddenly,” she said. “And so did one of the maids. The staff has put it down to mysterious influences.”
“Nothing mysterious about it,” Smith roared. “He was out at his club, comes back with poison on his clothes, gets sweaty and wipes it into his eyes. A classic technique!”
Gardener snorted. “He leaves, or I do.”
“She ain’t got the authority,” Smith retorted.
Anna smacked her hands together. “Haven’t got the authority, you say?” She strode over and seized Smith’s cane. “Were I less a lady, sir, I would box your ears, regardless of your age.”
A strange gleam entered Smith’s watery eyes. “Fine temper,” he said. “You’re a proper match for him.”
“If I want your opinion, I will ask for it. Get out, sir.”
“If he struggles again, you give him another spoonful of that laudanum, hear?”
“Out!”
He snatched his cane from her hand and limped for the door.
She called after him. “You might go see to the man whose nose got hurt yesterday. No doubt he requires your attentions.”
Smith looked back over his shoulder. “ ‘Got hurt,’ did it?” He cackled. “Some men catch a cold, Atherton just happened to catch a fist—that right?”
She glared. She would not divulge in front of the Queen’s own doctor that her husband had been brawling with the help—and Atherton, whoever he was.
Old Smith read the message in her stare and snorted. “Well, if you’re that much the priss, then I take it back: Lock will eat you alive. Good day, ma’am.” He tipped an invisible hat to her—for all she knew, the old bat thought he was wearing one—and thumped out.
“Remarkable,” said Gardener in tones of pure astonishment. “I will not ask where you found him.”
“If I knew, I would put him back,” she said. “How does he fare?”
Gardener turned back to the bed. “I must listen to his lungs. If you will assist me?”
She came forward swiftly and helped the doctor strip the sweat-soaked shirt from Lockwood’s body.
Together they looked down.
The breath left her.
“Good God,” muttered the doctor, then added swiftly, “Begging your ladyship’s pardon.”
She opened her mouth to excuse him, but could not find her voice.
What in heaven’s name had been done to Liam?
She felt the doctor’s appalled gaze on her, and realized with a dull start that as Lockwood’s wife, she should not look shocked. She should have seen this sight many times before.
But he blindfolded me.
Her heart knocked against her ribs, as though trying to break free. “His lungs.” She sounded faint, but she pushed onward. “Shouldn’t you listen to them?”
“Ah—yes.” The doctor turned away, unbuckling his bag and rummaging through the contents.
She took a hard breath and made herself look at Liam again.
Letters had been burned above his right pectoral. The burn scars were livid and ropy: WDLL.
Old scars mottled his ribs and belly. Deep puckered silver slashes—too ragged to have been caused by a knife.
A bladed whip. A cat-o’-nine-tails.
Who on earth would dare flog the Earl of Lockwood?
I learned quickly to keep my mouth shut. So he’d said.
God above. He’d been telling the truth.
Until this moment, distracted by his collapse, she’d not dwelled on what he’d told her. But now the full weight of it descended upon her, made crushing by the proof carved into his body.
She reached out to touch a scar, raised and rough.
He’d bound her so her fingertips would not detect the truth.
Some noise recalled her to the presence of the doctor. She snatched back her trembling hand and fixed her gaze instead on the tattoo, a black snaking design that extended the full length of his forearm, wrist to elbow.
She did not recognize the pattern. It looked to hold no meaning, nor did it resemble any language she had ever glimpsed. It looked like waves—or snakes—or madness, given shape.
Gardener fitted his instrument to Lockwood’s chest and listened for several long moments.
“A small amount of fluid,” he pronounced at last. He plucked the instrument from his ears. “But this fever . . .” He hesitated before laying a finger to Liam’s throat.
That hesitation struck her. Her eyes narrowed as she watched him check the pulses in Liam’s body, his touch fussy and delicate at Liam’s throat and wrist and groin.
Why should he hesitate to touch the Earl of Lockwood? Did he imagine that scars were catching? A fever might prove contagious. Perhaps that was the cause. But a man afraid of contagion should not have become a doctor.
The doctor now kneaded Liam’s belly. “Too warm for my liking,” he said, his voice oddly pinched. “But with the fresh air, it should pass.” His glance danced down Liam’s chest again, his lip curling in distaste. “Has he traveled anywhere unusual of late? In the malarial regions?”
“He has traveled everywhere.” Her tone was rude. She did not care. “Far more of the world than you or I will ever see.”
He heard the censure in her tone and his own expression smoothed. “Of course,” he said, stepping back and bowing shallowly. “Well, you may wish to administer quinine. If it is malaria, you will see an improvement—but the fever may crest again before it breaks. With regular dosing, however, he will be himself in a week. Or he will . . . worsen.” He tucked his stethoscope into his bag. “It is up to Providence, my lady.”
Dr. Gardener had rushed here without delay, and had promised to stay as long as necessary. But now, all at once, he hurried to leave.
“How helpful you have been,” she said contemptuously. She had intended him to see to the maid next, but she would not keep him. There were other doctors in London. “I understand you are helpful to many renowned personages. I expect your popularity is owed to their trust in your complete discretion.”
The threat was subtle, but his gaze flickered in acknowledgment. “Quite so,” he murmured. “I consider myself like a priest in that regard.”
She let him show himself out, then rang for a chambermaid and ordered her to send for the other doctor whom Moira had recommended. If that doctor worked a great improvement in the maid, then and only then would Anna risk him seeing Liam. Otherwise, she would not reveal her husband’s secrets to a stranger.
She returned to Liam’s bedroom, closing and locking the door behind her. Bright sunlight spilled through the window, and a light breeze carried inside the scents of grass and violets and fresh hay in the neighboring mews.
A pitcher of water stood on the dressing table. After a moment, she crossed to it, pulled out a handkerchief, and doused the cloth.
At the first touch of dampness, Liam muttered and pitched himself onto his side. A hissing breath escaped her; her startled fist squeezed water onto the bedclothes.
His back had been lashed even more viciously. His back was a mottled battlefield of scars, raised and pulpy and twisted.
She thought of Wilkins yesterday in the hall, with the rope burn at his throat.
If it wasn’t for Lock, I’d be dead.
What had Liam said? I put an end to the camp.
Now, the violence embedded in those words gave her a deep vicious thrill of satisfaction.
Good.
She took several long breaths, until she felt calmer. Then she laid the wet cloth to Liam’s ravaged back and stroked it slowly, gently, across his skin, hoping it would cool his body, persuade the fever to go.
He had put an end to the camp. But what of those who had arranged for his abduction and transport there? Who had done this to him?
Whomever it was would pay. He was her husband, and he had been stolen from her. Nobody got away with stealing what was hers.
• • •
“Please. Please. Please, I beg you. I beg you!”
Anna flew to the bed, seizing Lockwood’s shoulders and using her full weight to push him down. “It’s all right,” she said, but he broke free, springing up with such violent force that she was tossed from the bed, landing on her hands and knees.
Now came the creak of bedsprings. He staggered to his feet—but his first full step failed him, and he fell to hands and knees.
She clambered to her feet and took hold of his arms, but he wrenched free. As their eyes met, an instinctive fear gripped her. His face looked wild, his gaze burning. He was strong—much stronger than she.
“Liam,” she whispered. “You’re all right. You’ve a fever, that’s all.”
She heard him swallow. He looked briefly beyond her, and then understanding seemed to loosen his features. “Anna.” His voice sounded scoured, raw.
“Yes,” she said. “You need to—”
“Get out.”
Even half dead, he managed to wax autocratic. “You’re ill.” She adopted a brisk, neutral tone, the address of a nurse, a paid servant, as she reached for him again. “Here, let me help you back to—”
He resisted her grip. “Smith,” she heard him mutter.
The staff wanted Smith here, too. The maid was recovering, but with no help from the second doctor Anna had sent for—it was Smith who had nursed her to wakefulness.
Anna had prevented mutiny by promising to follow Smith’s orders. But Liam’s corpselike immobility, after a dose of laudanum, terrified her more than his delusions. She could barely bring herself to drug him again. “Smith is not here,” she said sternly. “Let me help you back to bed, Liam, or I will tie you there.”
The ghost of a laugh scratched from his lips. “God save the world from your temper,” he rasped, sounding almost like himself. He reached up to take hold of a bedpost, his bare bicep flexing as he hauled himself to his feet.
As he stood there, balancing with visible effort, a distant part of her marveled at the beauty of his body. Despite the scars, the records of atrocity that stamped his skin, he was a thing of splendor, long and lean and well muscled—enough, even, to give a Scotswoman cause to admire these inbred English ways, if they could produce such a specimen of perfection.
The sane, forward part of her brain snapped at her impatiently as she hurried to assist him into bed.
The top sheets required changing. But when she reached for them, he resisted, grabbing her wrist and clinging so fiercely that she bit back a noise.
“Don’t move,” he whispered.
“What?”
“There are monsters in the shadows. They are crawling on the walls.”
A chill ran through her. “That is the fever.” She laid her hand over his. “Let go, Liam.”
He remained staring fixedly behind her. On a resigned breath, she used her free hand to reach for the laudanum, clamping the bottle between chin and shoulder as she unscrewed the cap.
Some sudden sharp movement shook the bed. When she glanced up, he was sitting upright, still staring beyond her. Some alert, predatory quality in his posture lifted the hairs on her nape. His hand slipped from her wrist as he stared.
“Liam.” She spoke very softly. “It is the fever. That is all.” But this was no ordinary fever. She began to wonder if Smith was not right, for all that poison seemed impossible, incredible.
But what was incredible, if Liam’s story was true?
“Here.” She spilled some laudanum into the spoon and stepped forward, cursing her hand for trembling. “Drink this.”
He moved like a snake: his hand suddenly gripped her wrist, his fingers banding like iron as he glared at her.
“I will not beg,” he hissed.
“No need,” she whispered. “This is medicine, that’s all.”
His eyes narrowed. The hollows beneath his cheeks, in the half-light, lent him the look of a death’s-head, bladed and dangerous.
She shoved the spoon into his mouth.
He choked on it, his eyes flying wide with surprise, and then fell back, sputtering, onto the pillows.
Ah well. Her temperament was not cut out for nursing. But she saw, with some satisfaction, that he swallowed.
He covered his eyes with the palms of his hands, pressing so hard that she feared for his eyesight. But just as she reached for his wrists, he lowered them and pinned her with a steady, sane look.
“It is not safe for you here, Lady Forth.”
She held his gaze. “I am the Countess of Lockwood,” she said. “This is my place. Now, sleep. Close your eyes.”
His gaze moved over her shoulder again, a troubled look cramping his brow. She did not wish to imagine what he was seeing.
“Close your eyes,” she said. “Dream sweet things.”
It was the wrong thing to say. His mouth abruptly twisted. He clawed his hand through his hair and tried to sit up again.
She shoved him back, the palm of her hand flat against his burning, scarred skin. “Sleep,” she said. “No, do not look behind me. Look at me.”
At last, his amber eyes fixed on hers. A startled, haunted look crossed his face. “You . . .” She forbade herself to flinch as his large hand tore into her hair, scattering pins across his body and the bed. “You are dead,” he said raggedly.
“No. I am here.”
He blinked, looking doubtful.
But his hand in her hair grew limp, then fell to his side, taking several strands along with it. His lips parted again, but whatever he meant to say was lost as his eyes fluttered closed. Still, his lips moved in some silent recitation—unhappy, she judged, by the tenseness of his features.
She laid her hand on his forehead, cursing silently as she felt his temperature. His hair was silken, very soft. As she stroked it, his body went lax, his expression smoothing.
Recognition struck her, made her swallow some bittersweet lump. Here, at last, was the man she had married: she glimpsed his features, the sweet beauty of the curve of his mouth, only in the sudden absence of the man he had become.
He had not abandoned her, after all.
Grasping that fact felt almost impossible. It made her realize how practiced she had grown throughout her life in being left behind. Her father, a wanderer, had done it regularly. Her aunts had taken her into their homes, but never for longer than a season. She was a trial, a headache, a headstrong and disobedient girl who had never mastered the art of being pleasing. Instead, she had perfected the skill of being left. She had even fashioned a marriage around it. They had agreed to vouchsafe each other’s liberties—but they had never promised to stay with each other.
Yet he had not meant to go that night. It had not been his choice to leave. He had been taken from her.
And at what cost? When she reflected now on his odd behavior, on his moments of violence and his strange moods, she wondered if there was not a logic to them. His body testified to trials she could not imagine. What toll had they taken, above and beyond the fleshly pains?
Go back to Scotland, he had told her—over and over. But she had practice only in being left. It was not in her nature to leave.