Chapter 12
The scene that met her eyes when she burst into the nursery did nothing to quell her anxiety.
Ralph lay upon the bed, his eyes closed and his face deathly pale, apart from the bloodstained towel being pressed against his temple by a haggard and gray-faced Maxim.
Several blood-soaked towels had been already discarded onto the floor, and the housekeeper was busy picking them up.
“What happened?” Heather demanded as she moved round to the other side of the bed. Tears stung her eyes as she stared down at Ralph, her hand moving instinctively to gently touch the top of her son’s disheveled head, far away from the towel being pressed against his temple.
“He fell and hit his head on a rock,” Maxim supplied economically.
Fear clutched at Heather’s chest as she saw that Maxim’s superfine was also covered in blood, as was the top of his shirt, where he had obviously carried Ralph at some stage. “Has he been unconscious ever since?” She had heard of cases where people had never woken up after receiving a head injury.
As if to reassure her, Ralph’s lashes fluttered and then his lids rose before he looked up at her with pained gray eyes. “Mama,” he acknowledged softly before his lids closed again.
Maxim drew in a ragged breath. “I only took my eyes off him for a second or two—”
“One does not even need to take one’s eyes off small children for accidents to happen,” Heather answered him distractedly, a sense of calm replacing her earlier panic. Falling into hysteria would not help Ralph. “Have you cleaned the cut?”
“Repeatedly.”
“How bad is it?”
Maxim slowly lifted the towel, and blood instantly gushed from the two-inch gash on Ralph’s forehead before Maxim quickly replaced the pressure of the towel.
“He has already lost quite a bit of blood,” Heather said worriedly. “How long until the doctor arrives?” she questioned the hovering housekeeper.
The older woman grimaced. “Maybe as long as half an hour, my lady. Barnaby came back just now to tell us the doctor is at the Tregowarths’ cottage delivering the new baby. Coombe was instructing Barnaby to go there when you arrived home.”
Heather nodded. “Could you go downstairs and wait for him and bring him upstairs the moment he arrives?” She waited until the older woman had left the room before speaking to Maxim. “You will have to stitch it.”
Maxim recoiled at the suggestion. “I am not qualified—”
“You are more than qualified to seal this cut and stop the worst of the bleeding,” Heather insisted. “I have seen your scars, Maxim. Most of your injuries were sewn together by yourself, if I am not mistaken.”
She was not mistaken. Maxim had always carried a small medical kit with him when on a mission. All The Sinners had. Their missions often took them behind enemy lines, and they had not exactly been in a position to seek medical help if they were injured or ill. Thrown into a prison cell and left to his own devices until it was decided what to do with him, Maxim had used what he could of that medical kit to deal with the worst of his injuries, until the supplies ran out and he was left with no choice but to let the wounds heal as they might.
That Heather had guessed he stitched those wounds himself was somehow…humbling.
But what she was now suggesting… “I will not deliberately inflict hurt upon Ralph,” he stated flatly.
Heather glanced across at him. “You would rather he died from a loss of blood?”
“No, of course not—” Maxim broke off his protest, breathing deeply as he forced himself to think calmly, logically. He had half expected Heather to arrive home and start hurling accusations at his head for his carelessness. The last thing he had thought might happen was for Heather to instead demand he sew up Ralph’s cut to stop the bleeding. That she would trust him to do that. He could not let her or Ralph down. “I will need ice to at least numb the area a little.”
“Cook has some in the icehouse.”
“I will also need strong cotton and a thin needle.”
Heather straightened. “I have those in my work basket.”
He nodded. “Soak the needle in boiling water before bringing it to me. I have no idea why, but it helps with avoiding an infection,” he explained at her questioning glance.
Heather bent to place a light kiss upon Ralph’s uninjured temple before straightening. “I will only be gone a few minutes.”
Maxim gave himself no time for further thought or hesitation once Heather had left to collect the supplies he needed. Instead, he removed his superfine and waistcoat before rolling up the sleeves of his shirt. He poured the jug of hot water into the porcelain bowl the housekeeper had brought in with her and thoroughly washing his hands and arms. Something else he had learned helped to avoid infection.
By the time he had done that, Heather had returned with a smaller bowl of boiling water in which the needle lay. She also carried the reel of cotton, some ice wrapped in a towel, and several bandages.
His uncertainly returned once Heather had removed the towel and replaced it with a numbing ice cube, his hands shaking slightly as he threaded the cotton through the tiny eye of the needle.
The thought of hurting Ralph was anathema to him.
Equally, the thought of disappointing Heather weighed on him as heavily. If he should make a mess of this…
Heather turned as she sensed Maxim had stopped moving. He stood several feet away as if frozen in place, his wide gaze fixed on Ralph. The blood was drying to a darker color on Maxim’s shirt but was still a gruesome sight, and there were several smears of dried blood on his right cheek.
Heather reached out to cup her free hand about that tensed cheek. “Maxim.”
His gaze moved to meet hers, his eyes a dark and unreadable gray.
Still, Heather knew the reason for his hesitation. “Dr. Standish is relatively new to the area. I do not know him well. I trust you with Ralph more than I trust him.”
His expression was anguished. “Do you?”
“Yes,” she assured him without hesitation.
Maxim’s shoulders straightened. “You will need to hold Ralph tightly once I begin the stitching.”
“Of course.”
Maxim stepped forward to gently move her hand aside. The application of the ice cube had stemmed the bleeding somewhat, which would allow him to see the wound better, and hopefully it would have helped to numb the skin about the wound.
Nevertheless, Heather could not bear to watch as Maxim began to stitch the gash. Her attention became fully occupied with soothing Ralph anyway when he cried out each time Maxim pushed the sharp needle through his skin.
It broke her heart to hear her little boy’s whimpers and cries as Maxim continued doggedly on, the man’s concentration such that he no longer seemed aware of his surroundings.
Sweat was beading Heather’s brow once all the stitches were in place and the bleeding had finally stopped.
Ralph had fallen into a pain-induced stupor several minutes earlier.
Heather sank down weakly onto the chair beside the bed after placing a piece of gauze over the wound, her knees shaking so badly, they could not hold her upright a moment longer. “Thank you.”
Maxim glanced across at her. “I doubt my stitching will bring him any female admirers.” He attempted humor, his voice husky with emotion.
She gave a shaky smile. “I do not know about that. Women have been known to admire a scar or two on a gentleman— Oh,” she gasped as she realized what she had said, her gaze anxious as she looked at Maxim. “I apologize. I was not thinking when I said that.”
His smile was tight. “A scar or two perhaps, but dozens of them? I think not,” he answered his own question flatly. “If you will excuse me? I need to go to my bedchamber to wash and change out of these soiled clothes.” He picked up his superfine and waistcoat before walking to the door.
“Maxim!” Heather stood as she called out to him, waiting until he slowly turned before speaking again. “I really am grateful for all that you have done for Ralph.”
“Considering he would not have been on the beach if not for me—”
“That is nonsense, and you know it.”
“Do I?”
“Yes.”
“Perhaps.” He gave a stiff nod. “Excuse me,” he repeated before continuing on his way, the door closing softly behind him seconds later.
Heather dropped back onto the chair, having every intention of remaining by Ralph’s side until she was fully assured of his good health and recovery.
But she also had every intention of talking to Maxim again before the day was through.
She had seen his affection for Ralph grow over this past week, and she knew, as Ralph’s mother, how easy it was to blame oneself when a child was injured. But she refused to let Maxim blame himself for Ralph’s fall or the cut that had resulted from it.
She could not, she would not allow that. Those scars upon Maxim’s body showed he had already suffered enough pain in his lifetime.
Maxim’s composure lasted only as long as it took to reach his bedchamber and close the door on the rest of the household. Then his knees threatened to buckle, and he only just managed to stagger to the bed before collapsing down onto the side of it. He buried his face in his hands and allowed the tension of the past hour to wash over him.
Ralph had initially seemed unharmed after slipping on one of the rocks and falling. It was only after Maxim had laughingly helped him back onto his feet that the blood had begun to pour down Ralph’s face from the cut on his temple.
Maxim had used his handkerchief to stop the flow of blood as best he could, asking the little boy to keep the material pressed against his temple as Maxim swung him up in his arms and carried him up the path and to the house.
Coombe had been his usual unflappable self, instructing footmen and maids to their different tasks, while Maxim carried Ralph up to the nursery. Unfortunately, even once Ralph was lying on the bed, with a thicker towel pressed against the wound, the blood had continued to flow. Maxim had felt a tightness in his chest at how small and defenseless Ralph looked lying on the white pillows, his face a sickly gray beneath the blood-soaked towel.
Maxim doubted he would ever forget the dread he had also felt for what Heather would say to him once she returned to find her son had suffered a serious gash to his head.
To his surprise, she had not seemed angry or accusing. But surely once her initial shock and then relief had passed, she would look around for someone to blame. Maxim would be the logical choice to receive her accusations of neglect.
In the meantime, Maxim had to get out of these blood-soiled clothes. Even the smell was making him feel nauseous, as it reminded him of the months he had spent dealing with the free flow of his own blood after yet another beating or whipping.
“Your bathwater is on its way, my lord,” Richards announced as he breezed into the bedchamber.
Maxim’s head felt almost too heavy to raise as he stared blankly at his valet. “How did you…?”
“Her ladyship gave the instruction.” The other man began to organize the towels and soap for Maxim’s bath. “A maid is also bringing you tea and toast.”
Heather again?
But why? It made no sense. He had been remiss in guarding her son. So why would she now be so solicitous to Maxim’s needs?
He had no answer to that question, nor did the pounding in his head allow him to linger on the subject. He had suffered with tension headaches after returning from France five years ago, but as time passed, they had ceased to bother him as much. He now had a headache worse than all the others.
“Has the doctor arrived?” he questioned minutes later as he lowered himself into the hot bathwater, the footmen and maids having appeared with the bath and hot water before departing.
Richards nodded. “One of the maids informed me he arrived a minute or so ago. He is with Master Ralph now.”
The hot bath did much to alleviate Maxim’s outer tension, and the tea and toast handed to him by Richards as Maxim continued to laze in the hot water, took care of the inner feelings of nausea.
As if Heather had known exactly how he was feeling and what to do to dispel those emotions.
Perhaps she had. Maxim doubted it was the first time Ralph had fallen and cut himself. Or that Heather had suffered the same tension and nausea Maxim was now experiencing.
Maxim had learned long ago to control his emotions when it came to his feelings for Heather, but Ralph was another matter. The little boy had crept under his defenses, battered down the walls around his heart, and claimed a place for himself there.
It was going to be very difficult for Maxim to leave the young master, as well as the mistress of Treganon House, when the time came for him to do so.
But he knew, after today, that must happen sooner rather than later. He was becoming far too attached to the mistress and young master of Treganon House.
Those feelings no longer allowed him to be detached when it came to the problem of seeking out Napoleon’s female spy.
If he ever had been, Maxim acknowledged self-derisively. The fact it was Heather he was investigating had made that virtually impossible from the onset.
He had barely stepped out of the bath water and slipped his arms into the robe Richards held out for him when there came a brief knock on the bedchamber door. Maxim tied the belt about his waist and frowned his irritation at this further interruption. “Yes?”
“It’s Heather,” she replied.
Maxim gave Richards a frowning glance but found that gentleman’s expression as stoically unreadable as always. But both men knew it was unorthodox for Heather to come to Maxim’s bedchamber.
“Could you come back later to dispose of the bath?” Maxim requested.
“Of course, my lord.” Richards bowed before crossing the room to open the door. “My lady,” he murmured respectfully as he stepped around her and strode off down the hallway.
“May I come in?” Heather prompted briskly.
Maxim nodded warily as he wondered if Heather’s initial shock had now dissipated and she was here to reproach him for his negligence toward her son. “Of course.”
She breezed into the bedchamber much as Richards had an hour ago. “The doctor wished me to pass along his compliments on your excellent stitch work.”
A ghost of a smile curved Maxim’s lips. “I doubt it was anywhere near as professional as he could have done himself.”
“He seemed to think it was,” Heather dismissed.
He gave an acknowledging inclination of his head. “Thank you for the bath, and the tea and toast.”
“It was the least I could do.”
Maxim noticed that Heather seemed nervous rather than angry. “How is Ralph?”
Heather smiled. “Awake and demanding his own tea and toast. The doctor has given him something to ease the pain, so I expect he will shortly be asleep. Jane is now fussing over him.” She no longer wore the bloodstained gloves and had changed her soiled green gown to one of russet silk. “I believe she is feeling as guilty as you and I are.”
“But neither you nor she were there at the time of the accident…”
“Exactly.” Heather nodded. “Guilt is always there when a child is involved. Jane feels guilty for going shopping with me rather than spending the morning with Ralph. I feel guilty for going out at all. You feel guilty because you could not prevent the slip on the rocks.” She gave a shrug. “When in truth, even if none of those things had happened, Ralph would eventually have fallen somewhere else, no doubt with the same result. I learned long ago that I cannot protect my child from all the knocks and spills in life,” she added huskily. “To do so would be to deny him the childhood he deserves.”
Maxim realized the purpose of her visit now. Her words did help to ease his guilt somewhat, but not the ache in his chest, which told him he had become altogether too emotionally attached to Ralph.
And Heather.
He straightened as he voiced his decision. “I will be leaving Cornwall tomorrow.”
Heather’s heart skipped several beats at the thought of Maxim’s imminent departure. Of returning to a situation where the two of them greeted each other politely but coolly whenever they chanced to meet in Society. Maxim’s visit and their lovemaking had taken them well beyond such strained politeness.
She drew air into her lungs before speaking. “To visit Wessex again?”
His jaw tightened. “To return to London.”
“Your business here is concluded?” As far as Heather was aware, none of the local people, her family included, had been singled out and accused of smuggling.
“No,” Maxim confirmed harshly. “But I find I am no longer…suited to the task I was given.”
Heather gave a puzzled shake of her head. “I do not understand.”
His mouth twisted into a strained smile, his eyes hooded by heavy lids. “That is because you are still not aware of my real purpose for being here.”
“The fact you spoke with my father seemed to imply it was to seek out smugglers in the area,” she voiced cautiously.
Maxim nodded abruptly. “As it was meant to do.”
Heather swallowed, her mouth having gone dry. Did Maxim know…? Did he somehow know of Ralph’s true parentage? That he was Ralph’s true father?
But how could he know that?
True to his word, James had made sure the birth had not been registered until Ralph was almost three months old. Of course, there were people in the household at Treganon House who knew the truth, so perhaps one of them—
No.
Heather refused to believe one of her loyal staff would ever have broken the trust both she and James had placed in them and told Maxim the truth.
The vicar, then? Maxim had dined with him and his wife just two evenings ago, so perhaps the vicar had mentioned—
Again, no.
Mr. and Mrs. Samuels would never have discussed such a thing at a dinner party.
Perhaps one of the estate workers or tenants?
No. Most of them were not even aware of Ralph’s true birth date.
Besides which, Maxim’s words seemed to indicate he had come here for a purpose. Been sent here to carry out a task. By whom and why were the relevant questions.
A frown creased her brow. “Seeking out smugglers was not your true purpose.”
“No.”
“Then what is?” Heather held her breath as she waited for Maxim to answer.