Chapter Twelve
IN THE UPSTAIRS HALLWAY, Alfreda was drawn to the far end of it where Gabriel stood with his ear pressed to Lord Wolfe’s door. She approached to do the same, but he stepped back, saying in an urgent whisper, “Wait! I think she’s about to burst out the door.”
“It’s not gone well?” Alfreda said with a frown.
“Indeed not.”
After a few moments when the door hadn’t opened, they both pressed their ears to it. Facing each other, Alfreda saw Gabriel grinning, as if he did this sort of thing often. Alfreda was only concerned for Brooke and would enter the room without permission if she thought Brooke needed help. Gabriel’s amusement annoyed her. She didn’t like sharing an intrigue of any sort, even one so minor as eavesdropping, with such an impertinent fellow.
Halfway between the bed and the door, Brooke was having trouble dealing with her own anger. She understood Lord Wolfe’s rage. Her father had been just as furious after the Regent’s emissary had left. Men who commanded everything around them naturally balked when they had to accept commands from someone more powerful than they were. But she shouldn’t be on the receiving end of that rage when she’d played no part in causing it. Robert had caused it.
You are sister to the man responsible for killing mine.
Brooke didn’t doubt that her brother was capable of any perfidy, but murder? Responsible could mean all sorts of things. But she couldn’t ask the wolf again for an explanation no matter how rampant her curiosity now was, not after the way he’d reacted to the subject. He might get out of that bed to demand an eye for an eye by killing her. She didn’t know him and what he was capable of, and he obviously wasn’t going to let her find out.
She didn’t leave the room. She was still angry enough at him for refusing even to pretend to be civil anymore to march right back to the side of his bed. He’d no doubt thought he’d just chased her out of his house. Too bad for him.
But he didn’t look disappointed, though his single raised brow spoke volumes. Was he waiting for a fight? Hoping for one? Or just curious about why she hadn’t fled?
As she gazed at the half-naked viscount who lay before her, she thought it was a good thing that she’d been raised by down-to-earth Alfreda rather than a proper lady. Otherwise she would be more embarrassed by Lord Wolfe’s undress. She noticed the sweat on his brow. It was early summer, but the room wasn’t warm enough to cause it. He must be running a fever. She stepped closer to the bed and looked at the wound on his left thigh to see if it was inflamed.
Watching her, he asked, “The sight of leeches doesn’t bother you?”
“I’m not repulsed by something that helps to heal.”
Brooke knew some herbs that could draw out the poisons in his wound more effectively than leeches, but she didn’t say so.
Instead she said, “May I?” Without waiting for his answer, she gently pressed a finger to his flesh near his stitches to see if yellow liquid would drain from the wound. It didn’t occur to her, at least not immediately, that she shouldn’t be touching him at all, that she was breaking a clear rule of etiquette. She felt her cheeks warming but she willed away the blush, reminding herself that he’d broken a couple of more important rules by insisting she enter a room where he lay less than half-covered by a sheet and by kissing her!
“These stitches look fresh.”
“How would you know?”
Now he sounded a bit testy. He obviously didn’t want her help for any reason. Yet she did have a reason, but she wasn’t going to explain to him that hating her brother as much as she did, it would give her perverse pleasure to heal his mortal enemy. The wolf’s dying wasn’t going to help her—unless he did it after they were married. Damn Robert for putting that thought in her head.
Keeping her eyes on his wound, she answered, “There is fresh bleeding around your stitches and not because of the leeches. I think you haven’t been following your doctor’s orders.”
“You are the reason the wound needed to be re-stitched today.”
Truly? He was going to blame her for that, too? Because he was too stubborn not to stay in bed and give his leg time to heal?
She still wouldn’t meet his eyes, afraid she’d get mesmerized by them again—or frightened into backing off—but she said, “Good. Reopening the wound drained it, which will heal the wound faster than those leeches will.”
“How d’you know?”
How to answer that without revealing too much of herself? Evasively! “It’s common knowledge in Leicestershire. And there are other ways to draw out the poisons more quickly.”
“A woman doctor? I’m impressed that you found a school to teach you.”
She heard the sarcasm. But he was right, no school would teach her. But Alfreda had. It wasn’t in her to let his condition worsen if she could prevent it, no matter if she might suffer for it afterward.
“D’you realize you are in danger of losing your leg if the poisons spread? Your leeches aren’t even close enough to the wound to do any good, and they will draw more good blood than bad.”
He snorted at her. “Your prognosis is not a trained one, so don’t expect me to believe you know what you are talking about. Dr. Bates would have warned me if my condition were as dire as you are suggesting. In a few days the doctor will return and prove you wrong.”
She supposed Dominic’s reasoning was sound from his perspective . . . well, from any male’s perspective. Like most men, he was absolutely certain that a woman could not possibly know more about any subject than a man did.
So she moved back away from him with a shrug. “You will do as you please, of course. But should you change your mind, my maid, Alfreda, who has great knowledge of herbal remedies, might know how to fix you, if I can convince her to help.”
“Convince?” he scoffed. “She’s a maid. You give her the order—”
“No, I do not. She raised me. From the week of my birth she’s been more a mother to me than mine ever was. I don’t treat her like a servant and never will. And she’s only ever helped people who can’t afford a real doctor, which means she’s never helped a lady or a lord before. So as I said, I could try to convince her to have a look at your wound, but she may balk at breaking that rule of hers.”
“So she’s a healer, just not a traditional one?” he speculated.
Brooke didn’t answer. She wasn’t about to give away Alfreda’s secrets. She shouldn’t even have made the offer. He would probably survive for a few more days.
But her silence prompted him to say, “I’m aware there are self-trained healers with knowledge that has been passed down from one generation to the next who still treat the sick in areas where doctors are not available. This far north, we are lucky to have even one doctor who lives nearby. But why would your maid have a rule against helping the nobility?”
She’d revealed too much! This closeness to him must be rattling her thoughts. She blanched when he added, “Is she a witch?”
“Don’t be absurd! There are no such things.”
“Of course there are. It was a witch who cursed my family.”
He believed he was cursed? She was incredulous. He was an educated man, wasn’t he? He should know better than to succumb to superstition. But then it dawned on her that he was going to use that supposed curse as another means to get her to flee. He must think that if he professed to believe in it, then she would, too. Ha! She wasn’t falling for that ploy.
He didn’t say anything more about his family curse. He closed his eyes instead. Apparently, he’d taxed what little strength he had. They shouldn’t have met yet. He should have waited until his fever was gone and he was not in pain.
“You should rest if you hope to survive until your doctor returns,” she suggested matter-of-factly, and turned toward the door.
“You can ask your maid,” he said, opening his eyes. “But why do you even want to help me?”
Not expecting the concession, she glanced back at him. “Because you are going to be my husband.”
He growled at that answer. She raised a brow, silently questioning if he was going to be the one to fail to comply with the Regent’s demand.
“So you think you can make me love you by healing me?”
“Not a’tall. I’m confident that you will find many other reasons to love me.”
He didn’t seem to like that answer and scowled darkly. “You are mistaken, Brooke Whitworth. I am not pleased to allow you into my home, nor should you feel welcome here, because you are not.”
Her back stiffened. She had been nothing but cordial, even helpful to him. “Then tell me to go.”
He didn’t. No, of course he wouldn’t. He’d already made it clear he wanted her to do the fleeing on her own.
“Just as I thought,” she added bitterly. “You are as stuck with me as I am with you, no matter how much we both hate it.”