Читать книгу The Scot - Lyn Stone - Страница 11

Susanna snuggled deep beneath the downy soft covers and reveled in the touch of the man who held her. His hand was pale and graceful, skimming over her body like a whisper-thin scarf, leaving pleasure in its path. “Mmm,” she crooned and arched into his gentle caresses.

She frowned when he suddenly grasped her shoulder too firmly and shook it relentlessly.

“Please, wake, my lady! I’m sent to fetch you! Hurry!”

Susanna’s eyes flew open and she bolted upright in the bed, staring in surprise at a young, unfamiliar, red-faced maid instead of the fashionably pale lover of her dream.

“It—it’s the earl come back,” the maid stammered. “He—he says tell you come quick!”

Father had returned? Something must have gone horribly wrong. Susanna threw back the covers, slipped out of bed and raced into the sitting room. But he wasn’t there.

The maid rushed past her, pointing to the other bedroom. “In there, my lady. He’s been shot! Twice!”

“Mercy, no!” Susanna cried and broke into a run. Just inside his doorway, she ran smack into him. He appeared whole and unbloodied as far as she could tell. She ran her hands over his chest. “Oh, Father! Thank goodness! The girl told me—”

He held her by the shoulders and shook her gently. “Suz, James is wounded. He saved my life. Now we must do all we can to save his.”

She jerked her gaze from her father to the huge tester bed with its ornately carved posts and snowy linens. On it lay the Scot, hands clasped on his chest, stretched out like a corpse.

The back of one hand bore a small bloody gouge. Dark red stained his trousers well above his knee and a copious amount of blood, now dried, marred his high wide brow and the left side of his face. His eyes were closed and he lay motionless except for the almost imperceptible rise and fall of his chest.

Susanna crept around her father and went to the bedside. Tentatively, she lifted the unruly waves off his forehead and saw the deep ugly furrow that still seeped. “Oh, Father, it looks awful!”

“That’s not too serious, I think,” he said, now beside her as they observed. “That leg wound could be, however. The doctor’s on his way. We should get the boy undressed and wash away some of this blood.”

Susanna nodded once as she backed away. “I’ll send in someone with a basin of water and cloths. Shall I call up a footman to assist?”

Her father turned and frowned at her. “He’s your husband, Suz. Won’t you help look after him?”

“But I’ve never…I’m really not…” Helpless to continue, she held out her hands and shrugged.

“Stuff and nonsense, Suz. You’re a grown woman and married now, not some miss-ish little do-nothing. Besides,you preach strength and independence for women, so get yourself over here and help me get his clothes off.”

He shouted over his shoulder to the gawking maid. “You, girl! Bring me that ewer of water and the towel, then go wait by the door to show the doctor in when he comes!”

Susanna stood wringing her hands, uncertain what to do.

“Here, Suz,” her father ordered, “you get his shirt off. I’ll take care of the trousers.”

A bit relieved she’d been offered the upper half instead of the lower, Susanna began with trembling fingers to unbutton the wrinkled linen shirt as far as she could. There was no way to remove it other than over his head. Once committed to the task, she had to figure a way. With all the strength she could muster, she grasped the sides of the open placket and ripped the garment straight down the front.

When she parted it to pull it off his arms, she saw that he wore no under vest. Her father wore those. She remembered hemming them for him when she was learning to sew. Perhaps Scots did not fancy them, or else this man could not afford to have them made or buy one.

She tried not to notice the wide expanse of his bare chest, the mat of dark-brown hair that curled between his…well, whatever the male equivalent of those things were called. She had never before seen a man without a shirt.

Exasperated with herself, Susanna scoffed at her misplaced fascination. Gamely, she tugged the sleeves off his massive arms, trying not to dwell on the power that lay within those muscles. There. She had done it.

Gingerly, she reached out to touch him in the place where his heart must be.

Her father issued a sound of dismay and without thinking, Susanna swiveled to see what he’d found.

“Good heavens!” she gasped, her hands flying to her mouth.

“Yes, it’s worse than I feared.”

“Worse?” Susanna croaked, wide-eyed.

“The bullet’s still in there.”

“Oh. The wound.” She shook her head to clear it of the shocking sight that had captured her attention. Blinking several times, she trained her gaze on the ragged red bullet hole halfway between the knee and the…other place.

“Check his pulse,” her father ordered.

Susanna gladly turned to their patient’s neck. For a long moment, she was uncertain whether the pounding pulse at her fingertips was his or her own. She had discovered his, she decided, feeling the regularly spaced thumping. Hers was racing much faster and at a much more irregular rate. “Steady,” she managed to say.

“Good. Ah, I hear someone. Must be the doctor.”

A tall, thin man entered carrying a black case in one hand. “Well now, what have we here? Stand away and let me see.”

“He’s been shot twice,” her father told the physician. “Once in the head and once in the leg. The bullet’s still lodged in the thigh, I believe.”

The doctor looked up from the patient. “Two pounds sterling whether he survives this or not. Agreed?”

“He will survive or you’ll have no use for two pounds,” the earl said with a quiet, threatening tone Susanna had never heard him use. “What is your name, sir?”

“McNally,” the skinny physician croaked. His black eyes had widened and his face had paled. “I’m no surgeon,” he explained. “I cannot guarantee—”

“Then take your damned leeches and get the hell out of here,” the earl snapped.

The man left so quickly, Susanna barely had time to wonder what they would do now.

Her father took hold of her elbow, bared as it was by her billowing short-sleeved nightrail. “Suz, I can do this, but I’ll need your assistance. Go ahead and cast up your accounts now if your stomach feels weak. And if you faint once we start in on him, I’ll beat you when you come ’round.”

“Father!” she exclaimed, unable to recognize the man she had known all her years.

“Hush and listen to me,” he commanded, pulling out the pocketknife he always carried and examining it. “You send that maid down to the kitchens for boiling water and a large bottle of whisky. Also fetch me your curling iron.”

“My what?”

“Do as I say while I build up the fire.”

“I could call a footman to—”

“Hang the footmen. This is up to us, girl. By the time we get a surgeon awake, into his clothes and up here, this poor fellow could die. His leg’s still bleeding and I daren’t stop that until we get out the bullet. Now go!” He gave her a gentle shove.

A quarter hour later, Susanna joined her father at the bedside again, having done all the tasks he’d set for her. She’d also rushed into a shirtwaist and skirt, cinching her middle with a soft leather belt since she had no time to don her corset. Her face flamed every time she thought how she had darted around in her nightclothes for anyone to see. What must Father think of her?

She watched as he poured whisky over her curling tongs and set the business end of them in the coals. His strange set of surgery tools lay in a pan of hot water, awaiting their baptism in blood. There was the trusty pocketknife he had used long ago to whittle wooden toy animals for her amusement. Also, he had commandeered her sewing scissors, needles and a spool of black thread. Probably the most useful were the small tongs from the kitchen.

“Clean the wound, please,” he instructed her.

Susanna took a soft cloth, dipped it into the hot water and bathed the portion of exposed limb. That’s how she would think of it. Not the Scot’s leg, but a disembodied limb. Not part a living, feeling human being. Thank heavens he was insensate.

But would he stay that way once her father began?

“What might he do when you start to probe?”

“Hmm. You’re right, Suz. We should tie him. We could call some of the staff to hold him down, but the fewer people in here, the better. Besides, I doubt they could keep him subdued, as large as he is.”

Suddenly the Scot shifted, straightening the injured leg and holding it stiff. “Gi’ me a dram and get on with it,” he commanded in a tight voice.

“Oh, my God, he’s awake!” Susanna cried. “Father, he’s awake!”

The Scot eyed her, his deep green eyes flashing with pain and impatience. “And he has a thirst, lass. D’ye mind?”

Susanna looked to her father for permission.

“Go ahead. He’ll bloody well need it.”

Quickly, spilling the liquor over the edge of the glass, she hurried to offer him whisky. Sliding her free arm beneath his neck, she lifted his head enough for him to drink. He gulped down three good-size swallows and clamped his lips shut.

“More,” she coaxed. “Drink until you fall asleep.”

“Nay,” he argued, turning his head away from her effort to force it on him. “Trust me, you dinna want me drunk. I might hurt one of you. This much’ll take the edge off.”

“Hold my hand, then,” she pleaded.

He grunted a short laugh. “And break your fingers? Find somethin’ leather to bite on, aye?”

“Aye!” she gasped, her gaze darting around, unable to find a thing.

He calmly reached out and tugged at her belt until it came free. With morbid fascination, she watched as he laid it beside him, folded it one-handed and put it between his strong white teeth. Then he stretched out his powerful arms, gripped both edges of the mattress, looked at her father and nodded.

“Come lie across his feet to steady him,” her father suggested.

Then she looked at the Scot for his permission. He smiled behind the folded belt and winked as if to reassure her he wouldn’t kick.

“You’ll be fine,” she assured him, her voice breathless with the need to give him what comfort she could. “Father’s done this countless times, I’m certain. Why, in no time you will—”

“Suz! Get to the foot of the bed, would you? And cease the prattle. He knows damn well I’ll do all I can.”

She jumped at the reprimand, then scampered up on the bed. As tightly as possible, she gripped the Scot’s ankles in her hands and lay over them to anchor him firmly to the mattress.

In any other circumstance, she would have protested, but there was nothing she could do but excuse him when he wriggled the toes of his right foot against her breast. After all, the man was half-foxed and in terrible pain.

Just how terrible, she could only imagine in those next few moments as his legs stiffened. She heard the intermittent clink of the makeshift instruments as her father dropped them back into the metal pan. There were several grunts that might have come from either man. She had turned her face away, unable to watch what was happening.

Her father left the bedside for a moment. She heard his footsteps. Shortly thereafter came a sizzling sound, the scent of burned flesh and a groan. The hard muscles locked in her grip and those lying beneath her relaxed.

“He’s out. You can get up now, Suz,” her father said, his voice little more than a whisper.

She collapsed for a minute, only then realizing that she had been as fraught with tension as the patient himself. Her stomach roiled.

“Get up, Suz. You’ll need to sew that head wound before he wakes again.”

She couldn’t. She simply could not.

“But I have to,” she muttered to herself. If the Scot could bear up under what he had without complaint, then who was she to cavil at such a simple ordeal? Bracing herself and calling up her fortitude, Susanna slipped off the bed backward, landed on her stockinged feet and went to thread her needle.

Surprisingly, she managed quite well and was feeling rather smug when her father led her into the sitting room and offered her a bracing bit of brandy.

“I have to leave, Suz. You’ll be on your own to look after him.”

She choked, coughed and fought for breath while he patted her soundly on the back. “Wh-why must you?” she sputtered.

He crouched on the floor beside where she was sitting and took her hands in his. “Because someone wants me dead and if I stay, that could put you and James in danger.”

“No! Suppose they follow you and—”

“You mustn’t worry.” He was shaking his head and smiling at her. “You see, I’m sailing after all. They’ll know I’ve gone, but not how. Once I reach London, I’ll hire the protection I need and a Bow Street man to find out who is responsible for this.”

“Father, I am so afraid for you after tonight’s shooting.”

“Two of the men are dead. The one who escaped will need time to hire more help and find out where I’ve gone.”

He squeezed her hands. “And you, my sweet girl, will be safer without me around. Still, I want you to promise me that you will head for the Highlands as soon as James is able to travel by coach. No one can touch you here at the Royal, so stay inside until you go. When you are ready to leave, do so with as little fanfare as possible. James will know how to arrange that. I’m leaving him well armed. Trust me, there’s none better to protect you.”

She sniffed. “He does seem rather proficient at stopping bullets.”

The earl chuckled. “He’s a large target, I grant you, but he’s also a bang-up shot. I am leaving you in the best of hands.”

Susanna knew she couldn’t dissuade him. “Go then and Godspeed.”

He released her hands and stood. “I shall wire you the minute I arrive.”

“Assuming they have the telegraph where I’m going.”

“Yes, assuming that. If not, I will get a message to you. Return one to me to let me know how James is getting on. Mind you keep an eye on him. Expect some fever, but I’m sure he’ll be fine.”

“You have done that before, haven’t you?” she asked, inclining her head toward the bedroom where he had just performed surgery.

“A time or two in the wars,” he admitted, “long before you were born.”

Susanna jumped up then and threw her arms around him. “Please, please take great care. I no longer care that you gave me away to him. I still love you, Father.”

He dropped a long kiss on top of her tousled hair. “And I love you, Suz. I promise you’ll see the wisdom in this one day.”

She doubted there was any wisdom in it at all, but that was the least of her worries right now. She had a husband in the next room who might die if she proved a poor nurse. And a father who might die if he made a misstep and trusted the wrong person.

James woke with a start. Rain pounded against the windows as incessantly as pain lashed his leg and head. His throat felt so dry, he knew he’d have trouble speaking. “Water,” he groaned, wishing he could throw himself out that window.

No one answered. He turned his head on the pillow, not an easy feat. It felt as if it might roll right off onto the floor. His lass was curled in a very uncomfortable-looking chair not three feet from the bed.

“Suz,” he croaked. Still she didn’t move. She was asleep. For some reason that made him angry. The least she could do was wake up and watch him die.

He called to her again, louder this time. “Susanna!”

Her eyes flew open as she scrambled up from the chair, the act lacking her usual grace. “Hm? Oh!” she cried. Without pause, she reached for the basin on the table beside the bed.

James watched her hands plunge into the water and frantically wring out a large cloth. She slapped it on his bare chest and moved it side to side.

“Damn me!” he cried while icy tendrils streaked out from the site of impact. “I’m not a floor that needs scrubbin’!”

She backed off, leaving the rag where it was. Tears leaked from her reddened eyes and her fisted hands covered her mouth. “You are awake,” she mumbled, adding a sniff.

“And freezing, thanks be to you!” He shivered, grabbing with one hand at the covers which lay twisted round his waist and flinging the cold soggy cloth off himself with the other. It landed on the floor with a plop. “Where’s your da?”

“Gone,” she said, releasing a deep shuddery breath and running a trembling hand through her hair. She looked a fright.

James narrowed his eyes and observed her a bit more carefully. Her simple skirt and shirtwaist were splotched with dark spots and looked as if they’d been wadded up somewhere for days before she donned them. The pale translucence of her skin troubled him. He’d seen statues with more color. “Poor lass, what’s happened to you then?” He reached out one hand to her.

She stared at it, but moved no closer. “You…I thought you might die,” she whispered, her gaze darting to the lower end of the bed.

James smiled up at her. “Ah. You’ve been worried.”

Her nod was jerky and she wavered a bit, unsteady on her feet.

“Well, my head’s fair screaming and the leg’s paining me some, but I’ll live. Help me up?”

“No! Wait!” she cried, rushing to the bedside again, bending over him and pressing both palms against his shoulders.

Not much need since he’d already discovered the agony of trying to rise. And the impossibility of it. His breath rushed in and out. He held it for an instant, trying to still his panic. He felt incredibly sick.

“I…I canna move my legs,” he rasped, determined not to scream the words. Susanna had thrown herself across his body to hold him down and he couldn’t see whether his legs were even there under the covers. Had a surgeon amputated? He had read once that pain could be felt long after limbs had been taken off.

Susanna raised herself a bit from her restraining position and looked him in the eye. “Be calm. Please be calm. If you thrash about you might hurt yourself worse than you already are.”

He bit his lips, feeling the dryness. Everywhere she touched him prickled with pain, his skin overly sensitized by the fever. “I won’t be thrashin’, lass. My legs…” He searched her eyes, praying he could take the news with courage.

“Oh. I forgot. You could not get up even if you tried.” She brushed a hand over his forehead. She seemed a bit steadier now and even offered him a saucy smile.

“Good God, woman, are you heartless? Where’s your pity?”

She got up, pushing off him with a purpose. “Oh, spare me the dramatics, will you? I shall untie your ankles if you promise not to—”

“You tied me to the bloody bed?” he shouted, his arms flailing as he tried to sit up. God in heaven, he wished he’d not promised her da he wouldn’t beat her!

She had paused now, her arms folded tightly across her chest. “You keep a civil tongue in that head of yours, sir, or I shall call a footman to bind your arms as well. And your mouth!” she warned him with a glare. “Now that you are lucid, there is no excuse for cursing!”

The curses he kept to himself in that instant would have curled her hair.

“There now,” she said, nodding. “You see the importance of behaving yourself and shall be rewarded.” In moments, she had loosened the strips of linen that bound his ankles to the bedposts.

James breathed easier now, overwhelmingly relieved to see the columns of both legs right where they should be there beneath the blankets. He couldn’t seem to take his eyes off the welcome sight. One thigh was mounded over with what must be the bandages covering his wound. Gingerly, he tested his ability to move it. Bless God, it worked to some extent. It ached, but the pain was not piercing so long as he kept it still.

His head hurt much worse, as though it would explode. He reached up and explored his brow, feeling a sticking plaster.

“Either a bullet grazed it or you scraped it on a low hanging branch,” Susanna told him. “I stitched it myself.”

He heard the pride in her voice at the accomplishment. “Congratulations,” he snapped, busy raising the covers to have a closer look at the condition of his lower appendages. All was in order. And bare as the day he was born. He shot her a glance and saw her blush.

“Get that footman you spoke of. I need assistance.”

“I am here,” she informed him primly. “What do you need?”

James felt himself heat under her glare. And it wasn’t the fever. “Just get him in here! Now!”

She turned and trudged toward the door muttering. “I believe I liked you better when you were insensate.”

“How long was I out?” he asked. “Did I miss a day?”

“Three,” she answered succinctly, then disappeared into the other room.

Three days? She had tended him for that long? That must be why she appeared rather frazzled. He’d been a trial to her, James thought with a sigh. For three days she had nursed him dutifully and he’d rewarded her diligence and wifely care with sniping remarks and accusations. He would have to make it up to her somehow.

Before she returned, James had relegated his little wife to the status of sainthood and promised himself he would do all in his power to deserve such a woman. Had any man ever been so lucky? He didn’t think so.

The paragon swept in, her energies apparently renewed and the aforementioned footman in tow. She smiled at the servant. “Here is Thomas Snively who has been a godsend to us these past few days. I suppose you don’t remember him at all?”

“No, I suppose not.” James muttered, regarding the handsome, strapping fellow dressed in the fine hotel livery of dark wine trimmed in silver. “Snively.”

“Good morning, sir,” the man said. “We’re most happy to see you are better today. How may I assist you?”

Why was Susanna smiling so adoringly? Snively was obviously English, another mark against him, second only to his appearance. James felt the brutal stab of jealousy, a relatively unknown emotion for him and damned uncomfortable. He glared at Susanna, immediately reassessing her status as angel of mercy. “You may go now.”

Her lips pursed, the smile wiped away as if it had never existed. Of course, she was no longer looking at Snively. “I shall not be dismissed in such curt fashion!” she declared.

James closed his eyes and said softly through his gritted teeth, “Then I implore you, lady. Would you kindly vacate this chamber in order to spare yourself embarrassment?”

“Very well, since you put it so nicely.” She picked up her skirts and swept gracefully—and hurriedly—out of the room.

James heaved a huge sigh of relief and glanced up at Snively who looked vastly amused. “I make it policy never to strike a man bearing no threat, Thomas Snively, but I will have that smirk off your puckish face.”

“Yes, sir.” The smile sobered instantly.

“And your eyes off my wife,” James added.

“She’s an eyeful, I grant,” Snively said with a wry inclination of his head. He rocked on the balls of his feet. “But I have one as lovely at home who would slay me if I poached. Not that I’m inclined. Now should you like to test that leg or shall I fetch a bedpan?”

James groaned. “I’ve made a right jackass of myself, aye?”

“That you have,” agreed Snively as he approached and offered his arm. “But we’ll set you to rights soon enough. Ever been shot before?”

“No.” They continued to chat as Snively lent his support, seeming quite the expert at directing James in how to manage the damaged leg. In no time at all, he was standing, resting a moment or two at Thomas’s order, to recover from the dizziness of being upright after three days in bed.

Once he was back in bed, the dressings on his leg had been changed and the pain had subsided a bit, Thomas nodded. “This afternoon, I shall fetch you crutches. I expect you’ll be quite mobile in a few days’ time, though I shouldn’t attempt travel for at least a fortnight.”

“You sound like a doctor,” James accused.

“Guilty as charged. That is, I hope to be one day. I read medicine at University for six months of the year. The other six I work to finance my studies.”

James was impressed. “I wish you luck then. Believe me, I ken how difficult that must be.”

“I know you do. Lady Susanna told me about your work here in the city and why you do it. Most nobles would simply run up debts and let the devil take the hindmost.”

James ignored that. He knew it was true. “I need to send word to my employer. He’ll want to find a replacement.”

“Done, sir. Your lady asked me to discover your former address and settle matters with your landlord, so I did.”

“My tools and things? Where are they?”

“Here, of course. Everything but your clothing is crated and stored safely. I took it upon myself to ask the innkeep where you had been working and went to the construction site. Mr. Greaves sent his regrets that you were injured and produced a letter of recommendation and a cheque for the balance of your pay for the work accomplished. He bade me tell you that he will be hard-pressed to find another so skilled, but for you not to worry.”

For a moment, James was so overwhelmed he couldn’t speak. Then he shook his head. “’Tis good of you to go to so much trouble—”

Snively backed to the door. “No trouble at all, sir. It is common knowledge now, what you did for the earl. He has been quite generous to us during his visits to Edinburgh and is a particular favorite of the Royal Arms staff. I was glad to do whatever I could for you. You will let me know if there is anything else you need?”

James nodded. He felt humbled and not a little chagrined. He wished he were a wealthy man like Earl Eastonby so he could reward Thomas Snively properly. He found he didn’t much like being beholden, yet he would dislike it even more if he had to ask Susanna for funds. “I’ll owe you, Mr. Snively,” he said.

“It’s Tom, sir. And I shall hold you to the debt if you don’t mind. For starters, you might write a letter of commendation on my behalf to the concierge. I’m due a raise in pay and that might clinch it.”

“Good as done, Tom,” James promised. He trusted a man who understood obligation and the need to repay a good deed. “I want to thank you, too, for getting me through three days of fever.”

The footman threw back his head and laughed. “That was no fever, sir. A bit perhaps, but not enough to lay you low.”

“Nay?” James rubbed his aching head with the fingers of one hand. He realized then that the wound itself was barely sore, but the devil’s own cymbals were still clanging rhythmically inside his skull. “Then why do you think I was out for the count?”

Thomas explained. “Had I discovered before last evening that her ladyship was pouring liquor down your throat with an invalid-feeder to kill your pain, I would have dissuaded her sooner. If you’ll pardon the expression, sir, you’ve been drunk as a lord for three days.”