Anne Barbour (19 page)

Chapter Twelve

Catherine did not know how many times that night she paced the perimeter of the small rug that lay near her bed. For some hours she attempted sleep, but, giving up at last, she had taken up her peregrination, her steps marking the passing of the endless minutes. Finally, like a piece of driftwood tossed on a beach, she stood once more by the window. It was almost dawn, she noted abstractedly. Treetops could be seen silhouetted against the lightening sky, and the grass was losing its mantle of dappled silver to return to its customary color.

Wearily, she began to turn away toward her bed, but a flicker of something dark caught her eye. Yes, there—just beyond the copse of trees that marked the boundary between the parkland and the Home Farm, a horse and rider made their way slowly toward the house.

He was back!

She fought the urge to run from her bedchamber to intercept Lord Justin—to scream her rage and pain at him. She would do nothing of the kind, of course. As she had promised herself, she would remain silent. In the morning she would notify the magistrate of the traitor’s presence in her home and then—and then matters could take their course.

She turned away once more, and once more was brought up short. There was something odd about the way Lord Justin and Caliban progressed. The great horse was not precisely trotting, but he was moving at a speed too hasty to be called a walk. His rider seemed to be having difficulty maintaining his position on Caliban’s back. Why, he was not returning to the stables, but had turned toward the front of the house. Good God! He was hurt! She could see clearly now that his face was as white as the bit of shirt that could be seen under his tattered coat.

Unthinking, she whirled about and ran downstairs. Flinging open the front door, she raced down the shallow flight of steps just as Justin approached the house. Her feet scarcely touching the gravel she flew to Justin’s side as he slid from Caliban’s back. She realized immediately that he had not dismounted, but simply fallen from the horse. She could not hold him upright, but fell with him to the ground, her hands and the front of her dress covered with his blood. At her gasp of horror, he opened eyes that had fallen shut some miles ago.

“ ‘Lo, Catherine.” He smiled muzzily. “I seem to ... I seem to be in a ... a spot of trouble ... again.”

His gray eyes clouded like the sky on a dull day, and his lids drooped closed again as he slumped against her breast.

“Well, I’ll have to say,” remarked Adam some hours later, snipping thread from the last suture in Justin’s side, “the advent of this fellow in the neighborhood has done wonders for my medical skills. I’ve had more opportunity to practice on him than I’ve had in a year of dosing all the rest of the citizens of Hertfordshire put together. He must be luckier than anyone else in the county, too. If the ball had entered a hair’s breadth to the east, it would have hit his intestines, or something else equally critical. As it
was, it passed right through, sparing him any nasty excavation work. No, he’s not going to die, Catherine,” he concluded testily. “You can relax. You and Mariah and Lady Jane, as well.”

Catherine sank back against her chair, feeling completely boneless. After Justin had been brought upstairs, his form a deadweight in the arms of the footmen who bore him, Mariah and she had been unable to wholly stop the river of blood that poured from his wound. Adam had arrived a good hour after that to sew him up—during which Justin had not regained consciousness. At times his breath was barely perceptible as it sighed through bloodless lips.

“Are—are you sure, Adam? He is so pale—and still. And his breathing—”

“I didn’t say he’s ready to spring up and dance a reel,” retorted Adam austerely. “I said he’s going to live. At least it looks that way, if nothing untoward occurs. He’s lost a lot of blood, and the ball tore up a great deal of muscle and tissue. I believe it’s too much to hope that he won’t run a fever, but he’s young—and healthy as that misshapen horse of his. If we can control the fever, he should come around.”

Catherine, limp with relief, drew in a long, shuddering breath. She berated herself for this show of weakness, particularly since she did not, she told herself once again, care if Lord Justin Belforte lived or died. In fact, in calling for help to scoop him into
the house to save his worthless hide, she had probably been simply postponing the inevitable. She experienced an unpleasant start at the thought.

Still, she could not leave him lying in front of the house while his life’s blood drained away into the gravel. She had, she reminded herself sourly, done nothing about contacting Sir Reginald. Well, she supposed she could wait until Lord Justin had regained consciousness before turning him over to the law.

Her fingers clenched in her lap. She might as well be honest with herself. She did not want to contact Sir Reginald. She wanted to confront Lord Justin, to vent her spleen and to see if he had any explanation for his perfidy. Yes, that was it, wasn’t it? she thought in a wave of self-disgust. She wanted to give his lordship an opportunity to exonerate himself, to somehow exculpate himself in her eyes.

Dear God, she must harden herself. There was nothing he could say that would excuse his villainy. Why must she—?

“What?” she asked vacantly, aware that Adam had addressed her.

“I said, my dear, that you may safely leave your visitor in the care of one of the maids now.”

He rose and held out his hand to Catherine, but her hands remained in her lap.

“No!” she said explosively. “I shall tend him myself.”

Adam’s mouth tightened. “But that is highly improper, Catherine. Lady Jane—?”

He turned to the older woman for support, but she merely smiled placatingly. “I think we need not worry about propriety, Adam. Marian and I will be here most of the time to help with the work of tending Mr. Smith. Now, don’t worry,” she admonished. “You know that once Catherine has her mind set on something, she can’t be moved with blasting powder.”

Adam frowned but made no response. He turned on his heel and stumped from the room. After a moment, Mariah rose from her chair and hurried after him.

Observing her approach, Adam slowed his pace down the corridor until her steps matched his.

“Really, Adam,” she gasped a little breathlessly. “Catherine is merely reverting to her ministering angel mode. She would behave so to anyone who lay injured under her roof.”

Adam snorted. “Seems to me her concern for that fellow is nowhere close to angelic.”

Mariah placed a hand on his sleeve. “Truly, Adam,” she said
anxiously. “I do not think you have anything over which to concern yourself.”

“I’m not concerned,” he responded in a stiff voice. “It is only that—” Catching sight of the dismay in her gaze, he halted suddenly, a painful smile curving his lips. “I think you have a touch of the ministering angel in your own makeup, my dear. Thank you for caring.” He sighed. “I had not thought myself so obvious, although perhaps it is only so to one who takes the trouble to look. I sometimes wonder if I keep on trailing after her out of sheer habit, for I certainly seem to be making little headway.”

“Oh, Adam, don’t say that. I know Catherine is fond of you!”

“I somehow don’t find that very encouraging,” replied Adam. “She is fond of the vicar, too, but I do not believe she nourishes a deathless passion for him in her bosom. Catherine knows me to be her friend, and I think she values that—but, if she feels anything stronger, I’d be willing to eat that tapestry.” He gestured vaguely toward the wall.

“Perhaps it will come with time,” Marian insisted.

Adam laid his hand over hers, his fingers tightening. “Thank you, Mariah. You are a great consolation to me.”

She lifted her gaze to his as though seeking a hint of irony in his words. Finding none, she lowered her eyes in confusion and urged him hurriedly to the front door.

In Justin’s bedchamber, Catherine sat alone with her patient. Lady Jane had taken herself off some minutes previously with the admonition to her granddaughter not to wear herself to flinders caring for the young man.

Justin had not moved since he had been brought into the room by two footmen and laid solicitously on the bed. His clothing, except for his drawers, had been removed, and now he lay silent and pale, looking unwontedly vulnerable under the coverlet. His latent strength was still apparent, but now he looked less an animal of prey and more a lost child. His breathing came slow and shallow, but steady.

As she gazed at him, unblinking, the thought came to her yet again. Why? Why had Lord Justin chosen to deceive her so? Why had he set about to attract her? Would it not have been enough to trick her and her little family into providing a haven for him? Surely, he must have sensed that he had fallen in with precisely the sort of ménage who could be counted on to give a stranger safe harbor. But no, he had wanted more. He had wanted her heart.

And she had damned near given it to him.

Now she sat like a maiden chained to a rock, waiting for an explanation. For what little good it would do her. AH she’d get would be more lies. At least, this time, she would have her guard in place—although, to be truthful, she’d thought it in place long before she had given herself to Belforte’s embrace such a short time ago. Odd, the encounter in the corridor had taken place just hours ago, but it seemed like a lifetime.

Abruptly, she sat forward in her chair as Lord Justin’s head turned restlessly on his pillow and his breath caught suddenly. His eyelids fluttered and opened. His eyes, darkened to the blue-steel of a rifle barrel, stared into hers, and once again she had that eerie sense of communion with him as their gazes locked. With a physical effort, she turned away.

“Catherine?” he whispered.

“Yes—my lord,” Catherine replied evenly.

Another phrase had begun to form on Justin’s lips, but he stopped abruptly. His eyes widened, and for a long moment, he watched her as a number of emotions displayed themselves on his mobile features. Catherine wondered what was going on behind those gun-metal eyes. Was he concocting another story for her edification? Was he working up a convincing explanation for his behavior?

At last, he raised a hand to her. “So you know,” he whispered weakly.

“Yes, Lord Justin.” Catherine was pleased that her voice showed no sign of the turmoil that raged within her. “I know who you are and what you’ve done.”

“I see.” He did not ask how she had come by her information. “And now?”

“And now,” she continued in a colorless tone, “it remains only to turn you over to the authorities.” So much for her decision not to confront him with his crimes.

“Catherine, please ...”

She carefully schooled her expression to one of stony implacability.

“You must do what you think you must,” he said at last, his voice a papery rasp, “but please, give me an opportunity to tell you what happened ... to tell you—

“More lies?” she interrupted harshly.

To her surprise, he grinned, although by now he was growing visibly weaker. “No, the time for lies is past. Anyway, I have pretty much run out of the good ones. I promise you—for whatever that’s worth—that I will tell you the truth. I never lie, you
see, when I have promised not to.” The smile dropped from his lips. “I will tell you everything ... if you will let me. I am not a traitor, Catherine ... but there is one ... a traitor ... lurking about somewhere ... and I must find out...”

His voice faded to little more than an attenuated sigh. “Please, wait, Catherine, before you throw me to the lions. Let me ...” Lord Justin’s hand fell back on the coverlet, and his eyes closed.

Damn him! she thought savagely. He knew she would do as he asked. Despite her best instincts to the contrary, she would wait to hear him out before she went to Sir Reginald. What kind of wizardry did the man possess to make her go against everything in her that screamed, “Beware!” He had already caused her more heartache than she would have thought possible. Why was she ready to give him the opportunity for more?

She peered at him more closely. Though his eyes were closed, and he was obviously no longer conscious, he had not fallen back into a peaceful repose. He continued to move restlessly under the coverlet. She placed a hand on his forehead. It was very warm.

It grew warmer. Despite liberal doses of the drafts left by Adam, which Catherine and Mariah got down him only with a great deal of difficulty, Justin’s fever rose, until by that evening he was burning with it. His eyes, when they opened occasionally, glittered in an unfocused stare, and two flags of bright, unhealthy color flared in his cheeks.

The heat raged in his body all that night and the next day. For hours, Catherine, and sometimes Mariah, sat by his bed bathing him with cloths soaked in cool water. On the evening of the second day, he became delirious. He mumbled incoherently, at times becoming distraught.

“I can’t breathe,” he gasped at one point, as Catherine laved his face for the thousandth time, while Mariah attempted to still him as he thrashed against his pillows. “I’m drowning!”

Lady Jane stood at the foot of the bed, her hand at her throat, her face a mask of distress.

“Behind you! Look out, Ned! It’s an ambush!” Justin fought wildly to sit up. “The French! Huerta... must tell...” He fell back again on the bed, momentarily exhausted. “Rivenchy ...” he whispered brokenly.

“What is he talking about?” whispered Mariah as she attempted to straighten the bed clothes and move him into a more comfortable position.

Catherine bit her lip. Lord, would the man condemn himself with his own tongue? She turned swiftly lo the other two women.

“Why don’t you two seek your beds? I’ll watch our patient for a while,” she continued over their incipient protests, “and you can come spell me later. There’s no point in all of us wearing ourselves out at once. A fine parcel of wet noodles we shall be in the morning.”

Marian and Lady Jane exchanged dubious glances, but in the end Catherine had her way. Alone with Lord Justin once more, she contemplated him silently, once again chiding herself. She really did not know why she had sent the other two women from the room, or why she felt the need to stop him from accusing himself. Or why she knew an urge to press her fingers to the spot on his temples where his pulse could be seen beating wildly in faint blue lines under his skin. His lashes, absurdly long for a man, swept over his cheeks in ashy smudges, and his mouth was a thin slash in the sharp planes of his face.