The Rogue's Surrender (The Nelson's Tea Series Book 3) (25 page)

Mercy spoke without breaking concentration. “For as long as my father brought injured men into the tunnels beneath our home.” She lowered her head to closely examine a five-inch gash that ran along the right side of Percy’s ribs.

She glanced at Jeffers. “Wrap his ribs to stop the bleeding.”

“Good God,” Gillian exclaimed, placing her fist over her mouth as if she was going to be sick.

“What is it, baroness?” Mercy asked, frowning. “Is something wrong?”

“I just… I had no idea that Percy had been hurt this badly. If only I…” Her face grew ashen, and she turned away, borrowing the wall to hold herself upright.

Simon moved to Gillian’s side. He took his wife in his arms. “There. There. He did this for us, darling.”

Tears cascaded from Constance’s eyes as she looked on. “Uncle Simon, what’s wrong with Gillian? She’s never acted this way before. Is she injured?”

He immediately shook his head. “No.”

Constance stood back helplessly studying Mercy’s bloodstained hands and then her own. “What else can I do? If there is anything I can do to help keep my husband alive, Mercy, tell me and I shall do it. I cannot lose him.”

“Anything?” Garrick choked out.

Would Constance advocate amputation? Percy had staunchly protested against Russell removing their good friend, Captain Henry Guffald’s leg. Now it was up to him to do the same for Percy.

Garrick stepped back, struggling to fight off haunting images of suffering sailors struggling to maintain dignity as they worked along the docks. He thought of Henry’s exertions to maintain coveted naval rank with a distinctive limp and the lengths Henry had gone to deliver Garrick’s cartel in order to prove himself just as capable as any other officer in His Majesty’s navy.

What would become of them without Percy? Nelson’s death had been a blow unlike any other. Percy would never survive as an invalid, incapable of serving England. And Nelson’s Tea could not lose such a vital, commandeering presence.

Garrick’s mind turned to Mercy, forced at an early age to attend seriously injured men. What nightmarish things had she seen, done? Did this explain why she didn’t flinch when she looked into his face?

She moved around his dying friend, speaking calmly to Constance, soothing the duchess’s fears.

Garrick resorted to reciting Nelson’s code. It was the one thing that helped him regain a foothold.

Induce the enemy, tempt it to react.

Ensure capture. “No captain can do very wrong if he places his ship alongside that of the enemy.

Always be on hand to assist friends.

Maintain a degree of coolness and deliberation in forming plans of escape.

Execute with astonishing ardor and heroism.

Was this their enemy’s ploy? Infiltrate and destroy? Mercy was a master of deception. Did she know the inner workings of Nelson’s Tea, the code?

Esmeralda had taken Mercy’s place. What if Mercy had sent Esmeralda to her death in a guise to entrap Garrick? What if Murray had not been working alone aboard his ship? What if all of this — everything — had been a ruse to get to Simon and Percy, to ensure the gold made it to England, and that Melville took the blame for crimes he hadn’t committed?

Candlelight flickered, casting bodies into moving shadows. Instruments clanked, the sound disrupting his sanity. Pain engulfed him. He knew the reality of things, even as his vision narrowed and sounds within the room became muted to his ears. He blinked back dizzying sensations. Nausea swept over him.

No captain can do wrong.

Be on hand to assist friends.

Maintain a degree of…

Seeing Percy lying helpless played tricks with his mind. He might not have been able to foresee Holt and Murray’s betrayals but he’d be damned if he’d allow anyone to harm one of his friends.

In the ether, he heard Mercy speak quietly to Jeffers as the two of them poured brandy over Percy’s wounds.

The duke white-knuckled Constance’s hand, crying out in pain.

Garrick froze. For one disorienting moment, the sights, sounds, and close confines of the cradle reminded him of
El Aguila
and the torment he’d suffered there.

Devil damn me, what is wrong? Why can’t I move?
Mercy didn’t flinch. She’d shown her mettle by half. She’d been hunted by the French, crueler enemies than the Spanish, and targeted for assassination. She’d doggedly searched the
Priory
for clues to her brother’s activities, never unwavering in her faith of him. She’d discovered the gold, revealed its existence, and helped him transport the find back to England. Her only request? Produce her brother. Prove the boy was safe.

All she cared about was making San Sebastian a safe harbor for her family. Were these the actions of a traitor? Had he not moved heaven and hell to do the same?

Be on hand to assist friends.

“No matter what happens,” Garrick said, the weight of the world settling on his shoulders as he came to his senses. “Do not take Percy’s legs.”

Why was Garrick
so offensive?

“Save him, Mercy.” Tears flowed down Constance’s cheeks. Color drained from her face. Her cousin’s misery tugged at Mercy’s heartstrings so shamefully, Mercy would have collapsed to her knees if Constance and Percy didn’t depend on her. “Save him, no matter how it has to be done.”

No matter how?

Mercy said a silent prayer drastic measures would not have to be taken should gangrene set in. Thankfully, Jeffers had already put together a compound of tetter berries and one blade that would help stave off infection. Doctor Russell, whoever he was, had taught Jeffers apothecary methods well. Still, she prayed the doctor would arrive shortly, taking critical decisions out of her hands.

She sucked air into her deprived lungs.

“War makes people do unspeakable things.” Was the hollow ache penetrating her voice audible to Percy’s friends and loved ones? “Percy is in no danger from me.”

She’d been forced to remove a man’s limb once. That moment had been so horrific, she’d do anything, to include throwing herself off a cliff, not to relive it. “I would never take a man’s limb unless given no other option.”

Constance choked back a sob. “Let us pray it doesn’t come to that.”

Simon glared at Garrick.

Percy fought to open his eyes and mumbled. “C-Capital.”

Garrick’s face reddened and he growled with frustration, opening and closing his fists. “I meant no disrespect. Percy fought for Henry to remain whole and I want it known that I will do the same for him.”

“C-Capital…”

Waves of dread ebbed and flowed over Mercy’s spine as she recalled Garrick’s story about Percy lobbying doctors to save
Capitán
Henry Guffald’s leg after the man had sacrificed himself to save Constance’s life. The horror and uneasiness of the captain’s situation gave Mercy more determination than ever to ensure Percy wouldn’t be forced to face that alternative.

She shifted positions with Jeffers, pushing her exhaustion aside and carefully inspecting each wound, cleansing them, applying balsam compounds that would encourage healing and stave off infection. Once that was done, she and Jeffers wrapped one injury after another to get his bleeding under control. The puncture wound in Percy’s left shoulder would be more problematic. If it wasn’t cauterized soon, Percy would lose too much blood before she was done stitching up his legs.

“He took a direct blow to his shoulder. The sword tip sank deeply enough to cause increased blood loss but not deep enough to cause severe damage to his chest.” She snapped her fingers at Garrick. “Go to the hearth, Garrick. Heat a fireplace poker and bring it back to me. This wound needs to be cauterized now.”

Garrick paled. He blinked, the action leading her to believe that his demons had mounted another attack on him. Would her request set the pirate back months? That was a risk she had to take. Cauterizing Percy’s wound was the only way to stop the bleeding.

She directed Simon to apply pressure on the wound with the clean cloth Jeffers handed him. Simon took the bandage, broke away from Gillian, and moved to Percy’s side.

Garrick stood immobile for several moments.

No one spoke. No one had to. It appeared that everyone knew what Mercy was doing. She was using Percy’s critical situation to force Garrick into facing his fears in order to help save Percy’s life. There was no better time than now to end this hold Garrick’s demons had on his soul.

“Simon.” Garrick ran his hand through his hair. “Move aside. I’ll put pressure on Percy’s wound while you heat the poker.”

Simon shot Gillian a worried frown, then moved as if to give in.

Mercy stopped him.

“I’d ask one of the ladies to assist you,” she said, digging at him where it would hurt the most. “But Constance cannot leave Percy’s side and Gillian has the vapors. Jeffers’s skill with the needle makes him invaluable to me, and Simon, being the head of Nelson’s Tea, is needed to verify I’m doing everything I can to save Percy’s life.” She locked her gaze with his. “We are in your debt, my lord. I know how much this errand costs you.”

A needling pain pierced Mercy’s heart. God help her, was she pushing Garrick too far? It would be easy task for Simon to switch places. But Garrick didn’t need acquiescence. He needed closure, to move on with his life, to prove to himself that he could live again.

Her heartbeat raced when he made no effort to move. “My cousin depends on you doing this
one
thing for him.”

Garrick closed his eye. He inhaled deeply, brushing his fingers back through his hair once again. Then, fisting his hands, he cast one last frustrated glance at Percy, turned on his heel and strode out of the room. His receding footsteps faded as he retreated down the hall.

Mercy drew in a pent up breath.

“Are you sure you know what you’re doing, young lady?” Simon asked.

Did he want honesty? “No.”
What if Garrick cannot bring himself to heat the poker? What if he cannot bear to carry the glowing iron back into the cradle?

“Percy might bleed to death waiting for Garrick to return.” Simon’s words authenticated her fears. “If only I hadn’t insisted on going home first.”

“N-needed,” Percy mumbled. “Trust… no one.”

“I cannot bear this!” Gillian palmed her forehead. “This is my fault.”

“You’ve done nothing wrong, Gillian.” Sorrow distorted Simon’s face, making Mercy wonder what was going on between them.

“What happened, Uncle?” Constance cooed softly in Percy’s ear to settle him down as he tried to rise. “What is it you aren’t telling us?”

“Must p-protect…”

Mercy glanced from Gillian to Simon then back again. “Protect whom?”

Simon gave his wife a consolatory nod. “Percy saved our lives. The rest can be explained later. First, we must save him. Who else but Percy can move men within the House of Lords, the Admiralty Board, and the
ton
without repercussions or question? I don’t have that kind of influence.” He shrugged his weary shoulders. “I am just a man.”

“You are wrong, Uncle.” Constance wiped beads of sweat off of Percy’s forehead. “You may not be a duke but you are more than capable of saving Melville’s life.”

Mercy suppressed a shiver. Did Constance have blind faith in her uncle? What if Percy died? Would Constance blame Mercy for refusing to divulge evidence proving Melville’s innocence before Simon arrived at the townhouse? What would that have prevented?

Dios mio, is this my fault?

Uncertainty washed over her. “Keep applying pressure, my lord.”

“Of course,” he said.

Her cheeks wet with tears, Constance glanced at Simon, who mirrored heartache and pain. “Tell us what happened, Uncle.”

“No!” Gillian’s frustrated outburst mirrored the way everyone felt, but the shock of her emotions struck Mercy as odd when she crisscrossed her arms over her stomach. “Speak of something else. Anything else.”

What is the baroness hiding?

Jeffers produced a pair of steel scissors and cut Percy’s breeches away from the wounds, allowing better access to the five-inch lacerations there.

Mercy peeled the material away. Fresh blood oozed onto her fingers.

“Sword-fighting takes great skill,” she offered, trying to ease the tension. “Percy’s skill with a sword must be exceptional. It takes tremendous practice to protect the inner legs.” She pointed at the shallow wounds in his thigh. “The gashes are long, but fairly shallow. We have nothing to fear here. Muscle heals much faster than bone.”

She glanced at Percy’s shoulder and bit her lip. Where was Garrick? Should she ask someone to go after him or go get the poker herself? Percy couldn’t wait much longer. She held her hand out to Jeffers. “Hand me that strip of cloth.”

Simon cleared his throat. “You mentioned earlier that your father expected you to heal the men he brought to you?”

Mercy glanced up. “Yes.
Señora
Perez taught me everything I know. She hated the French because of the way they mistreated injured men, women, and children.”

“Mistreated women and children?” Constance shrieked.

“No.” Percy gasped. “Child…” He forced one eye open. His head lolled to the side as his face drew itself into a pained spasm.

Mercy’s heart seized. “Give him more brandy.”

Jeffers tipped a bottle to Percy’s lips. The duke gulped at the contents, though much of the liquor spilled over the sides of his mouth and dribbled to Constance’s feet.

“That is all I can offer to help with the pain.” Mercy leaned over Percy’s leg. “Be warned, Your Grace. This is going to hurt.”

“No more… than… my p-pride.”

Jeffers handed Percy a leather strap to bite on then took his place opposite Mercy near the duke’s other leg.

“Are you ready?” she asked.

Gillian paced back and forth, her staccato steps echoing in the room.

A second set of footsteps approached.
Good God, Garrick. It’s about time!
A glowing red mass materialized, carried by a silhouetted figure who walked down the hallway towards them.

Garrick!

Her heart beat triumphantly in tune with Garrick’s every step. He carried a wrought-iron poker, the tip burning brilliant red-orange before his ashen face, obviously struggling to maintain control.

Relief filled her. She hadn’t pushed him past the breaking point. But he still had further to go.

He stopped before them, pain etched into his face. “I’ve done as you asked. Now take this monstrosity from me.”

He stood transfixed like a marble figure, his gaze riveted on the frightening iron poker as if his concentration hinged on life and death. Because it most likely did, in more ways than one.

Garrick’s struggle made no difference now. Percy’s life depended on all of them.

~~~~

Colorful spectrums of
light held Garrick’s mind transfixed, an unwilling captive as he entered the hidden room. His heart raced, pounding like recoiling trucks harnessing cannon across a wooden deck. The sound vibrated in his chest, filling his ears with a deafening roar. At the end of the iron rod he carried, a powerful red-orange glow hovered before him. He blinked twice, desperate to make this duel against all that he had been and was a thing of the past.

Percy
needed
him.

“Get on with it!” someone shouted.

Percy!

Inch by inch, sensation returned to his legs. Garrick’s knees unlocked. He regained movement in his arm. He lowered the poker and dragged his gaze away from the blazing nub, turning to Percy on the oak table, head raised, his eyes boring into Garrick as if he were the devil himself.

“What are you waiting for?”

Constance cooed in Percy’s ear, but Percy ignored her, continuing to stare at Garrick weakly but with purpose.

The challenge was enough to spark Garrick into action. “Hold him still.”

“I’m ready.” Percy put the leather strap back in his mouth, stuffing it between his teeth. He laid his head back on the table and inhaled a raspy breath.

Simon shifted position, motioning Constance aside. He put his hands on Percy’s other shoulder while Jeffers moved quickly to secure Percy’s arm. Gillian remained stationed at Percy’s bare feet.

“Careful he doesn’t kick you,” Mercy told Gillian as she hustled around the table to join Garrick at Percy’s injured shoulder. “Bravo,
Capitán
.” She grabbed the bloody cloth covering Percy’s wound, dabbing away blood. “Insert the tip here.”

The very idea of purposely putting his friend through this made him want to vomit. Did Mercy know what burning flesh felt like, smelled like?

Percy’s wound oozed crimson liquid as he moved the poker closer. “How long?”

“Long enough to cauterize the wound.”

Terrifying images flashed before him. The glowing tip of Delgado’s cigar. Varying spectrums of fiery color. Darkness. Unceasing pain that shot through his skull.

“Do it…” Percy’s slurred speech cut him to the quick.

“Brace yourself. This is going to hurt.” Garrick inserted the iron.

Percy convulsed, arching his back, writhing off the table in agonizing torment until he passed out.

“Enough.” Mercy’s gentle touch alerted him to withdraw the rod from Percy’s smoking flesh.

Several silent moments passed before Garrick could breathe again. He released the poker. The iron rod clanged to the floor, clattering about on the stones as he looked up into the faces of his friends.

Mercy smiled, squeezing his arm, before she and Jeffers moved as one, positioning themselves on either side of Percy’s legs. They retrieved their needles, threaded them, poured more brandy into the cuts, then leaned over to mend Percy’s shallow wounds.

Speechless, Garrick watched Mercy gather the edges of Percy’s slashed thigh. “You are full of surprises,
Señorita
.”

“That she is,” Simon agreed. He stepped away from Percy and walked into Gillian’s waiting arms.