By Love Unveiled Page 3

  Bodger! That horrible surgeon had caused the loss of more lives than he’d saved. In any case, she still wasn’t certain that the earl had been responsible for Father’s arrest. If Lord Falkham died because of her reticence and proved to be blameless, she could never live with herself.

  She steadied her nerve. “If you let Bodger cut on him, he’ll be more fit for the grave than anything else. With me, he at least has a chance of survival.”

  Her calm voice seemed to settle William’s mind. “Come on, then.” He strode on. “We’re wasting precious time.”

  In moments, they were entering Falkham House. She walked through the familiar rooms, her throat tight and raw with the pain of memory. The long hall on the second floor had been refurbished, but that was all she could observe before several booming curses rent the silence.

  She raced into the master bedroom from which the sound came, only to be greeted by a sight that filled her with horror. The earl sat against the headboard of his bed with his legs stretched out in front of him and his face contorted in pain as a servant poured something onto his leg. Nearby, a kettle hung in the fireplace, and she could smell boiling oil.

  She forgot the crimes she attributed to Lord Falkham, forgot the danger she risked by helping him. All she could see was a bumbling idiot using an outmoded and needlessly painful method of cleansing the wound.

  “If another drop of that hits his skin,” she threatened as she snatched the cup away from the old man, “I’ll boil you in that kettle!”

  “But we got to burn the poison away,” the servant protested, visibly recoiling from the masked figure in black who dashed the cup to the floor.

  “Out, out, before you murder him!” She pushed futilely at the stubborn old fool, sickened by the smell of scorched flesh.

  “Listen to the woman,” Lord Falkham ground out. “For God’s sake, Will, get him out of here!”

  William murmured something to the old man, and the servant left, grumbling as he went.

  “I hope you haven’t come to torture me more,” the earl growled. “The sword wound hurts less than the old man’s ministrations.”

  “I can well believe it.” One look at his red and swollen skin made her sick. She couldn’t wish such pain on even her worst enemy.

  Instantly she drew an ointment from her pouch and smoothed it over the burn. He grimaced.

  “Forgive me, my lord, but this should make it feel better shortly.”

  She turned her attention to his wound. Someone had removed his breeches, and a sheet had been draped over his groin and left leg, leaving only his right thigh exposed. An ugly laceration gaped open close to where his leg joined his hip.

  “The wound is serious,” she said, trying to keep her voice emotionless. He didn’t need her falling apart just now. “But at least the sword went cleanly through. It doesn’t seem to have severed the muscle, so it should heal well enough. Just be grateful the men didn’t carry pistols.”

  “One of them did,” Lord Falkham said through clenched teeth. “But he was a poor shot, so I was able to wrest it from him. Unfortunately, he was a better swordsman than I expected.”

  William spoke behind her. “And you were a better one than he expected, eh, m’lord?”

  Lord Falkham’s clear gray eyes clouded. “I suppose I was.”

  Marianne tried to ignore the ripple of horror that washed over her. After all, Mr. Tibbett had said that the earl had served as a soldier abroad. And he’d had the right to defend himself against attack.

  Moving to the basin of water someone had placed nearby, she wet a clean linen cloth and began to wash the wound. The earl’s tight-lipped, rigid stance told her that every touch caused him pain, but she couldn’t help that. Father had believed that cleaning a wound helped it heal, so clean it she would, scrubbing away the dried blood and bits of fabric that clogged it.

  “Do highwaymen often ride the roads hereabouts these days?” William asked her while watching her work.

  “This is the first I’ve heard of,” she said, concentrating on her task.

  “Those were no highwaymen,” the earl bit out.

  William glanced at his master. “You think Tearle’s behind it?”

  “Of course. Aside from the fact that he hates that I’ve regained the manor—and the title—he fears what I could do to him if it weren’t for…”

  He trailed off to glance at her veiled face, for she’d unconsciously stopped her movements to listen.

  Hastily she returned to cleansing the wound. “Have you told the constable of the attack?”

  “No reason,” William replied. “His lordship left both men lying in the glade with their bellies open.”

  “That’s enough, Will!” Lord Falkham said sharply. She didn’t miss the meaningful glance he gave his servant. “There’s no need for the young woman to hear about such matters.”

  “I agree.” Her stomach churned at the image William’s words evoked, soldier or no soldier. “I abhor killing.”

  “Would you have preferred I let them murder me instead?” Lord Falkham snapped.

  “Of course not, but no man’s death should ever be discussed casually.”

  A glint of something that looked like a conscience flickered in his eyes. “I’m afraid Will and I have become far too accustomed to killing in the past few years. We saw many battles with the Duke of York.”

  “I can tell.” Thin scars marred his skin everywhere. The Duke of York’s men had served the French and then the Spanish armies, winning honor and fame. Hard to believe that the earl had been one of those.

  But it did explain why he scarcely flinched as she cleansed his wound, why he seemed deadened to the outrage of being attacked near his own home. For a man as young as he appeared, he must have seen a great deal of death.

  And how much of that death had he caused? She shuddered to think of the men he must have killed, even if it had been in battle.

  She’d finally washed away enough blood to see what she had to work with. Thank heaven the wound looked better already. With some stitching and a healing poultice, his lordship would be moving about in a few days.

  Her gaze trailed idly up his hairy thigh, and with a sudden absurd horror she realized how naked he was. A blush heated her face beneath her mask. She had worked beside Father when he’d toiled over many naked men, but this was no dirty and coarse soldier.

  Even with his wound, he emanated strength, reminding her of a leashed lightning bolt, waiting to destroy anything that crossed him. Though pale from loss of blood, his thigh was thickly muscled. Her gaze moved farther up to where the sheet just missed covering the patch of hair that surrounded his—

  Good Lord, what was she doing, gawking at him? Worse yet, he’d noticed, for his gaze now seemed to see right through to her embarrassing thoughts.

  “Well?” he asked dryly. “Can you save it?”

  For half a second, she thought he referred to something other than his leg. Then she chided herself. She was being a complete dolt about his nakedness. “Yes, but I’ll need your man to fetch some things from the apothecary’s shop.”

  “What if he’s still not there?” William asked.

  “The servant can give you what I need—a jar of wolfs-bane ointment. And have the servant send a message to my aunt that I’ll be late.”

  “If you just tell me where you live,” William said, “I’ll deliver the message myself.”

  “No!”

  When both men shot her searching glances, she forced some nonchalance into her voice. “No need for you to trouble yourself. Just send the message. And don’t… ah… mention whom I’m tending. Simply tell the servant to say I’ll return soon. Aunt Tamara’s accustomed to my late hours, so she’ll understand.”

  After William left, Marianne released a sigh. Aunt Tamara would be alarmed over this. She’d repeatedly stressed the importance of Marianne’s remaining unnoticed by the new earl.

  “Why shouldn’t Will mention that you’re tending me?” Lord Falkham asked, h
is gray eyes keen with interest.

  Trying to hide her agitation, Marianne withdrew a heavy needle and some thick black thread from her leather pouch. “Begging your pardon, my lord, but my aunt doesn’t trust men of rank.” That was partly true, for Father had been the only nobleman Aunt Tamara could ever stomach.

  Lord Falkham surprised her by laughing. “She finds her gypsy kinsmen more trustworthy?”

  “Than some of your kind, yes,” Marianne retorted. “You should be able to understand that, given your anger toward your uncle.”

  He sobered. “Excellent point. But not all men of rank are like my uncle.”

  True. Mother had once hinted that a man of rank had broken Aunt Tamara’s heart, which was why she scorned nobles, but it was more than that. Her aunt considered most lords to be weak, spineless fops.

  Marianne glanced at Lord Falkham, whose stoic expression belied the pain he must be feeling. He certainly defied those prejudices. More was the pity, since it made her situation all the more precarious. Her plan to stay out of harm’s way was rapidly falling apart.

  At least he was wounded, so he couldn’t come after her if she should need to flee. Yet she had the distinct impression that if he wanted to follow her, he would, wound or no.

  She looked at the needle she’d just threaded. Well, after she was done here, he’d never wish to be within a mile of her again anyway. And that was for the best.

  To remind herself of all that stood between them, she glanced around the room he’d appropriated for himself, which had once belonged to her parents. Her father’s well-loved chairs and writing table had been replaced with new walnut furniture lacking any warmth. The earl’s bloodied sword lay on the rich carpet, staining it.

  He was a ruthless killer, and no doubt deserved the pain she was about to inflict on him. Yet the blood darkening the sheets beneath his leg reminded her that he was human, too, and merited her mercy.

  Best get the distasteful task over with, she told herself, lifting the needle.

  “I’m going to sew the wound closed so it heals better,” she told him as she approached the bed. “It will hurt, I’m afraid.”

  “It can’t hurt more than it already does. But I do hope you’re skilled with a needle. I don’t want my leg looking like a patched doublet come the morrow.”

  “Ah, but we gypsies are famed for our needlework,” she said lightly to draw his attention from her actions as she eased the needle through his flesh.

  “You’re no gypsy,” he gritted out through his pain.

  His words threw her into such confusion that she stuck him.

  “Damn it, woman, I’m not a pincushion!”

  “Forgive me, my lord.” She forced herself to remain calm. “Why do you say I’m no gypsy?”

  “You speak too well, for one thing. Your aunt has a gypsy accent, but your voice is refined. Very English.”

  This man was far too perceptive for her peace of mind. Remembering what her aunt had once said—that the best lie was the one closest to the truth—she said, “My father was a man of rank. Only my mother was a gypsy.”

  The earl’s eyes narrowed. “You’re a nobleman’s bastard? That would explain your speech, but only if you’d been raised in his household. Are you saying your father claimed you?”

  She continued her stitching. “I lived in his house until his death.” And she fervently wished the part about his death were no lie. “His family wouldn’t accept me after that, so I went to my aunt. She has cared for me ever since.”

  When a flicker of sympathy crossed his face, she fought a stab of guilt. She was protecting her aunt’s and her own lives. Under the circumstances, surely a small lie could be forgiven her.

  “And how many years might that be? How old are you?”

  “Twenty,” she said. “I’ve been with my aunt a long time.” It was true, sort of. They’d always been close.

  “You’ve had a hard life for one so young,” he said quietly.

  For a moment, his words confused her. Granted, she had no parents, but she had someone to care for her. Then she remembered that he thought her disfigured by smallpox. Suddenly, she resented his misplaced pity.

  “On the contrary, I’ve been very happy.” She drew the needle through his skin. “Life is like an overgrown garden. You can spend your time cursing the weeds, or you can work to pull them out. In either case, the flowers are what matter.”

  Cynicism turned the lines of his mouth rigid. “Some gardens are too overgrown to save. ’Tis better to level those to the ground.”

  She dropped her gaze to his leg, surprised by his bitterness. “Perhaps. But then you must be sure to plant a new garden.”

  He shook his head. “You will have your flowers, I see.”

  “I suppose I sound too cheery to a man just wounded by highwaymen.”

  “Or too naive.”

  That stung. “What would you know of hardship, my lord?” she bit out as she finished stitching the wound. “Have you ever suffered in childbirth or watched children starve? You’ve seen death in battle, ’tis true, but you no doubt gloried in the honor of it.”

  She thought of the poor men and women her parents had treated. “I’ve seen death come to those who didn’t deserve it, who only died because they were born to the wrong families. Your kind never sees that suffering. No, your kind only causes it.”

  His eyes darkened. “Your aunt isn’t the only one who dislikes noblemen.”

  She turned away, confused by her own reaction. Why had she responded with such venom? She didn’t dislike the nobility—her father was a baronet.

  Yet she regarded the peerage differently from some. Mother had opened her eyes to the hardships of the common people, had taught her to treat them as she’d treat anyone else. That’s why Father had been reluctant to be at court. Although his sympathies had always been with the Royalists, he’d been almost content under Cromwell. He’d begun to think it might not be so terrible to have a government ruled by all the people, not just a few.

  Until Cromwell had become a tyrant. And now the court had returned—the idle noblemen led by a debauched king. The earl might seem different, but at heart he was like all the other Cavaliers. He saw the world through jaundiced eyes.

  With angry motions, she ripped a sheet into strips for bandages, still caught up in her feelings of resentment toward him and all his ilk.

  “Why do I get the feeling you wish it were me you were ripping into little bits?” he asked after a moment.

  “Don’t be absurd, my lord. I merely need something to bind your leg.”

  “You’ve enough bandages there to bind both legs, if I’m not mistaken.”

  She stopped to look down at the great pile of linen she’d torn. “I suppose I have,” she said ruefully.

  “Perhaps you should wound me in my other leg,” he drawled. “You seem more than eager to do so.”

  How he could joke when his wound must hurt him terribly, she couldn’t imagine. Perhaps it distracted him from the pain.

  She matched his light tone. “Then I could try your old servant’s remedy on the other leg, too.”

  “Not unless you use those bandages to tie me to the bed,” he said acidly. “I shall tell him upon pain of death that he is not to try his skill at doctoring on any tenant of mine.”

  Just as she wondered why the man she’d just been making into a villain should concern himself with his tenants, William returned with the ointment.

  “That aunt of yours was a mite troublesome,” he said as he handed it to her.

  That stilled Marianne’s heart. “My aunt? How did you come across her?”

  “She was at the apothecary’s, carping to that poor servant about her missing niece. I suppose she hoped to find you there.”

  Releasing a pent-up breath, Marianne spread the salve liberally over the earl’s sewn wound.

  “She gave me a tongue-lashing, she did,” William went on. “Said you weren’t the town’s personal servant and you needed rest like everyone els
e. Then she scolded me for not telling her where you were. I told her you were safe. And she said I was to remember you’re an innocent and not to lay a finger on you.”

  That last statement seemed to pique the earl’s interest, for his gaze shot to Marianne’s mask.

  “My aunt is overly cautious.” She wrapped a bandage around the earl’s thigh. “Pay her no mind.”

  “ ’Tis hard to ignore a woman as sharp-tongued as your aunt.” William settled himself in a chair beside the earl’s bed. “Especially one so pretty.”

  “I thought you liked your women blond and buxom?” Lord Falkham quipped.

  Marianne glared at them both. “If you gentlemen would stop discussing my aunt as if she were a tavern wench, I could instruct William on how to care for the wound.”

  A silence fell on the room.

  “Why won’t you be returning to change the dressing?” Lord Falkham asked, his face formidably dark.

  Fear whispered through her. “I’m certain your servant can change your bandages quite well on his own.”

  The earl caught her hand as she finished tying off the bandage. “I’d rather you did it yourself.”

  When she tried to pull free, his hold tightened.

  “Please, my lord,” she said, her heart pounding, “there’s no need for it. I’ve others to tend.”

  “William is unfamiliar with doctoring and might worsen the wound.” But he said the words almost as an afterthought, for he’d taken a sudden keen interest in her hand.

  “I’m certain he can follow my instructions.”

  “Perhaps.” The earl snatched her other hand, which he studied several moments. Her pulse raced under the firm pad of his thumb.

  At last he pinned her with a suspicious gaze. “Tell me, Mina, how did your hands escape being scarred by the pox?”

  Her blood ran cold. “I don’t know,” she muttered, uncertain of what answer would lessen his suspicions.