Carre: Outlaw Part 37

Within the hour Johnnie was washed, medicated, fed, and sleeping peacefully in a clean, soft bed. But Roxane's housekeeper who'd cared for his back had shaken her head in dismay. "It's putrid, my Lady," she'd said, "and I don't rightly know if the poultices will save him."

A message had been sent to the Trondheim so Elizabeth would know Johnnie was free. And the rescue party gathered in Johnnie's bedchamber, anxiously keeping vigil, concerned with his condition. The process of cleaning his wounds had been a gut-wrenching experience. Even familiar with battle wounds as all of them were-Roxane had seen her husband Jamie die after Namur-the mutilation and suppuration of Johnnie's flesh, the taint of decay in the open, oozing flesh had alarmed them all. An apothecary who could be trusted had been sent for, an authority to prescribe the proper regimen.

"Do you think Elizabeth will come tonight?" Adam asked.

"Do you think Redmond can stop her?" Robbie quietly replied. "Even though the streets must be swarming with patrols by now."

"I wouldn't stay on the ship not knowing my husband's condition," Roxane declared, a disturbing solemnity in her voice.

Robbie gazed at her, the firelight bathing his face in flickering iridescence and shadow, his eyes veiled in shade, their expression obscured. "You went to Jamie at Namur, didn't you?"

"Yes," she said, those long-ago events, the overwhelming sorrow, vividly recalled in this sickroom with a man half-dead as Jamie had been.

Her grief was obvious, and without speaking Robbie rose and went to sit by her on the settee. Taking her hand, he enclosed it gently in his. "I wish I could have been there to help," he murmured, his voice low, grave, inaudible to the others.

She leaned into him, and he put his arm around her, the half-forgotten memories fresh again, graphic, and she needed him for comfort against the sudden aching emptiness.

Munro diplomatically talked of other things then-of the plans for Holland, of the apothecary's return, of Redmond's competence to see Elizabeth safely to Roxane's. He handled the conversation so there was no need in the shrouded firelit room for Roxane to exert herself to be sociable or act as hostess to her guests. She appreciated his kindness; she wasn't capable at the moment of the least politesse.

The apothecary arrived first bringing a satchel of drugs and potions, salves and ointments. He was deeply engaged in his diagnosis, with everyone standing about him, carefully listening to his discourse, when a flurry of sound in the corridor alerted them to Elizabeth's arrival.

She was running, as were her guards, and the door swung open before a servant could reach it; Elizabeth stood framed for a moment on the threshold, her face haunted with fear.

Under the circ.u.mstances no one had the inclination for polite salutations, or the heart to acquaint her with the grim truth. And she didn't ask or stop or deflect her gaze from the man on the bed as she crossed the large room in a swift direct course.

She stood by the bed for an affected moment, utterly thankful to see her husband alive; without reservation, grateful. Her eyes blurred with tears. Then she touched Johnnie's hand gently, as if to rea.s.sure herself he was real, and her hand moved after a time to his head, careful not to wake him, her fingers light on his dark, ruffled hair. Her face was wet with tears, her heart tormented with anguish; she thought of how terribly he'd suffered, how much pain he'd endured.

No one dared intrude until she turned from the bed. "Thank you all for putting your lives at risk, she said quietly, "and for bringing Johnnie out in time." His wounds weren't bandaged, for any pressure caused new bleeding, so the extent of his injuries was grimly apparent. "He's going to live," Elizabeth softly murmured, a tentative smile transforming her tear-streaked face. "I'm going to see to it."

She moved to hug Robbie first and next Roxane, who stood at his side, and then Munro, Adam, and Kinmont. Even the housekeeper and apothecary were included in her joyous grat.i.tude, although they weren't quite certain how to respond to such democratic behavior. After embracing everyone, her relief tangible, vital, as if nothing were unattainable now that she had her husband back, she turned to the apothecary. "Now tell me what we have to do," she briskly said, this woman who thought nothing of taking on five-year building projects and an abusive father, who had survived eight years in the Graham household. Untying her cloak and tossing it on a chair, she added, "I intend to learn how to nurse a fever. Although," she went on in warning, "I also intend to feed him well and forbid cupping. Just so we all understand each other."

Her voice-its competent tone, its unhesitating certainty and brisk optimism-must have touched some part of Johnnie's brain because his eyes half opened even in his sedated state and his lips moved. And he whispered, "Bitsy," with a faint smile.

Spinning around at the sound of his voice, she flew to the bed and, placing her face close to his, she looked into his half-lidded gaze. "I'm here," she whispered, fresh tears in her eyes.

His eyelids drifted shut again, in his drugged state the effort to hold them open as arduous as moving mountains. "Don't go," he murmured, his hand moving toward her fractionally.

Her fingers laced through his, she squeezed his hand. "I'm never leaving," she whispered.

His fingers tightened infinitesimally on hers, and he drifted back to sleep.

CHAPTER 27.

In the next half hour everyone gradually took their leave as Elizabeth settled into the sickroom with the nursing help and a full complement of servants.

It was almost three in the morning when Robbie walked Roxane down two flights of stairs to her bedchamber. As they stood outside her door, a small silence fell between them, the events of the evening wrenchingly emotional, their feelings sensitized by all the reminders of the fugitive quality of life. "Thank you for your kindness tonight," Roxane softly said. "I'd thought those memories long buried."

Robbie shrugged, a negligent acquittal. "The circ.u.mstances were too similar. Of course you'd remember." Then his smile flashed in the dimly lit hallway. "At least Elizabeth's uncompromising in her optimism and prepared to take charge of the sickroom. She and the apothecary were heatedly discussing whether they should wake Johnnie with a new poultice when we left."

"They make a good pair, she and Johnnie," Roxane noted. "They're both prompt to take action, they have a way of dealing-"

"May I come in?" he softly interrupted, his gaze on her face, his interest at variance with their conversation.

She stopped in midsentence, a half-formed word on her tongue, her breath in temporary suspension. She looked up at him for a trembling moment, her heart in her eyes, and then said, "No," in a breathless rush. The temptation to say yes was powerful in the darkened hallway, with her emotions in disarray, with his lean young body so close, with the unsubstantial specter of Jamie's death haunting her.

Robbie drew in a deep breath of restraint and courtesy, his desire sharp-set. "Good night, then," he murmured, touching her hand lightly with his fingertips. He didn't dare kiss her; there were limits to his self-discipline.

"I'll see you in the morning." Her voice sounded unnatural, constrained.

He nodded, not capable of casual speech. And watched her turn and enter her bedroom, the door softly closing behind her.

Quiet settled on the large house off the Canongate, on a night crowned with success, the Laird of Ravensby and his lady free from their captors, the Carres in safe refuge, secure from the hue and cry raised at their escape.

Candles burned in a small number of rooms in the Countess's house, but their radiance was shrouded from the outside by heavy draperies. Those few occupants still awake, Roxane among them, found sleep elusive.

She was curled up in a soft chair near the fire, contemplating the rich color of the claret in her gla.s.s. She'd thought the wine would help her sleep, but she'd hardly drunk it, she realized, turning the gla.s.s in her hands, her thoughts too much in tumult, too restless. She set the gla.s.s aside and rose from the chair, turning away from the grate.

In midrotation, she stood arrested, her hand on her mouth, her eyes wide with shock, the firelight shimmering off her yellow silk gown.

"I couldn't stay away," Robbie said, leaning against the door, still dressed as she'd left him or rather half-undressed, as he'd been since returning from his deliverance of Johnnie. His potent virility struck her like a blow. As he'd given up his shirt to bind Johnnie's wounds on the journey from the prison, his upper body was nude, except for his unbuckled leather jack. His muscled arms and broad chest gleamed in the candlelight.

His tall frame seemed taller in the shadowed room, his presence perilous to her shaky resolve. "How long have you been here?" she asked, as if it would help qualify her response.

"Not long. I went upstairs when I left you. I was going to be compliant."

"And you're not going to be now." She found her heart begin to race with a disquieting excitement.

"I don't think so."

"This is my house," she reminded him, standing straight-backed, attempting to intimidate him with a kind of propriety.

"I know." His voice was quiet, without inflection.

"You've picked a poor night."

"I know."

"I should call for a servant to put you out."

"You should," he murmured, pushing away from the door and moving toward her. "You really should."

The opened buckles on his leather jack jingled as he walked, and she found herself drawn to the small ringing sound, her gaze mesmerized by the lean, hard modeling of his chest, the ridged muscles sharply defined as he neared, the sleek length of his torso tantalizing at close range, his bronzed skin disappearing beneath his belt-her glance drifted lower ... inside his chamois breeches.

As if reading her thoughts, he took her hand when he reached her and placed it on his chest, holding it there under his palm. "I'm on fire for you," he whispered. "Feel me."

He was hot, despite his lack of clothes, and her hand quivered under his. "I'm trying to fight this," she whispered, her eyes lifted to his.

"I am too. I told myself it was unseemly, indecent to intrude on your sorrow. Yet here I am, tactless, selfish, impatient, disinclined to listen to another rebuff."

"Is that a warning?" But she said the words with a quiver in her voice.

He drew in a very slow, deep breath, shut his eyes for a moment, and then exhaled. "Probably not," he said with a faint smile.

"A small equivocation yet?" Her tentative smile tantalized without meaning to.

He swore under his breath; he'd not had occasion before to restrain his desire, and he was finding the effort difficult if not impossible. "Come talk to me," he suggested, curling her hand in his and pulling her toward the chairs arranged near the fire. "But don't tell me you're twenty-eight and have five children," he said, looking down at her with a sidelong glance, "because I don't care."

And when she tried to sit across from him, he drew her onto his lap instead, leaned back, made her comfortable in his arms, smoothed her billowing skirt, and said, "I'm listening."

"You're too nonchalant," she began, a small agitation fluttering up her spine.

He shook his head. "I'm serious."

"I'm too vulnerable tonight." She spoke in almost a whisper.

"I'll hold you."

"I'll hate myself in the morning."

"I'll see that you don't."

"What will the servants say?"

He gazed at her from under his lowered lashes, his expression mildly incredulous. "That's not a good one."

Her grin was conciliatory. "I have a headache."

"I can fix that," he replied with an easy confidence. "Now, if you've run out of excuses ..." His right hand leisurely slipped under her legs.

"Wait-"

Poised to lift her, he paused.

"You know this isn't wise."

At eighteen, not known for his prudence, Robbie smiled at her choice of words. "If that's the best you can do ..." His left arm tightened its hold on her back, and he rose from the chair with an effortless strength. "I'll lock the door," he casually added, "against early risers and," he went on with a grin, "inquisitive servants."

"I'm guilt-ridden," Roxane whispered against his shoulder as he twisted the key in the lock. "Indecisive ... totally unsure ..."

"I know." He held her very close for a moment, then bent his head and kissed the tip of her nose. "You'll feel better in a few minutes."

"Arrogant youngster," she said, but her violet eyes held a strange heat, and her arms held him tightly.

"I'm so hot," Robbie whispered, "I'm burning...." And he strode swiftly toward the bed, not sure he could wait, not sure he could control himself much longer, not sure he could keep from ravishing her. Placing her gently on the bed, he slipped her silk shoes off, tossed them on the floor and began climbing on top of her.

"Your boots ..." she incongruously said like a mother.

"Later," he murmured on a suffocated breath, and covered her body with his so she felt the extravagant extent of his arousal. Covered her mouth with his so she felt a reckless hot invasion as his tongue plunged like a portent of pleasure down her throat. A spiking l.u.s.t streaked through her senses at his wild urgency; cool air swept over her thighs as he roughly pushed her skirts and petticoats out of his way. She lost the feel of his weight lightly braced above her for a moment while he ripped the b.u.t.tons open on his breeches, and she wondered with a breathless gasp as he drove into her why she'd denied herself so long.

She'd forgotten how vital he was, how rash and reckless and wild.

She'd forgotten how he teased and tantalized, how he filled her so completely, rapture melted through her pores, sang through her senses.

She'd forgotten how o.r.g.a.s.mic he was, how insatiable, how innovative.

"You didn't want to remember," he bluntly said when she told him much later that night, or morning, as it was-when he lay beside her stroking her breast in ever-widening circles as she arched her back and sighed in pleasure. "But I won't let you forget again." His hand slipped down her stomach, then lower, and she lifted her hips to encourage him. "I'll leave an indelible memory tonight," he whispered as his fingers slipped inside her.

And she realized in the morning when she woke to his kiss that against all reason and logic and sensible remonstrance, she was in love again after all these years. And she was terrified.

"You have to go," she whispered, frantic with fear. How could she deal with the overwhelming problems? She couldn't. Her life had resolved itself into a placid existence since Kilmarnock's death. Falling in love would disrupt that hard-won serenity, disorder her children's lives. And the shame of it! Everyone would t.i.tter. Ten years' difference. It was too great a divide.

"Do you have chocolate for breakfast?" Robbie's mouth was drifting over her cheek.

"You can't stay. I can't deal with the-"

"Scandal?"

"Yes."

"I'll put my clothes back on. I'll be your gallant at your morning toilette. I'm not going."

"Oh, G.o.d ..."

"I've loved you since that night last summer."

"No, don't say that."

His large hands imprisoned her head, and he held her face firmly between his palms. "Look at me," he ordered. "I'm not going away. My loving you isn't going to stop. I'm here, and I'm staying here, and you can deny and pretend, but I know better. You said you loved me last night."

She tried to shake her head.

His dark eyes drilled into hers. "I remember."

"No!" Distress. Alarm.

He smiled. "Maybe this time you won't send all my presents back, like you did last summer."

"Oh, Robbie ..." Her eyes suddenly filled with tears. "It won't work. I can't handle the ridicule. You're going too fast. Why don't we just take pleasure in the-"

"s.e.x?" His voice was curt, his eyes suddenly cool, and a second later he abruptly released his hold on her and rolled away. Lacing his arms beneath his head, he stared at the pleated canopy overhead. "Do you tell all the men that you love them?"