Dark Regency: The Redemption Of A Rogue Part 15

Spencer eyed the blade dubiously. "Madam, surely a doctor-."

"Would set the leeches on him and take blood he doesn't have to give!" Mrs. Wolcott said, dismissing Spencer's concerns as if they were of no import. "The water is boiling. You fetch it while I get these clothes off him."

Spencer did as he was bade. The woman was more than likely correct. Michael had thought the use of leeches barbaric and unclean. While many other battlefield surgeons had used them, Ellesleigh had forsworn the practice and instead used precious whiskey as an antiseptic. It hadn't always worked, but by and large, he'd lost fewer men than the other physicians had.

Fetching the kettle of boiling water, he moved back into the room and found the woman leaning over Michael's naked form, prodding at the wound.

"Are you going to finish the job?" he demanded.

The old crone continued her study, ignoring him and Michael's pained protests. Finally, she spoke. "The ball's still in there. 'Twill have to come out. I don't have the eyesight for it and we'll need you to hold him, lest he pulls away and makes the damage worse."

Abbigail entered the room then, carrying her sewing kit and clean linens. "How bad is it?"

Mrs. Wolcot sighed. "He's young and healthy, but it's an ugly wound and has bled too much. You'll need to dig the ball out."

Abbigail blanched her face draining of all color. She swayed lightly, but righted herself immediately. Squaring her chin, she nodded. "Let's get him cleaned up so we can better see what we're doing."

Spencer watched as the women washed their hands with scalding water and then cleaned the angry wound. Michael grimaced but made no sound. His skin was nearly as white as the linens he had been laid upon.

"We'll need you now," the housekeeper said.

Bracing himself for what was to come, he moved toward the bed and placed his hands firmly on his friend's shoulders. Mrs. Wolcot had brought in a set of tools that looked more akin to torture than medicine. "Why do you even have these things?" he asked, horrified.

The old woman kept her eyes trained on Abbigail, but answered his question. "My mother was a midwife. Those were her things."

"Good G.o.d! They're ancient!"

She looked at him sharply. "Hold him and hold your tongue."

Abbi took a steadying breath and willed her hands not to tremble. It wasn't the first time she'd treated a wound, but it was the first time the outcome had been so dear to her. Steeling herself, she probed the skin around the wound until she could feel the resistance of the ball beneath his flesh. He groaned in protest, and Abbi's heart lurched in her chest. What was to come would be so much worse.

"You must hold him... Tightly. He can't move about at all." Glancing up she met Spencer's gaze and didn't proceed until he gave her a curt nod.

With her heart in her throat and her stomach rolling in protest, Abbi pressed her hand firmly over the ball and inserted the small instrument into the wound.

He screamed, his back arching and his body tensing as he struggled against them. Spencer held him firm, keeping him fully pinned to the bed.

"Do it quickly, girl," Mrs. Wolcot urged.

With the blade of the instrument pressed beneath the ball and her hand above it, pressing, she worked it forward. Relief swept through her as it moved, slowly, one perilous inch at a time toward the opening. By the time the ball was close enough to the surface for her to grasp it and remove it, she was sweating. Every part of her was tense.

She glanced up to see that Michael had lost consciousness altogether, for which she was thankful.

"Now what?" she asked.

"Whiskey," Mrs. Wolcot said. "Some for the wound and some for you, Miss. You've a need of it."

Abbi allowed Mrs. Wolcot to pour the liquid over the wound. The liquid beaded on his skin, tinted pink with his blood before rolling onto the linens below.

"Inspect the wound... make sure there's no bits of dirt or cloth still in there."

Grimacing, Abbi did as she was told. Clearing away any debris, she used more whiskey to clean it thoroughly.

"Now, pack the wound with these herbs," Mrs. Wolcot instructed handing her a small bottle filled with a mixture that was familiar to her. Yarrow and plantain would staunch the bleeding. "Once that's done, we'll st.i.tch it."

It seemed like hours though in fact it was only minutes. The drag of the needle through his flesh, pulling the jagged edges together as she sewed, was a far cry from the embroidery that she'd always despised. At that moment, she would have gladly embroidered a thousand handkerchiefs than pierce his flesh once more.

When it was done, Abbi sat back while Mrs. Wolcot wrapped clean bandages around his leg. She began to shake then, the tremors wracking her from head to toe.

In all of it, she hadn't allowed herself to think, to examine what might happen to him. She was not so foolish as to think he was safe. The ball was out, the bleeding had slowed, but he'd lost so much, and then there was the risk of infection. If he developed a fever-she shied away from that thought.

How foolish it had been of her to think she could avoid falling in love with him! All her initial efforts to keep distance between them had failed so miserably. His charm was difficult enough to resist, but it was the other side of him, the parts that he kept so carefully concealed from others that had swayed her. His tender care of Sarah after she'd been attacked, his concern for her and his attempts to keep her safe, infuriating as they were-she'd stood little chance of keeping her heart steeled against him. The futility of that effort seemed laughable.

"You should rest," Mrs. Wolcot suggested. "If a fever sets in, 'twill be later and you'll need to watch over him then."

Abbi shook her head. "No. I need to clean myself up and then I'll come sit with him. I don't want to leave him."

Mrs. Wolcot muttered under her breath about the foolishness of love as she began gathering up her implements and the other items.

Abbi turned to Spencer. "Will you stay with him until-." She broke off and simply made a sweeping gesture over her blood-soaked clothing. Although as she took in Lord Wolverston's appearance, he'd fared little better. The blood was drying stiffly on his clothes. "Perhaps, you should get cleaned up first."

"No," he said. "You go and I'll sit with him. Once you've returned, I'll deal with this."

"I'll hurry," she said. It was as much for Lord Wolverston's benefit as for the fact that she didn't want to be away from Michael. She knew that Mrs. Wolcot was right and that it would be hours before they knew whether or not a fever would set in, but she still feared that something else would happen.

Chapter Seventeen.

Night had fallen and the room was lit by a single lamp atop the scarred chest. Abbigail was settled into an armchair beside the bed, holding vigil over Michael. The fever had started just an hour before. Sweat beaded the ashen skin of his brow, and he was unnaturally still. She was attuned to him, to the slightest sound or even a variation in the pattern of his breathing.

"How is he?"

She looked up to see Lord Wolverston entering. He spoke in the hushed tones that were typically reserved for sick rooms. She answered just the same. "Good evening, Lord Wolverston. There's been no change. The fever still burns and he has not woken or responded."

"He will. Michael is too obstinate and too contrary even for death," he commented.

Abbi smiled in spite of herself. "Or too charming. I'm sure even the reaper would fall prey to his smile."

"It's possible... I've seen him cheat death many times. He was quite brave and heroic when we served on the Peninsula. Though he would never admit to something virtuous."

A watery chuckle escaped her then. "He is a virtuous man... Really. He simply values some virtues above others."

Spencer nodded gravely. "I think that is a far more accurate a.s.sessment of his character than anyone has ever given." He paused for just a moment and then stated, "I must beg your forgiveness. I had been warned that he was in danger and that I should watch over him. I have failed in that duty to you both."

"On the contrary. Had you not been with him, he would have died in those woods, alone and with no one to help him." Abbi c.o.c.ked her head to the side. "You said you were warned. Who warned you?"

Spencer shook is head with a firm denial. "That doesn't matter."

"I think it does," Abbigail said. "Was it Lady Larissa perhaps?"

Spencer cursed. "Will none of you leave that alone?"

Abbi took a cool cloth from the basin of water on the table and replaced the one on Michael's brow. He didn't stir. "I only asked if she had warned you, Lord Wolverston. Not what your feelings for her or intentions were.."

He blushed at that, having been caught in his own fantastical imaginings. "Yes. It was Larissa., and knowing her talents as I do, I should have heeded her warning more closely. If I had, Michael would not have been shot."

Abbi laid her hand on Michael's shoulder, hoping for some indication that his fever was abating. Of course, there was none. To Spencer, she said, "You cannot blame yourself for the actions of others... You did all in your power to protect him and you undertook herculean efforts to save him after he was wounded. There is no forgiveness to be offered, Lord Wolverston, because none is needed. What you have is my grat.i.tude."

"I knew," he said, his voice tinged with anger. "This wasn't the first attempt on his life. There was an incident in London. Someone nearly ran him down with a coach while we were visiting one of the antiques dealers that the Whitby's frequent."

Abbi shook her head, amazed that anyone would take so much upon themselves. "So you saved him once, and by being unable to prevent injury the second time someone tried to harm him, you believe you have failed? Are you responsible for all the ills that have befallen my husband in his life, then?"

"Only the worst of them, Lady Ellersleigh," he said gravely.

His tone alerted her to something far deeper than simply the events of the day. "Perhaps you should tell me why you believe such a thing."

Spencer looked down as he spoke, not meeting her gaze. "My childishness and inappropriate behavior resulted in the loss of someone very dear to him... very dear to us all."

Abbi wished that she had the words, some bit of wisdom to impart to him that would ease his obvious guilt, but it appeared he was determined to bear it. "My husband generally speaks his mind quite succinctly. If he held you accountable for such a thing, he would have made it known and I doubt you would be so welcome in his home."

Spencer chuckled, but it was a humorless sound. "He does not blame me. He blames himself, and that is another of the many things I should beg forgiveness for."

Abbi stared down at Michael's still form. He looked to be resting peacefully at least. "Who was she? This woman who was so dear to him."

"Not a woman... a girl. We were only children ourselves at the time. He speaks much more eloquently than I ever will. I haven't the patience for it, nor the wit, I fear. I am too staid. Too boring. I have always been thus, but he was my friend anyway. As a boy, I was twice the size of most of the others at school, but without any of the natural grace required for such stature to be beneficial. He and Rhys let me into their circle and in doing so, allowed me to meet her."

Abbi looked at him squarely, willing him to continue. She was jealous, envious of some unknown girl who'd held her husband's affections decades earlier. It was lowering. A part of her wanted to hear, but another part of her shied away from the knowledge. "Perhaps you shouldn't share this with me. It feels almost as if you are breaking a confidence."

Spencer's gaze was focused on Michael, the shallow rise and fall of his chest. "He doesn't share these things, not because he wishes them to be a secret, but because they are painful for him to talk about... More so, perhaps, than I'd even realized until I observed the events that unfolded at Briarwood Hall. It isn't that he wishes to keep it from you, my dear lady, it's that he's no wish to revisit it himself."

Abbi's curiosity warred with her conscience, but her need to learn more about the puzzling and quixotic man she'd married won out. She knew so very little about Michael and what she did know had come primarily from her own observation of him and his behavior which seemed so at odds with the gossip she'd always heard about him. It was also a welcome distraction from their current situation. "Please, continue."

Spencer gave a curt nod, paused as if to collect his thoughts and then said, "Melisande was Briarleigh's sister."

Abbi felt the weight of that statement sinking into her. Not a lover or recent paramour, but his childhood love. A dozen questions flitted through her mind. Where was she? Had she abandoned Michael and broken his heart? Did he still yearn for her? The last thought wounded her faltering pride, and perhaps even her heart.

Spencer continued his tale. "She was a year older than us, but even as children, her beauty was striking. To this day, I can't recall ever having seen a more beautiful child... except perhaps for Michael himself. She was as kind and gentle as she was beautiful."

Thinking of Michael as a boy and how beautiful he would have been made her wonder what their own children would look like. Even as it crossed her mind, she shied it away from it. His life was hanging in the balance, and with it, their future. Focusing on the other part of Spencer's statement, she asked, "You keep referring to her in the past tense... She is pa.s.sed on?"

Again Spencer gave a nod and paused for a moment before speaking. It was obvious that whatever had happened to that child had tormented them all.

"He loved her-Michael. And she loved him, but not in the way that children do though they were both complete innocents at the time. But the depth of what they felt for one another went beyond the pure affections or infatuations that young people form for one another. There was depth and substance there that none of us really understood. And being boys, Rhys and I teased him unmercifully for it"

He rose from the chair, pacing the room as he spoke, obviously feeling trapped by the small s.p.a.ce and by the painful memories that he was revisiting. "And on that fateful day we used it to goad him into going to the village with us rather than staying behind at the Park with Melisande... and she paid the ultimate price for it."

The weight of Spencer's words had changed. There was a quiet rage in his voice that belied his calm demeanor. This was not simply a story of a child's untimely pa.s.sing. Abbi had the feeling it was something so much worse. When Spencer remained quiet, she prompted him to continue. "This wasn't a death of natural causes. What happened to her?"

"Her cousin... Lord Alistair happened to her, my lady. In a fit of jealousy and madness, he raped her and attempted to strangle her to death. She was only thirteen."

Michael's anger the night they'd discovered poor Sarah, the tenderness he'd shown in caring for her suddenly took on new meaning for her. What horrors had he relived because of that?

A bitter laugh escaped him. "Of course, Alistair didn't succeed in killing her. Inexperience or perhaps panic set in... so he fetched his mother to help. Lady Phyllis used a rock to finish the job, bashing in Melisande's skull."

He stopped speaking for a moment, his jaw working as he attempted to regain control of his emotions. "She and Alistair returned to the house to hide their perfidy, which they succeeded in doing for two decades...They left her there, in the woods, broken, bleeding-clinging to life with a tenacity that I cannot even begin to imagine."

Abbi didn't speak. There was nothing that she could say to ease his pain and guilt. She just waited for him to finish the horrible tale.

When Spencer concluded the tale, his voice low and fraught with emotion. "That is how Michael discovered her. He stayed with her until she pa.s.sed, because even to an untrained boy, it was glaringly obvious that there could be no help for her... For years, he has been making amends, atoning for what he sees as his failure to save her. Taking in strays off the street, servants straight from the rookeries and brothels, the soiled doves that followed the army while we fought on the Peninsula...And I, who have always adhered to propriety's standards, was too blind to see that he was, in fact, the better man."

Abbi didn't cry. The tears that stung her eyes weren't just for the poor girl who's life was cut short in such a brutal and horrific manner. They were for the man she'd married, the man who was still haunted by those memories. "Why did you tell me this, Spencer?"

"Because you need to know... You need to understand him and when he's a high-handed a.s.s, you'll need to forgive him. He wants to keep you safe because he cares for you, but also because the guilt of failing another woman he loves would break him."

Those words cut through her. It was shocking how desperately she wanted to believe it was true, but wanting something did not make it so. "You're wrong. Michael does not love me."

Spencer's smile was grim. "No. Michael has not said he loves you. I have not said the sky is blue. That doesn't make it less so."

Was it possible? She desperately wanted to believe it, but how could she?

"You should rest, my lady. I will keep watch and wake you if his condition alters... Your termagant housekeeper has prepared a pallet for you just outside the doors. She seems to think you wouldn't be sensible enough to seek refuge in the comfort of your own bed."

Abbi felt the exhaustion to her bones. "Change the cloth on his brow whenever it feels warm to the touch... and at least once an hour, spoon feed him a few sips of broth. He needs it to restore his blood."

"I will see to it... Rest."

The last had sounded suspiciously like an order, but for once in her life, Abbi had neither the strength nor will to argue.

"Thank you," she replied. Exiting the room, she laid down on the pallet and slept almost instantly.

In the small room, Spencer looked down at his friend and sighed. "She's very good for you... Now you must wake up and tell her that for yourself."

Abbi had slept little, and when she had managed to do so, she'd been plagued by nightmares. Giving up on sleep altogether, she rose and once again entered Mrs. Wolcot's small room where Michael lay on the narrow bed. Spencer was seated in the chair she'd previously occupied. He looked as exhausted as she felt.

"I think his fever is worsening," Spencer said.

"That is not necessarily bad. Sometimes fevers will worsen before they break," she offered.

"And other times?"