Silk And Steel Part 5

"Thank you, my lord."

He didn't answer. As he watched her leave, he kept thinking of her pretty pink lips and her small, exquisite b.r.e.a.s.t.s, and rueing the day that she had climbed aboard his carriage.

Kathryn sat curled up in the window seat, her favorite place in the library. She was poring over a volume by a man named Jean di Vigo ent.i.tled Of Wounds in General. Many of the books in the library were over a century old but medical treatment had changed very little in the past hundred years and each held something of interest that might come in useful.

Her mind shifted from the book in her lap to the marquess and their conversation that afternoon. Though Litchfield had stood by her once more and she was incredibly grateful, his disapproval was more than apparent. Perhaps his lordship was right. She would never be a physician, no matter how long or hard she studied, and in truth, she didn't really want to be. All she wanted, all she had ever wanted, was to study the fascinating field that had captured her interest as a girl and be able to give aid when it was needed.

Kathryn scanned the pages of the book, which said that firearms caused poisonous wounds because of the powder and that one must cauterize the injury with scalding hot oil of elder mixed with a little theriaca. A later volume she had read by a man named Pare had advised against such measures, suggesting instead the wound be dressed with a mixture of egg yolks, oil of roses, and turpentine, a far less painful procedure. She wished Dr. Cunningham were here to advise her which was the better course.

Then again, hopefully a gunshot wound wasn't something she was soon to encounter.

Kathryn read on, the ticking of the clock on the mantel beginning to fade as the hour grew late and she grew sleepy. She must have dozed, for somewhere between di Vigo's medical writings and her thoughts on Pare, she found herself dreaming.

She was back in her airless cell at St. Bart's and a child was there with her, little Michael Bartholomew, a scrawny towheaded seven-year-old orphan who'd been named after two of the saints. Saint Michael, whom one of the women had seen in a vision the night he was born. She was certain the child was an angel fallen to earth-and he surely looked like one with his golden hair and deep green eyes, though as he got older he rarely behaved that way. Bartholomew, his surname, was simply the saint after which the hospital he had been born in was named.

Kathryn ruffled his dirty, blond hair, felt his small hand reach out and clasp hers. His mother had died a few days after his birth, leaving him to the care of a woman named Cleo, an inmate of the madhouse who still had milk from the child she had lost. In her squalid London flat, her babe had suffocated during the night, its tiny face buried in the corn-husk mattress on the floor. Cleo had gone completely mad, tearing off her clothes, pulling out her hair, running about the London streets stark naked, winding up at St. Bart's.

She had mothered little Michael the first four years of his life, then Cleo had withdrawn completely, refusing even to speak to the boy she thought of as her son, leaving Michael to be raised by the inmate population. Why he had been drawn to Kathryn, she didn't know. She simply felt lucky that he had.

"Did you hear that?" Michael asked, staring up at her. "I think the guards is comin'."

Kathryn felt a chill whisper through her. "What... what day is it?"

"It's bleedin' Friday," Michael grumped. "They's comin' to give us a bath."

"Oh, G.o.d." She hated the last Friday of the month, though it was the only way she could keep track of the time. From one horrible Friday to the next a month away. This was the last Friday of September. She had marked the date on the wall. The keys rattled in the lock and the heavy oak door swung open. Michael was the only one allowed to freely roam in and out of the corridors and cells and he darted out now, hoping to escape the fate that she could not.

"Get ye a.r.s.e out here, ducky," a bulky matron commanded. "Ye know well enough what day 'tis."

How could she so love to be clean and so hate the process by which she got that way? It was crystal clear when the matron stripped her and the other women naked and forced them to walk beside two burly guards down the chilly corridor to the room where the women were scrubbed.

"Get your filthy hands off me!" she shouted to one of the men whose big hand "accidentally" squeezed her breast when she didn't take her nightgown off fast enough.

" 'Ere new. I was only tryin' ta help ye. Ye best keep a civil tongue in yer head, gel, if ye know what's good fer ye."

She clamped down on her jaw to keep from spewing out the vile oath building inside her. Instead she walked down the hall in line with the rest of the women to the row of tubs where a matron would scrub her skin and hair until her flesh was raw and red and burning. They would touch her as if she were nothing more than a slab of meat, and as much as she tried not to care, humiliation scorched through her.

"No..." she said, starting to shake her head. "I'm a person. I can wash myself. I won't let you do this to me again."

Kathryn cried out at the harsh slap that stung her cheek.

"You'll do what I say and if ye give me any more a yer lip, you'll be scrubbin' the floor on yer hands and knees when yer finished in here."

"No..." Kathryn whispered as the dream continued, beginning to toss and turn on the window seat. "You can't do this... I won't let you..."

Lucien watched from the doorway for only an instant. Then he crossed the library and sat down on the window seat beside her. He knew she was dreaming and it was obvious her nightmare was not pleasant.

He shook her gently. "Kathryn, wake up. You're having a nightmare."

"No!" she cried out the moment he touched her. "Take your filthy hands off me!" She came up swinging, but he gently caught her wrists and pulled her firmly against him.

"It's all right. You're just dreaming. It's Lucien. I'm not going to hurt you."

Her eyes popped open. She blinked and slowly sagged against him. "Lucien..." It was the first time she had ever said his name, which sounded breathy and slightly throaty on her lips. She was breathing hard, her forehead covered with a sheen of perspiration. He could feel her slight frame trembling.

"Want to tell me about it?"

She sighed, but she didn't pull away, just rested her head on his shoulder as if it somehow gave her strength. He hoped that it did. He hoped that in some small way he could help to erase her painful past.

"There was a child there... a little blond boy named Michael. He was my friend."

"Was Michael in the dream?"

She nodded. He could feel the movement of her head against his chest. Wisps of burnished dark hair floated up against his cheek.

"Michael was there when the guards came. It was the end of the month. Time for... time for the women to bathe. I hated being dirty, but I hated what they made us do even worse."

Lucien said nothing. His heart was beating, hammering away inside him. He didn't want to hear this, but he didn't stop her. Some perverse part of him had to know the h.e.l.l that she had endured.

"They stripped us naked in front of the men. They treated us as if we were cattle. If we argued with them, they beat us." She swallowed hard. He could feel the movement against his shoulder. "Some of the women sold themselves for better treatment," she said. "Most of them weren't coherent enough to know where they were or care what was being done to them."

She looked up at him with eyes that were dark and haunted. "I can't go back there, Lucien. Not ever. I would rather be dead."

His chest squeezed, pressing down on his lungs. He held her tighter, stroked her hair, wished there was something he could do to make her forget. Kathryn slid her arms around his neck and leaned her head into his shoulder.

"You won't have to go back," he said. "I promise you, Kathryn."

She made no comment, just dragged in a shaky breath of air. When she realized how intimately they were entwined, she eased away, a slight flush coloring her cheeks.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to burden you with my past."

"It wasn't a burden."

Her eyes locked on his face. Something moved between them. Kathryn stood up from the window seat and took a step away. He knew what she was feeling, the hot, sweet thickness that had risen in the air around them, the awareness that suddenly pulsed like a living thing between them. Feelings that had nothing to do with comfort and everything to do with desire.

Inwardly he cursed. That he wanted her made no difference. He had obligations, commitments. His life was laid out exactly as he had planned, his future as unchangeable as if it were drawn in indelible ink.

There was no place in it for Kathryn Grayson. And even if there could be, he wouldn't want it. She wasn't the sort of woman he wished to marry. He wanted a sweet, docile, manageable female like Allison Hartman.

"It's getting late," Kathryn said, the words little more than a whisper. "I had better be going upstairs."

"Yes... I believe I shall retire myself." But he wondered if he'd be able to fall asleep. Or if he would lie in the darkness, imagining the feel of Kathryn Grayson's firm little nipples as they had pressed into his chest, the soft look in her eyes when she had said his name.

FIVE.

Winifred Montaine DeWitt looked down from the window of her bedchamber. In the garden below, Lucien strolled the gravel paths with Lady Kathryn Grayson. Winnie knew he was attracted to the girl and she understood the attraction. They were both intelligent, strong-willed people. People who knew what they wanted and weren't afraid to go after it.

Kathryn was determined to pursue her medical studies, no matter that society forbade such an unsuitable course. Her childhood, the loss of her sister and mother, had sp.a.w.ned a fascination she could not ignore. She had already suffered greatly for the path she had chosen, but Winnie believed even her ordeal in the madhouse would not be enough to snuff out her need for learning.

Lucien's own desires were equally strong. He wanted to protect the Litchfield t.i.tle, to increase the productivity and value of his lands and estates, and build a future for his sons. He had made plans to do just that, and no matter what problems might arise, that is exactly what he would do.

That Kathryn didn't fit the image of wife he had created in his mind only made it easier for him to hold his course. He disapproved of her interest in what he saw as unfit subjects for a lady. Winnie thought that perhaps, deep down inside, he still harbored an ill will toward his mother. Charlotte Stanton Montaine was also a brilliant young woman who refused to follow the dictates of society.

Her uniqueness had sparked Lucien's father's interest from the moment he first met her, and he had fallen wildly, insanely in love with her. But unlike Kathryn Grayson, Charlotte was selfish and spoiled. As a child she had wanted be an actress-an outrageous notion, considering she was the daughter of an earl. But Charlotte craved attention the way a thirsty man craved water, and she would do anything to get it. In the end, she had run off with an Italian count, abandoning her twelve-year-old son and leaving behind a besotted husband who became addicted to opium and died far too young.

Winnie believed that when Lucien looked at Kathryn, he saw the strong sort of woman his mother had been, felt the same pull of attraction his father had felt for such a woman, remembered the terrible consequences and unconsciously rebelled.

It was a pity, Winnie thought, recalling the love she had found with Richard. Though her husband wasn't the pa.s.sionate sort of man her nephew was, though he never looked at her with those hot, burning glances Lucien directed at Kathryn Grayson, they had been happy together. Winnie missed the closeness, the sharing that she would never have with another man.

She stepped back from the heavy velvet draperies with a sigh. In her own way she had come to love her husband. As a girl, she had once even fallen in love.

When she looked at Lucien, she thought of Allison Hartman and wondered if her nephew would ever learn the meaning of the word.

Lucien dismounted from his black Arabian stallion and handed the reins to the stable lad who rushed up beside him.

"I'll take 'im, milord."

Lucien patted the animal's sleek neck, still damp with sweat from his afternoon run. "He's had a long day, Timmy. See he's well cooled out and be sure to give him an extra portion of grain."

"Aye, milord."

The horse nickered softly as Lucien walked out of the barn, both of them grateful to be returned from a day of calling on tenants and surveying the fields. They were harvesting the last of the corn stubble to fatten the geese and the rest of the poultry. Pigs were being slaughtered for market, the bristles bringing a good price for brushes, their lard also a valuable commodity.

Lucien strode off toward the house, hungry for a good hot meal and a restful evening. Perhaps he would play a game of chess with Kathryn. He had discovered she was good at the game, and yesterday she had actually won.

He found himself smiling at the thought. He wouldn't have believed the day would come when a woman could beat him at chess. He glanced toward the door and his smile slid away. Reeves was racing toward him, his coat-tails flapping, his face flushed beet-red.

"My lord-come quickly! There are men in the house and they-" He stopped to wheeze in a breath, his powdered wig slipping sideways as Lucien gripped his arm.

"What is it, man? What's happened?"

"The constable. He and his men-they've come for Miss Gray. I tried to-"

Lucien didn't wait to hear the rest. Already he was running, shoving through the heavy oak door, his heart pounding as loud as his boots, anger making his fists clench. By the time he reached the entry, the house was in chaos. Kathryn was surrounded by a group of five men, Aunt Winnie standing beside her, gripping Kathryn's arm, refusing to let them take her away. One of the constable's men was prying on Winnie's fingers, trying to break her hold.

"What the devil is going on here?" Lucien's voice rang like a cannon shot above the melee. He stopped just paces from the heavyset man who appeared to be in charge. "You are trespa.s.sing in my home," he continued in his most severe tone. "You are a.s.saulting one of my guests. Release Miss Gray at once." He had yet to look at Kathryn and he didn't intend to. He knew the terror he would see on her face and what it would do to him when he did. He couldn't afford that moment of weakness. He needed his wits about him.

"I'm sorry for the inconvenience, your lordship. I'm Constable Perkins," said the heavyset man with the hard gray eyes and heavily powdered hair. "The man to my right is Henry Blakemore, the dean of admissions for St. Bartholomew's Hospital." He was slimmer, his nose long and thin, his hair slicked back in a face that was gaunt and a little bit sallow. "This woman is Lady Kathryn Grayson. We have been looking for her for some time. After a considerable effort, we discovered she was here. We've come to see her returned to the hospital."

Kathryn made a little whimpering sound but Lucien still didn't look at her.

"This woman's name is Kathryn Gray. She is a guest of my aunt's. Since there has obviously been some mistake, I strongly suggest that you leave."

"I'm sorry, your lordship, we can't do that. Dr. Blakemore has known her ladyship for more than ten months. He has identified her as the woman you know as Kathryn Gray."

He did look at her then, saw her sway toward Aunt Winnie, who still clung to her arm. Two watchmen still held her prisoner between them while another stood a few feet away. Her face was ashen, her eyes huge and gla.s.sy, like a moss-covered stone at the bottom of a stream.

"I tell you there is some mistake. I demand that you leave this instant." The men did not move, nor did they release their hold on Kathryn's arms. Lucien wanted to rip their hands away, to tear her free from their grasp and spirit her to safety. Instead he clamped down on his formidable temper and maintained his careful control.

"I warn you, gentlemen. Continue in this endeavor and you will not like the consequences."

"I'm afraid you don't understand, my lord. This woman is a danger to you and your family. She nearly killed the Earl of Dunstan's daughter. For your sake as well as her own, she must be returned to St. Bart's."

"Noooo!" Kathryn's voice, high-pitched and keening, rang across the foyer. She struggled against the watchmen's hold and unconsciously his hands balled into fists. "I didn't try to kill her," Kathryn cried. "She got sick, is all. It was an accident-I swear it."

"Take her away," Constable Perkins told his men.

"No!" Lucien stepped in front of the door. "You aren't taking her anywhere. She is a guest in this house and she is not leaving."

The constable's face turned hard. "There are five of us, Lord Litchfield. We will subdue you if we must. This woman is a danger to society. We have orders to bring her back. That is what we intend to do."

"Lucien?" Aunt Winnie's worried face looked up at him for a solution. Short of battling a constable, a doctor, and three seasoned watchmen, he could think of none. And even if he called in his servants, the men would simply return. Better to deal with the matter and have it settled once and for all. He turned his attention to Kathryn, whose head hung forward in defeat.

"I won't let them keep you," he told her. "I'll go to London straightaway. I'll have you out of there in a day or two."

Kathryn stared down at the floor as if he hadn't spoken, her eyes more glazed than before.

Lucien gripped her shoulders. "Listen to me, dammit. I won't let them hurt you. I'll come for you. As soon as I can arrange it, I'll have you out of there."

She looked up at him, but he didn't think she really saw him. "I can't survive that place again," she whispered. "I would rather be dead than go back there." Her eyes locked with his and her meaning was more than clear. "Do you hear me? I would rather be dead!"

Fear unlike any he had known tightened like a band around his chest. He knew what she was saying and he believed her. She would die in that place, if it had to be by her own hand.

Perkins made a motion toward the door, ordering his men to lead her away. As they started in that direction, Lucien stepped in front them, blocking her way. He reached up and caught her chin, cradled her face between his palms, and gave her a fierce, hard kiss on the mouth.

"Listen to me, Kathryn. I'll get you out of there-I give you my word. Don't do anything until I come for you-do you understand?"

Kathryn ran her tongue over her lips, tasting him there, looking at him for the first time as if she really saw him.

"Just find a way to survive," Lucien told her. "I'll get you put-I promise you I'll find a way."

Kathryn gazed into his face and finally she nodded. Then she turned away. He could hear his aunt crying in the background, and the sound ate at the last shreds of his control.

He turned a hard warning gaze on Blakemore. "I'll hold you personally responsible for this woman's treatment. If anything should happen to her-anything at all-I'll come for you. And a brigade of watchmen won't be able to save you from my wrath."

The doctor turned as gray as his powdered hair, but he nodded. "I'll see she receives the best possible care, your lordship."

Which meant nothing at all in a place like St. Bart's. Lucien felt sick to his stomach. As he watched her climb into the carriage, he wanted to bury his fist in Blakemore's self-righteous face. He turned to Reeves, who stood in the shadows of the hall, looking nearly as distraught as his aunt.

"Have my carriage brought round. I leave tonight for London."

"Yes, my lord."