Lady of Fortune Page 26

  The groom said quietly, “Do what you can, lass. He’s in a bad way. Better to do something than watch him get worse and worse.”

  With a sigh, she went for her instrument case. Besides scissors and tweezers, there was a thin metal pick that could be used as a probe. Much as she hated the idea of subjecting Alex to amateur surgery, it was clear from his deteriorating condition that something must be done. And unfortunately, she was the best person to do it.

  The next few minutes of kneeling on the floor and exploring the bloody gash were some of the most testing of her life, and she was barely capable of doing what was necessary. If Bob and Jamie hadn’t held Alex down, she could never have managed. Christa was about to give up when the probe contacted a hard object below the ribs where only soft tissue should have been. She used the probe to stretch the edges of the wound and reached in with the tweezers. If Alex were at all conscious, the pain must have been beastly, but she thought his convulsive thrashing was from fever and delirium rather than the crude operation.

  The fragment was embedded in flesh and slippery with blood, and it took an endless, aching time to remove. It was almost impossible to grip, and she came near giving up, fearful that her efforts would injure more than help. Then, using a combination of probe and tweezers, she suddenly pried it loose. It was deceptively small for the damage it was causing, a bloody inch-long fragment that seemed to be brass.

  Gasping for breath as if she had been running, Christa slumped against the bed for a moment until she was somewhat recovered, then dusted the wound with basilicum powder and closed it with several neat stitches. She hoped fervently that this would be her only experience of surgery on a human.

  Willson put a sympathetic hand on her shoulder while a white-faced Fiske left the room for a few moments. Alex was calmer now, but his face was pale with shock and each rasping breath was an effort. Willson looked at his master helplessly, his normally impassive face a study in anguish. “I should go for the doctor again. The lying-in must be over. Maybe he can do something more.”

  Christa glanced at him from where she knelt by the bed, tying a fresh bandage around Alex’s chest. “The tide is high now. You’ll never make it over the causeway.”

  Willson said slowly, “There’s a rowboat in the stable.”

  Christa rocked back on her heels. “But the currents! You may be swamped if you try to cross.”

  “One person couldn’t make it. But two might.”

  She opened her mouth to explain that the crisis coming was unlikely to be affected by a doctor, but she stopped herself. Willson doubtless knew that as well as she did, but she saw that he had a desperate need for action, to feel he was doing something to help. She said slowly, “Are you sure of that, and that Jamie is well enough to go? You know his lordship would be the last man to want you to throw your lives away.”

  Fiske returned, his color better and his expression eager. He had always been proud to serve Lord Kingsley, and his genuine affection had become near-idolatry after the rescue. How many masters would risk their lives for a servant, particularly one who had been employed for only a few months? “I’m recovered now. Will you be able to manage alone, Christa?”

  She glanced at Alex. He was lying still now. Still as death. “Yes, he’s sleeping well—I should be able to manage. But in the name of heaven, don’t let anything happen to you!”

  Within ten minutes they were gone. Christa looked out the window after them, but they disappeared almost immediately. The snow had stopped falling and a bitter wind was blowing the existing flakes in near-horizontal lines. Dropping the unbleached linen curtain, she added more coal to the fire, then went to sit by Alex again. She still wore her shift and wrapper, and it hardly seemed worthwhile to change. The room was warm, and she had a superstitious need to keep Alex under her sight, as if he couldn’t slip away as long as she was watching.

  An hour or so after the men left, Alex started getting more restless again. His movements were less violent than earlier, but his voice clearer. He talked of battles: “The shot is red-hot … ’ware the fire!”; of watching a friend die: “I’ll tell her, Will, I promise … I promise.”

  Christa caught his hand, hoping that her presence might calm him, but he pulled away, gasping, “The guns—spike the guns!” in a hoarse voice. His thrashing was getting worse again and she was frightened. If he fell out of the bed again, she would be unable to get him back, and the cold, drafty stone floor would not help his condition. She pitched her voice as clearly as possible and said, “Alex, it’s all right! You’re safe now. The fighting is over. We won. Everything is all right.”

  He stopped moving, but his eyes were staring at something seen only by him. “No … no—stop it!” He rolled away from Christa, pulling one arm over his head as if shielding himself from a blow. “In the name of God, stop! She’s only a baby … she’s only a baby …”

  Alex seemed to be collapsing in on himself, pulling away from something that he couldn’t bear. He kept repeating, “She’s only a baby …” His face was gray and his breathing shallow, and he looked so much like the vision Christa had seen at the Orchard that she was terrified.

  “Alex, don’t give up—please!” Christa’s voice was urgent, and tears filled her eyes. The hand she held was getting colder, and the gale rattling the windows sounded like the wings of the angel of death, fighting to break into the room.

  She slipped into the bed and wrapped her arms around him, trying to warm him with her body. “Please, Alex, don’t go! I love you, and I can’t bear to lose another person I love. Please!” Her tears were falling on his chest, and she held him desperately, as if she could hold back a departing spirit.

  Alex’s breathing changed, becoming more ragged. “Christa … ?” His voice was distant and uncomprehending, but it was the first time he had shown any kind of response. His head turned toward her, his eyes unseeing. “Christa, amour …”

  She lifted herself and laid her face against his. “I am here, love. Everything is all right, it is over, everything will be all right.”

  His arms slipped around her and then he was holding her hard against him, so tightly she could hardly draw breath. “Christa …” He was still not of this world, and he clung to her as if she were a lifeline that kept him from being swept away. She crooned French endearments in his ear, telling him that the terrors were behind him, that he was safe, that she loved him and everything would be all right.

  She could feel the warmth slowly returning to his body, and his breathing was harsh but stronger. His face turned toward hers, seeking, and she kissed him with all the longing of fear and months of hidden love. She could feel the growth of desire as he began to respond, his hands relaxing their death grip and beginning to caress, his lips and tongue warm and urgent on hers.

  With sharp clarity Christa knew that she could break away if she tried, but the desire to make love was a powerful manifestation of life, and passion might banish the death shadows that threatened to take Alex away from her. She had sworn to do anything that might aid him, and her virtue was a small price to pay toward his healing. Besides, giving herself to the man she loved was no great sacrifice, even under these circumstances.

  Alex rolled over on his right side, pulling Christa down against him. The passion that had always been between them flared into searing life and she forgot fear and doubt to exist solely in the moment, for Alex’s kisses, for the touch of the strong hands that slid off her shift and robe. His lips traversed her bare body, sometimes lingering, sometimes demanding, and she moaned, her pleasure as unself-conscious and primal as his own.

  Such an intensity of passion moved quickly, and when he entered her there was a moment of pain so sharp that Christa cried out, and tried to pull away. But then there was no more pain, and she knew for the first time the physical closeness that was the counterpart of the love she felt for him. Even with Alex delirious, there was a triumph in holding him, and she understood the songs poets had proclaimed from time immemorial.

/>   When it was over, he rolled back to his side and held her still, stroking her back and whispering her name. His color and breathing were almost normal now, and as he slid into a healthy sleep, she knew in her bones that the danger was past.

  The fears and events of the last hour had exhausted her, and Christa felt almost too tired to rise from the bed. With dry humor she considered the irony that her first experience of loving was such a solitary affair. When Alex woke, he was unlikely to remember any of what had happened, and she could imagine no good reason to tell him—he belonged to another woman, and she had no acceptable place in his future.

  But for these few moments Christa could relax and savor his closeness, pretend that they were lovers in truth. She must not let herself get too comfortable, she thought drowsily. In just a minute she would get up, in just another minute …

  It seemed that he had been wandering in darkness for a painful eternity, groping through swirling mists that would occasionally thin to put him in the middle of some wretched memory, such as his first major battle, when Alex’s closest friend among the midshipmen was torn to pieces by a cannonball. He fought his way upward through an endless kaleidoscope of fear, disease, and loss, dimly aware that light and sanity must be somewhere beyond the mists. The veils were thinning when he stumbled into the worst memory of all.

  He was a boy of ten, home from school for the summer; his mother was paying a brief visit to the country, and in a vile mood. Annabelle was a toddler and she had wandered into her mother’s chamber when Lady Serena was dressing. The child was playing with a bottle of expensive perfume, and dropped it when her mother shouted at her, the crystal vial shattering and the heavy scents of musk and neroli permeating the room. Furious, Lady Serena snatched up her riding crop and started to beat Annabelle, slashing down with her full adult strength.

  Hearing his sister’s screams of terror, Alex rushed into his mother’s chamber and tried to stop the beating. Annabelle, bleeding and weeping hysterically, ran headlong from the room; deprived of her original victim, Lady Serena turned her fury on her son, whipping him savagely around the head and shoulders.

  He was too proud to run, and could not bring himself to strike his mother back. Instead he fell to his knees on the floor, trying to protect his head, trying to withdraw from the unbearable knowledge that his mother was more than a little mad. Her maid finally intervened to stop the attack, and Alex had staggered from the room, holding his tears until he was alone in the marshes by the shore. He had buried the memory for years, the pain and the sense of desolation, the knowledge that his mother was as cruel and violent and uncaring as she was beautiful.

  The memory had carried a despair as vivid as the event itself, and he was drowning once more in desolation. As Alex tried to withdraw from the anguish of the past, he began a nightmare-slow fall down a bottomless well, into an endless night that promised cessation of pain.

  And then Christa was there, her warm voice and touch pulling him back from the dark. The mists still obscured his sight but Alex clung to her, to warmth and the memory of sanity and laughter. He dreamed of her with such intensity and passionate detail that the dream surpassed reality. Floating up from the depths of sleep, he could even imagine the rosemary tang of her hair.

  There was a delicious languor in his body, and Alex slowly realized that the stabbing pain in his side that had nagged him for the last months was gone, replaced by a dull ache that was trivial by comparison. As awareness returned, he found himself lying on his side in a warm bed, with some kind of bandage constricting his chest. The rosemary fragrance was stronger, and the realization slowly dawned that he was not sleeping alone. Dark rosemary-scented curls were within tickling range of his nose, and he had no doubt about whom they belonged to.

  Christa lay curled up against him, her back fitting against his stomach, her breathing soft and steady. Alex discovered with some amusement that his arm was around her and his left hand cupped one full breast. It was a superlatively comfortable way to sleep, and for a few minutes he simply lay still and enjoyed it, loath to explore the ramifications of the situation because that would require returning to a normality that would not be an improvement.

  After an interval of mindless contentment, Alex sighed and lifted himself slightly on his right elbow. Christa rolled onto her back, her long lashes dark against her face. There were shadows under her eyes, and he wondered how she had come to be here. Where was here? And how long had he been out of his head?

  Christa gave a sleepy cat-smile and her lashes fluttered. Then her eyes snapped open, fully awake, her gaze a little wary. Alex reached out and slipped his fingers into her silky curls, brushing the dark hair back from her face. “It wasn’t a dream, then,” he said quietly.

  She relaxed and shook her head. “No. I’m sorry, my lord, I had not meant to fall asleep. We are at Stornaway. Jamie Fiske and Bob Willson went for the physician, and have not yet returned.” Time enough to worry about their safety later; at the moment, pallid sunshine from the window indicated a clear day dawning.

  He smiled wryly. “Under the circumstances, surely ‘Alex’ would be more appropriate.” She smiled in assent; then he continued, his face and eyes grave, “I’m sorry, Christa. The last thing on earth I would have chosen would be to hurt you.”

  “You did nothing that I did not consent to, Alex. And there is nothing I have that I would not freely give you.”

  He drew a deep breath, his emotions too deep and tangled to express. Christa’s generosity was as warm and honest as the rest of her, and she had given him a gift that could never be repaid. “And you would have quietly returned to your place if I hadn’t woken first, and left me to think last night was just a dream?”

  “It would have been better that way, Alex.” Christa hesitated, and her eyes slid away from his. “But since it is too late for discretion, there is something I would ask of you.”

  “Anything in my power, ma chérie.”

  With some difficulty she said, “Would you … could you make love to me? Properly awake this time. I would like to have that to remember.” She added hastily, “Unless you are too weak. You were delirious for nearly two days.”

  Alex laughed and pulled her close, feeling her delicious curves against his body. “I may be convalescent, but I’m not dead. Which is what I would have to be not to respond to you.”

  He released her and pulled the blanket down a little, exposing her upper body to his view. “You are so beautiful,” he said huskily, “I have never known your equal. You humble me.”

  At first Christa felt shy under his gaze, but she relaxed as she looked into his amber eyes. The warmth of his admiration was obvious as he sketched the contours of her face, his fingers delicate on her cheekbones, lightly brushing her lips before he traced the lines of her neck down to her breast.

  He whispered, “With my body I thee worship.” With Alex’s words the last barrier dissolved, and Christa herself reached out, testing the texture of the blond curls above the bandage, touching the lines of old scars, feeling the warmth of firm muscles shifting beneath the fair skin. When she was nursing him, her concern had been for his welfare. Now she was free to respond to him as a man, not a patient, and to glory in the beauty and strength of his powerful body.

  As she had requested, Alex began to kiss her properly, as deeply and thoroughly as if they had all the time in the world. Christa sighed blissfully and gave herself up to the sensations, trying to store enough memories to last a lifetime. His gentle lovemaking was the antithesis of last night’s turbulent passion, and introduced her to a whole new spectrum of feeling and response.

  This time when she cried out, it was not from pain.

  Alex held Christa close in the drowsy aftermath of loving, his hand stroking the sweet curves of her back from the silky hair at her nape to the rounded hip. Her eyes were closed and he could feel the soft touch of her breath against his shoulder. With wonder he realized that he had never experienced such intimacy and peace in his life, and
it was as if blinders were dropping away from him.

  The truth was so simple: he was in love with Christa, with her warmth and wisdom and laughter, and he wanted to be with her always. There was no law of God or man that said they couldn’t marry, and only the blindness of class difference had obscured that basic fact. Had Christa been anything but a servant, Alex would have recognized that he loved her long since. And surely it had been love on her part that had literally pulled him back from the brink of death.

  There would be a scandal, of course, but it would pass in time—noblemen had always been allowed considerable latitude.

  And if it didn’t, he wouldn’t care unless Christa did. Sybil Debenham would be angry, possibly hurt, but he doubted that her feelings ran very deep. Alex would have to resign his commission in the Navy, but that was no great loss, since he had only taken it to escape the muddle he had made of his affairs on land.

  It was all so clear, so right. He felt himself drifting into sleep again, and with the last sparks of consciousness he said softly, “Marry me, Christa. Please.”

  She stiffened in his arms and raised her head, the clear gray eyes meeting his in shock. “Marry you?”

  Her soft voice was startled, and something more, something Alex couldn’t analyze in the moments before sleep claimed him. To make sure there was no misunderstanding, he whispered again, “I want to marry you, if you’ll have me.” Then the effort of maintaining awareness became too great and his eyes closed.

  Christa was rigid with shock as she slipped from the warm bed. She studied Alex’s peaceful sleeping face, reaching out to touch his cheek and the strong line of his jaw. Tears gathered in her eyes as she brushed the thick waves of gold hair from his eyes, knowing that never again would she be this close to him. It was so like Alex to take responsibility for having “ruined her,” even if it meant destroying his own future. She had no doubt that his offer was sincere, and equally little doubt that it was made from duty rather than love.