A Highland Duchess Page 18
The young maid who had served her so well at Ian’s home wasn’t a maid at all but the nurse now standing in front of her.
“I have the greatest admiration for His Lordship,” Glenna said, as if she could read Emma’s thoughts. “I’d never say or do anything to embarrass him.”
“I would imagine that a nurse must need a great deal of discretion,” Emma said.
Glenna smiled. “His Lordship neither wanted your identity known or his.”
Emma tucked that knowledge away to think about later. Right now, Bryce needed attention.
Glenna assisted her with removing Bryce’s jacket and shirt, then went to the far side of the room, opening the large cabinet. Inside was a sink, in addition to several drawers and cupboards. Glenna filled a basin with water and returned to the side of the bed. Emma was startled to see steam rising from the top of the basin.
“You have hot water in the sickroom as well?” she asked.
The girl nodded. “His Lordship does not like disease,” she said, placing the basin on the table closest to her. “He believes that hot water aids in curing sickness.”
She returned to the cabinet, opened one of the drawers, and removed a selection of toweling and clothes.
“Why did you return to Lochlaven, to such a remote place?”
Glenna looked surprised at the question. “It’s my home.” She dipped the cloth into the basin, wrung it out, and gently washed Bryce’s face. “I’m married now but my training’s not gone to waste at Lochlaven. I’m a midwife as well, and there are scores of babies born all around Lochlaven.”
She washed Bryce’s chest, emptied the basin, refilled it, and returned to his bedside. Emma contributed by drying what Glenna washed.
“It’s hard to be gone from Lochlaven.” She glanced at Emma. “If you’re born to it, I mean.”
Emma had never had such longing for a location. Even their country home was just that, a house in the country where her father rode horses and she played in the gardens. Nothing there inspired her loyalty or rendered her miserable when she left.
Glenna had worked her way down to Bryce’s masculine bits, and bathed those with the nonchalance of a woman who’d seen better.
“I’ll need to find his trunk,” Emma said. “In order to change him into clean clothes.”
“No need for that,” Glenna said. “We’ve garments here.”
She returned to the large cupboard, where she bent and opened one of the bottom drawers. From it, she picked up one folded garment, looked back at the bed as if measuring Bryce, then selected another.
The garment turned out to be a snowy white nightshirt.
“This will suit him fine for now,” Glenna said. “I’ll give the rest of the clothes to the laundress and see what she can do with them. But he isn’t going anywhere for a little while.”
Emma helped Glenna dress her husband, a task at least as difficult as removing Bryce’s clothes. When he was dressed in the voluminous nightshirt, and tucked beneath the sheets with a blanket warming his feet, she turned to the nurse.
“Do you really think he’ll get better?”
A look of caution crossed Glenna’s face. “I don’t know,” she said softly. “That’s not for me to decide. That’s for the good Lord, Dr. Carrick, and His Lordship.”
Without further comment, Glenna began to clean up around the bed, emptying the basin in the sink in the cupboard, gathering up the towels and placing them in a hamper also located in the large cupboard. When she was done, she closed the doors and all evidence of a sickroom was concealed. Finally, she gathered up Bryce’s soiled clothing and went to the door. Before she left, she turned and glanced back at Emma.
“I have a birth a mile or so away,” she said. “Otherwise, I’d be more than willing to sit with him tonight. It doesn’t look to be a long affair. Mary’s had two children already. When I return, shall I spell you for a while?”
“That’s not necessary,” Emma said. “Perhaps tomorrow,” she added.
A look stretched between them. If Bryce survived until tomorrow.
Glenna nodded her head once and left the room.
Emma stood beside the bed, her fingers drumming on the sheet next to Bryce’s arm. If he’d been someone she knew, she might have talked to him, told him about her impressions of Lochlaven or spoke to him of her earnest wish that he get well.
Despite the fact that the law had joined them, he was as much a stranger as anyone plucked from a London street and delivered here.
Still, perhaps she should make the effort to be a good wife.
“We’re at Lochlaven,” she said, finding a topic of conversation that might, possibly, interest him, since he’d been so intent on reaching their destination. “From what I’ve seen, it’s quite a lovely place. Do you know it well?”
“He lived here as a boy.”
She turned to see Ian, standing in the doorway. He wore a garment not unlike a frock coat but constructed of a blue linen fabric, unbuttoned and revealing a white shirt and black trousers.
Had he appeared so tall and large in London? Or had her memory of him attempted to diminish him in size so he’d have less effect on her thoughts? Either way, the Earl of Buchane, her brigand, towered in the doorway.
She’d feared this moment for hours. Being alone with him now was not made easier for the anticipation.
Skeins of feeling wrapped around her, threatening to cut off her breath. She knew how quickly he fell asleep, how he woke as if sodden with sleep. She knew he had a pattern of three moles on his hip, and how his eyes darkened to black when he was aroused, and that he liked his toast crispy on both sides. She knew that he laughed with abandon, and had a wicked sense of humor, hands that delivered magic, and that when he kissed her, she lost both her thoughts and her inhibitions.
But she hadn’t known that she was to come here, to this place, to him.
She turned her head, deliberately refusing to look at him. Instead, she contemplated the man in the bed.
“Do you know what’s wrong with him?” she asked.
“Yes,” he said, coming inside the room. “He was poisoned.”
Shocked, she turned to stare at Ian.
“Poisoned?”
He nodded. “Arsenic,” he said. “Relatively common. Easy enough to procure.”
She could barely breathe. “Are you sure?” She stared down at Bryce, wondering if she could have gotten him help any sooner than she had.
A thought occurred to her.
“I didn’t poison him, Ian,” she said.
She forced herself to look in his direction, startled to see that he was staring at her, his expression one of surprise.
“I never thought you had,” he said. “Why would you think that?”
“I’ve never made any secret of my antipathy for this marriage,” she said. “It was arranged without my cooperation. Without my participation.”
“Then why did you agree to it?” he asked.
The words were calm but the look in his eyes was turbulent.
Why was he angry?
“Are Scottish women so free, then? Are they allowed to disobey their relatives?” she asked. She was not going to tell him of her uncle’s threat. To do so would be to solicit his pity, and she didn’t want pity from Ian McNair.
Bryce moaned, and anything Ian might have said vanished in his concern for his cousin.
He bent over the bed, gently pressing Bryce’s closed lids upward, one at a time, examining his eyes.
“Dr. Carrick is preparing a solution that Bryce will need to drink. The next twenty-four hours will not be easy for him.”
“Nor has the past day been a pleasant one,” she said.
He glanced over at her. “Will you stay with him?”
She nodded.
Silence stretched between them, a silence so filled with words that she could almost see them written in the air. Forbidden words. Words society would condone even less than her setting up an establishment of her own. But she was not society’s darling anyway, was she? Having married before her mourning was officially over. Already dressed appropriately for this husband’s death.
And when he died—if he died—would she mourn a stranger? He deserved her show of grief more than Anthony had.
Ian came to stand on the other side of the bed. When Glenna had stood in that exact spot, the bed had been a wide barrier, almost a wall. Ian could stretch his hand across the sheets and touch her.
He was too close and she was too aware of him.
She looked at Bryce’s drawn face. “I don’t know anything about him,” she said. “I don’t know what he likes to eat, or his favorite book, or the name of his best friend.” She glanced over at Ian. “We haven’t conversed very much,” she said, remembering her wedding night, when Bryce had consumed two bottles of wine, topping it off with half a bottle of brandy. “I don’t even know his occupation.”
“He gambles,” Ian said flatly. “Until now, he’s been able to support himself with the habit.”
She nodded, not unduly surprised.
Dr. Carrick entered the room then, two bottles and a metal spoon in his hand. He approached the bed, nodding to both Ian and Emma.
“Ian, if you will support his shoulders, we shall be about getting this medicine into the boy.”
“What is it?” Emma asked as Ian came to her side of the bed. She moved down so he did not stand so close.
“Ferric oxide with magnesia,” Dr. Carrick said, holding up the first bottle. “Followed by a tartar emetic.” He studied her for a moment. “Will you be up to it, madam? He’s going to be very sick.”
She shouldn’t have judged him so harshly. He hadn’t been drunk; he’d been ill.
“Yes, I’m up to it,” she said firmly.
Ian placed his arm behind Bryce and raised him almost to a sitting position. Dr. Carrick administered the two medications with some difficulty but finally managed to get Bryce to swallow some of it.
“He will begin to experience the cure within hours, madam,” Dr. Carrick said, without turning to address Emma. “It might well be worse than what you’ve endured already today, I’m afraid.”
She nodded, understanding everything he wasn’t saying.
Dr. Carrick walked to the cupboard, opened it, and removed a bowl, placing it on the side of the bed.
“Please have a maid summon me if his condition changes.”
He ticked off a number of symptoms for which Emma should be alert, and she nodded after each one.
“Will he live?” she asked when the doctor finished.
The question hung in the air, neither man answering it. Finally, Dr. Carrick spoke. “I have no idea. Now, it’s in the hands of the Almighty. There was a great deal of arsenic in the wine, madam. Enough to dispose of most of the rats in Edinburgh. Whoever did this to him of a certainty wished him dead. If we could have reached him sooner, perhaps I would be more hopeful.”
She watched as he left the room, carrying the medications with him.
“Will he not need another dosage?” she asked, turning to Ian.
He shook his head. “If it doesn’t work, there’s nothing more to be done. Another dosage would be toxic to his system.”
She’d been married twice, and might soon be widowed again. What did that make of her that she couldn’t truly mourn either husband?
Evening pressed against the window, demanding notice. Ian strode to the corner and lit a small lamp, then shielded the light with a darkened shade. The result was a column of light beside the chair but not enough illumination to disturb a patient in the bed.
He returned to the side of the bed and stood too close.
She wanted him to leave the sickroom, wanted it with a desire so fierce that she nearly spoke the words. His presence was disturbing, because it brought back so many feelings, the strongest of which was regret.
Her future was immutable, as if chains bound her. What she wanted or what she wished was as foolish as wanting Anthony to have been a different man.
She focused her attention on the man in the bed, watching the slow rise and fall of Bryce’s chest.
“Who would want to poison him?” she asked, giving voice to the question that had been in her mind ever since Ian pronounced the diagnosis.
He glanced at her, his face stoic and impossible to read.
“Bryce has a great many enemies,” he said. “He’s not an easy man to love.”
“But enough to kill him?”
They exchanged a long look before he turned and left the room, leaving Emma feeling more alone than she’d felt in her life.
Chapter 21
Emma settled as comfortably as she could in the chair, thinking that if she were truly a good wife, she would ask for a Bible and spend the time in contemplation of mortality. Instead, her life lay before her as if it were a daguerreotype. Instead of churches and basilicas, important moments in her life were preserved and displayed for her to see now.
She didn’t want to remember; she especially didn’t want to remember Chavensworth.
She lay her head back against the chair, exhausted and knowing that she couldn’t sleep. Someone must watch over Bryce. She stood, walked to the cupboard and opened it quietly. Following Glenna’s movements, she obtained a towel, a cloth, and filled the basin with a little hot water. Returning to the side of the bed, she bathed Bryce’s face and spoke to him in low and measured tones.
“I’m so very sorry this happened to you,” she said. “But you’re in good hands. Dr. Carrick seems quite competent, as does Ian.”
It wouldn’t do to think of Ian.
Her task done, she returned the bowl to the sink, squeezing out the cloth. She hung up the cloth and used a towel to dry the bowl before placing it back in the cupboard.
She returned to Bryce’s side, smoothing his hair back from his brow. He hadn’t truly stirred since Dr. Carrick and Ian forced the medication into him. There were none of the side effects she dreaded. Instead, Bryce looked to be hovering between sleep and death.
At least he was here, with people who loved him, with people who knew him.
She smoothed the sheets, folding them below his chin, ensuring they were tucked in. She stood there for a moment, wondering what else she could do to ease his misery.
Finally, she returned to the chair, sitting once more, and wishing that she could at least loosen her corset. She sat as her governess taught her, knees together, feet together, and hands loosely clasped on her lap, a pleasant if distant smile curving her lips. Her bonnet was on top of her shawl on the floor beside her. That was not proper. Nor was the wish to remove her snood and loosen her hair. Or unfasten her shoes so she might wiggle her toes and cool her feet.
The curtains had been drawn against the night, but she stood and parted them with one hand, staring out at the gleaming silver reflection that was the lake in moonlight.
How could one bear to live here and see such beauty day after day?
Chavensworth was considered a structure of immense beauty, and perhaps it was to someone who didn’t know what went on within its walls. But it was beauty created by man, and nothing as spectacular as that wrought by God.
There was such utter peace in this place, which was a ridiculous reason to suddenly wish to weep. Being at Lochlaven loomed as a challenge greater than any she’d faced in her lifetime. On one hand, there was duty—caring for Bryce, the worry, the sincere and heartfelt prayers. On the other hand, there was temptation—Ian, with his slow smile and piercing gaze, who brought back memories of forbidden passion.
One was expected of her, and one was illicit.
Perhaps this was Eden, and she was Eve. Adam was Bryce, ill and failing. And Ian the snake who lured her to forbidden fantasies. And above it all, God watched and waited for her to make the wrong choice.
Was Eden the last time women had been given an opportunity to choose? And because they’d chosen wrong, were they forever to be dominated by man?
She was tired, that’s why she was thinking of God and Eden.
“You haven’t eaten.”
She turned to find Ian standing in the doorway, a tray in his hands.
A smile curved her lips. “Have you turned maid now? Brigand, scientist, laird, and maid.”
“If you think so,” he said. He entered the room and placed the tray on a small table beside the chair. “I prefer to think of it as caring for my guests.”
A young man followed him, carrying an overstuffed chair the match of the one already in the room. He lowered it slowly next to the first chair and stepped back, waiting.
“That’s all, Broderick,” Ian said. “Thank you.”
How very proper he was, made even more so against the tenor of her thoughts.
“Thank you,” she said, realizing she was hungry. “You are an exceptional host.”
“I wish I could’ve welcomed you here under different circumstances,” he said.
She looked up at him, wondering at the comment. Did he mean under circumstances where Bryce was not ill? Or under entirely different circumstances, where she was not married at all?
Oh, how foolish she was to even think such a thing.
He went to the cupboard and opened it, removing a small collapsible table. The clever contraption was folded flat, but as she watched, he unfolded it and moved it in front of the chair.
“If you’ll sit,” he said, motioning to the chair, “I’ll serve you.”
Amused, she sat, and watched as he unfurled a napkin and handed it to her.
“I brought you tea,” he said, pouring her a cup from the small teapot in the corner of the tray.
“You’re very kind.”