Ransom Redeemed (21 page)

The door opened and Violet returned with the dressmaker's assistants. "What happened? What have you both been talking about? Mary looks peculiar."

Silence.

Lady Charlotte stood, recovering her poise with admirable alacrity. She looked down at Mary. "He won't love you, you know. They aren't capable. He's just like his father."

Mary stood too, remembering her Ashford Pride. "Mr. Deverell says that Ransom is just like his mother," she replied in a light, carefree tone.

Rather than meet Mary's eye, the other woman attempted to gain a few inches in height by raising her chin and one elegant eyebrow. "Then he is the worst of both of us. Surely a creature to be pitied, or feared. But not loved."

Violet was still utterly lost, and the dressmaker's assistants were pretending not to hear.

Suddenly feeling quite calm again, Mary said, "Will you come back to the house and see your son?"

"No. I don't believe I shall. Let him send for me, if I am needed. Apparently, for now, I am not." Her lips moved uncertainly, the corners pulling downward. There was something shining in her left eye, but surely it was not a real tear. Mary had heard many complaints and sobbing groans from Lady Charlotte in the past, but she had never seen a genuine, wet tear. It was not the done thing, of course, to show too much emotion. Mary had been raised the same way and struggled often to remind her sister that one's passions should be held out of sight. But Lady Charlotte loved her dramatics, much as "Violette" did. It was simply that her ladyship's were usually empty gestures, extravagant, showy and entirely without depth of feeling. She could change from wailing depression at a rainy day to unbridled, girlish joy at a gift from an admirer, all in the space of two minutes. Often one felt the need to applaud this display and toss flowers at her feet.

The hint of an actual tear, therefore, was new, unexpected. Rare as a blue diamond.

Lady Charlotte swung around to speak with the dressmaker who had just re-entered the room with her book of notes, and the conversation about dresses resumed as if it had never been interrupted. But her expression was fixed, her eyes glassy. Mary had seen that look before on a horse that was about to drop dead in the shafts.

At least it seemed as if Violet would not suffer. Lady Charlotte remained civil to her, graciously extending one hand to her new "protégée" to kiss. "I shall look forward to seeing the dress when it is complete." To Mary she nodded her head slowly and grandly. "I will see you on our usual day, Miss Ashford."

She was back to herself again. As the lady had said, she did not expect her son's engagement to last, so why would anything change?

"You are sure you will not come to your son?" Mary asked her again, hoping the lady would reconsider and avoid any later regret.

But her countenance was a mask now. "Good heavens, Mary, don't whittle at me! What can
I
do for him? The sick-bed is not my province. Better I see him when he is put together again. I doubt he would want guests while in an unsightly state."

Well, Mary had done her best.

"Then Lady Charlotte did not loan us the carriage?" Violet enquired as Mary helped her into her coat. "I thought you said she did."

"No, sister. I told you a bold-faced lie. The carriage belongs to True Deverell."

Violet's eyes had almost sprung out of her head. "But you never lie." Her ringlets trembled.

"I have done several things today that I never did before." Mary took her arm and hurried her out of the dressmaker's premises. "Prepare yourself, sister, for some news." Violet would have to be told, since Mary planned to spend the evening looking after him and it would not be proper under any other circumstances. "I am engaged to Lady Charlotte's son, Ransom Deverell." It did not sound any more likely this time she said it.

"You? Engaged? But how?" It was too much for poor Violet, who stopped, dug in her heels and could not be steered forward. "When?"

"In actual fact he decided it without me. Because I wasn't there at the time to ask."

Violet gripped the carriage door for balance as Mary prodded her speedily up into the carriage. Finally, when the door was closed and the blind lowered for privacy, the carriage moving forward again, all Violet could find to say was, "But if you married anybody, I thought it would be Dr. Woodley."

Sighing heavily, Mary lifted one corner of the blind to peep out. "Luckily for me, the good doctor's gentlemanly manners and reserve kept him from asking in time. Ransom Deverell had no such issues."

Chapter Twenty

The cool, damp cloth swept softly across his brow, down the side of his face and under his chin. Through his lashes he watched the flickering light as her hand moved back and forth, guiding the cloth slowly, gently, chasing away the sticky sweat and the pain.

A drop of water trickled down his cheek, and she caught it with the cloth at the edge of his jaw. Her hand slipped a little, for her finger touched his face and the prickles on his chin must have tickled her. He heard the catch of her breath, like half a hiccup.

Ransom opened his eyes, just in time to see the tip of her tongue slip back from where it had wet her lower lip in concentration. Her pupils were large, velvety black, darkening her gaze until it could be described as sultry, steamy.

After rinsing the cloth in her bowl of water, she raised it once more, dabbing it lightly down the side of his neck. Her sleeves were unbuttoned at the cuff and turned back to keep them out of the water, which gave Ransom an extra few inches of bare arm to admire. Again her fingertips touched his skin, caressing him accidentally, and he suffered the stirring of an intense hunger that had nothing to do with his stomach's needs.

Here he was, dying to breathe, and all he could think about was holding her in his arms, touching the naked, satiny skin of her back, following the curve downward and rolling her beneath him...kissing that little soft place beneath her ear...licking the sweet, perfumed sheen of perspiration from her skin. Hearing her sigh his name.

Now she wiped the base of his throat, tenderly stroking with that warm, slippery cloth. And he felt her soft, slender wrist moving against the chest hair that curled above the open laces of his nightshirt.

He was having trouble breathing before. If he didn't stop her now, he would forget
how
to breathe.

Reluctantly he raised a hand to his chest and closed his fingers over hers. "Thank you," he managed, his voice taut as a bow about to release its arrow. "That's better."

Mary put her bowl aside and now applied some ointment to his scars and bruises, before wrapping a fresh bandage around his forehead. All this was done without a word from her, so he had no idea what she was thinking or feeling. He'd never known a woman like her.

"Why do you not want to sleep?" she asked.

"If you had dreams like mine, Mary, you wouldn't want to sleep either."

"Tell me about them, then."

"No."

Lips pursed, hands on her waist, she shook her head.

Afraid she might find another excuse to leave, he asked her to continue reading, so she sat in a chair beside the bed and opened her book. As she read aloud, he closed his eyes. Each time she stopped reading, he opened them again and urged her to continue.

"You ought to sleep," she urged again.

"No, thank you, madam. It is a kind thought, but I prefer to keep my wits about me," he replied, aware that he was being oddly polite, but not able to do anything about it. The laudanum did make him sleepy, but he refused to give in just yet. Defiantly he thought he could fight the medicine, much as he once planned to fight Nanny Bond.

But no, he would not think of that harridan tonight. Or of Sally White. They could not get him while Mary sat by his bed.

"You will stay, won't you?"

She gave a wry smile. "Since you told your father that you wouldn't have anybody else, I'll have to, shan't I? I could hardly leave you alone to suffer."

The pain had eased somewhat. Thankfully. "Good." Finally she took pity on him.

He watched her lips move as she read from the book in her lap. The gaslight cast her face in a warm glow, like that of a peach hanging from a tree, not yet ripe enough to be plucked, but soon to be. How lovely she was in her quiet way. Understated, unassuming, and yet not to be missed. Hers was a face that made a man look twice and then a third time. And then he could not stop looking.

It was not the sort of cream-and-roses beauty, instantly recognizable, and used to sell face tonic to the masses. It was timeless, unique, indefinable. He felt as if it was his alone now.

"Where did you go without me, Mary?"

She looked up from her book again. "To the dressmaker with my sister. I told you."

But he meant forever. Where had she been without him for all this time? Where did she go when he had not been there?

His head felt as if it was swaddled in a very soft fleece, and all manner of thoughts wandered through his mind.

"Tell me about your sister."

"I thought you wanted me to read to you."

"I warned you my attention is easily scattered. Now I want to talk." Actually, he feared the gentle lull of her reading voice would put him to sleep too soon. "You said we would not have anything to talk about, but we do."

Placing a bookmark carefully in the page, she closed her book and set it aside. "Violet is very pretty, very young, and very restless."

"You love her."

"Of course. Will you have some water?" She got up and reached for a glass and the jug. He watched her pour.

"I don't love
my
sister," he muttered. "She's a bloody pain in the posterior."

Mary smiled and held the glass, while he sipped. Ah, better. "You love your sister, and she loves you, whether you like it or not. It is the drawback of being family, I fear. The love is inevitable, even if they drive you to madness sometimes. One must accept that many of their faults are also yours."

"My father would disagree with you. He says it's just instinct to protect one's family. Not love. We're all just animals. Surviving."

She held the glass up again, and he took another sip. "Is that so?"

"To help a stranger one needs a motive. Usually mercenary. Wanting something for one's own good."

"Yes," she replied briskly, "I suppose that's all it is." And she set the glass firmly back on the small bedside table, her lips pressed tightly together, the smile gone.

Wanting to make her laugh again, he said suddenly, "Do you know, Mary, I believe you must be the only maiden that ever entered this bedchamber."

She threw him a look over her shoulder. "And I'm certain to be the only one who will leave it in the same state as she came in."

More's the pity, he thought, silently cursing his injuries.

A tap at the door announced the arrival of Smith, who brought a letter. "Pardon me, Miss Ashford, but this just arrived here for you."

Ransom scowled. "Who the devil is it from? Who would write to you here?"

His private nurse primly ignored him to accept the letter and thank Smith. She opened the seal and read quickly. Whatever the news was, it cheered her up again.

"Well?" Ransom demanded. "Who is writing to my fiancée?"

"Mr. Thaddeus Speedwell."

"
Who
?"

Mary refolded the letter. "My business partner at the bookshop. Don't you remember?"

"What the deuce does he want? Does he not know you're busy here with me, damn it? I must have all your attention."

She merely raised her eyes to the ceiling and then shared a quick smile with Smith. The butler, realizing he'd been caught, hastily straightened his lips and then said solemnly, "Sir, I have made up the Chinese bedroom for Mr. Deverell. He informs me that he means to stay."

"It's not necessary. I'm sure he has other things he would rather be doing. Besides, it's Christmas next week, and he should be at Roscarrock with the others."

He heard Mary gasp.

"What?" he demanded, turning his head against the pillow to look at her. "It's only me. No need for the world to stop just because I might die. As long as I have you, I'm content."

She stared in mild disapproval and impatience, just like her portrait on the far wall.

Smith spoke again, "Mr. Deverell is quite certain that he wants to stay, sir. And he says you will need his help overseeing matters at the club while you are indisposed."

"My father must do as he thinks best then. Yes, I suppose he is concerned about the business most of all."

"Very good, sir." Smith hesitated and then added, "When the young Indian lady arrives on Wednesday for your standing appointment, may I take it that she is to be kept separate from your father? And if young Master Rush should call in with one of his letters from the university again?"

Ransom knew Mary was listening, although she pretended to be utterly absorbed in folding a blanket at the foot of the bed.

"Yes." He pressed his head back against the pillow, feeling very tired. "The Indian lady will be here at nine on Wednesday as usual. There is money for her in the desk drawer in my father's study. Top right. And some in my boots, over there, by the fire. But you are quite correct— my father mustn't know about her. For pity's sake keep her out of his sight, will you? And if anything happens to me, you must get word to Captain Justify Deverell, wherever his ship might be."

"Very good, sir."

"As for Rush, if he needs another letter of complaint about his behavior signed off on, put it aside until I can sign it. Best not worry my father on that score either. For now."

"Indeed." Smith turned to Mary and asked whether she required anything, but she replied that she was quite content. The butler bowed and left them alone again.

Ransom waited for her to question him about the Indian lady. Nothing. She moved around his bed, adjusting quilts and blankets, and then returned to her chair. "Are you sure I cannot tempt you to try more of the broth?" she asked.

Earlier she had managed to get him to eat a little, but he was too nauseous for much food and the broth Mrs. Clay had made mostly remained in the bowl.

Finally he prompted, "You must be curious about my Indian lady visitor."

She sighed and smoothed both hands over her lap. "Not particularly."

"You must promise not to mention it to my father."

Her hands stilled, her gaze returned to his face. "Why?"

"She's my brother's wife. But nobody else knows. Justify is planning the perfect moment to share his news. In the meantime, he is at sea, and I am given the task of keeping her safe and provided for, until he returns."

"Why should your father not know? Surely he must, sooner or later."

He groaned sleepily. "You're right, of course, sensible Mary. I wish the folk in my family had your common sense. In any case, she'll be here at nine on Wednesday, if you would like to meet her. Not that she speaks more than a word or two of English. I promised Justify that I would keep his secret, just as I promised Damon to keep his."

"And Rush. He is the youngest of Lady Charlotte's children, is he not? She has mentioned him sometimes. I understand he refuses to visit her."

"In many ways Rush was lucky, for our parents were living apart before he was even born, so he never suffered the worst of the fights, as Raven and I did. It does not seem to have done him much benefit though. He spends a vast deal of his time in one trouble or another."

She tilted her head. "A family trait?"

He smiled, but it was interrupted by a yawn.

Suddenly she reached over and took his hand. "Don't worry about that now. Don't worry about any of that. You must rest." Her thumb moved against his palm, shyly at first, then gaining confidence.

Just like that he forgot it all.

* * * *

At last he seemed to be sleeping. Mary could not move her hand for fear of waking him and seeing those eyes open again. So she sat very still, only her thumb gently stroking his warm palm.

It occurred to her that she had never touched a man's gloveless hand unless he was her father, her uncle, or one of her brothers. At balls, of course, men wore white gloves, as did she. George Stanbury's bare hand had never touched any part of her. He would not have dared try with her brothers always nearby, always in the same room.

Ransom Deverell's hands were infamous for having shot at his father, seduced many women, dealt many winning cards. His knuckles were broad, scabbed and torn, his nails square, not well cared for. No surprise there considering the fight he'd been in.

Three or four leaping upon one man. Thugs. It made her furious.

She thought of everything she had just learned— about how he looked after his brothers. He took on their problems, better than he took on his own. He had even taken on hers.

Yet people called him wicked names, thought him heartless, a man without a conscience.

Ransom's forearm stretched over the quilt, muscular, covered with dark hair the same as his chest. His wrist was strong, thick. Beside hers it looked enormous, and blood still pulsed through it. Mary was determined to keep that blood pumping and all his parts working as they should.

She glanced over at the letter from Thaddeus Speedwell and smiled.

Dr. Woodley could study his ancient manuscripts, keep his leeches, and cling to his old-fashioned ways, manners, and ideas, if that made him comfortable. Like her father. But Mary was a modern woman, forward-thinking. And she was willing to try anything for the ones she loved. No more opportunities would pass her by.

Her gaze returned to the sleeping man — the one she wanted to save, the one who assumed she was there for mercenary reasons.

His eyelids fluttered but did not open, his lashes, dark, fluttering, crescent shadows on his cheeks.

Must be dreaming.

"Sally," he murmured. "
Sally!
"

Sweat broke across his chest, dampening his nightshirt. With her free hand she reached for the washrag again and cooled his face.

Sally? Was that another woman in his life, one he had yet to send on her way?

Clearly, whoever she was, she meant a lot to him. But there was something sinister in his voice.

His body tensed, his fingers rigidly gripping hers.

"Sally!"

Mary leaned over and kissed his brow.

He whimpered.

Gently she kissed each eyelid.

His fingers loosened their grasp.

She kissed his lips, and they parted to exhale a light snore.

At last his face was peaceful, his body sunk into the bed with greater ease.

The door opened, and his father came in. Mary hastily straightened her spine and pretended to check Ransom's temperature with one hand to his brow.

"How is the patient?" True Deverell crossed quickly to the bed, although he came no closer than the chaise at the foot of it.

"Suffering bad dreams, I fear. But I think it has passed."

"You ought to take some rest, Miss Ashford. You've been at his side all evening."

"I wouldn't like to leave, sir. What if he wakes? He was very adamant that I stay."

"I'm sure he was. Spoiled boy." He shook his head. "But you can sit a while, eh?" Deverell motioned for her to join him by the fire in one of the chairs that stood on either side of the small hearth.

"I'm glad you came up, sir, as I wanted to tell you that I saw Lady Charlotte this afternoon at the dressmaker's."

He winced, dropping into a lazy sprawl in one of the chairs.

"I thought it only right that she should know about her son's condition," she added hastily. "I have been acquainted with the lady for some years, and it would have felt deceitful not to tell her."

With the tanned fingers of one hand he scratched his cheek, staring into the fire. "Yes, I suppose she ought to know. Thank you for saving me the onerous task of informing her."

Relieved, Mary sat in the opposite chair.

"Although I doubt Ransom will thank you," he continued. "Doesn't want her here making one of her commotions."

"Well, she said she would not come unless he asked for her. She appeared upset, but thought it best to wait until she is invited."

He looked up, eyes hard and cold suddenly. "Does she know I'm here?"

Mary nodded, biting her lip, hands in her lap.

"Then she'll stay away, if she knows what's good for her."

Across the room, in the bed, Ransom let out a groan, but slept on.

Deverell lowered his voice again. "You will know, I'm sure, about my marriage to his mother and how it ended."

Again she nodded.

He fell further back in the chair, stretching his legs out and crossing them at the ankle. "I often think Ransom had the roughest time of it. Raven too, although she soon learned how to play her mother and I against each other and used that to her advantage. Ransom was closer to his mother, had the fleece pulled over his eyes in regard to her...behavior." With a thin, frustrated sigh, he looked over at his son and added, "Ah, what do I know of these things? Who can say what goes on in any man's mind, eh? We should try to be more cheerful, should we not, for his sake?" But his voice was hoarse and ragged, torn with worry.

"Yes, sir." She hesitated and then decided to plow forward. "Who is Sally, sir?"

His gaze returned to her so swiftly and angrily she felt stung. "Sally?" he demanded.

Oh, dear. Had she pried beyond her boundaries? "Your son mentioned the name as he dreamed."

True Deverell covered his eyes briefly with one hand and then drew his fingers down. He looked more tired than ever then. "I knew he still dwelt on that girl," was all he said.

Mary sat quietly, not knowing what else to say. Clearly, this was a sensitive subject and it was not like her to blunder in carelessly where she might cause pain, so she held her tongue.

Finally he added, "The past is not always a good place to revisit."

She agreed fervently. "I believe in looking to the future, not the past."

"Good." He rested both hands on his thighs and regarded her steadily, intensely. Again he reminded her of his son. The resemblance was very strong, and in the firelight it was almost eerily so. "Then you'd do better not to talk of that," he snapped.