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Authors: Mary J. Putney

BOOK: The Bargain
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Lady Jocelyn threw her quill across the desk in exasperation, leaving a scattering of ink blots on her account book. Isis raised a contemptuous nose at her lack of self-control. All afternoon she'd tried to attend to correspondence and monthly accounts, but she was unable to concentrate for thinking of the man lying upstairs in the blue room.
She rested her chin on her palm and thought how ridiculous it was to be so shy about visiting him. After all, she was his hostess. Lord, his wife! His prickly sister had gone out and not returned and had reportedly turned down the offer of a bedchamber, for which Jocelyn was thankful. At least the wretched female wasn't entirely lacking in sense. If they had to meet daily over the breakfast table, there would be murder done.
“You're quite right, Isis. Since I'm not getting any work done anyhow, I might as well check that the major is comfortable.” Or alive, for that matter. Jocelyn pushed herself away from the desk. “Do you think he'd like some flowers?” The cat yawned luxuriously. “So pleased you agree with me. I'll go cut some in the garden.”
After gathering and arranging an armful of cream and yellow roses, with some greens for contrast, Jocelyn took the vase of flowers up to the blue room. She knocked lightly on the door, entering when there was no response. The major appeared to be asleep, so she set the flowers on the table by the bed, then turned to study him.
In repose, his face reminded her of a carved medieval knight resting on a marble tomb in the village church at Charlton. Gaunt, noble, remote. His pallor was intensified by a dark shadow of beard. Moved by some impulse of tenderness, she reached out to touch his cheek, feeling the rasp of bristles beneath her fingers.
Disconcertingly, his eyes opened. “Good day, Lady Jocelyn.”
Hastily she dropped her hand, her fingers tingling. “Good day. Have you been well taken care of?”
“Very. It was kind of you to invite me here.”
With that pleasure in his eyes, she could not have disabused him of the idea, even if Sally Lancaster hadn't warned her. Still, innate honesty compelled her to say, “Most of the credit belongs to your sister. It was she who thought of asking your doctor if it was safe to move you.”
“Doubtless Ramsey said that it really didn't matter one way or the other.” His gaze circled the room with its high molded ceiling and silk-clad walls. “Your house is an infinitely pleasanter place to die than the hospital.”
She pulled a chair up to his bedside and sat so that their faces were nearly level. “How can you be so calm, to speak of your death as if it were a change in the weather?”
He gave the impression of shrugging, though he scarcely moved. “When you've spent enough time soldiering, death
is
like a change in the weather. I've been on borrowed time for years. I never really expected to make old bones.”
“Your experience goes far beyond my understanding,” she said quietly.
“We are all products of our experience. Mine just happens to be rather melodramatic,” he said absently, for most of his attention was on Lady Jocelyn. With the afternoon sun sculpting her perfect features, she was exquisite. Her eyes, a delicate golden brown with green flecks, entranced him, and he found he was a little less resigned to dying than before.
With a pang, he realized that he would have liked to meet and court this lady when he was well and whole. But even then, his circumstances would never have made him a suitable mate for a woman of her station.
There was a glimmer of tears on her cheeks. He found that by concentrating all his strength, he could lift his hand and brush them away, his fingertips lingering on the rose-petal softness of her skin. “Don't weep for me, my lady. If you remember me at all, I would rather you did with a smile.”
“I will not forget you, David—I can promise that.” The tears didn't entirely disappear, but she did smile, raising her hand to cover his. “It's so strange to think that three days ago we had never met. Now, there is a . . . a unique connection between us. I had thought a marriage of convenience was just a matter of words spoken and papers signed, but it's more than that, isn't it?”
“It has been for me.” Too tired to hold his arm up any longer, he let it rest on the bed. Her hand followed, fingers twining his. There was an intimacy in her clasp that warmed his heart. He wished he had had the strength to touch the shining hair, to see if it felt as silky as it looked. That would be high romance, given that no other part of his body was capable of responding. “I am only sorry to be disturbing your peace.”
“Perhaps it's time my peace was disturbed. Too much tranquillity can't be good for the soul.” She stood, releasing his hand, to his regret.
Her sweet musical voice took on a businesslike note. “Is Hugh Morgan acceptable to you as a servant? If not, I'll find another.”
“Perfectly acceptable. I don't mean to be a demanding guest, or to overstay my welcome.”
She bit her lip. “If there is anything you wish, you have only to ask. Do you object to my visiting you?”
Amused that she could imagine such a thing, he asked, “Why should I object?”
“The impropriety . . .”
He laughed at the absurdity of that. After a startled moment, she joined in. “That was silly of me, wasn't it? There can be no impropriety between husband and wife.”
“Your reputation is quite safe. Even if we weren't married, I'm in no condition to compromise you.” He grinned. “More's the pity.”
Jocelyn looked uncertain, then smiled and leaned forward to brush a gossamer kiss on his lips before she turned to leave the room. He admired the grace of her walk and the way the sun burnished her chestnut hair to a shade of red that was more provocative than respectable. Did that color hint of a temper concealed beneath her cool, flawless facade? A delightfully intriguing thought. She was not only a lady, but a woman. One he might have loved.
It was ironic to think that if he hadn't been dying, they never would have met.
Jocelyn closed the door behind her, then leaned against it, feeling as drained as the major looked. Damn the man, why did she have to like him? Every time she saw him, it got worse. Strange, the feeling of intimacy between them, perhaps because there was no time for polite preliminaries.
There was scarcely any time at all. . . .
Chapter 7
G
rateful that Lady Jocelyn was out, Sally spent much of the next afternoon hovering within earshot of the front door as she waited for Ian Kinlock to appear, but the knocker stayed infernally quiet. The hour was well advanced when an impatient rap heralded a visitor. Sally reached the door at the same time the butler did.
Sighing with relief, she saw that it was the surgeon, a black medical bag in one hand. To the butler, she said, “Dr. Kinlock is here to examine my brother, Dudley. I shall take him up.”
Kinlock stepped inside. In the elegant town house, he looked as out of place as a dancing bear, and as powerful. As Sally led him upstairs, he said dryly, “Quite an establishment.” He scanned her drab garments doubtfully. “Do you live here also?”
She considered explaining, but it was just too complicated. “No. My brother is a guest, and I'm a governess in another household. I spend as much time here as I can.”
They entered David's room. From her brother's expression, he didn't anticipate anything worthwhile coming from this visit. He was only enduring another painful examination for her sake. After the introductions, the surgeon said, “Out with you, lassie. I'll examine your brother in private. I already know how you would answer the questions. I want to hear what he will say.”
Offended, she opened her mouth to protest, then stopped when David, amused by the surgeon's bluntness, said, “Go on, Sally. I'll manage.”
Routed, she spent an endless half-hour pacing around the gallery that circled the open foyer. Not a bad place to exercise in bad weather, she decided, though she rapidly tired of the marble busts of boring gentlemen wearing laurel wreaths. Perhaps she should have asked Richard to stay when he'd visited earlier, but she hadn't even mentioned that Kinlock would be coming, from a superstitious fear that talk would take the magic of hope away.
When Kinlock opened the door, she was on him in a flash. His expression seemed lighter than when he had arrived. Hoping that was a good sign, she said, “Well?”
“Come in, Miss Lancaster. I want to discuss this with both of you.”
David was white-lipped from the pain of the examination, but his eyes were alert. Sally crossed to his side, seizing his hand and holding it tightly.
Kinlock began to pace around the room. Sally wondered if the man ever relaxed.
“First, Major Lancaster, there is still a shrapnel fragment in your back, positioned lower than the ones removed after the battle. That is the source of most of the pain.” The surgeon scowled from under his bushy brows. “Based on your responses, I think you aren't truly paralyzed. Swelling around the shrapnel would have produced that effect in the days after the injury, but the swelling has abated now.”
Startled, David said, “Half my body won't move. If I'm not really paralyzed, what the devil is wrong?”
“I think you're suffering from a combination of factors. The shrapnel certainly isn't insignificant, but I believe that the worst of your problems results from too much laudanum,” Kinlock said bluntly. “You were given massive doses to dull the pain of the spinal injuries, which must have been excruciating. The opium helped that, and it also kept you from thrashing around and damaging yourself further, but I believe you're suffering from opium poisoning, and you've probably become addicted as well. Overdosing on laudanum can have many possible side effects—including extreme muscular weakness, and the inability to eat properly.”
And David had been living on broth and laudanum for weeks, because the doctors saw no reason for him to limit his intake of opium since he was dying anyhow. “My God. What a vicious circle. The worse my condition, the more they encouraged me to take laudanum to alleviate it, and the more I deteriorated.”
“By the time the swelling around the fragment subsided to a point where it might have been possible to move, you were starving and so weakened by pain and opium that you seemed paralyzed. As Paracelsus said, ‘Dose alone makes a poison.' ” The Scot shook his head dourly. “Or as I say, anything potent enough to heal can also harm.”
Trying to grasp the magnitude of what Kinlock was saying, David asked, “If I stop taking the laudanum, will I recover?”
Kinlock frowned. “It's not quite that simple. Reducing the opium would restore your appetite and save you from starvation, but the pain might be unendurable. If you became strong enough to walk, there's a risk the shrapnel would shift and cause genuine paralysis. Still, even if that happened, you could manage in a wheelchair, and your life would be in no immediate danger. That would be the safest course of treatment.”
His last words fell into absolute stillness. Guessing what the surgeon wasn't saying, David said, “You're thinking of a more radical treatment, aren't you?”
“The alternative is an operation. Surgery is always dangerous, and removing the shrapnel might cause the kind of spinal damage it's been assumed you already have. In addition, surgery increases the risk of infection, which could be life-threatening, especially weakened as you are now.”
“But if it works?”
“If it works—it's possible that you could be walking in a week.”
Sally gasped, her hand tightening on his. David tried to imagine what it would be like to live. To have a future again. Enjoy the robust health he'd taken for granted his whole life. Taking a deep breath, he asked, “How soon could you operate?”
Kinlock's brows drew together as he considered his medical bag. “If you're sure that's what you want, I could do it right now. I have all the instruments I need, and the actual operation wouldn't take long.”
David and Sally exchanged glances, communicating wordlessly. The longer surgery was delayed, the weaker he would be. Terrified at the risk but knowing it was his last hope, she gave a stiff nod of agreement.
He turned back to the surgeon. “Then do it. Now.”
“Very well.” Kinlock hesitated. “For what it's worth, in your situation and knowing the risks, I'd make the same choice.”
That was some comfort, David supposed. His gaze went to the bottle on his bedside table as he thought about the strange dreams, the distorted colors and sounds, the haziness he'd lived with since regaining consciousness the day after his injury.
If he'd been strong enough, he would have grabbed the bottle and hurled it across the room. Yet for weeks, he'd welcomed the drug as the one thing that made life bearable. “Ever since I started taking laudanum, I've felt like . . . like a stranger has taken over my mind. I thought that was because I was dying.” His mouth twisted. “Opium is a damnably treacherous friend.”
“Aye, but you'll need it for the operation,” Kinlock cautioned. “After, it might be best to cut back on the dosage gradually. If you stop all at once, you'll have several wretched days of craving, shaking, sweating, and God knows what else.”
“Have you had enough experience of opium addicts to know if cutting down slowly makes it easier to stop?”
The surgeon looked troubled. “I honestly don't know, Major. ‘Tis a hard habit to break. I knew an addict who tried the gradual approach and failed miserably. Perhaps he would have failed anyhow, or perhaps your method will work better. I really can't say. But you don't have to decide right away. Take a large dose now and continue taking it for the next few days. It would be too much strain on your body to withdraw the drug at the same time as surgery. When you're feeling better will be the time to stop.”
Though David nodded, he'd already made up his mind to stop taking the medicine as soon as possible. He swallowed the large dose Sally gave him so that he could endure the surgery. But after Kinlock was done with his cutting, he'd never touch a drop of the wicked stuff again.
Kinlock beckoned Sally into the hall, out of David's hearing. “I'll need two men to hold him down, plus someone to hand me the instruments. I also need towels, sheets, and plenty of hot water and soap for washing up.” Seeing her surprise, he explained, “I don't know why, but cleanliness seems to reduce infection.”
That made sense to Sally. After all, cleanliness was next to godliness, so it ought to help with surgery. “I'll get everything you need right away.”
The surgeon grasped the doorknob to return, but paused. “You said your brother is a guest here. Who owns the house—some kinsman?”
“It belongs to David's wife.”
“Wife! Why isn't she here?” Kinlock asked.
“The marriage took place only a couple of days ago and was basically one of convenience. They scarcely know each other. Lady Jocelyn doesn't even know you are here.” As she explained, Sally thought for the first time of how the witch would react if David made a miraculous recovery. She felt a surge of unholy glee, despite the horrid possibility that Lady Jocelyn might be permanently connected to the Lancasters.
With a snort for the idiocies of the upper classes, Kinlock reentered the bedroom. Putting away the thought of Lady Jocelyn's reaction, Sally hastened to collect supplies. Her regal ladyship had said to ask for anything required, and by heaven, she would.
Sally was grateful that surgical preparations included covering most of David's body with sheets, except for the small, newly scarred area of his back where the actual incision would be made. Looking at a square of skin made it a little easier to forget that the person she loved most in the world was about to be sliced open. . . .
She cut off the thought and took position by the bed. “I'll assist you with the instruments myself.”
“Are you sure, lass? It might be better to have someone not related to the patient. It wouldn't do if you faint or have the vapors.”
Her chin came up. “I do not have vapors. Don't worry, I shall manage.”
He smiled a little. “Very well.” Swiftly he named the instruments and the order they would be used in. The scalpels, probes, and more mysterious tools glittered with cleanliness, and razor-sharp edges.
The two servants who were assisting moved into position, Hugh Morgan at the head of the bed, and the wiry, taciturn coachman at the foot. Queasy but determined, they took hold of David, and the operation began.
Sally was amazed at how swiftly Kinlock worked, deftly cutting and blotting blood. Feeling a little faint, she concentrated on the instruments he asked for, not looking at the surgery again until her head steadied.
After a hideously long interval of meticulous probing of the open wound, he made a small sound of satisfaction. With a delicacy that seemed incongruous for such large, powerful hands, he extracted a small fragment of metal. After dropping it in the basin Sally held out, he muttered, “Now we look around a bit more, just in case.”
When he was satisfied, he closed the incision. The servants' assistance was barely needed, for David had hardly moved during the operation, except for a gasp and a convulsive shudder at the initial cut.
With the wound closed, Kinlock said. “Give me that jar, lass.”
Sally obeyed, opening the jar for his use. The contents were a disgusting gray-green mass that smelled wretched. To her horror, he smeared some of the oozing material over the wound. How could a man devoted to cleanliness use such nasty-looking stuff? She clamped her jaw shut on her protest. It was too late not to trust him now.
With the operation over, the release of tension was so great that Sally was barely aware of Kinlock putting on a dressing and giving low-voiced instructions to Morgan, who would stay with David. Feeling faint again now that her part was played, Sally went outside and slumped bonelessly onto a sofa set against the gallery wall. Kinlock had been right to warn her that surgery was upsetting. Yet it had been fascinating, too.
When the Scot finally emerged from the sickroom, she glanced up fearfully. “Do . . . do you think that went well?”
He dropped onto the opposite end of the sofa, as weary as the first time she had seen him. She was frightened when he buried his head in his hands, until he looked up with a reassuring smile. “Aye, it went very well. The fragment came out cleanly, and from the tests I just performed, he has normal sensation in his legs. There is still a chance of infection, but God willing, I think he will survive, and probably be as good as new.”
Sally hadn't cried when they had told her that David would die, but after hearing that he would live, she dissolved into racking sobs that seemed like they would never end. “Thank God,” she said brokenly. “Thank
God
.”
Kinlock put an arm around her shoulders as she continued to weep. “There, there, now. You're a braw lassie, and your brother is lucky to have you.”
She turned into him, burying her face against his chest. He felt so strong, so solid. A faint scent of fragrant pipe tobacco clung to the wool of his coat, taking her back twenty years to when her father had held her close, safe from the problems of an eight-year-old's world.
The thought made her cry even harder. She had lost her father, then her mother, and almost David, too. But now, by the grace of God and this warmhearted curmudgeon of a Scot, she would not be alone.

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