The Rogue's Return (13 page)

“It went well. They're ready to move him to the bed.”

Jancy's heart was racing again, and she didn't know why. Everything was all right now. Or at least, good enough. “I'll show you.”

She guided the men with the litter up the stairs and into the big room. Simon's eyes were closed but she didn't think he was unconscious or asleep. She suspected that he was simply enduring.

“Bolsters,” the doctor demanded. “He'll be most comfortable sitting up, but the support must be firm.”

Jancy hastened to get the hard bolsters from her bed and Simon's. Dr. Playter arranged them and then marshaled the transfer to the bed like a captain commanding the tricky docking of a ship. Simon's clothes had been removed other than his drawers—which were horribly bloodstained at one side. His chest was half covered with bandages. For a shallow wound around the lower ribs?

Perhaps her puzzlement was obvious, for Hal said, “To discourage movement while his rib knits.”

“But won't the dressing have to be changed?”

“Do and undo,” said the doctor. “Which is why they're knotted at the left side. The ribs didn't shatter, so they should knit. I believe I removed all the bits of cloth. That's what kills most men, ma'am—bits of cloth driven into the wound carrying contagion. And for
what?” He shook his head like an angry bull. “A fine, healthy young man one moment and now look at him.”

He glared at someone behind her, and Jancy turned to see Captain Norton was still present, looking almost as haggard as Simon.

“I'm sure there was nothing you could have done, sir,” she said and then turned back to Playter. “So with proper care he'll live?”

“I'm a doctor, ma'am, not a fortune-teller! It's in God's hands. Do you have nursing experience?”

“Only with sickness, not with wounds.”

“He'll
be
sick. He'll run a fever as his body burns contagion. His greatest peril right now is movement. Don't let him move!”

Perhaps she flinched at his bark, or the tears in her throat showed in her eyes, for he pulled a face and moderated his tone.

“I'll return this evening to change the dressing and inspect the wound. Don't fiddle with it. The body heals itself. He must have a lowering diet. Bland food. No meat or alcohol. Plenty of fluids. Barley water. Clear broth. Weak tea. Do you have an invalid cup?”

“Yes, I think so.”

“Good. He won't want to even flex for a while.”

He began to march out, but Jancy said, “Why is his arm bandaged? Did you bleed him?”

“Not yet. The ball creased it en route. He probably moved it to block when he saw McArthur fire. Might have saved his life, for it took some of the ball's power. It's a flesh wound. His ribs are the danger. Keep him still.”

He left and Jancy turned to gently stroke damp, dark hair off Simon's forehead. How easily his flesh could be cold rather than warm—perhaps but for a twitch of the arm.

He opened his eyes, and despite a crease of pain in his brows, she saw something that might be a smile. He moved—and gasped.

She pressed back on his shoulder. “Don't do that!”

“Trust me, I won't. Gads, but it hurts.” His eyes wandered the room. “Ever broken ribs, Norton?”

The captain came over to the bed. “No.”

“Don't. The wound's nothing, but the ribs . . .”

“That's why you have to stay still,” Jancy said. “Very still.”

He frowned. “We're leaving in four days.”

“We'll leave when you're fit to.”

“We'll miss the
Eweretta
.”

She stroked his shoulder. “There'll be other ships.”

“Not once the river freezes. Jancy, this is serious. Half our belongings are already in Montreal."

H
e'd called her Jancy. Part of her flinched, expecting some dire revelation, but most of her remembered their night. Which had made him unalterably hers. Hers to take care of.

“If our possessions reach England before we do,” she said soothingly, “so be it. Put your mind to healing, love.” She gently kissed him.

He looked at her with a lazy smile that was unlike him—except that she remembered it from the night.

“Stop smiling at me like that.”

His smile deepened. “Why?”

“It makes me blush.”

“You're delightful when you blush. Even your freckles blush.”

She put a hand over her face. “Stop it!”

“Lie beside me?”

Jancy looked around, but they were alone. The other men had tactfully left.

“Still shy?” he teased.

“Still wicked?”

“When I have to be.”

“Oh, but you're terrible.” And the most wonderful man in the world.

She took off her shoes and climbed carefully up on his left side. He'd been put in the middle of the bed, so there wasn't much space, and his mound of bolsters
made things difficult. She hooked one leg over his and tucked her head on his bare shoulder, one arm carefully across his bandaged chest, her hand feeling the steady strong beat of his heart.

“Thank heaven you're alive, Simon. I was so frightened.”

“Playter's the best gunshot man in Upper Canada.”

“I don't like him. But if he keeps you well, I'll kiss his feet.”

“Not necessary. Now mine . . .”

His hand moved against her hip, sending tremors through her.

Her conscience still nibbled at her for keeping her secrets, but with ever weakening teeth. Simon was hers and she would not lose him, to death or to the law.

She'd never before realized the roaring power of love. To separate herself from him now would feel like cutting off her own arm.

His fingers still played lightly against her. “I think you're my guardian angel.”

“I've brought you nothing but trouble.”

“Silly. This is none of your doing. I was a fool not to realize that McArthur always planned to fire early. Your interrupting us that first time probably saved my life. Today, something drew my eye from the handkerchief to you. That could have been fatal, but I must have seen him begin to fire so I twitched and took some of the ball with my arm. Guardian angel.”

She snuggled back against him. “May I ever be so, then. But I wish I were a fine lady, for your sake.”

“Jane, if you don't stop this I shall rise from my bed to shake you, and thus, according to Playter, die. I admit, if I took home a coarse criminal type, my family would find that difficult. But a well-raised lady of courage, intelligence, and generosity? They will thank heaven.”

A coarse, criminal type . . .

“In fact,” he said, relaxing, “you're very like my mother. She's a sensible, practical woman who does what
needs to be done and gives the men a piece of her mind if she thinks they need it. She helps in the kitchens sometimes and makes creams and polishes in her stillroom. She pins up her skirts and tackles the spring-cleaning with the servants.”

She shifted to read his face. “Truly? I thought Brideswell was very grand.”

“A chilly, pillared mansion? Devil a bit. It's a rambling country home run in a country manner, and my family are very down-to-earth people.”

“But your father's in line to be an earl.”

“Put that out of your mind as firmly as he does.”

She obeyed but said, “You'll have to prepare me, Simon. I don't want to shame you.”

“You won't.”

“I don't think you realize how different my life has always been.”

“Then tell me.”

Jancy winced. She'd walked straight into that pit. But now they were irretrievably married she had to make it work. She had to fit into his world, which meant impressing on him how different it was from hers.

Remembering to speak as Jane, she said, “When my father ran his school, we lived in a large house, but most of it was used for the school. After his death, mother and I moved to Abbey Street. Our house there was a modest one. Smaller even than this. Two bedrooms and a boxroom upstairs. A parlor, dining room, and kitchen down. And of course the front parlor was eventually given over to the shop.

“I can't remember if my parents mixed with Carlisle society before my father died, but Martha certainly didn't afterward, though she put great store on our wellborn Scottish connections. That meant we didn't mix with many people at all. She was reserved, with little interest in what she called ‘gadding about.' Then, of course, she became a shopkeeper.”

She waited for his judgment of this.

“Will I have to teach you how to dance?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“How delightful.”

He still wasn't taking it seriously. “And how to curtsy to lords and ladies. How to behave at a grand meal, and even how to treat servants. We had one maid of all work, and here hasn't been so different. Don't try to tell me your mother doesn't have a host of servants.”

“I suppose she does, yes. Very well. No need to bludgeon me any more. We have a couple of months before we reach England. Time enough for lessons. And when we arrive we'll visit Dare before going on to Brideswell. That will be a useful trial.”

She considered this. “Isn't he at his family home?”

“As far as we know.”

“And isn't his father a duke?”

“Yes.”

She rolled off the bed to glare at him. “Simon!”

He simply smiled. “Trust me, Jancy. You are my wife. Your happiness and comfort are my duty and my pleasure.”

Even though she'd described her Carlisle life, he clearly still didn't grasp the gulf between them. And lurking beneath everything like a threatening bog lay her true origins.

A duke meeting a Haskett? There was probably a law against it.

“At least McArthur's dead and gone,” she said but then remembered the intruder. Strange how dramatic events could push things from the mind. She told him what had happened.

“He not only went out to kill you, he sent a thief to get your papers. And he might have done! I'm sorry, Simon. The man wasn't carrying anything, but he might have found them. I should have stopped him—”

He moved. Then cursed. “Hush. No, Jancy. He didn't.”

“How can you be sure?”

“Because Hal has them.”

She frowned at him. “In the hotel? Are they safe there?”

“McArthur's dead,” he reminded her.

“But he never acted alone, did he? And didn't you say others are mentioned in them?”

“My remarkable Jancy. Names are coded, but some people could be worried, yes. Treadwell and Oglethorpe aren't to let them out of their sight, but for safety's sake, perhaps they and Hal move in here. In any case, you'll need help in caring for me.”

Jancy almost protested, but then she realized Simon would probably rather have a manservant deal with his intimate care.

“Where could they sleep? We have only three bedrooms.”

“Hal can use my room. Isn't there a closet off this one with a cot for a servant? Hal's men will be able to make do there.”

Jancy opened the door and considered the small room. It was lit by only a tiny window, but there was one narrow bed and room for a mattress on the floor.

“Very well. I'll see to it.”

“And food?” he asked, like a child asking for a treat. “I'm recovered enough to be famished.”

“You're supposed to eat a lowering diet.”

“Do you want me lowered? A rare steak, now . . .”

“Definitely not.”

“Tyrant.”

“If I have to be.”

But their eyes smiled.

“Not gruel, which rhymes with cruel,” he pleaded. “I'm hollow, love.”

She shook her head at him but was delighted at his rapid recovery. She went toward the door but then she turned back. “I think Captain Norton feels guilty. Or responsible in some way.”

“Nothing he could have done, but if he's still here, send him in. He can share breakfast.”

She found Norton pacing the corridor and then told Hal about the plan for him and his men to move in. He agreed and left. Jancy stood and breathed.

Simon would survive, and she would become the wife he needed. Though Martha had chosen to live quietly, she'd raised her girls to be worthy of her husband's family, determined that they would both be considered ladies.

It had probably always been a faint hope, for Archibald Otterburn's family had cut him off for marrying a seamstress. That was how the world worked.

Jancy knew she was quick-witted and a good mimic, however. She'd soon learned Abbey Street ways when she'd been taken there. She could learn Brideswell ways, too, and yes, even how to behave in a duke's house.

She turned her mind to the moment. Simon's room needed readying for Hal. The servants would need bedding and a spare mattress from somewhere. Simon was hungry.

He'd do best with food he could eat out of his hands. He'd need company, too. She and Hal would eat with him at a small table in Isaiah's room.

She went to the kitchen and realized the servants hadn't received a full report. “All's well. Mr. St. Bride only needs to rest and let his ribs knit.” To Mrs. Gunn she said, “The doctor prescribes a lowering diet, but he'd do best with food he can eat with one hand and without flexing.”

“Not porridge and stewed apples, then,” the old woman said with a grin. “A sandwich won't hurt him, and I can bake pies.”

“What about an invalid cup? I thought I'd seen one.”

The cup with the long spout was soon found and breakfast under way. As the servants were all busy, Jancy went to strip the sheets off Simon's bed herself.
When she realized the state of the room, she was profoundly glad. What they'd done here hadn't been wicked, but it felt like it.

Wickedly wonderful. She scooped up a fallen brandy glass from the floor, inhaling the medley of scents that told the story. The cards were still spread on the table. She put them in their box and then noticed the letters on the desk.

My will. To my parents. To Lord Darius Debenham.

She wanted to read them simply because they were part of Simon, but she put them in a drawer with the cards, tidied the scattered clothing, and dragged off the stained, blood-streaked sheets.

Then she stood there, hugging them for comfort, inhaling the scent of Simon and lust. She longed to sleep here, to wrap herself in everything that was him, but she could hardly suggest Hal sleep in her room.

She pressed the sheet to her eyes to stem tears. For not being able to sleep here. For fears of punctured lungs and infected wounds. For not being able to tell Simon the truth. For fear of the future, of having the golden promise snatched away . . .

She pulled herself together, bundled up the sheets, and took them down to the laundry bin by the kitchen door.

She stole a moment in the garden, pinching off a sprig of mint and smelling it as she studied the clapboard houses of their neighbors, each hardly visible because of the large lots and the trees. She was very glad Hal and his men were moving in, for a sense of danger still prickled her neck.

York was so neatly laid out, so full of ladies, gentlemen, and officers, that it felt civilized, but in truth it was as wild and dangerous as the forest around it. They would leave as soon as Simon was able. Even if they missed the last oceangoing vessel, they'd make it to Montreal or even Quebec. They'd be away from here.

Then Sal and Izzy came out of the kitchen bearing
trays. Jancy hurried to open the back door for them and followed them in. When they'd delivered the food, she instructed Izzy to make up the bed in Simon's room. She turned to see Hal coming up the stairs with his men and explained the arrangements. The house was positively crowded and she loved it. Now Simon and his work were safe.

When she followed Hal into the bedroom, however, she heard him say, “The inquest is set for tomorrow.”