Wicked at Heart (32 page)

So softly had
Gwyneth come into the room that no one yet noticed her.  Maeve sat in one of
the velvet-upholstered chairs, her hair glowing red in the firelight.  In
profile beside her sat her magnificent husband, Sir Graham, who, despite his
fine naval uniform with its tasseled epaulets and rows of gold buttons, and the
commanding air he wore as easily as his wife did the sharks' teeth that ringed
her throat, looked like nothing less than some dark and ruthless pirate
straight from a Caribbean plundering spree.  A hoop of gold pierced his ear,
and though he was in the middle of his fourth decade, his handsome face was
youthful and his midnight black hair was still rich, flowing, and devoid of
gray.  Gwyneth felt a flood of pain just looking at him.  Like Morninghall, the
admiral filled the room with his presence.  Like Morninghall, he was a study in
masculine power, beauty, and grace.  But where Morninghall had been remote and
enigmatic, Sir Graham was relaxed and open.  Now, as she silently watched him,
he leaned close to his wife, one broad, darkly tanned hand resting on the arm
of her chair and covering her own.

Their fingers,
she noted with a pang of sadness and envy, were loosely entwined.

To think that
someday she and Morninghall might have shared the same enduring love.

Too late.

The chaplain, in
contrast, was fair-skinned and slightly built.  His hazel eyes were kind,
compassionate, far too serious for one so young in years, and his hair was a
mass of curls any cherub would envy.  Yet despite his overwhelmingly gentle
demeanor, Gwyneth sensed an iron core in him.  Both men looked up as she moved
into the room and rose immediately to their feet.

"Lady
Simms," the admiral said in his deep, commanding voice, moving forward to
take and bow over her hand.

"Lady
Simms," the chaplain echoed, in his softer, gentler one.

Maeve only
looked up, an unreadable expression in her lovely golden eyes.

Gwyneth returned
their greetings and then, her heart beating a lengthening crack against her
breastbone, sank into a chair beside Rhiannon with quiet words that they should
do the same.

Chairs scraped
and clothing rustled.  An air of expectancy filled the room.  Gwyneth steepled
her hands between her knees and pressed against them, hard, to brace herself
for what she knew was coming.  She forced her head up, determined to be brave. 
"You wished to speak to me, Sir Graham, Reverend Milford."

The admiral
leaned back in his chair and cleared his throat.  "I understand that you
have suffered considerable trauma this afternoon while trying to bring reform
to our prison ships.  A deplorable and shameful lot the hulks are, and may I
first offer you my warmest gratitude for undertaking a task that most, even in
our own navy, would prefer to turn a blind eye to."

"He's dead,
isn't he?" Gwyneth said flatly.  She stared unblinkingly into the
admiral's azure gaze.

He raised one
dark, piratical eyebrow, and the Reverend Milford cleared his throat.

"Lady Simms
—"

"No, no, do
be straightforward and tell me.  I have prepared myself.  There is nothing more
that can happen this day to make it worse than it already has been.  Just
please tell me it was over quickly and that he died with a minimum of
suffering."

The admiral
frowned and looked at his wife, but before he could speak the chaplain's gentle
voice broke the hush of the moment.

"Sir Graham
will tell you no such thing," he said quietly.  "Lord Morninghall
survived."

"Oh,
Gwyn!" Rhiannon shrieked, quickly slapping a hand over her mouth.

Gwyneth grasped
the arms of her chair and leaned forward.  "Do not jest with me,
Reverend.  I saw him go down beneath the prisoners, I saw the murder and hatred
in their faces.  They beat and kicked him.  I saw it all with my own eyes —"

"The reverend
is quite right, Lady Simms," the admiral interrupted, his deep, masculine
voice filling the room.  "Lord Morninghall is gravely injured and lying in
hospital as we speak, but he is not dead."

The room tilted
and Gwyneth felt deep, wracking shudders pass through her body.  She could not
sustain another shock.

"Not
dead," she whispered shakily.

"Not
dead," the admiral confirmed.  "Though damned close to it, I might
add."

Gwyneth took a
deep, steadying breath and tightened her hands around the arms of the chair. 
Her heart pounded against the flood of sudden hope, and her eyes filled with
fresh, stinging tears.  She leaned her head back against the chair, took a deep
breath, and, composed once more, looked at the admiral.  "I'm sorry,"
she whispered.  "This is all too much for me to take in, too much to . . .
to hope for."  She shook her head, still dazed by the revelation that
Damon was alive.  "I — I don't understand why you're here, then . . . you
being an admiral and all . . . I mean, I thought you'd come to tell me he was
dead. . . ."

The admiral
gallantly ignored her confusion.  "Forgive me, Lady Simms.  I've
distressed you unnecessarily."  His thumb caressed the back of his wife's
hand, faintly agitated.  "I must confess that this sort of thing is not my
strength, and I'd be far more useful back at sea, where my foe is one who can
be vanquished with stratagem, shrewdness, and cannon strength."

Maeve smiled,
wryly.  "What my husband means is, he does not care for this end of his
duties and would rather be out blowing up ships and fleets."

"I
see," said Gwyneth, though she did not see at all.

"Allow me
to be blunt, Lady Simms," the admiral said. "Morninghall's superiors
and a committee of officers of which I am thankfully not a part have suspended
him from his duties until such time that a decision can be made concerning his
fitness to command a prison hulk.  It has yet to be decided whether or not that
suspension will be a permanent one."  He took a sip of tea. 
"Apparently his ship has been the target of numerous successful escape
attempts, and the navy has had its fill of the subsequent embarrassment. 
Furthermore, Morninghall has not, shall we say, made himself at all favorable
to his superiors, and his recent record speaks of insubordination and contempt
for them.  He has been warned by his commanding officer to tighten security,
but still the escapes have continued, and today's events have finally broken
the patience of that officer and others."

Maeve was gazing
down at her husband's hand, her face flushed.  She looked decidedly
uncomfortable — no surprise, considering the fact that her brother, also
escaped from the prison hulk
Surrey
, was reputed to be the Black Wolf. 
What a difficult position Sir Graham was in — and how diplomatically he was
handling it, Gwyneth thought in admiration.  She was willing to bet he couldn't
wait to get back to his post in the West Indies, away from this whole business.

Nodding, Gwyneth
met the admiral's gaze.  "So what do you ask of me, Sir Graham?"

He glanced at
his companion.  "Reverend Milford here tells me that Morninghall has no
family.  He also claims the marquess is something of a loner who is not on a
friendly, intimate basis with anyone.  However, we have come to you for help
because we don't know who else to turn to."

"What do
you mean?"

Sir Graham
looked directly at Gwyneth.  "Lord Morninghall is semiconscious and out of
his head."  Then, softly:  "But it is your name that he's calling."

Gwyneth's mouth
fell open and she felt a direct stab of pain to her heart.  In confusion she
looked from the admiral to the chaplain.  "My name?"

"Yes. over
and over again.  He will not stop."

Gwyneth sat back
in her chair and closed her eyes, overcome and unable to speak.  Beside her,
Rhiannon reached out and took her hand.

"What sort
of injuries has His Lordship sustained?" Rhiannon asked quietly, seeing
that her sister was too choked up to answer.

"He was
beaten senseless and took a knife in the back.  The doctor says it glanced off
his scapula and just missed his lung, but I warn you not to get your hopes up
too high.  His Lordship is falling in and out of consciousness, and it is
impossible at this stage to gauge the extent of damage to body and brain."

Gwyneth found
her voice.  "You're saying he may die."

"He will
most certainly die if he is not allowed to recover in an environment of total
peace, quiet, and devoted attention."

Gwyneth closed
her eyes, silently squeezing and relaxing her hold on the arms of her chair.

It's your
name he's calling.

"So what is
it you ask of me?" she whispered.

"Since it
is you the marquess seems to want, we're hoping you can have some effect on his
recovery.  He's been brought aboard the hospital ship
Perseus
, but, as you
may imagine, it is a crowded, excitable place, and the surgeon there has many
to care for besides him."  Sir Graham leveled his stare on her with quiet
entreaty.  "I would like you to look after him, Lady Simms."

"You cannot
be serious, Sir Graham!  I cannot have an injured man here in my house.  It is
utterly unthinkable."

"The
admiral did not say you must bring Morninghall here," Reverend Milford put
in gently.

"Most
assuredly not," Sir Graham agreed.  "People would talk.  Your own
reputation would be damaged beyond repair.  No, my lady, the reverend and I
have discussed the matter at length, and we have come to the conclusion that
Lord Morninghall has the best chance of recovery if he is taken far away from Portsmouth,
far away from the navy, and into an environment as I've just described." 
He met her gaze.  "I would like to see him brought home, and for you to go
with him."

"And home
is?"

"His
ancestral seat in the Cotswolds, Morninghall Abbey."

Gwyneth sat very
still in her chair.  She looked down at her hands, so white against the
darkness of her dress, and felt the weighty silence around her, the expectant
gazes of her companions.

"We have
already arranged for a coach to convey you, should you decide to go," the
chaplain added, gently.

"And if I
do not?"

There was a
long, expectant silence, with only the flames popping and cracking in the
hearth.  Reverend Milford pushed his hand through his curls, and when he met
her gaze, his face looked suddenly weary, pained, and sad.

"If you do
not go then Morninghall will not be the first naval officer to die aboard a
hospital ship."

Gwyneth bent her
head to her hand.  Raw emotion pushed beneath her eyelids, and she could
already feel the tears beginning to trickle down her cheeks.  Guilt pummeled
her heart, for if she hadn't distracted him, Damon would have heard the
prisoners in time to save them both.  But no, he had chosen to save
her
life, not his own, and the very least she owed him was that same selflessness
in return.  If she could pull him through this, God only knew what they might
find together.  Maybe the two of them
could
have what Sir Graham and
Maeve had.

Ah — but am I
worth loving?

God help her, he
was.

Rhiannon could
no longer contain herself.  "He's calling for you, Gwyn.  You
have
to go."

Gwyneth gave a
little smile and looked into the flames.  "There is no need for any of you
to go to any lengths to convince me," she said quietly.  "I shall be
ready to leave just as soon as you have the carriage brought round."

Chapter
20

The vehicle,
escorted by two armed sailors on horseback and followed by a second coach
carrying Rhiannon, Mattie, and the maid Sophie, was comfortable and well
sprung, but nevertheless, it had been a slow, tedious journey, with frequent
stops along the way.  Now the Thames Valley with its pastoral fields, rich clay
soil, and farmhouses of gray stone and flint was behind them, as were the
ancient spires of Oxford.  As Gwyneth gazed anxiously out the window, the scene
that met her eyes was the spectacular beauty of the Cotswolds.

It was
breathtaking countryside, rising in dramatic, undulating hills planted with
acres of feathery barley, grassy pastures, and young wheat which waved
endlessly in the wind.  Occasionally the varying plots of green were broken by
a freshly tilled field, creating a patchwork effect divided by a hedgerow here,
a rambling wall of yellow Cotswold stone there.  Clumps of elm, beech, and oak
were plunked down at random, lone, plumed sentinels in a countryside that
rolled and yawed and stretched for as far as the eye could see.  Above, thick,
white clouds moved across a sky as blue as flax, dragging their shadows across
the windswept fields with them.  Looking down at this magnificent vista,
Gwyneth felt like some great, soaring eagle wheeling above it, a spirit
released from her body.

If only her
companion could see it.

Opposite her the
marquess lay moaning in pain and delirium, his blanketed body propped against
pillows and strapped securely to the seat so that the endless movements of the
coach would not spill him to the floor.  Heavily bandaged, he looked no better
than he had the evening — was it two nights ago? three? — the two seamen,
sternly supervised by Sir Graham and a worried Reverend Milford, had lifted his
inert, broken body out of the little boat that had brought him from the
hospital ship and carried him swiftly to the waiting coach.  Gwyneth had nearly
swooned when she'd first seen him, for the bandages wound about his head, the
sling that supported his arm, and the purple, bruised flesh of his cheek and
jaw had all been quite shocking.  Now he was feverish as well, his hands hot
and a film of sweat glistening at the base of his throat, and for not the first
time since leaving Portsmouth, Gwyneth questioned the wisdom of bringing such a
gravely injured man on a journey like this.  Thank God that a messenger had
been sent ahead, and a doctor would be waiting for them at Morninghall.