A Whisper of Desire (23 page)

Arend's face looked ashen. “She's here.” He looked at Hadley before saying, “Come with me.”

Scrambling to find his footing in the boggy ground, he raced after Arend. They rounded the carriage and he saw it had hit an oak tree; part of the back had sheared off and fallen into the ditch, where there was about half a foot of water.

Arend slid down into the ditch, the water almost coming to the top of his Hessians. Only when Arend bent down did he see what his fellow Libertine Scholar was looking at. A foot.
Marisa's foot.

Maitland went crazy as he tried to push the piece of carriage up and off her. “Don't just stand there, bloody help, you bastard!” he yelled at Arend. “Don't you dare tell me she's dead,” he added, before Arend could tell him it was pointless.

Just then, a splash was heard. It was her foot, and it was moving, trying to find ground.

Arend moved like a lightning bolt, both of them yelling for Hadley to come and help. It took the three of them to move the heavy underside of the carriage off her.

Luckily, the ground was soft due to the water and she had not been crushed, merely pinned. Her head had also been held above the water line.

Before they moved her, Maitland placed his fingers on her neck, feeling for a pulse. Unlike the other woman, hers was weak and erratic.

There had to be an injury.

He gently rolled her over onto her back, and it was Hadley's hiss of breath that drew his attention to the piece of wood protruding from the lower right area of her stomach.

His hand reached—

“Don't touch it. We can't remove it until we have her somewhere a surgeon can help. She might bleed to death.”

His hand hovered over the splinter, everything in him screaming to tear it free, to remove it from where it threatened the woman he loved. Yet he understood Hadley's warning.

“How are we going to move her? I can't pick her up or the wood might penetrate farther.”

Arend ran a hand through his hair. “The closest town is Crouch End. I'll try there. If not, I'll head back toward London. I will bring a surgeon here.”

Maitland was paralyzed with fear. The wrong decision could take from him the very person he found was the only one he wanted in his life. He could not speak but merely nodded.

“Before you go, let's very carefully carry her farther up and onto dry land under the tree. We should get her out of these wet clothes.”

Hadley's suggestion made sense.

They grabbed blankets out of the carriage and cut the cushion squabs off with Arend's dagger. They moved both women under the tree, out of the direct sunlight, and Hadley started a fire in order to boil water to drink.

Maitland walked with Arend as he made for his horse. “Don't let me down. She means everything to me.”

“I'll be back, and with a good surgeon. Just make sure you keep her alive until then.” He whirled his horse in the direction of Crouch End and took off. He had Hadley's horse hog-tied to his saddle, so he could alternate horses.

Maitland watched his friend ride off. He trusted Arend with his life, but could he trust him with Marisa's? It would appear he had little choice.

He heard murmured voices behind him. He made his way back to their makeshift camp and saw that the other woman was sitting up, talking with Hadley. She was quietly crying. “I tried to grab for her, but I didn't have enough strength to hold her.”

“It's not your fault, dear girl,” Hadley said.

Maitland was far too worried about Marisa to give her a moment's thought. He used the dagger Arend had left him to carefully cut her soaking-wet clothes from her body.

Hadley had the decency to walk away to fetch water to boil in the carriage's metal foot warmer they'd found in the wreckage.

Maitland stripped off his coat and jacket. He used the jacket to cover the squab they lay Marisa upon. She hadn't made a sound, not even when they moved her up the bank. He covered her back up with his coat; cutting a hole so the wooden stake could be fed through without damaging her further.

Isobel sat down next to her, opposite Maitland, and took Marisa's hand in hers. “She looks so pale.”

That is what worried him. There was very little blood externally, but who knows what was happening inside. How deep did the wood penetrate? He leaned close and whispered in Marisa's ear. “Don't you leave me now. We've only tried two positions in your book.”

It might have been the wind in the trees above, but he swore he heard a slight hiss of breath.

“Who would do this to her, to us?”

Maitland tried to tip some whiskey from his flask through Marisa's mouth, but it simply dribbled down her chin. He tenderly wiped it away, silently willing her to live. “Did you see who took you?”

Isobel shook her head. “Marisa already asked me. We could not find any connection at all, other than we were both having our first season.”

Hadley arrived back. “Has she spoken?”

Maitland shook his head, his eyes misting.

“May I?” Frowning, Hadley bent and ran his fingers over Marisa's head. “There is a large bump here, she might be knocked out.”

“She bumped her head earlier at the club.”

Hadley's hands continued roaming. “Well, there are two bumps now. Feel.” He guided Maitland's fingers to the back of Marisa's skull and then to the side of her head. He could feel a bump that was much larger than the earlier one.

“This is probably the culprit, and the reason why she's not waking.” Hadley felt for her pulse. “It's steady and I think slightly stronger than before, now that she's more comfortable.”

Isobel sat hugging her knees. “I wish I could do more.”

Maitland simply sat in stony silence, squeezing her hand to let her know he was here, and also in the hope that if he squeezed hard enough she wouldn't be able to leave him.

After half an hour, Maitland checked her thoroughly again, but her condition hadn't changed. He was thankful it hadn't worsened. Maitland checked the wound several times, pouring whiskey from Hadley's hip flask on it to keep it clean. Infection would be the biggest risk. The longer the stick remained in her body, the worse off she'd be.

“Did you hear that? It's horses,” Hadley said. “It can't be Arend, it's too soon.”

The two men looked at each other and reached for their pistols. Hadley moved to put himself between the approaching horses and Isobel, while Maitland never left Marisa's side.

The horses and a horse-drawn wagon came into view; it was Arend with a troop of soldiers.

Arend walked up to them, pushing forward a man in military uniform. “I've found a surgeon, his name is Sean Colbert, from the Army Medical Department. They have a regimental base nearby.”

“Lieutenant Colbert at your service, Your Grace.”

Maitland took the man's hand as if he were God himself. The surgeon was not much older than Maitland. “Have you had much experience with terrible wounds?” he asked.

“I served at Waterloo.”

Nothing further needed to be said. Grayson had told them all about the horrors of the battle, and Christian's recovery from his terrible burns. More than two thousand men had had limbs amputated. It had been a bloody mess.

Maitland stepped aside and let the lieutenant examine Marisa.

Once the surgeon had finished his examination, he looked at the three men and Isobel. “We need to get her to the barracks hospital before I remove the stake. The risk of infection is too great here, plus I need more instruments for any internal wounds. It's only five miles.”

The journey to Merville Barracks took almost two hours—much slower than Arend's roundtrip.

They had to go slow so that there was minimal movement for Marisa. The only good sign was, as they pulled into the barracks, Marisa started to moan softly.

“I'm hoping she stays unconscious awhile longer. At least long enough for me to remove the stake and repair the damage as best I can.”

“I will assist you.” It was not a request. Maitland was not leaving her side.

“As you wish.”

Maitland held Marisa's hand for the whole procedure. She was still unconscious; they gave her some laudanum, but obviously she could feel pain, as she moaned and squeezed his hand throughout. The lieutenant insisted on having several men present to hold her down, should she try to struggle, and it had been a wise move.

The surgeon tried to ensure Marisa's modesty while operating, but really all Maitland cared about was that she didn't die on the table.

He made sure that the surgeon washed the wound with alcohol thoroughly before, during, and after he closed her wound.

Christian and Grayson had explained how they thought Christian had survived because they had regularly soaked his bandages in alcohol. They had no idea why it worked, but that's what they put it down to, considering men in better condition than Christian did not survive gangrene.

The operation seemed to take forever, but Marisa was still alive at the end of it. Thank the Lord.

As a stretcher, carried by two men, took her from the operating room to a private room in the officers' quarters, Sean was busy washing her blood off his hands.

When Maitland made to follow, Sean called out, “Your Grace, please stay. We need to talk.”

Maitland's heart began to beat fiercely in his chest. “She'll make it. She's one determined woman.”

“That's good to hear. If we can keep infection at bay, I'm sure she'll recover. The stake didn't hit any vital organs.” He paused.

Maitland's eyebrow rose. “But?”

Sean moved to his cabinet and poured out two shots of whiskey. He handed one to Maitland before downing the drink in one gulp.

Maitland didn't drink his; he couldn't be sure it would stay in his stomach. Watching the woman he loved be cut open, watching the pain flicker beneath her closed eyelids, watching men hold her down, feed her opiates…a shudder ran over his soul.

Sean guided them into his office next to the operating room. “Why don't you sit?”

“I would prefer to go to my wife.”

“The opiates we gave her, on top of her concussion, will hopefully mean she'll sleep the rest of the afternoon and night.” When Maitland didn't respond, Colbert added, “Please sit.”

Tiredness washed over him. He sank into the chair and buried his head in his hands.

“Do you have children, Your Grace?”

His head snapped up. Colbert's question was not one he'd expected. He simply shook his head. “I'm newly married.”

The man's face fell. “I thought as much, as your wife is very young. A good thing, in terms of one's ability to heal.” He took another slug of whiskey, as if building up his courage.

Darkness seeped into Maitland. “I saw the blood on her thighs. It didn't come from her stomach.”

“No. I suspect she's had a miscarriage. It would have been a very early pregnancy.”

“That's the least of my worries. As long as she survives, there will be time for children later, once she's recovered.” Maitland rose from his chair. “Now I'm going to sit with my wife. Thank you for confirming what I'd suspected.”

Colbert sighed and said, “The injuries to her womb were extensive. The risk of infection from the wood splinters was too great. Plus, I could not repair it; I had to remove her womb.”

Maitland froze in the doorway, the rest of Colbert's words lost in the scream reverberating in his head.

She couldn't swallow. It felt as if she'd been in a desert sandstorm, as if sand and grit filled her mouth. She desperately wanted something to drink.

As if someone was reading her mind, a trickle of water passed her cracked lips and it was heaven.

“Get Maitland. I think she's waking up.”

It was Hadley's voice.

She tried to open her eyes, but stabbing pain in her stomach saw her squeeze them tightly shut. A groan escaped.

She heard hurried footsteps and then a large, warm hand engulfed one of hers while warm, soft lips were pressed to her forehead. She could smell Maitland. She tried to smile, tried to squeeze his hand back, but weakness invaded her bones.

“I think she knows it's me. I saw her try to smile. Thank God. Marisa, come back to me.”

I'm trying,
she wanted to yell.

A long period of time must have passed since her last sips of water, because she was thirsty again. A large, warm hand still held hers, and this time when she tried to open her eyelids they obeyed. The room was dimly lit, and she could smell the fire in the grate, but most of all she sensed that the large bulk sitting in a chair next to her was Maitland, and he was asleep.

Turning her head, she took a sharp breath and tried to let the pain wash over her. She looked at the man she'd given her heart to. Except for the quality of his clothing, he looked like a scruffy beggar. His face was covered in a beard, his clothes looked as though he'd slept in them for a year, and his hair was mussed and matted together like a bird's nest.

How long had she been…ill?

Just then his eyes flickered open and tired, worried eyes swept her face. She read the relief in them when he understood she was awake and looking at him. A big tear welled in one green eye and he squeezed her hand. “Thank you for not leaving me.”

“Of course,” she managed to croak out.

He quickly rose and poured water into a cup and helped her rise up so she could drink. The liquid was the sweetest nectar she'd ever tasted. Once she'd finished, he gently eased her back onto her pillow.

“How are you feeling?”

“Like I've been trampled by teams of horses. What happened? How long have I been”—she stopped and looked at the room; this wasn't home—“here?”

She lay back, exhausted from saying only those few words.

“You've been floating in and out of consciousness for almost three weeks.”

“What happened? I remember being taken and then racing in a carriage, then it crashing, but from there, nothing.”

Something flashed over his face, some deep sorrow, but it was quickly gone, and perhaps she imagined it. “Isobel! Oh, no, is Isobel alive?”

“She's fine. She wasn't hurt at all.”

“That's good.” Still, his look purveyed terrible tragedy. She quickly looked down her body and moved her legs to ensure that everything was in working order.

“You were hurt in the crash and have had a major stomach wound, plus another bump on the head. The wound has healed nicely, but for a week I thought I might lose you. You developed a small infection, but you're my strong girl. You fought it off and won.”

She heard the emotion behind his words. “I'm sorry I gave you such a fright.”

He kissed her palm. “Just ensure you don't do it again.”

She smiled and nodded. “When can we go home?”

“I see my patient is feeling better.”

A tall, thin man in uniform entered the room.

“I'm Dr. Colbert. If your husband would let go of your hand, I'd like to observe your condition. Then I might be able to give you an answer to your question.”

Maitland pressed another kiss to her palm and then vacated his seat next to the bed so that the doctor could examine her.

She felt no embarrassment as he peeled down her blankets to just past her waist. She noted she was wearing a man's oversized white shirt. He smiled reassuringly as he lifted up the shirt to expose her stomach.

An ugly jagged scar the size of her palm could be seen on the bottom right area of her stomach. She'd expected the wound would not be pretty, but it was far worse than she'd expected.

Maitland seemed so sad and concerned, but she supposed it was because of the infection. She knew those could be deadly.

The scar still looked a little red and scabby, but there was no pus or other signs of putrefaction evident.

The doctor gently prodded the area. “Any pain or major discomfort?”

“Well, it's sore and it hurts when I try to move.”

“I think the soreness is more the internal bruising to your muscles and other organs. Give it time and you'll fully recover.”

“When can I take her home?”

He stood up and looked at Maitland. “She can leave when it's comfortable enough for her to stay sitting up for the whole day. I'll give you my notes on her injuries for your personal physician.”

Marisa laughed. “I think he'll be able to see my injury. The scar is self-explanatory.”

She watched as Maitland frowned and shook his head at Dr. Colbert. Without looking at her, Maitland sunk back into the chair recently vacated by the doctor, exhaustion etching his face.

“I think you should go and get some sleep, sweetheart. You look as if you've been awake the whole three weeks.”

The doctor laughed. “He pretty much has been.”

Marisa's mouth opened, but before she could scold her dedicated husband, Hadley's head poked round the door.

“Fabulous. You're awake.”

“Hello, Hadley. Did you stay for Maitland?” When Hadley nodded in the affirmative, she felt humbled. “Thank you for being here with him.”

“Maitland would do it for me, should I require it. Arend would have stayed, but someone had to escort Isobel home, and he's not known for his bedside manner. Besides, he has sent for the other Libertine Scholars to join us in London to update them on Angelo's death. Unfortunately, Angelo's demise means we have come to a dead end, so to speak.”

Tiredness fogged her brain, but she knew something. What was it? Angelo had said something to her as he lay dying.

“Fleur de Lily,” she said softly. “He said as he died, Fleur de Lily.”

Hadley ran a hand through his hair and shrugged as he looked at Maitland. “It doesn't mean anything to me.”

“Nor me, I'm afraid, but I hope it might mean something to Arend. Those two had a past.”

Marisa plucked at the sheet, trying to remember something else. The night she'd been grabbed, Marisa thought, perhaps she'd seen something important as she stepped out of the room, but when Angelo grabbed her leg, her attention was diverted. There had been a shadow farther along the corridor. A person passed a window at the top of the stairs and the gaslight outside had illuminated the face, but only for the blink of an eye.

She lay back and closed her eyes, willing the memory to crystalize. It was as if she should know the person, but the face would not take shape. Once she'd rested and recovered and got some of the laudanum out of her system she might remember what, or more important, whom, she saw.

She could hear the men talking, discussing the name Fleur de Lily, but she needed to sleep again. Later she'd tell Maitland she didn't want any more laudanum. It messed with her mind and she wanted a clear head to try to remember.

“She's asleep.”

Maitland inwardly smiled at Hadley's observation as he crossed to sit by her bed. He gently stroked her cheek, and his heart swelled with love. “I can't wait to get her home,” he answered quietly.

“At least she's safe here, surrounded by the soldiers.”

Maitland nodded. “If you need to get back to London, feel free to leave. I'll be fine now that I know she's all right, and, as you say, I have plenty of armed protection.”

“It might be a good idea to catch up with Arend. Who knows what he might be up to.” Hadley bent to kiss Marisa's forehead. “How will you travel back to London? It would be a perfect time to attack you both.”

“Dr. Colbert is providing an armed guard to escort us when she's well enough to travel.”

“Then I'll take my leave.” He stuck out his hand, but Maitland stepped close and hugged him.

“Thank you,” he said, choked with emotion. “I'm not sure I could have made it through her illness without you to give me hope. I will not forget your kindness.”

Hadley stepped out of his embrace and simply said, “No thanks are needed. I know how important she is to you. I'm glad you married her. She's helped you come alive…well, if we discount her life hanging by a thread during the last few weeks.” He shrugged, adding, “That's what love does to you.”

Maitland didn't bother denying Hadley's words. He did love her. “You speak of love as if you know something of it.”

“Love is not my friend, but I have experienced its joys and felt its barbed arrows. I loved a woman once, a beautiful young woman, but it was not to be.”

“I'm sorry.”

“Don't be. She was not worth my tears. A second son, even the second son of a duke, can't compete with another man's title and riches.”

What could Maitland say to that? “This is the way of the
ton.
I realize what I share with Marisa is unusual.”

Hadley smiled and squeezed his arm. “Not so unusual for the Libertine Scholars. All four of you have found a woman to love. Women worthy of such love. That gives me hope.” He gave a sad smile and gazed back at Marisa. “You have found a wonderful woman. I'm happy that she will fully recover. Now, if we could catch the bitch that did this to her, I'd be even happier.”

At the words “fully recover,” Maitland's smile dimmed. He had not confided in anyone the truth of her wound and what it did to her. The sorrowful ache was carving out his insides, but he thanked God he still had her in his life.

The big decision he had to make was whether he should tell her. Maybe it would be better if he alone carried this burden. He certainly wasn't going to tell her until she was fully recovered and strong enough to hear the news.

Isobel couldn't bear the silence in the carriage one moment longer. The man sitting brooding across from her had ignored her from the minute he'd handed her into the carriage to leave the army barracks, and they had been traveling for almost two hours now.

She must admit the idea of traveling back to London with Lord Labourd seemed almost as frightening as being abducted. He was not a friendly man. However, his dark countenance seemed to enhance his good looks. A look of danger and menace permeated from his silent corner of the carriage. If he were not so appealing to the eye, her journey would be even worse.

What preyed on her mind was that she had no idea how Marisa was faring. They'd left before Marisa gained consciousness. Plus, she thought she'd heard His Grace tell Lord Labourd that Marisa had a slight fever. Speaking of fevers…it seemed very hot in the carriage.

Or perhaps it was her response to the man sitting silently across from her.

Lucky for Isobel, he was so lost in his own thoughts that he didn't seem to notice her fascinated observation. She risked another stare his way. What was it about a man who wore his hair in a riot of curls yet still appeared completely masculine?

“I'm still not very clear on how and why you were kidnapped.”

She almost let out a squeal. His quiet question sounded so loud, and threatening, after not speaking to her for so long.

“Then we have something in common. I have no idea why I was taken. Perhaps they mistook me for Marisa?”

His dark eyes studied her intently and she almost squirmed in her seat. Why did he make her feel guilty when she had nothing to do with this situation? She barely knew any of the Libertine Scholars.

“You do look similar.” He looked her up and down, lingering indecently on her chest, his cold gaze still managing to leave heat in its wake. “However, I thought you said they lured you out in your stepmother's name.”

“I assure you I'm as confused as you are.”

“Or perhaps you are a spy in league with our villainess?”

“I'm not even going to dignify that with an answer.”

He looked away. “Still. There has to be some connection, or some reason you were taken.” He swung back to give her a scornful look. “Don't worry. I
will
derive the purpose. You best hope you are as innocent in this duplicity as you profess.”

With that he turned to look out of the window once again. Humiliation saw her heart hammering in her chest. At least she thought it humiliation. She'd never let it be fear, and God forbid it was anything else like attraction. The man was a block of ice.

An attractive block of ice, she'd give him that.

However, what she would not give him was the satisfaction of the last word. “Perhaps my stepmother might know of a connection. She must be worried.”

He ignored her comment completely, the silence engulfing the carriage once more.

After another hour they arrived in Mayfair, but instead of taking her directly home, the baron made for Lord Lyttleton's townhouse.

“Wait here and remain unseen. To protect your reputation, I shall collect the Dowager Lyttleton and hope like hell that people believe she took you to visit a relative just outside of London.”

She nodded and slid down on the squab. They had left Crouch End after lunch and now it was darkening for night. She'd been missing for several days. No doubt her reputation was already in tatters. The baron probably was trying to ensure he didn't get left having to do the honorable thing and make an offer for her hand.

A shiver raced over her skin at the idea of being this man's wife. She wasn't honest enough with herself to decide whether she shivered from fear or excitement.