“You do not like me, do you?” he asked, genuinely puzzled. She had struggled so hard to keep him alive, yet now she seemed to regret the happy results.
“I do not know you, my lord,” she replied, then added, “I do not like your way of life, however.”
“You must not believe everything you have heard, you know.”
“If I believed half of what I hear about you, my lord, I would shoot you now, before someone else has the chance.”
He winced, and not just from another heavy-handed dab at his skin. The prickly, prudish female would be harder to befriend than he thought, and that seemed the only way of learning her secrets. The army surgeon was too harried to chat, and Hugh’s Spanish was too labored to converse with the convent’s manservant. Even if he could have made himself understood by the other nuns, they were kept at bay by the dog, for some reason. Only Marian was permitted to sit by Lord Hardesty’s bedside without growls and snarling teeth. The more she frowned, cursed, or treated Hugh roughly, the more that bristly cur seemed to like her. The marquess decided to name the contrary beast Impy, since Marian kept referring to him as “that imp of Satan.” The dog learned the name instantly, and wagged his tail. Now if Hugh could only get Marian to—
“I do not suppose I can convince you to find us a beefsteak, can I? That might sweeten Impy’s temper, and I know my recovery would go that much faster if I had something besides gruel and broth.”
The sooner he was well enough to be sent back to England, the better Marian would feel too, but nothing, not money or influence, could procure her patient a beefsteak. “The French killed every cow, pig, and sheep they found before their retreat.”
“The officers had beef at headquarters.”
“And they might have it still, but you are not in the army, my lord, which fact the surgeon keeps repeating in his complaints about coming out here to treat you. They do not want you at headquarters, it seems, for fear they will be blamed for your death if you do not recover.”
He nodded. “My father must be apoplectic that I was wounded.”
“And the general, the prince, and Parliament, from what I understand,” she said with a curl of her lip. No one cared how many real soldiers were killed or wounded. One injured heir to a dukedom had them all in a quake. “But you are too weak to ship home, or to Lisbon.”
Hugh rubbed the cut on his cheek where old Juan Marcos had nicked him. “Where my valet sits, doing nothing.”
Marian supposed his valet would not spill as much soup down Lord Hardesty’s chin as she was doing, but the lily-livered valet had refused to ride through enemy lines. He’d resigned his post and gone back to England, but Marian did not think the marquess was ready for that information, any more than he was ready for sirloin. “You know the surgeon said you should have no heavy fare for another week. If you stop trying to get out of bed—and falling on your face again, reopening the head wound—I might convince Sister Celestina to sacrifice one of her hens. The French did not get all of them, and they keep laying, thank goodness.”
Chicken sounded like manna. Succulent chicken and a woman’s smile—now that was Hugh’s idea of bliss these days, which showed how low he had fallen. It appeared that he’d get the chicken sooner than the smile.
As bristly as the woman was, she was decent company. As long as they did not speak of personal matters, she was willing to talk with him for hours. She could converse more intelligently than many of his friends on topics as diverse as literature, politics, and the Corn Laws. She brought him news from the war, tidbits from the kitchen, and the aroma of lilacs. She had a pleasant voice when she read aloud, a neat script when she wrote letters for him, and a good head for cards. All of which brought
him
back to his constant question: What kind of nun gambled, used scented soap, and had nothing to do with her days and nights but entertain an invalid?
Hugh was no closer to winning her confidence than he was to dancing a jig. He considered her his friend; she thought of him, it seemed, as a penance for her sins. He’d give half his considerable fortune to know what moral crimes the blue-eyed female was atoning for…and if she were truly repentant. Not that he was thinking of his pious prude in any lascivious manner. Heaven forfend such a sacrilegious thought enter his battered brain-box. He liked women, though, and could not help t
hinkin
g of the only likely one in his vicinity.
In London he would have a hundred entertainments to keep his mind and body occupied. Here he had Marian. Despite her efforts, he was often bored and lonely and concerned about the slowness of his recovery. She could not be with
him
every minute, of course, but she stayed
in his mind.
He’d
rather
think
of
her and the mystery
she posed than think of facing the rest of his life as an incapacitate or, worse, t
hink
of facing his father. Hugh liked women, and they usually liked him. Hell, they always liked him, except for Marian.
He liked women. He did not like mysteries. So one day he moaned.
“What is it? Has your wound opened? Is your arm paining you? Your legs?” She was at his side before he finished the sound of suffering. He moaned once more anyway, for effect.
“Should I send for the surgeon?” She reached to feel his forehead for fever. The dog growled at her. “Oh, do be still, you silly creature. Not you, my lord. Tell me what hurts you.”
He closed his eyes and held out his hand.
She put hers in it. “Yes, I am here. Tell me what I can do to help.”
“The pain”—he gasped—“the pain…”
“Where, my lord? Where?”
“Here.” And he lifted her hand to his lower region, properly covered with a nightshirt, a sheet, and a blanket, of course. He might have been naked the way she jumped back. Hell, he might have been on fire and her hand was burned. She waved it in the air, then brought it down on his cheek so hard his head snapped back on the pillows.
“How dare you?” she shouted. The idiot dog barked and wagged his tail, wanting to be friends again.
Hugh might need another week to recover from
his
concussion. Marian might need a month to recover from her anger. “I was right,” she yelled from the doorway, where she was rubbing her stinging palm. “You are nothing but an unprincipled rake, an immoral cad, a…a
gusano
.”
“What the deuce is a
gusano
?”
“It is a worm. A slimy, dirty, low worm. How could you take such liberties with a nun?”
“You are no more a nun than I am.” Hugh put his hand on the dog this time, to stop the infernal yipping.
“I am a sister.”
Impy sighed happily at the lie and went back to sleep at the foot of the bed.
“And I am a brother. That does not make me a monk.”
“Very well, I am not actually a member of the sisters of Saint Esperanza. But I am living here under their protection and I am grateful for their hospitality. I try to follow the rules of their order.”
“No cursing? No gambling? No sops to vanity like scented soap?”
She blushed. “I have not quite managed to meet their high standards yet.”
“No men?”
“Definitely no men. And let me tell you, you egotistical clunch who thinks women were put on this earth to satisfy your base impulses, and that every one of us is panting for your attentions, men are a lot easier to do without than a ladies’ maid. They are easier to renounce than oil lamps and hip baths. Why, I miss my morning chocolate far more than I miss any male I have ever encountered. And I shall not miss your company, either,” she finished with a dramatic sweep of her black skirts through his door. “Farewell, my lord libertine.” Well, at least he had the dog for company.
Besides, he had a far more serious problem than the loss of the man-hating Miss Marian. When he’d placed her hand on his groin, nothing had happened. He hadn’t expected the little soldier to salute, not for the black-clad crone—but nothing? He put his good arm under the covers to test. Nothing. Lud, his father would kill him if he could not produce the next Hardesty heir. Lud, he’d kill himself.
He tried again.
The dog left the room.
4
H
ugh spent a long, lonely night thinking of his sins and how he might never have the opportunity to commit more. Then he had a messy breakfast that he tried to feed himself with his left hand. That, at least, brought the dog back to his bed to lick up the scraps.
Nothing he could do, he feared, was going to bring Maid Marian back. The woman was right: He was lecherous and licentious and he should never have treated her like a wharfside doxy. Of course, she should never have struck him or shouted at him or left
him
to fend for
hims
elf when he was merely teasing. He was better off without the prickly female, he told himself, for a woman who would not smile was poor company for an injured man. He’d recover faster, too, he decided, without her to carp at him to rest, to stop trying to exercise his limbs before they all went limp. She was a nag and a shrew and he missed her more than he thought possible.
The afternoon, after a morning that lasted at least seven hours, it felt, brought Sergeant Kirby, thank goodness, and thank military headquarters. The grizzled old veteran was an orderly on the commander’s own staff. He was delegated to be Hugh’s batman until his lordship was fit to travel back to England, which could not be soon enough for either of them.
Kirby was offended that he was sent to wipe some swell’s arse, no matter if the nob had shown courage in battle. Lord Hardesty was not army, and Kirby was no blasted baby-sitter.
He was rougher than Marian, smelled worse than the dog, and barbered Hugh as badly as Juan Marcos had. He spoke of the war, but refused to gossip about the officers or any stray Englishwoman who might have some connection to the military. He could not read nor write, and would not have played cards with a gent even if he had the blunt to bet, which he did not.
He did, however, accept Lord Hardesty’s coins to smuggle in a bottle of brandy from the officers’ mess, and a steak and kidney pie from the general’s own kitchen, so he was not entirely useless. Kirby was not permitted to stay under the convent roof at night, though, the mother superior declaring Hugh well enough recovered to do without constant attention while he slept.
Hugh did not sleep. He kept waiting for Marian to return, to read the next chapter of the book they had started, to resume the chess game they had begun. She did not. He damned her for being a moralistic prude and a coldhearted woman who would leave him with nothing but a rat-tailed dog for company. Impy nestled against his aching arm, so he damned the dog, too. Then he cursed at himself for landing in this situation.
By morning he was almost too despondent to care. The brandy was gone and so was his virility, still. He thought of speaking with the surgeon, to see if the man thought Hugh’s condition could be temporary, caused by the trauma, but decided against that. The sawbones had to be more familiar with amputation than expansion. Kirby was an old man; he might know about such things. On the other hand, the sergeant already thought little of the noble class. To Kirby, Hugh and his ilk were nothing but a pack of effete, ornamental parasites on the backside of the British people, sending poor fools like
him
to fight their wars. How could Hugh admit to such an unmanly, embarrassing ailment?
He had to get home to consult a real physician. Hell, at home he could consult with Harriet Wilson and her sisters. If those birds of paradise could not make his eagle fly, his goose was cooked.
Determined, Hugh worked harder at his convalescence. With heartier fare than the convent provided, and Kirby not caring whether he overexerted himself or not, the marquess was regaining some of his strength. He could barely totter from one side of the tiny bedroom to the other without growing dizzy, but he was making progress. Kirby was obviously reporting back to headquarters, for, as soon as Hugh was free of fevers and likely to live, the general himself came to visit.
“Glad to see you looking in better twig than the last time I saw you, Hardesty.”
“I did not know you had been here earlier,” Hugh said after they were settled with cups of thick coffee flavored with a dash of cognac. Hugh had learned not to ask the source of Kirby’s provisions, just to hand him more money.
The general leaned back in the hard chair beside Hugh’s bed. “Of course I came. Had to judge your condition for myself, didn’t I, before I sent those dispatches home? Told them I thought you’d survive. Glad to be proved right.”
“I am certainly glad you were, too.”
“Told them not to hack off the arm unless they had to.”
Hugh had not known amputation was a possibility. He should have, for battle surgeons were too busy to set broken limbs, and the dirt and muck in the fracture usually festered anyway. His already pallid sickroom complexion turned gray. “I thank you for giving that order.” The general looked at him carefully through narrowed eyes. “No gangrene, is there?”
“No, thank God. It was a clean break.”
“Thought so. That’s why I had them bring you here. Better care, don’t you know. You wouldn’t have survived the wagon ride to Lisbon, and the field hospitals are rife with contagion. Fevers are
killin
g more of my men than the French are, it seems.”