Julia London (43 page)

“If I don’t come back—”

“No!
Don’t say that, please don’t say that.” she begged, catching a sob in her throat. Michael reached for her hand and squeezed it reassuringly.

“Abbey, listen carefully. Sam is the executor of my estate. Listen to him, do as he says. And promise me …” He broke off, finding it difficult to go on in the face of her silent tears. “Promise me,” he whispered hoarsely, “the child you carry will bear my name.” Abbey’s eyes fluttered wide before she doubled over.

Grief as she had never known swallowed her. “You will come back,” she whispered through her sobs. “I know you will. You will!”

Michael did not say anything. His dark gray eyes were red-rimmed; she did not know if it was fatigue or emotion. “Abbey …” His voice trailed off. He looked at her for a long moment, his heart in his eyes, and then he pressed his lips to hers. In that brief touch was an eternity of heartache and hope that said everything they could not voice. Then he slowly rose to his feet and turned away. When Abbey heard the door shut behind him, she buried her face in the counterpane and prayed as she had never prayed in her life.

She might have lain there all day, had someone not begun pounding insistently on the door to her chamber. She jumped to her feet and looked at the clock. It was too early; he could not possibly be back. She flew to the door and yanked it open.

A very grim Galen was standing on the other side. “Come on,” he said. “Get dressed.”

“Galen, what are you—”

“We are going to watch him duel for you. Come on, don’t dally! We haven’t much time,” he snapped. Abbey did not have to think twice. She forgot all pretense of modesty and quickly donned the first dress she could lay her hands on.

The curricle Galen had hired raced through the deserted London streets and over the Thames. As they neared the very private Tarkinton Green on the outskirts of town where Michael would meet Routier, Abbey could see two carriages, a mount, and a group of men gathered. She strained to pick Michael out in the crowd, and brought a hand to her mouth and muffled a cry.

The duel had already begun.

Galen brought the curricle to a screeching halt; Abbey was already leaping from her seat.

“What in the bloody hell are you doing here?” Sam barked at Galen, who purposely ignored him. Alex was also there, with a gentleman carrying a black bag. Another man, unknown to her, was standing off by himself, obviously acting as Routier’s second. Beyond this cursory glance, Abbey’s
eyes were riveted on the sword fighting, and she rushed to the edge of the field.

Michael, stripped down to his shirt, was quite good, but Routier was better. She cringed as the sharp-edged sabers clashed and a deafening clang echoed across the small green. Routier was steadily advancing on Michael, pushing him backward.

But Michael was fighting from an inner strength Routier could not possibly have gauged. He regained his footing and, with a surge, moved forward aggressively. He caught Routier by surprise, he thought, because he stumbled backward a couple of feet before finding his footing again. His yellow eyes narrowed and he picked up the level of his swordplay. Undaunted, Michael continued to make steady progress forward, matching Routier’s lightning speed with his own saber. Incredibly, he heard Abbey’s voice call to him. He could not believe it; his mind was playing tricks on him.

Neither man could gain ground on the other. It seemed to Michael that they had been fighting for hours; his arm was beginning to burn with the weight of the saber. Sweat poured from his brow, and at times, he had difficulty seeing his foe. Routier seemed just as worn; twice now he had dropped the tip of his sword, and twice Michael had lunged, just barely missing the man’s black heart. He believed, given one more opportunity, he could fell him.

The two men had made a mud pit in the ground they covered. With a forward thrust, Routier sent Michael skidding toward the edge of the field. His consciousness registerd the spectators; they were very close. Why in the hell didn’t they move? His boot slipped in the mud; he managed to avoid the fall, but Routier definitely had him at an advantage. He thrust again, this time knocking the sword from Michael’s hand and sending it flying through the air.

In a desperate bid to live, Michael pitched to the right, found his feet, and lunged for Routier, blinded by his own sweat, as the man thrust his saber one last time. Suddenly he was hit hard in the chest by something blue. He stumbled backward, grabbing the weight thrown at him, and looked up
just in time to see Routier’s saber lifted high above his head. In a fantastic, surreal display, Routier’s eyes suddenly went wide and riveted on Michael. He teetered there, his sword waving precariously above him, then toppled onto his side. Galen was standing behind him, his chest heaving, Michael’s bloodied sword in his hand, staring at Routier’s body.

Michael looked down at the blue weight that had hit him and heard an agonizing howl—his own—as he recognized Abbey, limp in his arms. He struggled with her to the ground as a line of rapidly spreading blood stretched from below her breast, across her side and arm. Michael was stunned; she had thrown herself in front of him and had caught Routier’s blade. She had saved his life.

He scooped her limp body into his arms and clutched her to his chest. Her head fell back; streams of dark mahogany hair floated to the ground. She did not appear to be breathing.
“Oh, God, please no! Please, no!”
He buried his face in her neck; beneath his lips he could feel her weak pulse. He became aware of Sam forcing his arms apart and lowering Abbey to the ground so the physician could see to her wounds. In the fog of fear that surrounded him, he heard Alex bark commands to remove Routier’s body and for Galen to flee at once.

“It’s very deep. She’s losing a lot of blood—we have to get her to town,” the physician said.

Michael came immediately to his feet with her limp body held tightly against his chest, staring into her ashen face.

“Come on, we must go!” Sam barked. Michael nodded and began stumbling toward his coach. His fear was overwhelming; God forbid, if she did not survive … He could not think that! Lord, how he loved her! How he
needed
her. “Abbey, sweetheart, you must
fight
,” he whispered into her hair. “I need you, darling. Please
fight!
” He climbed quickly into the carriage, Sam behind him, and shouted at the driver to head into town.

Blinking rapidly, Abbey grimaced at the pain that shot through her head when she finally awoke after swimming in darkness for what seemed like eternity. It was dim, nothing more than a dull glow in the recesses of the darkness, but it was light. Her tongue darted over her dry, cracked lips as she focused on the light.

Am I dreaming
? Abbey wondered She had to be; it was the only thing that explained the hazy image of Michael in a chair beside her, his elbows propped on his knees, his face buried in his large hands. Dark curls of his hair fell forward, shielding his face from her. Something was wrong. It had to be a dream. She was freezing. She licked her lips and tried to focus her gaze on the image of Michael.

“Cold,” she said, her voice raspy and light.

Michael’s head jerked up and he stared at her with bloodshot eyes.
“Abbey?”
he whispered, almost inaudibly.

“I’m cold.” The dream heard her then, suddenly disappearing from view, and just as quickly reappearing with a blanket. He gently laid it over her and tucked it securely about her leaden limbs. He knelt beside her.

The dream did not speak but his lips trembled faintly as he gently stroked her hair. His tortured gaze darted across her face and finally settled on her eyes. Abbey blinked, unable to focus clearly, but cognizant of the omnipresent sorrow about him.

“A dream,” she managed to state, more to herself than to him.

“No, sweetheart,” he said in a voice oddly strained. She frowned a little, wincing at the pain.
What had happened to her?
Why was her dream of Michael so sad?

“Sad?” she tried to ask him.

Michael’s eyes watered as he held her gaze for a long moment, then finally choked out, “Not any longer.” He tenderly stroked her cheek.

“You are sad,” she repeated inanely. He did not answer but buried his face in the bed covers.

Mild surprise drifted through Abbey’s fogged mind. Under the added blanket, warmth was seeping through her limbs, carrying her away. Her eyelids grew heavy, and with a last flutter of lashes, she looked at his dark head, the trembling in his broad shoulders, and quietly drifted into unconsciousness again.

After several moments, Michael slowly lifted his head and looked at her. She had slipped away again, but a flood of relief washed over him. With the back of his hand, he wiped his wet eyes, then glanced toward the heavily plastered ceiling. “Thank you, God,” he whispered.

He composed himself and pushed himself into the chair that had remained at her bedside for four long days. She was so pale; he could almost see through her skin. She looked so small in the vast bed, so terribly vulnerable. It seemed as if the slightest breeze could carry her away from him.

But her raging fever had broken finally. Dr. Stephens had said she might never waken. He had warned Michael that if her fever did not break soon, the infection from the deep cut could kill her.
She has to fight
, he had said. So Michael had stayed at her bedside, urging her to fight, to live. In the four days the fever had held her captive, he had despaired that
she would ever recover. But he had continued to talk to her, to force her to know he was waiting for her. He had read her letters from her family, talked of the places he had seen, and reminisced about their short time together. He had even gone so far as to bring Harry into the sickroom, hoping a friendly lave of her face would rouse her. Nothing had worked, and Dr. Stephens had begun to prepare him for the worst. There were two possibilities, he had said. She would recover completely from the deep wound. Or the infection would ravage her.

And she would die.

She will not die!
Michael had bellowed like a madman; even Sebastian had cringed. But Michael would not believe she would die. How could he? If she did, there was no point to his life. She was everything to him. She had to live. She had to know how much he loved her. She had to smile again, to play her violin.
She had to live
.

And thank God in heaven, she had awakened, albeit only briefly. A new rash of tears filled his eyes as he sat gazing down at the small bundle under the mound of blankets that was his Abbey.
She had to live
.

Abbey awoke to bright sunlight streaming into the room. She winced when her eyes fluttered open; the light pierced her and sent shooting spasms of pain down her spine. But it paled in comparison to the deep burning in her side.

“Can you hear me, mum?” She recognized Sarah’s voice. She could not answer right away; her throat was parched and she swallowed hard.

“Water,” she croaked hoarsely. Sarah hastily complied, slipping her arm behind her back and lifting her head so she could drink. The pain was crippling, and she could only take a few sips.

“It hurts,” she mumbled.

Sarah’s face loomed over hers, frowning. “I know, I know. Dr. Stephens will give you some laudanum after he examines
you. It will help ease your pain,” Sarah said, her eyes welling. “Oh, mum, you don’t know how
relieved
we all are!”

Abbey squinted at her friend and noticed her eyes were wet. Wet like Michael’s. She had dreamed he was here.

“What happened?” she rasped.

Sarah looked away. “I’ll fetch Dr. Stephens. Lie quietly,” she whispered, then was gone.

Abbey strained to see the canopy above her bed and tried to concentrate. She could remember dressing. She remembered thinking how lovely her amethyst earrings would have looked with her gown. The memory inexplicably made her flinch.

“Lady Darfield, how wonderful to see those violet eyes open!” a voice boomed. A pinched face with spectacles and a puckered smile appeared above her, and she recognized Dr. Stephens. “You’ve given us all quite a scare, madam. Can you see my finger? Ah, very good. Now follow it with your eyes, will you?” He moved his finger to one side. Abbey grimaced; even the smallest movement of her eyes was painful.

“Very good, very good indeed. Don’t fret now, you’ll be better in time. I’m going to give you some laudanum to help ease the pain.” His hands were fluttering down her torso, then pressing against her side. Abbey gasped as his hand ran across the burning and closed her eyes as pain spiraled through her.

“Nasty wound. Quite deep, I’m afraid. It will take some time to heal properly. Happy to say no limbs were broken, but you may notice a headache from the laudanum.”

Abbey felt the panic again. “A wound?”

Dr. Stephens puckered smile appeared again and he pushed his spectacles back to the bridge of his nose. “What is your name?”

Surely he remembered her name. “Abbey.”

“Do you know where you are?”

Was he addled? “Blessing Park,” she muttered weakly.

“Yes, that’s right. Do you remember how you were injured?”

Abbey’s brows shifted into a confused frown as she thought
about that. She could remember nothing but dressing, and gingerly shook her head.

“You were stabbed with a saber,” he announced matter-of-factly.

Stabbed with a saber?
What was he saying? “I don’t think so,” she murmured faintly.

“Do you recall anything about that morning?” he asked again.

What
morning? The last thing she remembered was standing in her dressing room. “I was dressing …” She trailed off.

The physician frowned.

“Lady Darfield, you have suffered a rather serious injury that will require some time to heal. You will need plenty of bed rest. Sarah, bring a cup of tea,” he boomed.

Serious injury?
Panic was now racing through her. “What injury?” Abbey struggled to ask, and gasped loudly as his fingers touched the burn beneath her breast.

He glanced up from his ministrations. “You need to rest now.” From the corner of her eye, Abbey saw Sarah put the laudanum in the tea, then lean down to help her drink it. Abbey could hardly choke it down, but Dr. Stephens was insistent.