"Oh,
I shouldn't mind that so much," he said. "By dint of long
study, I've mastered the art of lounging about or sleeping away the
day instead of doing something noble or at least useful. No, no, it
isn't that. The trouble is, I'm sick to death of pandering to this
capricious limb."
She
glanced at the peak in the bedclothes under which his injured foot
reposed upon a pillow, then looked quizzically at him. "Pandering?"
"Let
me tell you about this leg, Miss Oldridge," he said. "This
used to be a modest, well-behaved leg, quietly going about its
business, troubling nobody. But ever since it was hurt, it has become
tyrannical."
Her
expression eased another degree, and amusement glinted in her eyes,
like faint, distant stars in a midsummer night's sky.
Encouraged,
he went on, "This limb is selfish, surly, and ungrateful. When
English medical expertise declared the case hopeless, we took the leg
to a Turkish healer. He plied it with exotic unguents and cleaned and
dressed it several times a day. By this means he staved off the fatal
and malodorous infection it should have suffered otherwise. Was the
leg grateful? Did it go back to work like a proper leg? No, it did
not."
Lips
twitching, she made a sympathetic murmur.
"This
limb, madam," he said, "demanded months of boring exercises
before it would condescend to perform the simplest movements. Even
now, after nearly three years of devoted care and maintenance, it
will fly into a fit over damp weather. And this, may I remind you, is
an English leg, not one of your delicate foreign varieties."
Her
mouth quivered, and laughter danced in her eyes.
Something
quivered and danced within him, and his mind filled with the wrong
thoughts—of touching his lips to the tiny laugh line at the
corner of her eye, of bringing his mouth to her quivering one.
He
kept talking. "In any case, it won't go anywhere willingly at
present. How on earth did I imagine I should be able to hop up from
bed and trot along to the hotel?"
She
said, not too steadily, "You did fall on your head. On a
r-rock." She stifled a giggle.
Alistair
had always found giggling girls tedious. He told himself to be bored
with her, too, but it was impossible. Her choked laughter made his
heart so light, it seemed to float within him, and his mind was light
and floating, too—not good, and he thought, Oh, no, I shall
soon like her, and that won't do because we know where it must lead.
Stop charming her, you numskull.
He
couldn't stop.
He
sighed theatrically. "Since a graceful exit is out of the
question, I must accept my fate with humble resignation. I shall lie
here looking wan and brave. Now and again, perhaps you would be so
good, Miss Oldridge, as to stop by to admire my quiet fortitude."
He settled back upon the pillows and donned a heroic expression.
She
laughed then, out loud, her eyes crinkling into narrow blue slits.
The
cool, whispery sound wafted inside him and stirred again the place
already disturbed with the erotic allure of hairpins and the untoward
delight he took in a poorly suppressed giggle.
But
before Alistair could say or do anything fatally stupid, Mr. Oldridge
entered, carrying a large volume.
"Mr.
Carsington is not to read, Papa," the daughter said. "Dr.
Woodfrey said he is not to exert his mental faculties."
"I
know," her father said. "He is not to be overstimu-lated.
That is why I have brought Prodromus Systematis Naturalis Regni
Vegetabilis. I sent my sister a copy some time ago, and she has
written her thanks more than once. Clothilde says it is a most
restful book. Whenever she finds herself in a state of agitation or
unhealthy excitement, she reads it. Infallibly, after a page or two,
she tells me, she subsides into a pleasantly drowsy state." He
beamed at Alistair. "I shall read to you—but if you find
it too sensational, we shall try something else."
MR.
Oldridge had a soothing voice, and of the Latin words he uttered,
Alistair understood about one in ten. Having some dim idea that he'd
be quizzed later, he struggled to follow.
He
didn't remember falling asleep. He simply went from one place to
another in the night, from a warm, clean bedroom to a battlefield.
The
smell made him sick, and his foot slipped on the slick ground. He
lost his hold of Gordy and slid downward toward the muck, the hideous
muck that wasn't simply mud, but blood and other things human. Parts.
Bits and pieces.
It
had nearly swallowed him, that unspeakable mire.
Don't
think about it, he told himself as Gordy dragged him up again.
But
the horror was everywhere. There was no escaping it, all the long way
to the tent. Then he spied the thing, the ghastly thing, worse than
any sight in a shambles. No butcher dealt in parts like these.
He
looked away, but not before he saw the arm, muddied and bloodied
linen stuck to it, a bit of ruffle at the lifeless wrist.
The
scene dissolved into haze. He became aware of voices. He couldn't
understand it all, but he grasped enough.
"No,"
he said. "They're wrong. It's only a flesh wound. I refuse."
There
was more murmuring, headshaking, voices growing sharp and impatient.
They hadn't time to dig out bits of bone and metal and wood, the
surgeons said. They couldn't be sure of getting it all. What they
were sure of was infection, gangrene. The leg must come off or he'd
die, slowly and horribly.
All
Alistair could think of was the heap he'd seen, and someone tossing
his leg onto it. After all those hours of hanging on, fighting fear
and despair… was this what he'd been saved for? An impatient
surgeon wielding a saw? Had he endured all those long hours only to
be mutilated?
"They
don't know," he gasped. "They know only one way. We must go
away from here."
"Yes,
yes, but please wake up."
He
felt a hand on his shoulder. He brought his hand up, and covered it.
"Yes, steady," he said. "You need only steady me, and
I'll do perfectly well."
"Of
course you will. Only do wake up."
It
was a woman's voice, an Englishwoman who spoke in the accents of his
own class. The night voice.
Alistair
opened his eyes. The world about him was so quiet, he could hear the
faint crackle of the fire. The room was lit as before, and he had no
trouble recognizing the woman leaning over him.
"That's
better," she said. "Do you know me?"
"Of
course." He smiled up at her. He'd been dreaming, that was all.
Relief
was too small a word for what he felt. He'd been crawling through
Hell for half eternity, it seemed, and come out on the other side. He
didn't know where he was now. Not Heaven, he was sure, and glad of
it, for he wasn't quite ready to give up the things of this
earth—like the sight and scent of a pretty woman bending so
near that he might easily reach up and bring his hand to the back of
her neck, and draw her down…
But
this would be wrong, he remembered, and not only wrong but stupid
beyond permission.
He
suppressed a groan and squeezed the hand upon his shoulder. He had
only to turn his head to kiss it… but he mustn't because that,
too, was wrong, though he couldn't remember why.
"I
must have fallen asleep," he said. "Bad dream."
"What
is your name?" she said.
He
gazed blankly at her.
"What
is your name?" she repeated.
He
gave an uneasy laugh. "Don't you know me, Miss Oldridge? Am I so
changed?" He hadn't changed. He was the same man as before. Only
a little deformed.
"I
am supposed to ask you at intervals what your name is," she
said, so crisp and businesslike. "I am to ask other simple
questions as well. To determine whether your brain has been injured."
Her
brisk tone swept away his anxiety and made him want to tug her down
and kiss her until she had not a sensible thought left in her head.
But he mustn't because… Ah, yes. She was a gently bred maiden,
and there were certain lines a gentleman didn't cross. Having sorted
out that matter, his mind produced another rational thought: She
shouldn't be here, so late at night, alone with him.
Reluctantly,
he released the soft hand, pushed himself up on the pillows, and
looked about the dimly lit room.
"Where
is your father?" he said.
"I
sent him to bed an hour ago. I couldn't sleep, and he is not the most
reliable person to keep watch over a sickbed."
"I'm
not sick," Alistair said. "I have a sprained ankle and
possibly a concussion, that is all. It cannot be a severe concussion,
as I have no trouble recollecting the fact that my name is Alistair
Carsington, that Weston makes my coats, Hoby my boots—By the
way, the pair you hacked to pieces came from Hoby only a fortnight
ago. And Locke makes my hats. My waistcoats—"
"That
will do," she said. "I am not greatly interested in the
numerous parties involved in assembling you. I daresay it's as
complicated as fitting out a ship, and of the same crucial importance
to you as proper nautical accoutrements are to Captain Hughes. But it
does not matter to me in the least."
"Does
it not?" he said. "Perhaps my brain is more grievously
injured than we thought, for I distinctly recollect your mentioning,
more than once, my being elegantly turned out."
She
straightened and took a step back from the bed. "It was an
observation," she said curtly. "Nothing more."
What
Alistair observed was that she must have pinned up her own hair,
because it not only made no pretense at style but was falling in her
face. A tangled clump of light copper curls dangled at her shoulder.
As
to her clothes, either she'd slept in them or had thrown them on with
more than her usual careless haste.
Her
frock was the one she'd worn earlier, but she was not wearing a
corset. He could tell by the way the garment hung, especially by the
way it outlined her bosom.
He
wished she'd put on the corset. He wished he could be sure all her
buttons were buttoned and all her tapes tied. But he knew she must be
half undone, and he could not stop his mind from undoing the rest. He
told himself not to think about her underthings and the naked body
underneath, but he was a man, and it was too late. Minus the corset's
artificial upthrust, the true shape and size of her breasts was easy
to picture. He couldn't help estimating how few layers of underthings
the wrinkled dress concealed: a chemise, perhaps, and very likely,
nothing else.
He
remembered how small her waist was and the sweet curve of her bottom
and the bewitching sway of her hips.
He
bore all this manfully.
But
then he recalled the way her hand, soft and warm, fit under his, and
a longing seized him, so fierce and wrenching that for a moment he
couldn't breathe.
"You
had better go back to bed," he said, his voice harsh. "You
ought not have come here, especially in the middle of the night. It
is shockingly improper."
"Indeed,
it is," she said. "You have dropped hints leading me to
suspect you are a rake—"
"A
rake?" Alistair came up from the pillows, and the movement
outraged his leg and ankle, both of which went into spasms. He
winced, and hastily smoothed the bedclothes to make her think their
rumpled state was what caused him pain. "I'm nothing of the
kind," he muttered.
"But
you spoke so casually to me of your expensive ballet dancer."
"One
ballet dancer doesn't make a man a rake. If I were…" He
trailed off. If he were a rake, he'd think nothing of coaxing her
into bed with him. She had no idea what it cost a fellow to behave
like a gentleman in these circumstances. He wished his father could
see him now.
No,
on second thought, it was better his lordship remained one hundred
fifty miles away.
His
oblivious seductress, meanwhile, was looking else-where, her brow
creased. "Now I remember," she said. "My Aunt
Clothilde writes me all the London gossip, and I am sure you figured
in at least one of her epistles—before the battle in which you
behaved so gallantly, I mean. Aunt tells me all the scandal about
everybody, but it is hard to keep track of the names of people one's
never met. Yet I'm certain yours came up. Now what was it?"