“I’m not especially good at inferring meanings, no. Much better with facts, numbers, and the like. You seemed fine yesterday. What happened?”
“I was riding. First time in a while.”
“You’re in that kind of pain just from riding?”
Ben gritted his teeth. “Yes.”
“Shall I send someone up? Call for a doctor perhaps?”
Ben slung the pillow to his side. “Do not summon a doctor. Is that clear enough? Do you get my meaning?”
“I get it,” Averill replied grimly. He started to close the door behind him, but hesitated. “You know, Foxburn, sometimes I wonder if you enjoy being miserable.”
Ben glared at him, even though the effort hurt his face. “Get the hell out.”
Averill left, closing the door softly behind him, when any normal man would have slammed it.
Ben clasped his head in his hands. He hadn’t thought it was possible to feel worse.
He was wrong.
The next few hours passed in a haze. He didn’t bother drinking more brandy—it wasn’t helping anyway. Instead, he lay very still, breathing shallowly, wishing that he could fall asleep. Maybe he’d discover the last twelve hours were a horrible nightmare. He’d wake up, birds would be calling, there’d be a rainbow painted in the sky, and he’d dance a bloody jig.
He didn’t have that kind of luck.
He would have to endure the torture for as long as it lasted.
And
that
was the most terrifying part of the ordeal—not knowing how long.
He’d given up counting. And he’d begun to wonder.
What if it never stopped? What if he was sentenced to this pitiful existence for the rest of his sorry life? Sweat covered his body and dampened his sheets. He could hear blood pounding in his ears and above it, occasionally, low, pathetic moans that could only be coming from him.
Anger morphed into something darker. Despair.
Gruesome images flashed in his head. Robert’s trampled body; blood sputtering violently from his mouth. The bullet hitting Ben’s thighbone; the gaping hole in his flesh. Smoke stinging his eyes; anguished cries echoing across the battlefield.
The dreams, or memories, or whatever they were wouldn’t cease. They repeated, over and over, in the same horrifying sequence, until Ben could no longer discern what was real and what was not.
Then a knocking in the distance drove its way into
his consciousness, interrupting the awful rhythm of his visions. He listened, grateful to whoever had given him a short reprieve.
More banging. “Benjamin?” A woman’s voice. Pure and sweet, it washed away some of the horror that lurked. But the pain remained.
“Ben, can you hear me?”
He wanted to be near her, needed to answer her. “Yes,” he tried to say. It sounded more like a groan.
“I’m coming in.”
He vaguely recalled he was in a bedchamber. At Robert’s house. Now Hugh’s house. He forced his eyes open and looked down at his body. Naked. Not a stitch of clothing, and the sheets were bunched in a ball beneath his feet. Worst of all, his right thigh was completely exposed, in all its grotesque glory, twisted muscle beneath scarred flesh, and a pit the size of a plum where part of his leg was gone.
He scrambled to retrieve the sheets and a quilt. It took every ounce of energy he had left, and he just managed to cover himself before he collapsed back on the mattress. The door cracked open.
Daphne. A very small measure of hope flickered in his soul.
“I hope I’m not disturbing you.” She looked like spring and daffodils and lemon cake.
He must look pathetic. Like a sorry, wounded animal. “No,” he croaked.
Her pretty blue eyes skittered over him and concern lined her normally smooth forehead. Her gaze lingered on the mostly empty bottle of brandy beside his bed and the clothes and linens on the floor. She placed her hands
on her hips and said, “I’m going to help you. First I must ask Mrs. Norris for some supplies, but I’ll return shortly. When I do, you will not argue with me but will do as I say. Do you understand?”
He wanted to beg her not to leave, not even for a little while, because he didn’t know if he could endure another minute of agony alone. “Yes.”
Her eyes widened in surprise and she hurried off. The five minutes she was gone seemed like five hours, but she returned as promised, holding a pitcher in one hand. Several towels were tucked under her arm. “Mrs. Norris is heating some water for us. In the meantime, I’m going to clean you up.”
She placed the pitcher on his bedside table and moved the brandy to a far corner of the room. On her way back, she scooped up the clothes and linens and unceremoniously tossed them into the hallway. Then she took the bowl from the washbasin and placed it next to the pitcher.
“Would you like a drink? Of water?” she added quickly.
“Please.”
She looked around but could not find a clean glass, so she went to retrieve one. When she returned, she splashed some water into the glass. “Do you think you can sit up, or shall I help you?”
He lifted his head, which was apparently made of stone, about an inch off the pillow. She slipped her arm behind him and put the glass to his lips. He gulped and spilled some on the sheet covering his chest.
She eased him back down and the smell of wildflowers surrounded him. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.
The next thing he knew, a cool damp cloth rested on his forehead. Daphne moved beside him with brisk efficiency, wringing another towel in the washbasin and humming softly. When she faced him, though, her cheeks were flushed. “You look warm, so I’m going to cool you off. “Are you… ah…” She squeezed her eyes shut as though that would make it easier to finish her question. “Are you wearing any clothes?”
“No.”
She opened her eyes but avoided looking directly at him. “Well, then, we shall leave the sheets in place.” If he wasn’t so miserable, he would have chuckled at her blithe tone. As though she routinely administered baths to naked men.
But any amusement fled the moment she touched him. She removed the cloth from his forehead and pushed back his hair so that she could wipe his face with the fresh, cool one. Anyone could have done it—provided that small relief—but no one else could have even made him think of smiling in his pitiful state.
No one but her.
The soft towel brushed over his forehead, from one cheek to the other, via his nose and around his jaw and mouth. After soaking and wringing out the cloth again, she gently traced his ears and moved on to his neck and shoulders. Her thoroughness was impressive, and after she got over her initial embarrassment, she was all business.
Until she came to his chest.
Her faced turned a deeper shade of pink. “I shall wait until Mrs. Norris returns with the hot water. She can help me bathe the rest of you.”
He grunted. Mrs. Norris was not going to get under his
sheets. It wasn’t as though he were on his deathbed for Christ’s sake.
At least he hoped he wasn’t.
“If you bring my robe”—he pointed across the room to where it was hanging over the arm of a chair—“I could put it on and spare you further embarrassment.”
“I’m not embarrassed,” she lied.
“Well, maybe I am,” he lied.
This elicited a small smile from her. “I doubt that. Perhaps we should agree to spare Mrs. Norris the embarrassment.”
Daphne glided across the room, returned with his dressing robe, and held it out so that he could slide an arm in.
“I can manage from here,” he said.
Her blue eyes twinkled. “I never would have guessed you were so modest, Benjamin.”
“Ben,” he said. “You promised.”
Just before she turned her back, he caught a glimpse of her expression. Surprise… and something else. Whatever it was made his heart trip in his chest.
“Let me know if you require assistance… Ben.”
Even in his sorry state he was sorely tempted to make a suggestive, highly improper remark, but he checked the impulse. It wasn’t like him to think before speaking, but when speaking took so much effort, one tended to choose words more carefully.
While he wrestled with his robe, Daphne made pleasant conversation. “All the men are out hunting. The women just left for the village—to shop and see the local sights.”
“Why didn’t you go?”
“I overheard Mrs. Norris telling a servant that you were not to be disturbed. I thought you might need some company.”
“You shouldn’t have stayed on my account,” he said gruffly. “It’s not proper for you to even be in here.” He searched in vain for the armhole of his damned robe.
“Perhaps not,” she said. “But you shouldn’t be alone. Do you mind my company?”
“No. Not exactly. I’m concerned for your reputation. If you stay, Mrs. Norris might mention it to Hugh or one of the guests.”
“Very well. When she returns with the water, I’ll leave… and then I’ll come back later.”
“What?”
She shrugged her slender shoulders. “You’ll tell Mrs. Norris—in your usual ornery way—that you want to rest and do not wish to be disturbed. Once she is gone I’ll sneak back down the hall. No one will know I’ve been here. You won’t have to suffer all alone, and my reputation remains intact—at least for the time being.”
He paused in his efforts briefly in order to admire the graceful curve of her back and the smooth expanse of skin below her nape. Under normal circumstances, he wouldn’t dream of discouraging a beautiful young woman from sneaking into his bedchamber. “I’m not sure this is a wise plan, Daphne.”
“I’m willing to take the risk.”
Getting the dressing robe on was more difficult than he’d imagined. The slight twisting of his torso caused his weight to shift and that was enough to make his thigh scream in pain. He must have made some guttural sound.
“Let me help you,” she pleaded.
“It’s done.” His body hit the mattress with a
thud
.
She whirled around and rushed back to his side as though she feared he’d managed to injure himself further in the three minutes while she wasn’t watching. Once she was satisfied that he was still in one piece, more or less, she sighed. “Excellent. You shall be more comfortable this way.”
No, he wouldn’t. But it didn’t seem sporting to argue.
Daphne opened her mouth to say something, but Mrs. Norris whisked into the room carrying a steaming bucket. She set it on the floor beside Daphne.
“How is he?” the housekeeper asked.
“Awake and fully conscious,” Ben snapped. “But I feel like—”
“He’s very uncomfortable,” Daphne cut in. “I suspect the excessive physical activity of the last few days is catching up with him.”
Excessive physical activity? He’d ridden a horse, walked a bit, and played a game of billiards. It wasn’t as though he’d slayed a dragon or rescued a bloody princess from a tower.
“Shall I call for Doctor Sundry?” Mrs. Norris asked.
“No.” Ben glowered at the housekeeper, but she wouldn’t even acknowledge him. Instead, the question remained in her eyes as she looked pointedly at Daphne.
“Not yet,” Daphne replied, although she sounded somewhat unsure. “If he’s not vastly improved by the evening, then we shall have to, regardless of his wishes.”
Mrs. Norris nodded in full agreement. “What would you like me to do with the hot water?”
“It’s fine right here.” Daphne picked up a clean cloth, dipped it in the bucket, and squeezed out the excess. “Lord
Foxburn, you can use this as a hot compress if you’d like. I’ll just hang it on the side of the pail to let it cool slightly.”
“Thank you.” Ben sighed and let his eyes droop.
The housekeeper’s white brows rose in response. “Is there anything else you require? Tea or porridge?”
“God no. Er, no. I shall be fine, thank you both.”
“We’ll see that you’re not disturbed for the rest of the afternoon,” Daphne said, quite the actress.
Mrs. Norris left the room with one last glance of regret—Ben would wager she was more distressed about the state of the room than the state of him. Not that she was unfeeling, but some habits died hard.
Daphne followed the housekeeper and closed the door without looking back.
The moment he was alone, he became more aware of the incessant throbbing in his leg. Pain brought out the pessimist in him, and he began to think of all the things that could go wrong with this ill-conceived plan. If someone discovered Daphne in his bedchamber, her reputation would be in shreds. It might actually be worse than if the portraits were discovered and hung in a public square where all the
ton
could gawk.
But being alone with her was risky in another way. He didn’t trust himself to be a gentleman. In his current state he might end up yelling obscenities at her; then again, he might kiss her. There was no way of knowing which, but neither was advisable.
He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, hoping to smell wildflowers.
The only scents he could detect, however, were desperation, depression, and despair.
D
aphne rummaged through her trunk and in the bottom corner found the small drawstring pouch she was looking for. She tucked it in the waistband of her skirt and grabbed a book from the escritoire to use as cover. If someone discovered her in the bachelors’ wing, she’d claim she was looking for the library, and while no one would believe her, the story was at least plausible. She knew the risk she was taking.
Ben was worth it.
Thank goodness she’d forgone the trip into the village. She’d wavered at first, thinking that perhaps all he needed was to rest. One glance at his pallor and the tight lines around his mouth had disabused her of the notion.
He needed her.
The corridor leading to his room was deserted, so she ran lightly all the way to his door. She considered knocking but decided silence was best and simply turned the knob and entered.
The moment she closed the door behind her, the room became smaller, cozier. Although she’d stood in the same spot just minutes before, this visit felt different, more intimate. Like they were two children huddling in a makeshift fort of blankets and chairs. She was very aware that they were alone—and in his bedchamber.
He looked up at her, his blue eyes sober. “Are you sure you want to do this? Someone could return at any moment.”