The Duke's Bedeviled Bride (Royal Pains Book 2) (16 page)

Christ guard me today against every poison, burning, drowning and fatal wounding. Christ be with me, Christ be behind me, Christ be within me, Christ be beside me, Christ to win me. Christ to comfort and restore me, Christ to be where danger threatens, Christ be in the hearts of those around me, forevermore.

Feeling fortified by the entreaty, she relaxed enough to sink into sleep.

Shortly before dawn, someone came in. Because Maggie was curled on her left side, she could not see who had entered, only that they’d brought a candle.

Pray, let it not be Hugh come to abuse me further.

’Twas not Hugh, thank the Lord, but Mrs. McQueen with a bowl of broth and a chamber pot.

The housekeeper was all sympathetic kindness as she helped Maggie position herself over the porcelain commode.

“You poor dear,” she said, unhooking Maggie’s restraints. “If only there was something I could do to help you.”

“There might be,” Maggie told her, “if you are willing and able to help me smuggle letters in and out—though God only knows when I shall enjoy the freedom to pen them. Or to whom I should appeal for assistance.”

 
“Rest assured I shall do everything in my power to assist your plight,” the housekeeper told her. “I only pray His Grace will return—and the quicker, the better.”

“That is my prayer also,” Maggie said.

After Maggie relieved herself and drank her broth, Mrs. McQueen reconnected her bonds. “I would leave you unfettered, but we would not want his nibs to suspect us of plotting against him, now would we?”

“No, we would not,” Maggie agreed.

After the housekeeper left her, Maggie made up her mind to submit to Hugh’s authority until such time as she was freed from his thrall, be it by her own wits, her husband’s return, the wrath of God, or all three.

Chapter Nine

Robert came back to himself in a strange bed with no idea where he was or how he came to be there. Had he visited a brothel or picked up a serving wench in a tavern? Strangely, he could not recall the slightest detail of the evening before. He must have been very drunk indeed, he thought, for he’d suffered memory lapses before, but none as severe as this one.

Daylight shone through the cracks in the heavy red-velvet bed curtains. Oh, dear. ’Twas morning and the king would not be pleased when he failed to report for duty as Page of the Bedchamber. As he reached to draw back one of the drapes, the motion detonated an explosion of pain across his skull.

God’s wounds! I must have been deep in my cups indeed.
 

Raising his hands to his head, he got a shock. Two shocks, actually. The first was a strip of cloth encircled his head, suggesting he’d sustained an injury. The second was his hair was gone. Shaved to the scalp he’d been.

He dredged his memory for aught willing to come forth. The image of a castle rose from the shadows and with it, the strange, vague sense someone waited for him there. But who? He was unmarried and a Page of the Bedchamber for His Majesty the King. His father had sent him from Scotland to London to be of service to the monarch.
 

He could hardly blame his old man for wanting to be rid of him. Had he been in his father’s shoes, he would have done the same.

Grimacing against the headache, Robert yanked back the bed curtain. The rings made a grating sound that set his teeth on edge. A pine table beside the bed held a bloodletting bowl and a small brown bottle of some sort of physic.

Laudanum, probably.
 

The only other things within view were a fireplace whose heat had been banked for the night and the closed door to the rest of the dwelling. Silver candlesticks stood upon the mantle along with a pair of porcelain dogs. All in all, the chamber appeared far too middle class to be a brothel.
 

“Hello there,” he shouted at the door. “I say, is anyone about?”

Moments later, the door swung partway open and a face peeked around the edge. A very appealing face framed by auburn curls.
 

“You are awake,” she observed.

“’Twould seem that I am.” He forced an amiable smile through the pain in his cranium. “What is this place? Why am I here? And who the devil cut off my hair?”

She came a little ways into the room. She wore a simple day frock of the pale green shade called celadon. Her figure was as becoming as her face.

“I am terribly sorry about your lovely head of hair,” she said. “But we really had no choice.”

“We?”

She nodded. “My father and I. He found you several days ago and brought you here to dress the wound on your scalp.”

A jumble of questions besieged his mind. He asked the first one that made its way to his vocal chords. “Found me where?”

“In an alleyway, clad in naught but a bloodied shirt,” she said. “Somebody had beaten you senseless, deprived you of all your worldly goods, and left you for dead. Leastwise, that is what my father believes happened to you.”

Her account distressed him, both for its dreadfulness and because he remembered naught of what she’d relayed.
 

“Is your father a physician then?”

She nodded again. “He is Sir George Wakeman, the physician to Queen Catherine. You might know the name because he was acquitted last year after being falsely accused of attempting to poison the king at the queen’s behest.”

He did not know the name, though, were her story true—and why she should invent such a slander involving her own father, he could not comprehend—he bloody well ought to have known of the incident. He worked for the king, after all, and was not always inebriated out of his senses. Only most of the time.

“I should like to speak with your father at once.”

“I am afraid that is impossible.” She wrung her hands. “He has gone to luncheon with Mr. Jones, the apothecary, and will not return for at least another hour.”

This struck him as odd. As did her seeming discomfort at the mention of the apothecary. “We are alone in the house?”

“Yes, apart from the domestics.”

“And your father does not think it improper to leave his daughter unchaperoned with a total stranger? For all he knows, I might be a dangerous criminal. Or worse, a shameless libertine.”

He was a shameless libertine, as it happened. And she looked ripe for the plucking.

“I am quite sure he did not expect you would awaken before his return,” she said. “Besides which, I doubt, even were you the worst sort of ne’er-do-well, you’d find strength enough in your current state to make improper advances.”

She was correct. Whoever had beaten him did more than injure his head. His ribs were so sore he barely had the strength to sit upright—an unfortunate circumstance given how desperately he needed to urinate.

“Do you work as his nurse?” he asked.

“Yes, but I am also his protégé.”

This impressed him, for he favored intelligent, independent women—a breed in short supply in the sphere in which he circulated. Controlling, manipulative women, damn the wretched lot, were plentiful.

“In that case, might I trouble you for a chamber pot and some assistance?” He gave her most self-effacing smile. “I do not think I can hold my water until your father returns.”

Coming toward the bed, she bent over to retrieve the commode from underneath. “My sincerest apologies.” She handed the pot to him. “How thoughtless of me not to realize you’d need to empty your bladder.”

As she drew back the bedclothes, he glanced down the length of his body. He wore only a nightshirt, which did little to hide his embarrassingly obvious engorgement.
 

Adding to his shame, she settled her gaze directly upon the tell-tale tenting.

He cleared his throat, equally mortified by her notice of his condition and his need of her assistance. “If lending your assistance would not trouble you overmuch, I could use some help. Perhaps you could position the pot whilst I take aim?”

“Yes, of course.” She took the commode from him and, with eager hands, attempted to maneuver the porcelain bowl into the appropriate position. “Will this do?”

He’d rather not expose himself to the lass, who could not have been more than eighteen, but the call of nature outshouted his modesty. He lifted his shirt, took his aching cock in hand, and targeted the bowl. He strained to push the stream through his constricted urethra, and, by and by, hot urine spouted forth.

Ah, what blessed relief!

“Is there anything else I can get you?” she asked with a smile.
 

Though he did not wish to be a bother, he was quite hungry. “Would a wee bit of broth be too much trouble?”

“No trouble at all.”

Before she left the room, she opened the remaining bed curtains and poked the fire. After several minutes during which he took inventory of his injuries, she returned with a tray bearing a steaming bowl and a spoon, which she set across his lap.

As he sipped the broth, which, though watery, satisfied his hunger, she sat in the armchair beside the fire.
 

“If only you
were
a libertine,” she mused with a sigh.

He blinked at her, part puzzled, part intrigued. “Indeed? And why would you make such an odd statement?”

“My father is not merely lunching with the apothecary.” She looked petulant all of a sudden. “He is arranging my betrothal to the odious man.”

“You do not care for Mr. Jones?”

“I cannot bear the sight of him.” Her voice cracked and there were tears in her eyes. “And even if I found his appearance and manners tolerable—which I absolutely do not—he is a relic with a shiny bald head and hands that are gnarled, bony, and covered in horrid brown spots! How can I abide the touch of such repugnant hands? How can I bear knowing such hands will be the only ones ever to touch me?”

With a forceful sigh, she slumped in her chair and dashed at her tears. “Woe is me! I shall never know the great passion of Juliette, Isolde, or Heloise. ’Tis too much to be borne. But, alas, my fate is sealed. I must marry the man my father decrees or surely be disowned.”

He offered her a sympathetic smile. “Forgive me for saying so, but you would seem to be firmly wedged betwixt the proverbial rock and hard place.”

She sat up straighter, her expression brightening. “I might have to marry the man, but I do not have to go to him as a maiden. ’Tis not as if he’d know the difference, assuming he can still get it up.”

The steamy look in her emerald eyes made her meaning clear. Was he up for it? Not in his present condition, but later on when he’d recovered enough to accomplish the deed, he saw no reason not to help her out. God knew, he’d put his tarse up enough petticoats by now to negate any claims of morality or particularity. He only asked for willingness and a wee bit of beauty if the light was good. And this lass, with her long-lashed eyes and dewy youthfulness, met both his criteria.

“How good are you at keeping secrets?”

“Very good, my lord.”

“Obviously, I cannot grant your request at present but may be able to in a few days’ time,” he said, giving her a good, long look. “But before I agree to do you this service, I must ascertain how good you are at keeping secrets. ’Twould not do for your father to find me out and force me to do right by you. I am not in the market for a wife at present and, even if I were…”

The thought trailed off as Maggie York’s lovely image burst like sudden sunshine through the haze clouding his mind. Just like that, he remembered. He planned to marry his sister’s companion, whom he’d been secretly in love with her for an age.

“Are you all right, my lord? All at once, you look pale and peaky.”

“I’m fine. I’ve only just remembered something. Well,
someone
, I should say.”

“Your sweetheart?”

“Not exactly,” he said. “Just someone of whom I am fond.”

“Someone you are obliged to be faithful to?”

“Nay.” He shook his head and the pain made him instantly regret the movement. “I am obliged to be true to none but myself. And the king, of course.”

“Are you acquainted with the king or merely a loyal subject?”

“I am a Page of the Bedchamber for His Majesty.” Muddled, he added, “Though why I should remember that much and little else puzzles me exceedingly.”

She rose from the chair, came to his bedside, and touched his arm. “Your memory may come back in time. And we will not be found out.”

He set his hand atop hers, which was soft, delicate, and warm, and locked his gaze with hers. “However much guilt you may come to feel afterward, you must never speak of it to anyone. Not your father, not your husband, not even your cleric. If you must ease your conscience, let the confession be to God alone.”

“You have my solemn vow.” A smile brightened her lovely eyes. “I shall never even deign to mention your name.” With a laugh, she added, “Not that I know it.”

He opened his mouth to tell her but, to his astonishment, he could not seem to summon the information—only that he was the first son of a duke and served the king as a page. He decided not to tell her about his father, in case she got ideas. Single ladies, he’d found, could spin elaborate webs to ensnare the heir of a titled nobleman. Even one who lived in Bumfuck, Scotland.