The Devil's Love (48 page)

needed. He begged, bargained, and promised his own life for hers if God would

spare her. In helpless frustration he watched her, lying unconscious in her bed,

tossing with fever, and growing paler with each passing day. He had passed each

night at her bedside, imagining the worst. At times, a small movement or sound

from her made him dare to hope. But most of the time, he saw little change and

despaired completely.

So when she had miraculously opened her eyes last night, relief and gratitude

had washed over him so strongly that he had wept like a child. Never had he felt

such powerful emotions, it was as if he had just escaped the hangman’s noose,

had been given a second chance at life.

But it was not over yet. Dr. Stephens had warned him of the infection. And there

would be more than the physical damage to deal with. Michael could not think of

that now. The first task was to get her well, and Dr. Stephens was correct that

his lack of sleep and food, coupled with copious quantities of whiskey, was

impairing his ability to help her.

Pushing away from the desk, he told Jones to have a bath readied, and began

walking wearily to his rooms. At the top of the staircase, he paused outside the

door of her sitting room, which he seemed to do every time he was in the corridor. That room had been so full of life before they had gone to London.

Bloody hell, why had he taken her there? Why had he been so eager to

show her to

the same society that had once shunned him? This never would have happened if

they had remained at Blessing Park as she had wanted. He stared at the door for

a long moment, then impulsively opened it and stepped inside.

It was as he remembered. Bright sunshine streamed in the windows.

Magazines and

books were strewn everywhere, and mounds of needlework were heaped near every

seat. He walked slowly through the cheerful room, taking in every detail.

Their

things had been retrieved from London, and it looked as if she had never left.

Near the fireplace, her violin case was propped against the hearth stones.

He

averted his gaze from the instrument before a deep sense of loss could invade

him.

He moved to leave the room when his gaze fell upon the mound of sewing next to

an overstuffed armchair. He stooped to pick up a piece of soft linen he vaguely

recognized. It was her rendition of Blessing Park—she had told him that, but

still, he could not make heads or tails of it. He smiled softly to himself.

The

memory of her sitting in his study, laboring over that stitchery, made his heart

ache. With one last look around the room, he tossed the linen down and quietly

left the room.

The first rays of gray morning light were peeking in the windows when Abbey

resurfaced. With a moan, she pressed her palm against her forehead; the pain

behind her eyes was almost blinding. She struggled against her pillows and

finally managed to raise herself an inch or two so she could see the room.

On

the green silk settee in front of the fireplace, Sarah slept.

“Sarah,” she called, noting her voice was stronger. The sleeping figure bolted

upright and tossed a blanket aside. It was Michael who strode quickly to her

bedside.

He sat gingerly on the side of the bed and leaned over her, his fingers wandering lightly down her cheek and neck. “Are you all right? How do you feel?”

he whispered anxiously.

“Michael?” Abbey asked, uncertain why she should be surprised.

“Are you in pain?”

Abbey swallowed and closed her eyes, nodding slightly. ‘No laudanum, please,“

she whispered.

He stroked her face again. “You must take some broth,” he murmured, and reached

behind her to pull the bell cord.

“What happened?” she asked.

Michael smiled weakly. “It’s a long story, sweetheart. It will have to wait until you are stronger.”

“You are not supposed to be here,” she said uncertainly.

“I’m not?”

“I’m not supposed to be at Blessing Park.”

“You belong at Blessing Park,” Michael answered curtly, then immediately softened. “I brought you here so Dr. Stephens could attend you,” he murmured as

he carefully brushed hair from her face.

“I fell, I think,” she said as the door opened behind them.

His gaze riveted on her eyes. “Do you remember the accident?” he asked slowly.

“Doctor said I was stabbed,” she added, confused.

Michael muttered something over his shoulder, then turned back to her with a

gentle smile on his face. “I’m sorry, darling. You were wounded rather badly.”

“Did you see?”

His expression darkened. “I saw it, yes,” he muttered, sounding almost angry.

Abbey slid her gaze to the windows. Why couldn’t she remember?

Michael absently

stroked her cheek with the back of his knuckles.

“I don’t understand.” Something was wrong. She could not conceive of being cut,

with a saber, no less. How had it happened? Why had it happened? And Michael was

not supposed to be by her side.

“You should not be here,” she tried again.

“Perhaps not. But I am here, and I am not leaving you.” She realized he did not

deny he should not be there. Something was undeniably and terribly wrong.

“It’s not right,” she attempted again. Michael’s face darkened as the door opened behind him.

Sarah appeared in Abbey’s view. “You are looking better all the time,” she lied,

and set a silver tray on a table.

“How long…”

“Almost a week,” Michael answered softly.

A week? The panic she could not seem to escape was mounting rapidly.

“How bad?”

she asked, the panic raising the pitch of her voice. Michael said something to

Sarah, who immediately brought a bowl over to him.

“You must drink this broth, sweetheart,” he said, and forced a spoon between her

lips.

Abbey swallowed, but caught his hand before he could force the second spoonful.

“Will I recover?” she asked with alarm.

Michael’s eyes slipped to her mouth. “Of course you will,” he said, and spooned

more of the broth down her. He was lying; it was plainly written on his face.

Good God, she was going to die! No wonder she could barely move her limbs! She

started to struggle. She heard Michael tell Sarah to hold her arms and was aware

that he was leaning over her, trapping her with his powerful body, forcing the

broth down her throat. Oh, dear God, please do not let me die! I am not ready to

die! Michael was wiping her mouth with a soft linen towel, saying something to

her, but she could not hear him. Whatever had happened, for whatever reason she

had been cut by a saber, she had lost everything. Her baby. Her health.

Michael.

She did not know why or how, but she knew she had lost him, too.

When Michael pressed the teacup to her lips, she jerked her head away, and the

wrenching pain sent her tumbling downward into the black abyss.

After she had been bathed and her linens changed, Michael sat in a chair next to

the bed, staring down at his ravaged wife who, for the moment, was resting

peacefully. The lines that had appeared the last few days around her eyes were

smooth in sleep, and even the dark circles and lack of color in her cheeks weren’t as noticeable. She looked angelic.

She also looked very helpless. He knew it would not be long before the dreams

would come to her again, tormenting her as they had since they had begun

administering the large doses of laudanum. Last night she had tossed and turned,

crying out in her sleep and flinching with the pain of her own involuntary movement. He suspected memories were coming back to her in sleep that she had

not yet connected with reality. He could only pray that she would regain her

strength before she remembered it all.

Several days passed before Abbey was able to sit up in bed. Sarah and Michael

took turns at her bedside, forcing broth and, later, some type of mush into her.

Most days Harry was allowed to lie at the foot of her bed. His familiar weight

against her leg became the subtle assurance that she was going to live.

The pain

in her head had become less severe, but she was still troubled by a dull ache

and periods of darkness. Dr. Stephens seemed quite confident it would disappear

altogether, just as he assured her the pain in her side would go away eventually. He prescribed less laudanum for her and pronounced her on the mend,

given the circumstances.

Late one afternoon she was propped against the pillows, feeling stronger.

Sarah

had given in to her demands to have her hair washed, but insisted she sit up

until it dried. “Don’t want a bad ague on top of everything else,” she had cautioned. Dressed in a silk nightrail, Abbey half listened to Sarah and Molly,

a chambermaid, as they chatted while cleaning her room. They were oblivious to

her; she rarely said anything. She felt so empty, felt such a dull, aching loss

she attributed to nothing and everything, that she had begun to believe the laudanum had destroyed her mind and her senses. She felt peculiar, different

somehow. As if she had lost not only her baby but a part of herself.

She was preoccupied with her attempt to dredge up fragments of memory from the

recesses of her mind. She had reclaimed snatches of it, but the picture was

incomplete. She remembered the time she had spent at Blessing Park and was aware

that she had felt as whole and complete in that time as she ever had. Yet she

was terribly disconcerted that while she loved Michael dearly, she felt oddly

disconnected from him, almost fearful. Was that due to the laudanum? Or something else, something she could not remember? On the few occasions she had

asked what had happened to her, no one would answer her, leading her to conclude

something terrible had indeed happened. She knew she had been in London. She

could remember snippets of a ball and dancing with Michael. She remembered

hitting him, too, but that was so fantastic that it had to be part of the fiction she was convinced her mind was perpetrating.

“Whatever happened to your cousin Glory? Hadn’t she met some fine sailor?‘’

Sarah asked Molly as they folded a freshly laundered bed sheet.

Molly clucked disdainfully. “Rotten one, he was. Promised the moon and the

stars, I tell you. And not just to Glory. A serving wench on the west side, too,” she said bitterly.

“You don’t say? Poor Glory! She was quite smitten with him, wasn’t she?”

“Oh, she loved him more than life itself. Crushed her, he did.”

“Did he marry the other?” Sarah asked as she took the folded sheet and placed it

on a stack of others.

“Marry? Ha! He left town, the coward. Sailed for America, the dirty bounder.

Lied to them both,” Molly muttered.

“Lied to them both,” Abbey mumbled unwittingly. Her eyes widened suddenly.

Galen! Routier! A flurry of images began to swim in her head. Galen holding a

doll. Routier’s hands groping her breast in the maze, Galen driving her in a curricle. A duel. The memories came in torrents, overloading her senses.

The

dull ache behind her eyes began to intensify, and her pulse began to pound

convulsively in her neck. She heard herself cry out, saw Sarah drop the linens

and fly to her bedside.

“Molly! Fetch Lord Darfield! Don’t dally, girl, go/” Sarah shrieked.

Abbey stared wildly at Sarah. “I remember, I remember, Sarah! Oh, God, I remember!” she rasped hysterically.

Sarah gripped her hands tightly and held them. “It’s all over now! It’s all over!”

“ Routier!‘’

“He’s dead!”

“No, no! Galen! Where is my cousin? Where is Galen?”

“It’s all over and done!” Sarah pled with her. Abbey shook her head, grimacing

in pain as she did. She yanked her hands free of Sarah and began to claw toward

the edge of the bed, the pain in her side stabbing her like a hot iron.

“No, no! There is more, much more! Southerland! I want to speak with the duke!”

Abbey cried.

“You must stay abed, mum! Molly went to fetch Lord Darfield for you—”

Sarah

cried as she grabbed Abbey around the waist.

“ No! I don’t want to see him, Sarah!” Abbey sobbed.

“I am already here,” Michael said from the doorway. Behind him, Molly’s eyes

were wide as an owl’s. Michael nodded at Sarah, who reluctantly pulled away from

Abbey.

“Sarah, don’t go!” Abbey begged. Sarah stopped halfway across the room and

looked at Michael.

“She’ll be quite safe, Sarah. Go on,” Michael said softly, and waited for Sarah

to skirt around him and shut the door behind her.

Confused and oddly apprehensive, Abbey shrank against the linens as he crossed

to the bed. “I want to talk to the duke!” she insisted desperately, pushing herself into the mound of pillows.

“Alex is presently in London. But you can talk to me, sweetheart,” he said calmly.

“ No! Something is not right! You are not right!”

Michael squatted next to the bed and reached for her hand, but she pulled it

away. “We will make it right, Abbey, you and me.”

“I remember! I remember Galen and Routier!”

Michael winced, his jaw clenching. “I know it must be hard for you. It was very

traumatic, love. But I’m glad you are remembering—it means you are healing, and

I so want you to heal.”

“ Glad? Why? So you can cease pretending to care? I remember, Michael!”

Michael’s face fell. He pushed a hand through his hair as his eyes danced across