The Rogue's Return (15 page)

Oglethorpe rushed out of the dressing room to help him back onto his bolsters. “Now, now, sir, none of that with your lady wife present.”

“It's time she broadened her vocabulary.”

Jancy almost told him she'd heard it all—she'd scandalized Martha when she'd first been in Abbey Street—but instead said, “I think I should start a penance pot. A penny for every infraction.”

Hal had come in behind her. “Make it a guinea. Milk him for all he has.”

“Which is damn little,” Simon snapped. “How would you like being stuck here like a waxwork when you're perfectly fit?”

“Not at all, which is irrelevant,” Hal retorted. “You're a fool to risk those ribs and you're not fit. You're running a fever.”

“If this was wartime I'd not be lying around. I'd probably be thrown back into battle.”

“No, you'd doubtless be dead.”

Jancy intervened before a fight broke out. “Eat.” She thrust a sandwich into Simon's hand.

“Damned sandwiches.” But then met her eyes. “I apologize, but this is enough to try a saint.”

“Even a St. Bride, it would seem.” She poured tea into the invalid cup, seeking a safe subject. “Was there ever a Saint Bride?”

He swallowed his mouthful. “Doubtless many. It comes either from the Irish Bridget or the Swedish Birgitta. In Lincolnshire, the Swedish connection seems
most likely. She was a highborn wife and mother, given to speaking her mind to kings and popes.”

“I'd have thought that would earn her hell, not heaven.”

“Astonishing, isn't it? Perhaps things were different in the past.” He ate more sandwich as she poured for Hal and herself.

“There was a monastery in her honor near Brideswell, which is why the village is Monkton St. Brides. There's no trace left except the village church, which was part of it. There's a natural spring in the village street with an interesting legend attached.”

“What?”

“Brides are supposed to drink from it before entering the church. If they're impure, they'll drop dead.”

She half laughed, half frowned. “That's terrible. Does it happen?”

His eyes danced. “We're a very pure lot in Lincolnshire. It's also supposed to guarantee fertility and godly children. That seems to work.”

Tales of his village and home charmed her, so she encouraged more, hoping and praying that this truly would be her world.

A
fter lunch the tactful men again left them alone. Simon held out his left hand to her and she put her right one in it.

“I never courted you, did I, my love?” He raised her palm to his mouth and kissed it. “Shall I court you now?”

“How can you—atrophying here?”

“The Grand Panjandrum has minions. Have you never been courted?”

“No. Have you courted?”

His brows flicked up and down. “Not, I confess, with marriage in mind.”

She laughed and gently tweaked his nose. “Wicked, as I said. And what should I do as the courted lady?”

“Blush, which you do so prettily. Say, ‘Oh, la, sir!' Perhaps,” he added, eyes lazy, “make me a modest gift in return.”

She deliberately chose the most boring thing she could think of. “A handkerchief?”

“Perfect.”

Jancy had begun to make some handkerchiefs for Isaiah for his birthday, so later she considered one of the squares of fine lawn. Instead of a monogram she would copy the design of Simon's signet—an S arising from flames. It would be slow work, however, if she was to do it out of his sight.

She wondered what Simon intended. Nosegays? Trinkets? Gloves? When she returned, he gave her a perfect scarlet leaf.

“I had to send Treadwell to find it for me.”

Jancy was surprised, but then she smiled. “Nature creates such beauty, doesn't it?”

He was smiling at her when he said, “Yes.”

She blushed. “Oh, la, sir!” As an immediate reward, she poured a little brandy into a glass, dipped her finger, and stroked his lips. He licked and said, “More.”

She did it again, and he captured her finger to suck it, his eyes on hers. The play of his tongue made her knees wobble.

“Soon,” she whispered, sliding her finger free.

“I could have a brandy kiss right now.”

Perhaps his temperature made him heavy-eyed, but she didn't think so. She felt as fevered. She took brandy into her mouth and then bent to kiss him, letting the liquid slip slowly into his mouth. When he swallowed, she closed her eyes and explored his mouth, gripping his head with one hand, aching inside for what they couldn't have.

Yet.

When complaining muscles compelled her to straighten, she said, “I believe I have come to like brandy.”

 

That evening he gave her a book—a slim volume bound in blue cloth with gold lettering on the spine. “I bought it just before McArthur returned, intending it for you.”

“Angel Bride,”
she read on the spine, “by Sebastian Rossiter. I'm flattered, sir.” She dropped a kiss on his lips, noticing more heat. “How do you feel?”

“Hot and irritable. Read a poem to soothe me, my angel bride. I bought that, by the way, because one of my friends is married to his widow.”

“A Rogue?”

“I do have other friends, but yes. I mentioned him. Leander, Earl of Charrington. Why do you always frown if I mention a titled friend?”

“I don't.”

“You do.”

She pulled a face at him. “All right, I do. What will they think of me?”

“That you are a treasure and I'm a lucky man. Read me a poem.”

She opened the book at random.

How sweet the home that is by angels blest,

At hearth, in schoolroom, at the mother's breast.

A man alone is but a withered thing,

No matter how the raucous rakes do sing

The joys of single state.

 

Chaste angel! How you raise the lowly mind,

Directing heavenward more base mankind.

With smiling lips and orbs of innocent hue

You gently chide all those who carol to

The joys of single state.

 

My little cherubs sitting at my feet,

Or running with glad cries papa to greet,

Are treasures greater than a pasha's hoard.

What man would choose instead some common bawd

And the joys of single state?

Jancy looked up at Simon. “Isn't there a quote about someone protesting too much?”

His lips quirked. “I gather he wasn't quite the ideal husband he portrays. But he's very popular. I remember my sisters mooning over his work.”

“I'm sorry, I'm not being politely grateful for the gift, am I?”

“A lesson for me to check the gift horse's mouth before I offer it. I'll do better.”

She put the book aside and took his hand. “There's no need.”

“What else do I have to do?”

She saw him wince and realized she'd taken his right hand. “Did I hurt you?”

“The arm hurts. Playter's beloved eschar, I suppose.”

She put a hand over the bandage. It felt hot there. She almost unwrapped it but remembered the instructions to leave it alone. Heat healed. “We'll ask him to look at it tomorrow. Perhaps it's not draining.”

Later, she was amused to find Oglethorpe absorbed in
Angel Bride.
She caught Simon's eye and bit the inside of her cheeks to fight laughter. The stocky ex-marine was the last person she'd imagine enjoying sentimental verse.

She mustn't have succeeded in hiding her thought, for with an amiable smile, Oglethorpe said, “War's a grim business, ma'am. I've come to enjoy anything with a bit of sweetness and light, and I've been privileged to meet Mr. Rossiter's Angel Bride as was.”

“Is she ethereal?”

His eyes twinkled. “A bit of what they call poetic license, I think, ma'am, but a very pleasant lady with two charming children, Miss Rosie and Master Bastian. His little cherubs.”

“Little imps, more like it,” Hal said.

“Sir,” Jancy protested, “you destroy all our illusions.”

“It's Blanche's opinion that anyone who describes children as angels has only viewed them from afar.”

“Blanche?” she queried, intrigued at a hint of a lady fair.

He blushed.

Jancy raised her brows at Simon, who shot a look that said,
Don't pursue it.

Oh.

“Were you an angel?” Simon asked.

Jancy was assailed by contrasting visions—of she and Jane, who had not exactly been angels but had certainly
been little ladies. And of the Haskett children, where all, boys and girls equally, could be described as imps.

“I don't think so.” She offered Hal more cake. “What news of travel?”

“No one's willing to predict, but we have at least a week.”

“Then we leave in a week,” Simon said. When Jancy tried to protest, he said, “My ribs feel much better, but I'll travel on a damned stretcher if I must.”

But that night, the enemy struck. Simon's fever soared.

Oglethorpe woke Hal, and at three in the morning, Hal woke Jancy.

“It's supposed to be normal,” she said, hurrying to the sickroom. “Part of healing.”

But the degree of heat shocked her. Simon shook her hand away. “Don't fuss. I'll be fine.”

She retreated and murmured to Hal, “Should we send for Playter?”

“What could he do?”

Jancy remembered her earlier thought. He couldn't amputate ribs.

She undid the chest bandages, knowing Playter would berate her, and peeled back the top dressings on the wound. She couldn't see the actual wound, but didn't smell putrefaction, or see swelling or any spreading redness.

“Perhaps it's some other cause,” she murmured, relieved as much as anything. She looked at the others. “What do you think?”

“Bound to be,” Hal said, “so he'll get over it.”

“Cool water, then. To bring down the fever.” She began the treatment herself, patiently wiping a damp cloth over Simon's head and shoulders, soothing him when he tried to brush her away.

But then pain no longer seemed to keep him still. His skin burned and his pulse was rapid. Dawn was brightening the sky, so she sent Oglethorpe for the doctor.

Playter arrived complaining but then muttered a curse. He, too, undid the bandages and then stripped all the dressings off the wound. The final dressing brought the crusty scab with it. A copious, smelly discharge spilled out.

Jancy gasped, but the doctor said, “No contagion there.”

“No?” she queried.

“No. Water! Light!” He cleaned the wound and then peered into it with a magnifying glass. “Even a little granulation. Healing tissue,” he said, looking up at her. “The fever must be something else. Does he suffer from malaria?”

“He's never had it. And surely . . .” She stopped herself pointing out that the symptoms weren't right.

He checked Simon's bloodshot eyes and then his dry mouth and tongue, muttering to himself. He pushed and poked at his abdomen.

“His arm's particularly hot.”

The doctor unwrapped the wound and Jancy saw him turn gray. “God forgive me.”

The beneficial crust had shed on its own to reveal more stinking pus but also swollen, scarlet flesh.

“Brandy!” he snapped and poured it over the long wound.

Jancy choked back a cry. Where once it had been shallow, it now cut deep.

“The arm'll have to come off.”

Jancy stared at him. “No!”

“No,” Simon whispered, as absolutely.

“You'd rather die?” the doctor asked.

Jancy was intensely aware of Hal Beaumont standing behind her. She didn't know what to do. Her heart was pounding and she felt dizzy. As she understood it, Hal's arm had been shattered. This had to be different.

“It doesn't have to be now, does it?” she asked.

“The earlier, the better his chances of survival. And there's no point in putting it off.”

“No,” Simon said again, begging her with his eyes.

God help her, but she knew they must at least wait. From a dry throat she said, “Not yet. So, what do we do to help him overcome the putrefaction?”

The doctor snapped shut his case. “If we knew that, woman, don't you think we'd do it? You can try compresses to draw out the poison, but it'll do no good.” He turned to Simon. “My deepest apologies, sir. I neglected to clean that wound as thoroughly as the other. I was in error.”

“Then can't you clean it now?” Jancy demanded.

Dr. Playter said, “It's too late,” and left.

Jancy collapsed into the bedside chair, her eyes locked with Simon's. She didn't want to show how much this appalled her because if it happened, it if had to be, she didn't want him to ever think it made him less in her eyes.

She saw in the set of his lips that he was never going to agree. So if the doctor was right and he grew worse and worse, she might have to make the decision. As his wife, it was her right. Would he hate her for it later?

She should probably say something cheerful and bracing, but all she could think was, how could life be so
cruel
?

Hal said, “Brandy does seem to help. Why don't we apply brandy compresses?”

It was something to do, but Simon's fever stayed high and the redness around the wound spread. Simon soon turned delirious. When Playter didn't return, it was clear he wouldn't come back except to amputate. Jancy knew she should send for him, but she delayed.

As she bathed Simon's hot forehead, feeling steam should rise, she said, “You will not die. You know the cards didn't foretell it, so it will not be.”

His eyes moved beneath his lids. “Superstitious . . .” he whispered. “Anyone . . . think . . . Gypsy.”

She was glad he wasn't looking at her. “Don't be silly, and save your strength.”

After a while, he said, “If cards say . . . no need to cut off arm.”

“Precisely.”

She knew, however, that the nine of diamonds didn't rule out an amputation. And that she wouldn't let Simon die. If he wasn't better by morning, she'd send for Playter.

She caressed a cheek that was rough with bristles and gently kissed his cracked lips. “Don't worry. I'll take care of you.”

Remembering how soothing Mrs. Gunn's ramble had been, she tried to talk about practical matters. She refused to leave his side, clinging to an irrational faith that while she was present, Simon, at the very least, could not die. But in the deep hours of the night she remembered feeling the same way about Jane and waking up on board ship next to her corpse.

They kept cleaning the wound with brandy, but she knew rot was eating into him.

He came to himself once. “Glad you're back,” he said, faintly but clearly.