The Suspect's Daughter (16 page)

Voices shot through his skull, indistinct, nonsensical. The warm body in his arms shifted. He held on tighter, terrified he’d drop whomever he had dived to save. His head throbbed with every beat of his heart and the pressure built. Surely any moment his head would explode. His shoulder burned. Light blinded him and he squeezed his eyes closed, still holding on to his precious bundle of warmth and softness.

One distinct voice, soft and feminine and nearby, cut through the raucous. “Mr. Amesbury.”

It wasn’t Jason he’d caught. It was her. Jocelyn Fairley. Not Jason. Never Jason. His brother was gone and Grant was left to carry on alone. Alone, always alone. The one woman who’d made him feel alive for a short, blissful time, had proven false—her words of love broken and empty. In the end, he’d always be alone.

A small, cool hand touched his cheek and again came the feminine voice. “Grant. You can let go of me. We’re safe.”

His senses cleared and he relaxed his hold on her. He tried to lift his head but nausea and pain held him captive. She moved out of his reach, leaving only cold in his chest where she had lain against him.

“Lie still,” another voice ordered. Male.

The light neared, bringing searing pain. Grant squeezed his eyes closed against it. His stomach lurched and he gritted his teeth to try to keep from getting sick. Someone leaned over him bringing the scent of bergamot. Strong hands probed his neck and limbs.

“Wiggle your fingers.”

A doctor, then. One of the guests had been introduced as Dr. someone—Blake, wasn’t it? Grant raised both hands and moved his fingers. White-hot pain shot through his arm to glower in his shoulder.

“Now your feet.”

Again, Grant obeyed, grateful he could.

“Can you sit up?”

He tried to open his eyes but a candle blinded him. He squinted against it. “I think so.”

He lifted his head. A masculine hand reached out to aid him. Grant grasped it and used it to pull himself up. Pain knifed through his shoulder and he let out a moan despite his clenched jaw. Hands helped push him up from behind. Only then did he realize he’d been lying with his head down and his feet up on the stairway. That explained the excruciating pressure in his head. As he sat up and pulled his knees in close, he cradled his still-aching head. His shoulder throbbed. He rubbed it but the pain only intensified.

“Your shoulder?” asked the doctor who had ordered him to move his hands and feet.

He didn’t dare nod. “Yes,” he managed through gritted teeth.

Again came those probing hands, manipulating his shoulder. Grant hissed in his breath between his teeth and clamped his jaw down tighter.

The memory of the girl falling forward flashed through his mind. She’d spoken to him, but he need to know for sure. “Jocelyn—Miss Fairley…is she…?”

“I’m here. You saved me.” Her voice, roughened with…what? tears? awe?...vibrated through the stone passageway.

“Are you hurt?” He resisted the urge to reach for her again, to touch her, to assure himself of her safety.

“No, I’m not hurt.” Again that hoarse quality laced her voice. “You caught me and cushioned my fall.”

He braced his elbows on his knees and pressed his hands over his head. Again came a probing on his shoulder and ribs. Searing pain rippled through him with every touch. Still, it fell short of what he’d experienced as a prisoner.

The doctor’s voice broke into his thoughts. “The good news is; it doesn’t feel broken.”

Grant shook his head and instantly regretted the motion as dizziness and pain closed in. “It doesn’t hurt enough to be broken.”

“Oh? You’ve broken several bones, have you?”

“A few.” He firmly shut his mind to memories and gulped in several steadying breaths.

“The bad news is; it’s dislocated.”

Grant winced. He’d seen a man get his dislocated shoulder put back into place. He didn’t envy him.

“I can’t reset your shoulder in here—it’s too tight. Can you stand?” The doctor’s voice, echoed in the narrow stairwell.

Bracing himself with his uninjured arm, Grant tried to push himself to a stand but fiery pain burned one knee. The weight of dizziness bore down on him and he crumpled. Indistinct voices echoed and strong arms supported him on both sides. With a groan, he stood and leaned on them as they led him out into the sunlight. He walked unsteadily but managed to keep upright. Shielding his eyes from the glare, he squeezed his eyes closed again. His knees buckled. At least two sets of hands lowered him to a stone floor.

A hand gently probed his head. Pain shot through his skull and he sucked in his breath. “It’s not cut, but a bump is already forming,” said the doctor. “How do you feel? Dizzy? Nauseous?”

“Both.”

“You probably have a concussion. We’ll have to keep an eye on you. Let’s set that shoulder. Lie down flat.”

Grant swallowed, remembering how the soldier in the medical tent had screamed when his shoulder was reset. Grant took a bracing breath and eased himself down on his back. He almost asked for something to bite on to avoid screaming but clamped his mouth closed, determined to bear it silently. The doctor straightened his arm and gently tugged it away from Grant’s body, keeping the pressure even. The tugging increased. Pain radiated in waves from his shoulder.

“Try to relax,” the doctor said.

Grant focused on controlling his breathing and relaxing his body. The ball joint popped and the doctor relaxed his hold on Grant.

“All done,” the doctor said.

Hardly daring to hope, Grant opened his eyes. “That’s it?”

A surprisingly young man with warm brown eyes smiled. “That’s it. I try not to torture my patients when I treat them. I charge extra for that, of course.” His eyes twinkled.

Grant let out his breath. Then, horrified that he might have revealed his dread, he grunted at the doctor, “My thanks.”

“You’ll be badly bruised, I’m afraid.” He looked carefully into Grant’s eyes. “And I want you to rest for the next few days to give your head time to recover. That was an impressive fall.”

It was a stupid fall. Where on earth he’d left his brain when he’d decided to take a leap head-first down a stairwell to save an empty-headed female was beyond him.

Said empty-headed female sat nearby, watching him with enough gratitude shining in her eyes that he had to avoid her gaze lest he convince himself she was worth saving or risk allowing any of her light to reach his shriveled, neglected heart and give it false hope.

With the doctor’s help, Grant rose to a seated position. His head spun and his stomach threatened to embarrass him in front of everyone. He pressed his hands over his head and clamped his mouth shut, both to avoid moaning in pain and to tell his stomach who was in control. Wind cooled perspiration on his face and sun shone as if it had no thought for useless mortals below.

“Papa.” Miss Fairley’s voice slipped over his senses. “I think we ought to take him home where he can rest.”

With his eyes still closed, Grant made a dismissive wave. At least, he hoped it appeared dismissive. “I’ll be all right. Just give me a moment.” He took several bracing breaths and then pushed himself to a stand.

Fairley said, “I don’t think you should stand up so soon, son.”

“I’m fine, no need to fuss.” Grant pried his eyes open and blinked. The pain receded, but his stability remained questionable and he sagged against the wall.

Jocelyn Fairley stood with her hands over her heart, her gaze darting over him, her mouth twisted into something between disbelief and concern.

He fisted his hands to keep himself from touching her. “Are you sure you’re unharmed?”

“I’m well, thanks to you.” Her voice quivered.

And thanks to him and his accusations, she’d run headlong to escape him. If she hadn’t felt the need to run away, she wouldn’t have fallen in the first place.

“I’m glad you’re safe.” He rubbed a hand over his head. He was beginning to sound like a lovesick puppy, curse him for a fool. “Clumsy wenches shouldn’t go racing down stairs.”

She blinked in disbelief. Then, one corner of her mouth lifted as if she saw through his defensive measure. “Boorish oafs shouldn’t go down stairs head-first.” She smiled. Was that fondness in her eyes? Sobering, she placed a hand against his cheek, the heat spreading outward to warm his entire body. “I can’t believe you saved me like that. You could have broken your neck.”

He must have hit his head harder than he thought; why else would he have that idiotic, almost irresistible desire to turn his head and press a kiss into her hand? He fought it.

About a dozen people stood on the roof, staring at him as if he’d committed some kind of unforgivable
faux pas
. Scowling at them, he pushed off from the wall. But before he took more than two steps, dizziness overcame him and the floor tilted so violently that he fell into darkness.

Jocelyn stood next to Dr. Blake in the doorway of Grant Amesbury’s room, uttering another prayer for his safety. Dr. Blake had checked on him several times since the fall but could offer no prognosis beyond the assurance that patients with head injuries such as Grant’s usually made a full recovery. Usually. The idea that this brave, if somewhat grumbly, man might die or suffer long-term side effects because he’d saved her left Jocelyn with the urge to weep. If she thought it would do any good, she would have shed a waterfall’s worth of tears.

With a sigh, Grant turned his head. His eyes opened a slit, and he went very still. His gaze fastened on her as if he’d never seen her. “You can’t be one of the devil’s minions; you have the face of an angel.”

Relief left her weak. She smiled, her vision turning suddenly watery. Despite his understandable disorientation, he seemed well enough, if a bit delusional. No one had ever compared her face to an angel’s. But the hope that he might actually think that of her in truly unguarded moments flamed in her heart.

She offered a smile. “Welcome back.”

His silvery gaze studied her another moment before surveying the room. He moistened his lips. “Have I been somewhere?”

She let out a cross between a sob and a laugh. “You went wherever the sandman takes people when they sleep. But don’t worry—you’ve only been in and out, not truly unconscious, and it’s only been a few hours.”

His brows drew together. “What happened?”

Doctor Blake leaned over to examine his eyes. “You hit your head. I’m checking on you to be sure you’re not suffering any lingering effects.”

“Effects?” Mr. Amesbury frowned and pressed a hand to his head.

Jocelyn cast an anxious glance at the doctor. Was a lack of memory about that fall sign of serious injury? “Effects from your fall.”

He frowned as if he thought them both mad. “What fall?”

“Well, actually you threw yourself down the stairs to save me.”

His scowl deepened, and he turned his head, then hissed in his breath. He reached up and felt the side of his head, his expression turning thoughtful as his fingers no doubt encountered a lump.

Dr. Blake passed his hand over Grant’s eyes. His pupils were so enlarged that his irises became only a fine silver circle around the black. “Do you remember falling down the stairs?”

“The stairs....” Grant squeezed his eyes closed.

“Of the castle ruins?” Jocelyn supplied.

He opened his eyes and focused on Jocelyn. “I remember. You fell, and I … are you all right?”

That was thrice he’d asked after her safety. The man clearly had a more tender heart than he let on. Mutely, lest she give in to her urge to bawl like a child, she nodded.

His features relaxed. For a moment, he appeared young and handsome and carefree. He shifted and grumbled, “No need for tears.”

She squared her shoulders and swallowed her emotions since they made him so clearly uncomfortable. “You are remarkably chivalrous, Grant Amesbury. Whenever I need you, you always come to my rescue.”

He tried to glare, but it looked forced. “I’ll be sure to restrain myself in the future.”

She smiled at the adorable way he struggled in discomfort at her gratitude. He wasn’t as rough and grumpy as he appeared—he had a tender heart that he disliked revealing. If she weren’t so indebted, she might have tried harder to express her appreciation just to watch him squirm, but that would be sorry repayment for all he’d done for her. And when he’d been delusional, he’d called her an angel. How lovely.

Jocelyn took a step back. “I’ll leave you to examine him, doctor. Please send word if there’s anything you require.”

The doctor thanked her and turned his attention to Grant Amesbury, her dark, grumpy knight. She smiled. Surely a man so diligent about putting others’ safety ahead of his own would be fair in his investigation.

Upon receiving word that her rescuer appeared to be resting comfortably, she spent the remainder of the evening with their guests having dinner and playing several rounds of charades. As the hour grew late, the guests dispersed to seek their beds. Jocelyn reviewed the next day’s menu with the cook. That task completed, she headed across the great hall toward the stairs.

Hushed voices caught her attention. The furtive quality of the voices raised the hairs on her arms.

Stepping lightly on her soft-soled slippers and hoping the rustle of her skirts wouldn’t give her away, she crept toward the conversation occurring on the far side of the curving grand stairway.

“…Lord Liverpool.”

A bolt shot through her and she held her breath.

“I understand that sacrifices must be made but I can’t like the rest of your plan. Even if it works, the king might appoint someone else. And you’re talking about destroying innocent men…”

“As you said, sacrifices must be made. Then he will be the only suitable candidate for the king to consider once our plan plays out in its entirety.”

As Jocelyn drew nearer, the floor under her shoe squeaked. The conversation halted. The blood rushed out of her head. They must know she was there. Her first impulse was to find a light, discover the speakers’ identity, and demand answers. But if they were plotting murder, they were capable of anything. Thinking fast, she started humming and walking up the stairs as if she had been walking a steady pace with no knowledge anyone stood in the shadows. Gliding up the steps with her head high, she continued to hum, keeping her focus fixed on the portrait at the head of the staircase. The back of her head throbbed as if someone had a gun pointed at her. Perspiration trickled between her shoulder blades.