This Earl Is on Fire (2 page)

The effort caused agony to pummel him anew. He felt himself slipping away, falling into—what he hoped was—slumber. Though right this instant, death would not be unwelcome.

He didn't know how long he drifted—a moment, an hour, an age—until he came to a semblance of awareness. A memory greeted him in this next place.

“
Liam, come here. Take your father's hand
.”

In this vision, he saw a frail old man lying against a brace of pillows in a massive bed of thick corner posts and dark, carved wood. His face was ashen, his eyes dimmed from the luminous green of a forest glade to the pale, cloudy hue of peridot stones.

“My bright boy, do not be afraid,”
he said, his voice nothing more than a rasp.
“When I am gone, you will not be alone. Mr. Ipley and the others will remain until you reach your majority. I have seen to it.”

The vision turned watery just before a small voice answered, “
But I don't care if the servants stay, Father
.
I don't want
you
to go.”

“
Your mother is waiting for me. I can hear her call my name as if from the next room.”
Father closed his eyes, his mouth faintly curling into a smile.
“Come and give a kiss, son. Very soon, you will be the eighth Earl of Wolford. Be strong and promise you will remember all I have taught you.”

“I promise,”
the small voice said against a vellum cheek that was cold beneath his lips. And before Liam could back away, he heard one last breath. A raw, endless death rattle.

And the pain returned.

With a shock of clarity, Liam realized the moan was coming from his own throat. No wonder—it felt like his lungs were filled with shards of glass. Every breath was torture. He tried to move, but his limbs felt trapped, heavy. He tried to open his eyes, but darkness met him at every attempt.

“Shh . . .” a woman said as a cool, soft hand curled around his. “Do not be afraid. You are not alone.”

This voice was unfamiliar. One of his servants? Not one that he could place.

Her tone was brushed velvet, soft, low, and lush, and more like a lover than a chambermaid. Somehow, hearing her made the next breath come easier. Yet to make sure that this sensation was not part of his dream, he squeezed the fingers in his grasp.

“Again,” he said, wanting to hear that voice. His own was gravelly and coarse against his throat, scraping its way out.

A gasp answered him. The hand he held gripped his. “You are awake at last! I cannot tell you how worried I was . . . Well, we were
all
worried about you.”

The
we
in her declaration bothered him. Since he did not recognize her voice, he didn't know the
we
of whom she was speaking. The simple answer was likely his servants. But which servants and in which one of his houses? And how had he come to be here, wherever he was?

There were too many questions and too much relentless pain to fight through in order to ask for the answers.

“More,” he commanded, believing that the more she said, the more would be revealed. Besides, her voice seemed to offer a temporary respite from agony.

“ ‘More' of what? No, do not tell me. The answer should be simple,” she said, apparently mulling it over while oblivion threatened him. “
More
. Oh yes, of course! I suppose you mean more water. Thus far, I've only managed to dampen your mouth with a cloth every quarter hour. We didn't want you to choke or cough, you see. Father says your ribs are damaged. Though I imagine you're quite thirsty now.”

Father
? Then she must be a servant's daughter. He wondered which one of his footmen was old enough to have a child who sounded both green and sultry at once. Though given that criteria, she could be anywhere between the ages of fifteen and five and twenty. The last time Liam had asked, Mr. Ipley had no children. As for Mr.—

Suddenly, her hand slipped out of his grasp. For reasons unbeknownst to him, his body jerked, attempting to follow her. A dire mistake. Instantly, the razor points in his lungs intensified. A tortured groan ripped from his chest.

“Lie still. Try not to move,” she said, coming back to his side. A slight weight settled beside him. That was when he realized he was in a bed. Which bed or where, he did not know yet. Against her orders, however, he did move, enough to take an accounting of all of his limbs.

His hands and arms were stiff, sore, but nothing too terrible. His toes wiggled and his ankles rotated without any effort. A good sign. When he lifted one leg—albeit marginally—a sharp pain radiated upward and into his torso. He hastily abandoned the effort. For now. Yet he did lift a hand to his face, wondering why the room was so dark.

“Oh, please stop. You are injured, and I couldn't bear it if something else happened to you before you are well enough to leave.”

Leave
? What an odd thing for a servant to say. Why would he leave his own house?

When her hand grasped his arm, he forgot the question. The refreshing coolness of it penetrated a layer of linen that was likely his shirtsleeves. Though without being able to open his eyes, he couldn't be sure.

“We applied a salve to reduce the swelling and then bandages to aid in your healing,” she said. Then tentatively, she directed his hand to his face and settled it against his forehead.

Coarse fabric met his fingertips—layer upon layer of an open weave that reminded him of cheesecloth. It covered most of his head, both of his eyes, and nearly one side of his face, including an ear.

An ear too
? His pulse spiked with a heavy dose of worry. He could feel the throb of it behind his eyes.

Even though his limbs were intact, that said nothing about the rest of him. What lay beneath these bandages?

While he never wanted for feminine attention or admiration, he'd never considered himself a narcissist either. Only dandies primped or fussed in the mirror. The style and fit of Liam's clothes was the duty of his tailor and valet. Both a physician and a notable sportsman earned salaries to keep him in remarkable health. Yet when faced with the possibility of a deformity, he discovered a trembling, vain figure huddled in the corner of his mind, begging for a mirror.

What precisely had happened to him? The images of shadowed faces and fists that came to him were fleeting and exhausting. “
If you let her go, we could end this
. . .”

Her
. Had this all happened over a woman?
Damn.
If he managed to survive, then he would have to live with Thayne's taunts for years to come. His friend was forever trying to make Liam more palatable to society and to abandon his more salacious activities.

If only he could remember his most recent assignation. Perhaps then he could pinpoint which woman had caused the upheaval and keep his distance in the future. But the effort caused an excruciating headache to pound beneath his temples.

Giving up, he lowered his arm.

“On the bright side, there is nothing broken—not even your nose—which Father said was quite a feat, considering how many blows you suffered,” she continued, her voice a soothing balm, quieting his fears. Then something firm, cool, and smooth pressed against his lower lip. “Do you think you can manage a sip or two?”

Realizing it was the rim of a glass, he parted his lips in response. Straight away, blessed water quenched his mouth, slipping down his ragged throat. It was divine. Silken on his tongue and palate. Cold and wet at the corners of his mouth where it dribbled down his chin, saturating the linen at the base of his neck. He didn't care. He could gorge himself on it.

Had the finest wine or whiskey ever tasted so good? Smelled so clean and pure? He wasn't certain, but he doubted it.

Then too soon, she withdrew the glass.

“Oh, drat,” she said on a huff and began pressing a cloth to his chin and throat. “I had hoped to be a better nursemaid. Who knew there was a certain talent required for assisting in the simple task of drinking?”

Even though her mopping was a little more vigorous than was comfortable in his current state, he found her self-reprimand somewhat amusing. While she batted away at the base of his neck, he chased the lingering droplets on his lip with his tongue, content for the moment.

Then her weight shifted as if she were prepared to leave him. He couldn't allow that, not when she was his only link to relief from pain and to the sighted world.

“Stay,” he said. For good measure, he draped an arm across her legs, anchoring her to his side.

She stiffened, the slender muscles of her thighs contracting in a quick vibration, almost like a shiver. It didn't take her sudden indrawn breath to tell him that his action was improper. Sultry voice or not, she was a servant's daughter. And he never dallied with those paid to be of service . . . unless pleasure was their profession.

Not believing that was the case in this instance, he knew he should remove his arm. Instead, he splayed his hand against the whisper-soft fabric of her dress, finding comfort in her nearness. And finding the outer curve of her hip as well. Not only that, but he realized she was not wearing a dress after all. It was a night rail.

In his life, he'd had ample experience with women's various states of dress or undress. Though his preference was, most assuredly, of the latter.

As for the fabric beneath his fingertips, the soft, delicate weave was not the practical homespun he might have expected from one whose father worked in service but something more decadent.

A nervous laugh escaped her as she adjusted his hand more appropriately into her own but remained beside him. “Your glass is empty. Should you like more water—if you are willing to risk my clumsy efforts, that is—then I must cross the room to where the pitcher waits.”

“Later.”

“Hmm . . . That makes four words now.” She shifted, her movements accompanied by the
clap
of a glass on a nearby wooden table.

He wondered if it was the mahogany Chippendale console at Wolford House in St. James or the walnut Hepplewhite commode in his rooms on Brook Street in Mayfair. The bedside tables he'd shipped to his new property, Sudgrave Terrace in Knightsbridge, were either marble-topped or bronze and would have made more of a
clack
instead . . .

His thoughts trailed off, surprising him. It was almost as if he could see by sound alone. Of course, he would much prefer having these bandages removed and his vision restored.

When she settled back, her fingers flitted over the top of his hand as if absently, touching each of his knuckles. “All day long and into the night, I'd wondered about the sound of your voice—wondered if I would ever hear it—and now my only reward is one command after another.”

She didn't speak to him as a servant would, which added to his curiosity. And if it weren't for the low, teasing tone, Liam might have issued an apology for his rudeness. At the moment, however, all he wanted to do was listen to her and feel the jagged edges inside him go blissfully numb.

“How many words”—he dragged in a breath—“do you require of me?”

“I certainly have earned your
entire
lexicon, poor nursemaid or not. However, I will take only as many as you would give.”

He felt a grin tug at his lips but also a cut that puckered his flesh at the corner. Halting before he ripped open the obvious wound, he merely answered her quip with one of his own. “Shall I begin . . . alphabetically?”

This time her laugh was not of the nervous variety but unreserved and inviting. “I would settle for your name.”

Though somewhat puzzled, he grinned despite the twinge of pain it caused. “Do you not know it already?”

“Father said that if you knew your name, then we would not have to worry about”—she hesitated—“an injury we couldn't see. A more severe injury.”

Alarm returned to him, undoing all the ease she'd provided. “What do you mean, exactly?”

So many bandages, even over his eyes. Could he have been blinded by whatever violence brought him here? Damn, he wished he could remember who did this to him.

She gripped his hand tighter, comforting and terrifying him with one small gesture. “Have you ever heard of amnesia?”

Other than the recent past, he recalled every single year of his life. And if that was her primary concern, then perhaps he could rest easier.

“Amnesia, you say? I'm not . . . certain I . . . remember what that is,” he teased.

“It's a terrible disorder afflicting men who smirk at the women who sit at their bedsides. I believe it's caused by suffocation from a bed pillow,” she answered directly, patting his hand.

Her quick parry drew a surprised laugh from him, which was shortly followed by a hoarse grunt of pain. He clutched his side. His lungs seized, tightening and burning. “
Rotter.
You should warn . . . a man . . . when you . . . intend to be . . . clever.”

Her hands grasped his shoulders, urging him to lie back. “For all you know of me, I could be a wit, and every word I speak should first come with a caveat. Now be still. Try to breathe.”

Impossible
. He shook his head. “I can only breathe . . . when you're talking to me.”

Apparently, agony was something of a truth serum. He might have felt embarrassed if it weren't for the spasms wracking him as he fought to sift air into his lungs. If he were amongst acquaintances, they would have mocked him ceaselessly, and he would have made a jest in return. He was forever playing the part of a gentleman with a head stuffed with bank notes and a tongue coated with quips and barbs.

He spent copious amounts of money on houses and various acquisitions. He supped on the finest cuisine. Indulged in lavish, hedonistic entertainments. He had everything a man could desire and was usually charming enough that people did not despise him for it. But right now, he felt . . . vulnerable. All he truly wanted was to hear the sound of this woman's voice.