Tomorrow's Dreams (35 page)

“I can't let you throw your life away,” he growled, trying to back out of her arms. “Damn it! I refuse to allow it!”

Penelope held firm, clinging to him as if he were the last solid tree in a raging hurricane. “And I refuse to let you go.”

“And when I become mad?” he demanded. “What then? Have you considered the shame and stigma you'll suffer when it becomes apparent that your husband is a madman?”

Penelope looked up, only to find his face inches from hers. Meeting his desolate gaze with her reassuring one, she pledged, “I swear on our love to be your anchor to this world and to keep the madness from you.” She rose to her tiptoes to kiss him, taking care not to hurt his cut lip. “Well, except for the madness of desire. I intend to drive you crazy with wanting me.”

He groaned. “I'm already crazy with wanting you. It's getting positively embarrassing the way my body insists on responding every time you get within a mile of it.”

She slanted him a wicked look. “Your male ‘thing' has been rather insistent on making its presence known of late.”

One corner of his mouth curved up slightly and to Penelope's amusement, he blushed as red as her old calico bonnet.

Pleased to see him smile, even faintly, she continued, “Aside from staying away from me, which, of course, is not an option, I see only two ways out of your all-too-obvious dilemma.”

He raised one eyebrow in question. “Oh?”

She nodded solemnly. “You can either buy unfashionably baggy trousers so your condition doesn't show, or you can let me relieve you on a regular basis, which I assume will banish the problem altogether. Personally I prefer the latter remedy. Your body is much too fine to be hidden by loose trousers.” She drew back to stare pointedly at the prominent bulge at his groin.

He let out a strangled sound that was halfway between a laugh and a moan. “Only you, sweetheart, could manage to arouse a man who's been beaten within an inch of his life.”

“Oh! How thoughtless of me to keep you standing,” she exclaimed, stricken with sudden guilt at his words. “Here”—she looped her arm around his waist—“let me help you to the bed.”

“Actually I was about to take a bath. I can't attend the dance covered with dirt and blood.”

She stared up at him, appalled. “You can't seriously be thinking of going tonight? Dear God, Seth! You should be in bed.”

“What? And miss escorting the prettiest girl in town to the social event of the season?” Letting his appreciative gaze sweep her length, he added, “By the way. You look beautiful tonight.”

Penelope scowled, not a bit diverted by his flattery. “And you look awful. Your hair is all bloody, and your face is a mess.”

“I daresay I'll look better once I've washed up a bit.” Gently disengaging himself from her arm, he said, “Now, if you'll excuse me, I'll go do that now.”

“No. I won't excuse you,” she retorted, stubbornly wrapping her arm around his waist again. “If you insist on taking a bath, I'm going to help you. With all the blows you've obviously taken to that thick head of yours, you could become dizzy and drown.”

As if sensing the futility of arguing, Seth merely sighed.

Lecturing him about mutton-brained fools who hadn't the sense to know what was good for them, Penelope escorted him behind the screen. The fact that he was limping and winced with every step only increased the fervor of her discourse.

“Really, Seth,” she chided as she tested the temperature of the bathwater poured earlier by the porter. “You should at least have a doctor examine you to make certain that you aren't hurt inside. I remember Hallie telling me a story about a man who fell from a horse, and nobody even suspected that he was hurt until he died from internal injuries two days later.”

There was a low chuckle from Seth. “I've noticed that your sister-in-law is inordinately fond of her hidden-injuries-turned-fatal tales. She never fails to recount at least one every time your brother and I engage in a few friendly rounds of boxing.”

“Well, in this instance I think you'd do well to heed her warning,” Penelope cautioned, pouring a steaming bucket of water into the tub. “There's a lot of blood in your hair, and Hallie says that head wounds are particularly dangerous.”

“Apparently her word has spread far and wide, because the porter took one look at me and insisted on sending for a doctor. He should be here soon.”

“Then, you'd best stop dawdling and take your bath.” Deeming the water temperature comfortable, she turned back to Seth.

He was standing rather unsteadily a couple of feet away, struggling to unfasten his trousers with one hand while bracing his damaged rib with his other. By his pale drawn face, it was apparent that he was in a great deal of pain.

Aching with compassion, she went to him and laid her fingers over his clumsily fumbling ones. “Here. Let me help you.”

Nodding, he dropped his hand from the buttons. With calm efficiency she unfastened his dusty trousers and eased them off. Remaining on her knees only long enough to ascertain that the damage to his lower body was limited to a few bruises and minor abrasions, she rose and helped him into the tub.

When he sat huddled in the water, his knees drawn up to his chin and his eyes closed, Penelope picked up the bar of soap and began to lather away the evidence of his ordeal. He remained stoically still beneath her ministrations, not so much as wincing when she swabbed out his gaping shoulder wound.

When she'd cleansed all the areas she could reach with him sitting the way he was, she dropped a kiss on his cheek and whispered, “You need to recline back now, so I can wash your chest and torso. Then I'll tend to your face and hair.”

He opened his eyes, smiling faintly. “If I'd known how pleasurable it is to be bathed by you, I'd never have bartered away the privilege for a mere question a day.”

“And if I'd guessed how much I'd enjoy bathing you, I never would have taken the questions,” she countered honestly, though in truth his queries had proved surprisingly simple to answer. Never once had he pried into her relationship with Adele or asked any of the other questions she'd been expecting and dreading.

Raking his hair from the side of his face to tuck it behind his ear, she added, “Speaking of baths, we need to finish yours. Can you lie back by yourself, or do you need me to help you?”

“I can manage. I don't want to spoil that magnificent gown with water spots.” With that, he reclined backward, visibly favoring his left side. As he settled against the high backrest, he teased, “Too bad I didn't get myself beaten up sooner. We could have renegotiated the terms of the bargain to include baths, and spared me the trouble of thinking up questions for you.”

Penelope was about to suggest that they agree on that particular deal when there was a banging at the door.

“Sir? It's me, Sydney, the porter. Doc Larson's with me.”

Seth shot her a reassuring look. “You can wait back here while the doctor examines me. I'll hurry him along.”

It was on the tip of her tongue to agree, but then she looked into his bruised face and shook her head. How could she make him face the doctor alone when he so clearly needed her love and support? Besides, it was doubtful that word of her presence here tonight would reach Adele's ears before Tommy's rescue, so there was really no reason for her to cower behind the screen.

Laying her palm against his cheek, she shook her head. “By the looks of that shoulder wound and the blood in your hair, you'll probably need to be stitched. Perhaps it won't hurt so bad if I hold your hand and talk to you while the doctor does it.”

Seth laid his hand over hers on his cheek. “Are you sure?”

She nodded and planted a quick kiss on his lips.

“Mr. Tyler? Are you alive?” came a frantic call.

“And kicking,” Seth hollered back. “I'm taking a bath. Use your passkey to let the doctor in. I'll be out in a minute.”

As the porter followed instructions, Penelope finished bathing Seth. When he was thoroughly washed, except for his hair, which she deemed futile to clean until after his scalp was stitched, she dried him off and helped him into a dressing gown. Then she escorted him around the screen.

“Thank you for coming, Dr. Larson,” Seth said, extending his hand to the physician, who stood at the desk rummaging through a shabby black bag.

The doctor, a slight man with a thick mane of silver hair and a mustache to match, moved forward to give his hand a cordial pump. “Glad to be of assistance, Mr. Tyler.”

“Seth,” Seth corrected as he drew Penelope forward. “And this is my lovely bride, Ettalee.”

Penelope bit her lip to keep from giggling as she presented the doctor with her hand. Ettalee was the name of the girl in Seth's favorite naughty rhyme.

The man squeezed her hand and murmured a pleasantry, then turned back to his patient. “The hotel fella said you had a run-in with some rowdies. Looks like they did a job on you.”

“He has a deep cut on his shoulder and another on his scalp,” Penelope told him. “They're bleeding an awful lot.”

The doctor peered up at Seth's matted hair and frowned. “Sit down and let me have a look, son,” he urged, thumping the back of the desk chair with his palm.

As the man shifted through Seth's hair, pausing now and then to take a closer look at his scalp, he shot off questions in a rapid-fire barrage. Was Seth dizzy? Did he see shooting lights or was his vision blurred? Seth answered each query negatively.

“Amazing,” the doctor said at last. “By the looks of the laceration and bump on the left side of your head, you should be either unconscious or in bed with a brutal headache.”

Seth winced violently as the man prodded the area. “Except for your poking, I feel fine.”

“Be that as it may, the injury is still worrisome.” As the doctor fished his instruments from his bag, he continued, this time speaking to Penelope as if Seth were a very young child and she were his mother. “I'm going to stitch the wound, Mrs. Tyler. Then I want you to put your husband to bed with an ice pack on the area. Make sure he stays there until the swelling goes down.”

From beneath his eyelashes, Seth slanted her a look that told her quite succinctly that it would take the combined efforts of both God and man to make him stay in bed this evening.

Ignoring his subtle show of defiance, Penelope reassured the doctor, “I'll see that he behaves.” Kneeling before Seth, she asked, “Would you like to see his shoulder now? By the looks of it, it could use a few stitches, too.”

At his nod, she loosened Seth's dressing gown and slipped it off his shoulders. When he sat bared to the waist, she added, “You need to check his ribs, too. They're paining him terribly.”

After the doctor pronounced one of the ribs fractured and the shoulder in need of suturing, he set to work. To Seth's credit, he didn't cry out once, not even when the doctor began to stitch the bruised and swollen flesh on his scalp.

As Penelope kneeled before him, clutching his hands as if it were she, instead of he, who was enduring the stitching, tears of guilt and regret streamed down her cheeks. Her poor, poor love! It was all her fault he was hurt. She should have guessed that Adele would harm him, what with the way he'd flaunted his interest in her. She should have done something to discourage his attention. Before she could repress it, a sniffling sob escaped.

“What's this?” Seth murmured, disengaging his hands from hers to tip her face up. Staring tenderly into her teardrenched eyes, he teased, “Seems to me that I should be the one crying.”

His brave attempt at humor served only to suck Penelope deeper into her vortex of remorse. Though his words were uttered in jest, the truth of them tore at her conscience. She should be soothing him, not vice versa.

“I'm sorry to behave like such a ninny,” she whispered brokenly. “It's just that I can't bear to see you hurt.”

His smile was warm as he brushed away a newly fallen tear with his thumb. “You're not a ninny and don't apologize for caring. Your tender heart is what I love best about you.”

Penelope shook her head ruefully. “But I feel so useless. Surely there's something I can do to make you more comfortable.”

“You could stop crying. This little bump on my head isn't enough to warrant your tears. Why, I've taken worse thrashings from your brother during our friendly boxing matches.”

“The doctor doesn't seem to think that bump such a small matter,” she pointed out, nodding up at Doc Larson.

Seth made a droll face. “This bump might present a problem for some men, but as you yourself have pointed out on numerous occasions, I've got an inordinately hard head.”

“Hard head or no, son,” the doctor interjected, snipping the catgut after his final stitch, “you'll need to take it easy for a few days. You can't be too careful with head wounds.” With that cryptic warning, he began to clean and repack his instruments.

As he worked, he recounted several Hallie-like hidden-injury-turned-fatal tales, each after which Penelope mouthed to Seth, “I told you so.” To which he rolled his eyes and hardened his jaw into a more stubborn line.

When the doctor's cleanup was complete and his fee paid, he gave Seth one last admonishment to rest, then left. As soon as the door closed behind him, Penelope strode to the bed.

“You heard the doctor,” she said. “We'll get you tucked all cozy into bed, then I'll ring for some ice. Hallie taught me how to make a proper pack for the head.”

“We're going to the dance.”

“Oh, for pity's sake. Don't be a mule,” she exclaimed. “You're in no condition to go anywhere, much less dancing.”

“I'm all right,” he protested, rising to his feet with a care that belied his words.

“All right? Ha! Just look at you! You're teetering like a drunken bar hound.” She braced her hands on her hips and scowled at him. “How do you expect to dance when you can barely stand?”