Virtue and Vice (36 page)

He was at the door a heartbeat after the knock came. It took all his strength to wrestle the heavy tub into the room, but he focused on the task with single-minded determination and didn’t stop until it stood before the hearth. Then he returned to the bed.

He stared down at Izzy, hating what he had to do, the torment he must now inflict. Steeling himself against tender emotions, he lifted her in his arms and carried her to the bath. He lowered her, chemise and all, into the water.

She cried out and flailed her arms but he held her down with a firm grip, forcing her to remain submerged under the needle-sharp cold of the water. She was so weakened he didn’t have to exert himself at all to restrain her. She started to cry and his heart twisted, but still he held her, forcing her head back until her hair was soaked, until she went limp and ceased fighting.

Ram didn’t draw another deep breath until her eyes ceased rolling. He stroked her forehead while he kept her in the water a little longer. His relief was probably greater than hers when he bent to scoop her from the tub.

As he lifted her into his arms once more, she cried out sharply. It was a sound filled with agony, and Ram froze. Had he inadvertently hurt her when she’d struggled in the water? She whimpered and the proof of her distress galvanized him into action. He bore her to the bed and laid her down. The moment her backside made contact with the silk sheets, she cried out in pain again.

He eased her onto her side, instantly alarmed at the dried bloodstains on her chemise. Grasping the hem of the garment, he pulled it up over her hips, then lifted her arms so he could draw it over her head.

His breath escaped on a strangled gasp as he tried to make sense of the sight before him. Angry red welts crisscrossed her lower back, buttocks, and thighs. He recognized them immediately as the marks of a switch. Her soft skin had been laid open, mostly in the places where one welt crossed another. Obviously her fever-induced stupor had lessened her awareness of the pain, but the bath revived her somewhat and now she hurt.               

What in the name of all that was holy had happened to her at White Hall?

His breath came in shallow pants as he examined each ugly red welt, looking for any place where her skin had torn deep enough to become infected. Then he went to the door where Hawthorne still sat in his chair, waiting to be of assistance.

“I need soap and a salve for wounds.”

The butler’s eyes widened, but he asked no questions before he went in search of the items requested of him. Ram shut the door, then leaned his forehead against it. He closed his eyes and waited, breathing harshly. He wasn’t yet sure of the whom, but someone would suffer for what had been done to Izzy. He was no longer certain Huntley was to blame, as the man had never shown anything but a sort of distracted kindness toward Izzy on each occasion Ram had found them in one another’s company. White Hall was nearly abandoned. Practically anyone could have accosted her and there would have been few, if any, courtiers to come to her aid, or even witness an assault.

Hawthorne knocked softly upon the door and Ram opened it, taking the items from the butler’s hands with gratitude. Hawthorne, anticipating his needs, had placed a fresh washcloth on the tray with the soap and ointment, as well as a platter of cold meats and a bottle of wine with a glass for Ram.

Ram set aside the food and drink and carried everything else to the bed. Then he stood for a long moment, staring at the angry welts that marred her soft, delicate skin, knowing he had to hurt her yet again. He swallowed hard and eased himself onto the bed, stroking her hair.

“Izzy, my love, I must tend your wounds. This might hurt, but you’re the bravest woman I’ve ever known. Please try to be strong, my darling.” He didn’t know what she could hear in her lethargic, feverish state, but he spoke soothing words anyway. He wet the cloth and soaped it, then, taking a deep breath, gently cleansed the first welt. She flinched beneath his hands but didn’t cry out. He prayed to God she heard and understood him and perhaps drew comfort from his presence.

Before he applied the ointment he decided to examine her carefully for any other wounds. He moved her hair aside and scrutinized her neck, her upper back, her shoulders, her arms. A mark on her wrist drew his focus and he lifted her hand to study it closer. There were scrapes on her skin where something had rubbed it raw. He frowned, turning her hand. The abrasions went all the way around her wrist.

He stiffened at a sudden inkling and lifted her other arm. The marks on the wrist matched those of the other.

Sonofabitch! Huntley had
tied
her to his bed!

The implication of everything he was seeing hit him and he shook with dread. His hands trembled so violently he had to ball them into fists and then relax them numerous times before he gained control over his fear and fury. When he was sure his touch wouldn’t cause her more hurt he eased Izzy very gently onto her back and then slid his hands to her thighs and applied pressure to part them. She went taut beneath his touch.

“Nay!” she cried, clamping her legs together with a strength she’d not had a moment ago, “Please, don’t! Please!” her voice rose with hysteria.

Ram closed his eyes and swallowed hard over the lump that rose in his throat. “Oh, Izzy, nay.” He immediately withdrew his hands, then lay beside her, using an elbow to support himself, then pulled her onto her side so he could wrap an arm around her and hold her close. He stroked her hair, her back, her shoulder, and her arms until her agitation abated. “Izzy.” His fingers burrowed into her hair, cradling her head. She trembled against him. “Izzy, I’ll not hurt you, sweetheart.” He massaged her scalp. “Please, Izzy. Let me help you. Let me tend your hurts.”

When she lay quiet once more, he again eased her to her back. This time she didn’t fight it when he drew her legs apart.

He bit back a furious curse. There were scratches and abrasions on her inner thighs and most delicate skin. Never in his life had he fought as he did in that moment to keep anger at bay. If he touched her with even a hint of the fury bubbling inside him he could inadvertently hurt her.

When he was sure his hands were once more steady, he retrieved the washcloth and soap and cleansed the scrapes as gently as possible. Then he reached for the salve, spreading it on the soft flesh of her thighs. When he finished he turned her onto her stomach and treated the welts on her back with the ointment.

He placed his hand on her forehead. She still burned with fever, but she wasn’t nearly as warm to the touch as she had been before the bath.
God, don’t let her fever rise again!
He couldn’t subject her to another bath like the one he’d just forced on her. Should he be relieved that she had no telltale pustules on her skin?

He ran a shaking hand over his mouth, then stretched out beside her again, stroking her upper back lightly. He lowered his lips to her ear. “I love you, Izzy,” he whispered. “No matter what happened, I love you.” He could have sworn she relaxed slightly, but then again he was so tired and gutted it was entirely possible his mind was playing tricks on him, that he saw what he wanted to see.

Finally, he arose and went to the door, opening it. Hawthorne sat slumped in the chair, dozing, but came to immediate attention when Ram stepped outside and drew the door closed quietly behind him.

“How is she, my lord?”

“The fever has lessened, but I won’t know any relief until a doctor has seen her.”

“He said he’ll be along tomorrow, as soon as he’s able.”

Ram wanted to show up at the doctor’s door and drag him back to Chesworth, but he grudgingly restrained himself.

“She’s sleeping. Will you listen for her, and have me fetched if she awakens or becomes agitated at all?”

“Of course, my lord. Where will I find you if necessary?”

“I’ll be on the terrace.”

Ram clasped the longtime butler’s shoulder, then strode downstairs to the dining room and crossed to the door that led onto a terrace bordered by a short wall. The night was balmy; the late summer wind lifted his hair and fluttered it. He walked across the flagstones and gripped the stone balustrade, staring out over the rugged, yet beautiful Cornish landscape.

His eyes stung as his vision blurred.

The bastard raped her. It was Izzy who dealt Huntley the scratches down his cheek while trying to fight him.

Ram had told her she deserved everything she would get with Huntley, but he never meant this; he
never
wanted this for her.

This was as much his fault as it was Huntley’s. Izzy had undertaken a mission of mercy on
his
behalf; one that was wholly unnecessary. Because of him she’d been tied to a bed, whipped, and raped.

How could he live with that? How could she?

His breath became raspy as he pictured the scene in his mind, made all the easier for having seen the straps Huntley used on her. He couldn’t stop himself from thinking of the pain she’d suffered or how terrified she must have been to be at Huntley’s mercy in that way. Ram wiped wetness from his cheeks. He didn’t have to imagine all of it though. Hadn’t he once tended her the very same way, on their wedding night, after he’d done the same thing to her himself? He was no better than Huntley; the only difference between he and the other man was that Ram had the legal right to force his will upon her. But legal or not, he’d been as beastly as Huntley.

Because of him, the vibrant, beautiful girl with a zest for life he’d met on May Day had become a pale shadow of her former self.

He loved her enough to want what was best for her, and he no longer believed he was that. He would see her through this crisis, as long as it took. If she was pregnant, either with his child or Huntley’s, he’d give the child the protection of his name and let her live her life however she desired. If she wasn’t pregnant he’d give her an annulment and leave her in peace. Though he’d rather lose a limb than lose her, if there was even a chance that vivacious girl still existed inside her, it would be well worth his heartache.

His heart was leaden as he returned to the house.

***

Izzy was cold again. Not the kind of sharp cold she’d dreamed about, when she’d been swimming in a cold lake, unable to climb out because something had weighed her down in the water, but the kind of cold that she’d suffered before. It invaded her bones, through her skin. She was cold inside. Maybe it was because she was alone in her dream. She frowned. If this was her dream, why wasn’t Ram there anymore? She’d dreamed of him before, when she was cold like this, and he’d come and taken the cold away.

She cried his name.

And suddenly he was there with her again. His arms were around her and he was sharing his warmth, his love. “You came!” she whispered.

“I’ll always come when you call me, Sweetheart.”

She smiled and gripped his hand. “I love you.”

Warm once more, she tumbled back into oblivion.

Ram stared at the small hand that held his so tightly, fighting desperation and fear. She was so very ill, and he was powerless to stop the sickness that held her tightly in its grasp. He’d been returning to the bedchamber when she cried out for him. He’d rushed to her side to find her shivering again. The fever was on the rise again.

He lay by her side, holding her close, watching through the window as the red and orange fingers of dawn began to crawl across the sky. After an hour or so he slipped his hand from hers and went to the door.

Hawthorne was still keeping a vigil in the chair.

“Hawthorne, I need broth, barley water, and ale.”

“I’ll order it immediately.” The butler stood. “My lord? If you care to rest at any time, only say the word and I’ll gladly watch over my lady for you.”

“Have you been exposed to smallpox?”

Hawthorne shook his head. “I’ll still tend her. You can’t continue like this.”

“Nay, I’ll not risk your health. Send down to the village for a woman who has been exposed to smallpox and is willing to work as a nurse.” While the butler was fetching the food and drink, Ram took a few moments to wolf down some cold meat and cheese and wash it all down with a glass of wine. Hawthorne’s knock came just as he finished. Ram went to the door and took the tray the butler had in his hands, then handed him the empty one.

Ram shut the door with his hip, and carried the tray to the bedside table. He glanced at Izzy as he laid the burden down, surprised to see her staring at him, her eyes bright with fever. Her tongue darted out to wet her dry and cracked lips.

“Here, sweetheart, drink some of this.” Sliding his arm around her shoulder to support her upright, he held the barley water to her lips, urging her to drink slowly when she greedily sipped at it.

When the water was gone, he spoon-fed her warm broth. She made no protest, only watched him with trusting eyes, swallowing each spoonful he held to her lips.

She was so very pale, and yet, there were no marks upon her face.

She whispered something as he settled her back against the pillows.

“What is it, my love?” he smoothed her damp hair off her forehead.

“Papa. Papa, I’m so sorry. Won’t you please forgive me?”

He swallowed hard. She must be hallucinating. His heart twisted. He should have insisted she make amends with her father, when she had the chance. Now it might be too late.