Wicked at Heart (36 page)

But Gwyneth was
determined that this dark angel, this remote but magnificent man she loved,
would not die.  With the help of old Britwell, whose grave face reflected the
anguish he shared with her at seeing his master in such a state, she stripped
the damp sheets from the bed, threw the windows open wide to invite the
Cotswold breezes inside the gloomy room, bathed Damon's feverish body with cool
water, and sent one of the staff to Burford to procure a large bag of dried
lavender from a local shop.  This, she and Rhiannon sewed into pouches she
placed beneath Damon's pillow, atop the gilt-encrusted table at the foot of the
ancient bed, and even at the feet of the two wolves who guarded their ill lord
so fiercely.

At the beginning
of the second week, Damon's fever broke.  He stirred from his heavy, death-like
sleep, not saying a word but weakly nodding when Gwyneth asked him if he could
take some chicken broth, which heartened her to no end — especially as he
trustingly rested his hand in the crook of her elbow as she spooned it to him,
and managed a weak smile before lying back against the pillows and drifting
away from her once more.

The following
day he took some oatmeal for breakfast, managed to stay awake until lunch, and
woke early in the afternoon, complaining irritably that he was starving to
death.  And as Gwyneth sent a servant down to the kitchen to bring up some more
broth, it was all she could do not to throw open the windows and shout with
glee and triumph.

Lord Morninghall
was on is way back to the land of the living, at last.

~~~~

For Toby Ashton,
the days passed with agonizing slowness, until at last, the morning of his
scheduled escape finally arrived.

The Reverend
Milford, together with Jack Clayton, came for him just before dawn and hustled
him quickly out on deck.

Toby had a sense
of foreboding, which was reflected in the tense faces of his companions.  But
despite the loud hammering of his heart, he willingly went with them, trusting
them — and Connor, who was supposed to be piloting the water boat — to know
what they were doing.

On the
still-darkened deck the water barrels stood in neat, shadowy, rows, ready to be
loaded onto the boat that would take them to shore for refilling.  Working in
hushed whispers, the chaplain quickly pried the top off one, and Jack just as
quickly lifted Toby straight up and put him down inside.  Several feet away
stood another guard, his back toward them, and Toby suspected he'd been bribed
to see and hear nothing.

"Get down
in there, good an' tight!" Jack whispered, taking the lid from the
chaplain, and as Toby crouched down, his knees against his chest, the hard,
slimy wood against his spine, the lid came down over his head, blocking off the
faint moonlight.

"Further!"
Jack hissed.  "I gots to get this lid on!"

His body
crunched in half, Toby bent his head and tucked it against his knees.  He felt
the rough lid pressing against the knobby nape of his neck and shoulders, heard
the dreadful sound of it being tightened down over him.  Reverend Milford had
bored a coin-sized hole in the lid for him to breathe through, and through it
Toby heard the chaplain's kind voice.

"You all
right in there, Toby?"

"Cramped,
sir, but I reckon I'll be just fine."

"Very well,
then.  Can you stay that way for another two or three hours?"

He had no
choice, really.  "Yes, sir.  I'll manage."

"Good,
then.  Not a sound from you, or all shall be lost.  May God be with you, Toby."

He heard the two
men walking away, then he was all alone in the close, stifling darkness.  He
huddled in the barrel, terrified of moving, of breathing, of being. 
In
another few hours Connor will be here.  Nothing to worry about.  You'll be all
right.  Think about how many others Connor has rescued . . .

Time passed. 
The air inside the barrel became hot, stuffy, and humid with his respiration
and body heat.  The sweat began to roll down his chest and back, and a tiny
pinhole of light came through his airhole and touched the damp wood a half-inch
from his nose as the day began to dawn.  Scared, Toby squeezed the miniature of
his mother, still hanging from a chain around his throat, and it brought him
some small measure of reassurance.

Outside he heard
men talking and smelled the thick smoke from the galley.  The ship was
awakening.

He dug his
elbows down against his ribs and hips.  He heard heavy footsteps moving about,
the tramping trudge of prisoners as they were brought topside to perform menial
deck tasks, Radley shouting at someone.  People were passing just a few feet
from where he crouched, so he huddled closer against himself, hardly daring to
breathe in the close darkness.

"Fine day
this morn, eh, Jack?"

"No finer
than any other, if ye ask me.  We'll see rain by noon."

"Aye. 
Cloudin' up already, ain't it?"

Toby shifted
slightly in the barrel, his back and neck on fire from being stuck so long in
his cramped position.  He squeezed the miniature harder, until he could feel
the strokes of paint beneath his thumb.  The pinprick of light was growing
brighter, and the sounds were more numerous now:  the tread of passing sentries,
gulls screaming overhead, a distant splash as a bucket was emptied over the
side.  And now someone was hailing the prison hulk in a thick Irish brogue that
gave no hint of its owner's true accent — an American one — and Toby, near
tears in the barrel, knew that Connor had come for him at last.

"All right,
get those damned barrels off the deck and loaded, and be quick about it!"

It was Radley,
impatient and angry as always.

Toby held his
breath and waited.

From nearby he
heard footsteps and grunts as men lifted something heavy.

They're
moving the barrels now.  The boat is here, and Connor must be watching.  God,
I'm scared.

They were
picking up a barrel near his now.  Toby braced himself, knowing that if his
body rolled at all within the barrel, he'd be discovered.  Then he heard the
voices, close and just overhead, the hands on the wood that enclosed him, the
grunts and curses of the men who lifted it.

"Geez, this
one's heavy!"

"Shut up
an' quit complaining."

"Ye'd think
the bloody thing was never emptied, for God's sake . . ."

Toby clenched
his teeth, trying not to cry out as his head and nape bumped painfully against
the lid.  He felt a sudden drifting sensation, and knew they were hoisting the
barrel to a block and tackle and swinging it out to the water boat.  He shut
his eyes, terrified, and prayed to God the rope wouldn't break.

He could not
know that, back on the prison hulk's deck, Foyle was standing with his hands on
his hips, head thrown back and watching.

He could not
know that Foyle had suddenly frowned and was pulling out his spyglass, training
it on Toby's barrel.

And he could not
know that Foyle had spied the small breathing hole the chaplain had cut in the
lid.

Foyle's loud
bark rang out suddenly.  "Hold up there, I say!"

Toby braced
himself, his barrel swinging wildly in the air as those on the water boat tried
frantically to get it aboard.

"Damn you,
I said
halt
!"

He heard Connor's
swift curse.

Then all hell
broke loose.

Chapter
23

The Marquess of
Morninghall awoke to the same hot sheets beneath his body, the same clinging
darkness that banded his eyes, the same dull ache in his shoulder, and the same
twittering of chaffinches just outside his window that had been his lot every
time he'd managed to haul himself above the surface of unconsciousness over the
past two weeks.  But on this early June morning something was different.

He knew that he
wasn't going to die.

His stomach was
ravenously hungry, his head was clear, and he was thoroughly sick of being in
this confounded bed.  Sometime during the course of his illness the bed had
ceased to terrify him, and he wanted nothing more than a huge breakfast,
mobility, and Lady Gwyneth Evans Simms — and not necessarily in that order.

"Gwyneth!"
he roared.

Silence.

He waited
impatiently, sitting up in bed and gripping the edge of the mattress.  He
couldn't see a thing through the bandages that wreathed his face, but the scent
of lavender hung in the air, and he dimly remembered Gwyneth telling him she'd
put it beneath his pillow and around the room to freshen the ancient chamber. 
He could also smell the sunshine outside, and the roses, their scent wafting up
from the gardens beneath his windows.  Some, he knew, would be a blushing
crimson, others a pale salmon or yellow or white, some the size of soup bowls
and others the size of teacups.  He took a deep breath of their gentle perfume
and found it pleasant.  If the roses were out, then the gentle hand of summer
would be grooming the fields of wheat, barley, and oats that rolled away in all
magnificent directions beyond his windows —

"
Gwyneth
!"

Reaching blindly
behind him, he yanked his pillows up against the headboard, lay back, and
gingerly touched his face through the bandages.  Damn these infernal wrappings! 
He wanted them off.

Now.

What the hell
had they done to him?

He was just
sliding his forefinger beneath the gap the bandages made as they rose to cover
his nose when he heard hurried footsteps coming down the corridor.

He lowered his
hand and let it rest beside him, drumming his fingers against the sheet.

The steps came
into the room and stopped.

"Damon?"

"Good
morning, my dear Lady Simms."  He raised his hand and blindly,
aristocratically, bade her to enter.  "Do come in."

"Awake, I
see."

"Yes, and
damned hungry as well.  Bloody starving, in fact.  And I'd like these
confounded bandages off at once."

He heard her
soft laughter as she approached and felt her hands on his face, soft and warm
and gentle through the bandages.  Behind her came more footsteps, and her hands
stilled for a moment as she turned and spoke.  "Janie?  Bring me a pair of
shears, a towel, and a bowl of warm water.  Your lord is awake."

"And
annoyed
,"
Damon finished darkly.

"Stop it. 
The staff are already scared to death of you."

Small wonder, he
thought, as most of them had never met him and probably believed all the
stories that had been Mama's legacy.  Then his irascibility fled as
she
sat down on the bed beside him, her body close to his, her sweet scent of
peaches, soap, femininity,
Gwyneth
, infiltrating his senses.  As she
explored his face through the bandages, he realized he wanted nothing more than
her hands on his flesh, wanted nothing more than to touch her.  Just . . .
touch her.  He wondered what she was wearing, if her breasts were pushing
against a soft, silken bodice, if her hair was scraped back or loose, if she
was looking at him with tenderness or anger or patience.  Once, in a time far
removed from the one in which he now knew himself to be, he would have hoped
for the anger and the confrontation it would have bred.

But not now. 
Now, he wanted the tenderness.

"So." 
His tone came out as a mixture of sugar and vinegar, for tenderness was
something he'd never experienced before meeting her, and reaching out and
asking for it, in any manner, was difficult for him.  "Whose brilliant
idea was it to bring me here to Morninghall, of all places?"

He stretched a
hand toward where he thought her thigh must be.  Was she in silks?  Bombazine?

Velvet.  She
was wearing velvet.

His fingers sank
into the lush fabric, feeling her leg beneath.  He waited, tensely, for her to
remove his hand.

She did not.

"Reverend
Milton's and Admiral Falconer's."

"Why the
hell should Falconer care about
me
?  He's one of
them
."

"One of whom?"

"One of the
navy's favorites. 
Them
."

Damn.  He
couldn't keep the anger out of his voice, even now.

"Really?  I
found him to be a charming, noble-hearted man who seemed every bit the hero he
is proclaimed to be.  Really, Damon, he acted out of your best interest."

"
No one
acts out of my best interest."

"If that is
so, then why do you think
I'm
here?"

Her challenge
brought him up short.  He didn't know the answer to that, wasn't sure he wanted
to know, and the question filled him with agitation, confusion, and despair.

"I don't
know," he muttered, mulishly setting his mouth and feeling that piercing, emotional
something
pushing against the vault of his chest.  "Obviously,
though, you do.  Why don't you tell me?"

"No,
Damon.  You know why I'm here, and I'm not going to do the work for you when
the answer lies within
you
.  I ask you again: why do
you
think
I'm here?"

"They
probably paid you."

"Try
again."

"You wanted
to torment me."

"Really, I
expect better from you than that," she said chidingly.

Her tone was
infectious.  Some of his crossness subsided.  "Um . . . because you have a
guilty conscience?"

She let out a
great, audible sigh, but he could sense her smiling patiently down at him. 
"What
am
I going to do with you?"

He could think
of a few things.  Dear God, could he . . .

"You could
take these confounded bandages off my face to begin with," he murmured,
his fingers stroking her thigh through the velvet skirts.  "And then,
perhaps, we could discuss some of these things
we
can do . . ."