Wolfsgate (2 page)

Justine turned on her heel and leveled her eyes at the Doctor. “We are taking him home.”

His eyes bulged and his mouth fell open. “Are you quite sure, ma’am?”

“Quite.” Justine cast him a quick glance as she squared her shoulders. “I have made all the necessary arrangements. Indeed, my doctor is waiting to see him.” She raised an eyebrow at the medico in his old powdered wig.

The doctor’s eyes pinched together. “I mean no disrespect, ma’am, but I have my instructions from his uncle.”

“His care is my responsibility now.”

Davidson, the beefy estate manager who had accompanied Justine on this quest to London leaned forward at her side and glowered at the man.

The doctor frowned. “This is most irregular.”

Justine tilted her head at him. “My coach is waiting.”

“Very well. As you wish,” the doctor muttered. He motioned to two of his lackeys to unchain the patient from his bed and escort him out to his wife’s hired coach.

Davidson surged ahead of her to assist the men with their charge who now groaned and grunted at the sudden, sharp movements his body was being forced to make. Brandon twisted and shrugged away at the contact forced upon him.

“You will have to sign for him, Lady Graven,” the doctor said as he directed her to his office.

Justine’s breath caught at the sound of the title. She desperately needed fresh air, itched to get out of this building as soon as possible. However, the thought that Brandon had languished here for two long years and would finally be free fueled her restraint. The doctor placed a document in front of her. She quickly perused the discharge form with a show of cool irritation and signed her name where he indicated. Dropping the quill on his desk, she swept out of the room.

Davidson reached into the coach and grabbed one of the blankets they had brought, wrapping his young master with it. He shook his head as he took in the young man’s haunted eyes and haggard face. The men shoved Brandon into the carriage, and he howled softly, curling himself up into the corner. Davidson tipped them with a few coins each. He helped Justine into the coach, threw himself in, slammed the door shut, then banged on the roof. The coach jolted forward, and they were off.

It was finally done—the planning, the deceptions, the posturing for the doctor—and now here was the stark reality before her in the coach.

“Dear God, he’s a sight,” Justine said, trying to ignore the sting in the back of her throat and the pitch of her stomach.

“Caw, he stinks!” Davidson’s face twisted.

“Yes, he does.” Justine leaned towards the beleaguered Brandon and touched the blanket over his arm. His eyes jumped, and he flinched back from her like a trapped, frightened animal. “If only that were his sole problem.” She squeezed his knee. “Brandon, it’s Justine. We’re going home to Wolfsgate. Do you understand? Mr. Davidson is here with us, you remember him? Your father’s steward.”

She searched his eyes for a response, but there was none. “Brandon?” He only retreated from her, staring aimlessly out the window, his head rocking with the movement of the coach. She sank back in her seat, biting her lip.

“It will take time, ma’am. This will be difficult, but you’ll see, he’ll get better. May not be the same man ever again, but—”

“Anything would be better than this.”

“This next bit will be the hard part. Are you ready?”

“Absolutely, Davidson.” Her steady gaze slid back to Brandon. “Absolutely.”

Hours later the carriage exchanged horses at a coaching inn where they took a room, washed Brandon, changed his clothes, clipped his hair and nails, and shaved his beard. Brandon had moaned like a child. He was quite thin, his bones jutting out, his sinewy muscles visible. They were gentle and very careful while handling him so as not to upset him too much. Luckily he did not fight them. In fact he only stared up at Justine, his grey-green eyes soft. She could look for hours into those eyes, eyes the color of seawater just before it pools on the shore.

“Velvet,” he murmured over and over again. A shiver swept the back of her neck. By the time they were finished Justine began to recognize Brandon Treharne once again. Still a shell of his former self, but it was he.

Davidson had a quick meal while Justine stayed with Brandon, then they got on the next coach and continued on towards Gloucestershire. She supposed Brandon had been given a heavy dose first thing in the morning at the hospital for he was very quiet and still the entire journey, which was lucky, but nevertheless, disturbing. The rocking motion of the coach lulled him to sleep right away. They would have at least ten days alone at Wolfsgate before her stepbrother and stepfather returned from Edinburgh, and they desperately needed that time to get Brandon strong and back on his feet.

They disembarked in the village before theirs where a friend of Davidson’s awaited them with a carriage to take them the rest of the way home without the possibility of recognition. Finally, very late into the night, the rolling hills of Wolfsgate began. She took in a deep breath as the carriage at long last drove through the high black iron gate.

The ancient stone manor rose before her against a star-filled, inky sky. When she had first lain eyes on the historical residence as a child many years ago, it had impressed her greatly and eventually became a glorious retreat to her. But later as a young woman, it had become more like a prison.

Tonight as Justine stepped down from the carriage and glanced up at the manor’s high central tower and across the flowering vines that climbed the massive stone walls of the renovated Tudor house, her every muscle tightened; she felt taller, bigger, stronger, like she was a part of the very stones of this house. A fullness rose through her chest. She had kept her promise. She had done the right thing. The planets and stars would realign once again for Wolfsgate. They must.

Davidson helped Brandon out of the carriage who only moaned in protest. Justine pushed opened the great front door. Molly, the elderly housekeeper, waited for them with a huge lit candelabrum on the polished chest in the entryway. The thick flames flickered in the rush of cold air, and the ends of the Flemish tapestries flapped against the stone walls of the hall. The old woman’s eyes were round under her bonnet, her hands clutched together.

“You’ve brought him home,” Molly whispered. “Bless you, child. Bless you!”

Davidson held the rope between his big, stocky hands.

“When he awakens it will be rough. We don’t know yet how his body will react to not having that poison,” he said. Justine’s lips set in a stiff line. He tied Brandon’s wrists to the sides of the bed while her fingers twisted in the folds of her skirt. She felt a twinge inside her at the sight of Brandon so helpless, so vulnerable, his large frame filling her bed. She took in a deep breath. Brandon would stay in her bedchamber for the time being as there hadn’t been time to prepare one for him before they’d left for London lest she arouse suspicion in her stepfather.

Davidson loosened his necktie, flung off his frock coat, and slumped on the armchair rubbing his eyes. Justine kicked off her shoes and sank back into the chaise opposite the bed, curling her legs under her skirts. She let out a heavy exhale, and her eyes fluttered closed.

Someone was barking orders, a deep voice, argumentative and mean. She unstuck her eyelids and bolted upright. Davidson stood at the end of the bed, his arms crossed. Brandon was pulling at the ropes, growling out every obscenity known to mankind, his legs kicking, his torso twisting. He stopped at the sight of her, his eyes bulging, his arms still tugging at the rope, his chest heaving for air. He suddenly collapsed back onto the bed and let out a wail. A wild creature shackled, trapped against his will.

And so it went for days. Davidson would either respond to Brandon’s irritated exclamations or make no attempt at all to reason with him. Brandon would quiet down, and then it would begin all over again for hours at a time, the quiet then the restless and loud behavior.

Brandon slept fitfully, his legs convulsing now and again. She wiped the cold sweat from his brow and decided to change his nightshirt which was drenched in perspiration. His eyes flew open, and he stretched out a restrained hand to touch her. “Velvet,” he groaned.

“Brandon? It’s me—”

“No, no, no.” Confusion swept his clouded eyes, and he fell back against the pillows again, the side of his mouth twitched, his hands pulled on the restraints.

Once Davidson awoke, he helped her change Brandon out of his wet nightshirt, wash him with a cloth, and dress him in a fresh gown. She changed the soiled sheets turning his body to either side as she worked, placed a clean bucket at his side for his bouts of nausea, and made sure a chamber pot was at the ready.

Justine knew he wouldn’t eat, but she could try and offer him some bread at least. Maybe today he would take it, but she was wrong. Today, he threw the dish and the cup which shattered against the cabinet, then shouted a string of curses at her, cursed himself, and tried to rip the rope off his hands.

“Stay away from me! Damn you, I don’t know who the hell you are! A demon? A pretty devil in disguise? A siren sent to torture me?”

Davidson stormed into the room with a cup of whiskey and put it to his lips. Brandon smelled the liquor and drank it greedily like a thirst-crazed animal after an interminable trek. His glassy eyes were a deeper hue of green now, and they pierced hers making her insides squirm. He turned to Davidson and spit a shower of whiskey at him. Justine flinched and stumbled back a few steps. Davidson only grabbed a folded square of linen on the side table and mopped his face. Brandon threw his head back on the pillow suddenly and wept.

“Davidson, are you all right?”

“I am, he’s not.” Davidson wiped off his hands, dropped the linen on the washstand, and quit the room.

Brandon’s extreme moods continued for days. He would carry on about everything and nothing, then he would stop suddenly and look right through her and Davidson, sink back onto the bed and mutter to himself. Justine would sit with him, giving Davidson a much-deserved break from the confines of that room. Now, over a week later, he was calmer and seemed to have turned a corner.

Who could possibly know the dark recesses Brandon now travelled through in his overtaxed brain or the thousand different pains his body was experiencing? She stroked his hair as he slept to try to chase some part of his misery away. He hissed and moaned in his sleep at the contact. She took his cold hand in hers, the hand that used to hold her small one years ago, lifetimes ago.

Her first time at the estate she had gotten lost walking to the creek on her own, and Brandon had been the one to find her. He had taken her hand in his and brought her home and, thankfully, did not inform her mother about her carelessness. When her stepbrother, William had gotten mad at her for touching his books and had shoved her, Brandon had defended her, leading her away by the hand and rolled his eyes at William to make her giggle.

Now all these years later, it was her turn to provide him comfort and safety. She rubbed his cold fingers between her hands and could not resist brushing her lips across the prominent knuckles.

The last time Brandon had taken her hand it was to say goodbye when he had left for Jamaica four years ago, and she had known she wouldn’t see him again for a very long time. He had kissed her cheek and stroked the side of her face, the edges of his lips curling into a wistful smile just for her.

She took in a breath of air, thanking Providence that William had decided to take his father to Edinburgh on business with him at the last moment, hoping the change of scenery would do his addled senses some good. Luck had truly shined on her, for such a long absence for both of them was extremely rare. Justine had wasted no time in dashing to London with Davidson and bringing Brandon home, but that wasn’t the only reason. She daren’t think about William’s reaction to what he would learn in Edinburgh when he realized how she had lied to him.

All for Brandon, all for Wolfsgate.

Her fingertips brushed over his cold hands now freed from the rope. Justine covered him with a blanket, and his eyes fluttered open. “Siren, don’t leave me,” he mumbled. He trembled, his skin was so very pale, his lips a strange shade of blue, his eyes a cool grey. Justine’s chest constricted. She ran her hand up and down his back under the covers. His teeth chattered, he rolled up in a ball.

She kicked off her shoes, opened the blanket and got in beside him. Justine smoothed his hair off his forehead, and he leaned into her touch. She took him in her arms like she would a child, and he immediately curled up around her, his cold face rubbing her upper chest, his long arms wrapping tightly around her. Soon enough his breathing evened out, and her own tense muscles relaxed to the soothing sound. Her gaze flicked down. His eyes were closed, he was sleeping.

Justine slipped her fingers through his black hair which still smelled of the nutmeg scented soap she had used to wash it yesterday. Her body settled into his solid weight at her side, her own slow, even breaths matching his.