Chapter 2 #3
“Do ye ken who he is, laddie?” asked Oliver, his white brows knit with concern. “Or who he murdered?”
Jack shook his head. “I only shared a cell with him for a few days. He never talked much. But he’s from money, judgin’ by his speech. The warder used to call him ‘his lordship.’”
“That doesn’t mean anything,” Doreen scoffed, grabbing a cloth so she could help Genevieve wash Haydon. “Warders are always makin’ sport of their prisoners. It’s part of how they have their fun.”
Jack regarded her curiously. “How do you know that?”
“Because I’ve been in prison,” she replied matter-of-factly.
“We all have, lad,” added Oliver, sensing the boy’s surprise. “Except for Miss Genevieve, of course.” He chuckled.
“But Miss Genevieve knows the black ways of prison, make no mistake.” Doreen cast Genevieve an adoring smile, then resumed her earnest scrubbing of Haydon’s hand.
“The authorities are searching for him now,” Genevieve mused, skimming her cloth with gentle care across the hot, bruised flesh of Haydon’s chest. “And as Jack and I were the last ones to see him in his cell, they will undoubtedly want to question us when they fail to find him tonight.”
“I won’t talk to them,” Jack spat fiercely.
“I’m afraid you will have to, Jack. We both will.” She hesitated, studying Haydon’s face.
I am no murderer, he had told her, his gaze boring into her with painful intensity.
And in that moment, as he held her within his desperate grip, she had almost believed him.
She knew nothing of the facts of the case—knew nothing about him whatsoever.
Except that in his last hours upon this earth, he had been more concerned about the fate of a sullen, thieving boy than himself.
And when that lad was about to be savagely beaten he had intervened, and offered himself instead.
“What we tell the authorities, however,” she finished in a soft, determined voice, “is another matter entirely.”
HAYDON FELT AS IF HE WERE ON FIRE.
He flung himself from side to side, desperately trying to douse the flames, or perhaps just find a shred of cool air to ease the terrible burning.
And yet he was shivering, his teeth clattering together like loose pebbles, his jaw clenching so hard he thought the bones would snap.
There was pain, too, lashing against him each time he shifted, a deep, racking torment that surged through every inch of his body.
He could neither move nor lie still, for both were excruciating, and the frustration of it made him feel as if he were going mad.
He tried to cry out, a hoarse, desperate plea, wanting it to end, even if that meant death.
Surely even the cruelest God could not expect him to endure such agony.
And then it occurred to him that perhaps he was dead, and this was the abominable hell to which he had been sentenced.
His cry died in his throat.
“Hush,” soothed a voice, soft and achingly feminine. “It’s all right, now.”
A cold, wet cloth slid gently over his face, dousing the flames in its path.
It lifted away from his skin for a moment and then returned, slipping across his searing flesh, cooling the terrible, melting heat.
The liquid chill dribbled in silvery rivulets down the sides of his face, into his hair, through his papery lips, into the dry parchment of his mouth.
A splashing of water in a basin and the cloth was back, making slow, sure movements across the battlefield of his broken body, swirling and caressing, like gentle waves lapping over him.
Slowly, the fire blazing through him began to wane.
Finally he sank deep into the softness upon which he lay, his breath shallow but steady, his chills all but vanquished.
Perhaps he was not dead after all.
He dozed a while, vaguely aware of the sweet graze of the cool cloth across his burning skin.
Along his chest and down his stomach it moved, then gingerly up the sides of his waist and ribs.
Its touch was sure yet strangely tender, as if it sensed the injuries hidden beneath, and knew just how much pressure he could withstand.
Again and again it traversed him, lulling him with its rhythmic caress, making him feel cool and clean and cherished, although he could not imagine who might think him worthy of such regard.
A whisper of music filled the air, fragile and hushed, as if it was not meant for him to hear.
He forced himself to lie utterly still, tried to even quiet the weak sigh of his breath so he could hear the lovely singing drifting like a feather on the air around him.
It filled him with pleasure, wrapping around him in an ethereal embrace; tender, absolute, forgiving.
His sleep deepened.
Time seeped by. When he awoke it was by slow degrees, a languid peeling away of the hazy layers of confusion and weariness.
Fresh, cool air filled his nostrils, tinged with the smoky, sweet scent of firewood burning.
The mattress beneath him was soft, the sheets covering him, clean.
The faint ticking of a clock lulled him, its quiet, perpetual song tapping lightly at his senses, speaking of reason, order, and logic.
He sighed, taking immense comfort in the distilled quiet around him.
He could not remember where he was or how he had come to be here, but one thing was utterly clear.
He was no longer rotting in a foul cell with death looming over him.
With enormous effort, he opened his eyes.
Dark shadows veiled the room, indicating it was still night.
A low fire cast ripples of apricot light into the darkness, spilling across the carpeted floor, flickering over the rumpled plaid blanket covering his bed.
He followed the shifting ribbons to the chair beside him, where they danced up a white nightgown, then dappled the creamy pale skin of the soundly sleeping Miss MacPhail.
She had curled herself into the padded constraints of the chair as best she could, tucking her legs up beneath herself and leaning over so she could use her slender arm as a pillow.
Her coral and gold hair spilled lavishly over the snowy linen of her nightgown, setting it afire with strands of silken color.
Her sleeves were rolled up to her elbows and her gown was copiously water-stained and wrinkled.
It was she who had tended him through the night, Haydon realized, glancing at the porcelain water basin and abandoned cloths resting on the table beside her.
The lines of her brow were deeply etched, and wine-colored shadows stained the delicate skin below the fringe of her lashes.
Exhaustion had dragged her into a heavy sleep, too absolute to permit her to be roused by the cool breeze gusting through the window, or the discomfort of her position, or the fact that her patient had awakened.
He studied her with reverent fascination, watching the slow rise and fall of her sweetly rounded breasts, the slight shifting of her slender body, the nearly imperceptible deepening of the lines between her brows as she buried her cheek deeper into her arm.
He could not remember a woman ever staying by his side to watch over him so.
He was unaccustomed to being helpless—especially before a female he scarcely knew.
And it seemed he truly was helpless. The savage beating he had received at the hands of his assailants some two weeks earlier, followed by the illness that had gripped him in prison, and then that final beating from dear Warder Sims only hours ago had combined to reduce him to a weak and shivering invalid.
He had no idea how he had made it from the prison to this home.
All he could remember was Jack leading him, and the sight of the lovely Miss MacPhail standing amidst a cluster of angels who were waving and calling to him.
Perhaps sensing that she was being watched, she stirred, her eyes fluttering open. She studied him a moment, her enormous brown eyes void of either suspicion or fear, as if she was merely trying to recall how a battered, half-naked man had come to be lying in her bed.
And then she bolted upright and scrambled to find something with which to cover herself.
Clearly, she had remembered.
“Good evening,” rasped Haydon, his throat painfully dry.
Genevieve grabbed the woolen shawl that had fallen onto the floor and hastily wrapped it over her shoulders and across her chest. How long had he been staring at her like that?
she wondered nervously. And what was she thinking, falling asleep beside a strange, naked man, with her hair down and her feet bare, when she was supposed to be watching over him?
She reached for the jug on the bedside table and poured him a glass of water, using the simple task to compose herself.
“Here,” she said, modestly clamping her shawl closed with one hand as she held the glass to his lips. “Try to take a small sip.”
The water trickled into his mouth and throat. Haydon took a swallow, then another and another, until finally the glass was drained. He was a man who had indulged heavily in the finest of wines and spirits, yet he could not remember ever finding a drink so enormously satisfying.
“Thank you.”
Genevieve placed the glass on the table and self-consciously adjusted her shawl. “How are you feeling?”
“Better.”
She glanced at the tray Eunice had brought up so many hours earlier. “Would you care to try some broth? It’s cold now, but I could run downstairs and heat it—”
“Not hungry.”
She nodded and fell silent, uncertain what to do or say next.