Chapter Thirteen
Blast that surgeon and his infernal preaching that made one’s conscience groan.
Merry had reservations about going to Brixham’s bedside before seeing Duncan, but Dr. Hatler had insisted there was no time to be wasted.
Without going into too much disturbing detail, the man had assured her that the bullet fired by Angus had traveled through Brixham’s gut, doing the ample damage for which it was intended.
Since consuming much of anything caused Brixham even more pain, his best hope was to die quickly from blood loss rather than a slow, painful death from infection.
However, she wanted Serendipity with her. Even with the viscount disabled and on his deathbed, she refused to be alone in a room with him. Holding tight to her sister, Merry eased inside the chamber lit by oil lamps on either side of the bed.
Brixham lay there, plucking at the bedclothes pulled up to his throat. As she drew closer, he turned his head toward her, opened his right eye, and squinted at her with the left, which was still swollen shut and mottled with bruising.
“Happy?” he rasped.
“Not yet,” she said, refusing to say anything but the brutal truth.
He bared his teeth, whether in pain or from trying to sneer at her, she had no idea. “This is your fault.”
“I never gave you any reason to think I would ever accept you.” Merry held even tighter to Serendipity, appreciating how her sister remained silently supportive. “You have known since our childhood that I despised you.”
He straightened his head on the pillow and closed his eyes. “Yes. But why?”
“Because even then, you were cold. Cruel.” She wouldn’t dig up all the memories of how he had tormented playmates—not playful teasing as children often do, but mean antics, causing them genuine pain. “You had everything, Brixham. Everything but a heart.”
“I needed no heart. Money and power. That makes a man.”
“And where does money and power get you now? To my knowledge, St. Peter does not accept banknotes or coins for entry into heaven.”
Sweat streaming off his face, he reached for her, his hand shaking. “Give me my gun. Laudanum does nothing, and this pain…excruciating.”
“I will not.” Even on his deathbed, Merry was not entirely certain he would shoot himself rather than her.
“Then tell that damned surgeon to give it to me.” With a heart-wrenching groan, he flinched. “I want this ended. Now.”
“I will send Dr. Hatler in to see you.” Merry turned to go.
“Wait.”
Against her better judgment, she faced him once more. “What?”
“We could have been so powerful together.”
“I did not want power,” she said. “I wanted love. Something of which you know very little, if anything.”
“Get out,” he growled, “and send that damn surgeon in here.”
Merry stared at him for a long moment, feeling nothing other than relief. The coldness of her heart and the damage Brixham had done to her soul concerned her. Should she not find some small amount of pity for the man? With a decisive nod to pray about it, she hurried out, Serendipity on her heels.
Dr. Hatler was waiting in the hallway.
“He wants to see you so you can give him his gun,” she told the surgeon, just as she had promised.
“I cannot do that, my lady.”
“I understand.” Fist clutched to her chest, she tried to shut out the memory of Brixham as they went down the hallway toward Duncan’s room. “I fear my soul is damned, Seri,” she said. “I am not sorry about Brixham’s state.”
Serendipity hugged her as they walked along. “I am afraid I cannot help you, dear sister, because I feel the same.”
“Does that mean we will be in hell together?”
“Perhaps it means we should pray about it rather than be blasphemous.”
Merry gave a resigned sigh at Serendipity’s return to the duty of scolding sister. “Never change, Seri. Not for love or money. Never change.”
As they reached Duncan’s doorway, Serendipity stepped aside. “I shall leave you to visit privately with your Duncan, but do not tarry. The hour grows late, and you need your rest. Shadows under one’s eyes do not a beautiful bride make.”
“Thank you, Seri.” Merry caught hold of Serendipity’s hand to keep her from stepping away. “Thank you for everything. I am going to miss you so much.”
Serendipity caught her up in such an intense hug that tears sprang to Merry’s eyes. “I shall miss you more, baby sister. I promise you, I shall miss you more.” Then she dashed away and popped into their shared room, leaving Merry standing alone in the hallway.
Hand on the latch and heart in her throat, Merry tapped on the door to Duncan’s room.
Hurried footsteps softly thumped across the wooden floor on the other side. Mr. Brown, Duncan’s valet, opened the door the barest bit, saw her, then opened it wide with a gracious bow. “My lady.”
She paused just a few steps into the room, unable to breathe, unable to be, because of the sight of Duncan lying there, wounded, pale, and oh so very still.
She pressed a hand to her mouth to keep from gasping aloud.
He looked so…so…vulnerable. Her mighty champion was human, after all, and quite capable of injury and death.
She shooed away that horrid thought and hurried to his side.
His upper arm was wrapped in a bandage and secured in place with more linen strips wrapped around his bare chest and shoulder.
Fist clenched, his free hand rested on top of the bedclothes covering him from the waist down.
The oil lamps on either side of the bed cast subtly shifting shadows across the gentle rise and fall of his muscular chest.
She went to the left side of the bed, his uninjured side, and touched his clenched fist. He jerked, and his sooty eyelashes fluttered open. For a second, he seemed ready for an attack, but as he focused and his eyes cleared, he relaxed.
“My own,” he said, his voice weary and rough as gravel scraping metal. He frowned, studying her. “Are ye unharmed?”
“Once again, you kept me safe, my champion.”
He blew out a deep breath, a heavy sigh, and closed his eyes. “Good.” He grimaced and forced his eyes open once more. “That feckin’ man said there was no laudanum in that whisky. He lied.”
Easing down to sit on the edge of the bed, she cradled his hand between hers and kissed his bruised knuckles. “Laudanum helps you rest and subdues your stubbornness so you will be still and heal, as I am sure Dr. Hatler would tell you.”
“I can rest now that I know ye are safe.” His eyelids drooped, then stretched open wide again, as he battled the effects of the drug. “It was Brixham. Angus got the sorry bastard.” He wrinkled his nose as if he smelled something foul. “Beg pardon for the language.”
“It is a shame it had to come to this.” She wouldn’t tell him she had seen Brixham.
At least, she wouldn’t tell him just yet.
“But now it is over. We must ask Dr. Hatler to speak to the constable before he continues to wherever he is bound. I’m uncertain whether Brixham has any family who might go after Angus, but we must make certain he is safe from any recriminations.
” She eased open Duncan’s fist, flattening his hand across her palm.
Such a large, powerful hand, the hand of a man determined to protect her. “You should rest now.”
He closed his hand around hers and pulled it to his cheek. “So verra glad ye are safe,” he whispered, sounding sleepy. Then he jerked, opened his eyes, and sought her out, locking his gaze with hers. “Will ye not marry me now?”
“What?” The laudanum had to be confusing him.
“With Brixham dead, will ye not wish to marry in London rather than Scotland?”
She hadn’t really thought about that. With Brixham no longer an issue—or, at least, he wouldn’t be as soon as his tortured body released his soul—she and Duncan could return to London, have the banns read, and marry in a month in a most conventional, un-scandalous manner.
Never the patient sort, she no longer found that thought very appealing. “What do you wish to do?”
He hugged her hand tighter to his bristly cheek, then pressed a lingering kiss to it. “I wish to marry in Scotland, as we planned.” He flinched and arched his back as though fighting a sudden twinge of pain. “But I know ye’ll no longer want that scandal added to the rumors Brixham started.”
“Well then, you are sadly misinformed, and do you need more laudanum? I can fetch Dr. Hatler.”
He stared at her. “What are ye saying?
“Do you need more laudanum?”
He barely shook his head. “Not that. Before that. About my being misinformed.”
“As soon as you are able—” No, she didn’t need to phrase it that way because he would lie and say he was able when he wasn’t. “As soon as there is no longer a risk of infection, we shall continue our journey to Gretna Green as planned.”
Narrowing his eyes, he watched her as if she wasn’t real. “Why?”
Good heavens, reasoning with a drugged man was most frustrating. “Do you wish to get married at Gretna Green or London?”
“Gretna Green.”
“Good. That is my choice as well.”
“Why?”
“Because I do not wish to return to London and wait for a month or longer while the banns are read, nor do I wish to attempt to get a special license when it might stir up even more questions about Lord Brixham from the archbishop. That issue needs to be allowed to rest undisturbed.” She leaned closer in case the medicine affected his ability to focus.
“Something you should know about the woman you are about to marry is that I am not the patient sort. I do not wait well.”
He cupped her cheek in his hand and gifted her with one of his rare smiles. “Good.”
She turned her head and kissed his palm, then placed his hand back on his chest as she rose and stood beside the bed. “Rest now and do as you are told so we can marry. As I said, I am not a patient woman.”
“Aye, my own. I shall do my best to heal quickly.”
“Then close your eyes. I shall be right here, sitting in the chair, should you need me.”
“Nay, woman.”
“What?”
“Ye must rest as well. Go to your bed. Brown will watch over me.”