Captive Scoundrel (5 page)

Faith woke the next morning kneeling on the floor, her head on Justin’s bed, her hand in his. And she knew what she must do.

She went to his window at dawn yearning to walk beside him to the turbulent sea in the distance. She wanted to hear him laugh or shout, to watch emotion play upon his features—joy or anger, it mattered not. She wanted him to know she existed, that he existed.

At eight, she faced Harris. “I need you to go to London.”

“You need me here.”

“I need you there more. There’s no one else I trust. Find out about the doctor who visited last week. Is he known? Is he reliable, well thought of? Has he come into money of late?”

“Miss Faith?”

“Don’t ask. Just get some answers. Go to where you purchase the medicine and attempt to find out who makes it, what’s in it.”

Harris stared at the fire, his hands behind his back. “I should not ask these questions of just anyone, should I?”

“You should be discreet in your inquiries.”

“I feared as much.” He regarded her intently. “When would you be wanting me to go?”

“Tomorrow. Tell everyone you’re going for more medicine.”

“The doctor who tended the master in London. The one his high-n-mighty discharged, do you want to know about him too?”

“Good Lord. I didn’t know he’d dismissed a physician.” A good one, she’d warrant. “Find him. Ask him about Justin’s condition after the accident. What were his recommendations?” She could think of few reasons a physician would be removed from the care of a sick man. None of them pleased her.

Harris cleared his throat. “I’m glad you came to us.”

“Godspeed, Harris.”

Early the next morning, Faith stood at her window. Such a simple tableau—Harris riding sedately down the drive—to represent such an extraordinary quest.

An amber glass vial nestled in the palm of her hand. She tested its weight. What evil hid within this innocent vessel? As she watched her only ally in this house become a speck on the horizon, she squeezed the tiny bottle as if she might crush it, and along with it, her apprehension. But when she opened her palm, both remained. Faith dropped the vial into her apron pocket and placed the flat of her hand on the window.

“I pray your faith in me is well-founded, old man. God grant your master may live ‘till you return.”

Faith knew that everything she’d done thus far had helped Justin. What she planned to do now could very well kill him…and yet, some irrefutable inner voice said she must try.

At eight o’clock, she sat him by the corner window. His breathing was better, for he was coming around to the kind of sleep that she considered normal. She fetched Beth, Vincent’s warning that Justin could die if he didn’t get his medicine on time stalking her like the robed being of her nightmare.

For Beth, Faith tried to remain calm. “Here we are,” she said as they came into Justin’s room. “I have a surprise for you.”

Beth wiggled her hand from Faith’s and ran about. She stood on tiptoes to examine the washstand and nearly came away with the strop. She looked beneath the massive four-poster and crawled right under. She poked her finger into the warm soft wax at the base of a candle and happily peeled it away. If Justin could see her now.

Both anxious and fearful, Faith sat beside him and took his hand. “Over here, Beth,” she called, and Justin shuddered to such a degree that Faith felt his shiver in her hand, his grasp growing strong.

Justin struggled to free himself as he lay fettered, ankle and wrist, at the bottom of hell, while miles above him, Vincent tossed Beth over the edge of a cliff.

In horror, he watched his daughter hurtle toward him.

Through the air she tumbled. Falling at a furious pace.

He pulled at his chains. Struggled to get free. To catch Beth. But his shackles held firm.

His baby girl hit the bottom of hell and shattered like a porcelain doll.

Justin’s wail pierced the air as he struggled against his bindings.

Before Faith could calm him, Beth’s shriek was no less plaintive as she came running. “Poppy!” she cried as she clambered into his lap and threw her arms around his neck. “Poppy,” she sobbed. “Poppy.”

With a start, Justin lifted his arms—arms that seemed uncertain of their proper place—and wrapped them around his little girl. His hold, tentative at first, grew strong.

“Poppy,” Beth said on a soft sigh.

With a cry Justin hugged her tight and drew a deep, shuddering breath. He rubbed his cheek against her hair.

Faith could neither move, nor contain her tears.

A cookie-man’s smile paled in comparison to Beth’s, the first Faith had ever seen on the child, while she held her small hands to Justin’s cheeks. “Poppy?”

He opened his eyes, but as if to clear his vision, he closed and reopened them, his look finally one of awe. Gentling his embrace, he combed palsied fingers through Beth’s bronze curls. With a cry, he hugged her so hard, Faith feared he would hurt her. But Beth’s smile grew until she giggled.

Joy transported them, until Justin took a sharp, piercing breath and lost all the colour in his face. He turned ashen.

Faith’s elation fled. Fearing Justin would faint and drop Beth, she supported Beth as she dipped the corner of her apron in a cup of water and held it against the back of his neck.

His colour did not improve; his skin felt slick and cool. Faith leaned over and shut the window as she checked the clock. After nine. His medicine had never been this late. They’d entered a new realm. A dark, frightening forest of deadly possibilities.

For all Justin was weak as a kitten, he’d not lost hold of his daughter. Neither had Beth lost hold of him. They wouldn’t be willing to part any time soon.

Faith swallowed her regret. “I need to give your Papa his medicine, Beth.” She tried to take the child, but Beth shook her head in refusal and held her father tight.

Faith tugged. “Come along now and let Poppy rest. You may see him again later.” Justin’s weakness, it seemed, did not extend to his arms.

“I don’t wish for you to have found each other only to be parted again,” Faith said. “Oh, if you could only understand. If we delay much longer, you might lose each other forever.”

For whatever reason, Justin loosened his hold and Beth came quietly, but at the door, she turned with a sorrow too keen to be borne. “Poppy?”

If this was not the first step in Justin’s recovery, Faith feared it might destroy them both. Beth could become more fearful. Justin could fall into a speedier decline.

Faith considered the possibility that by keeping Justin sedated, his medicine might be allowing him to live longer. What had she done? Her guilt trebled when she shut the door to Beth’s room a few minutes later. Faith had promised another outing soon and left Beth crying in the arms of her confused nurse. What a dangerous game she played. A game whose loss others would suffer.

Back in Justin’s room, Faith approached him, his medicine in her trembling hand…and she stopped.

This was not the first time he seemed to watch her. It was, however, the first time he gazed in this particular way. Where his eyes, previous to this moment, stared blankly, they now held a spark of awareness.

Faith took the vial of medicine from her apron pocket. “You cannot know how distressed I am to give this to you,” she said.

His Angel was beautiful. He had never seen her so clearly.

He knew her soothing touch. Her violet scent. Her sweet voice. But her beauty—this he did not know.

Faith lifted the vial to Justin’s lips…and he turned his head. Her heart, that aching core that had been tugged and cajoled, crushed and swollen, accelerated and arrested—all during her time at Killashandra—beat a new thundering rhythm.

Lowering herself into the chair beside him, Faith watched her patient’s hard profile until he turned to face her. She could almost believe he looked, and yes, saw, into her eyes.

Into his hand, open on the chair’s arm, she placed her own. He curled dry parchment fingers around it. Gentle. Caressing.

Warmth invaded her to her soul. “Justin,” she whispered. “Listen to me. You must take your medicine so you will live. I cannot allow death to win.”

His posture suddenly alert, he raised his chin.

In the event he understood, Faith unstopped the vial and raised it. Again, he turned away. Implacable. Stubborn. Headstrong.

How dare she judge his character by the tilt of his head, the set of his shoulders. And yet…his refusal to take his medicine was the most hopeful, most distressing improvement—if improvement it was—she had seen thus far.

Faith began to laugh. Her laughter accelerated until it could only be termed excessive, part and parcel of what Grandmamma used to call, “a fit of madness.”

She was hysterical. And she knew it. But she could no more stop her tears than she could make Justin swallow his medicine. And she was not certain she wished to do either.

With no choice left, Faith bent her head, wrapped her arms about herself and allowed her sobs free reign. She would feel better at any moment now.

Just another minute. Soon.

She attempted a breath. A deeper one. She began to calm.

A butterfly touch in her hair alerted her. She looked up, and a sob, the last remnant of her temporary flight from reality, escaped her.

Justin bent forward, morning light illuminating the angular planes of his face, his no-longer unseeing eyes more night-sky blue than black. Did he sense her fear, her excitement? Did the sound of her heart’s quickened pace beat as loud in his ears as it did in hers?

For the love of God, he looked…worried.

She raised her hand to her hair and encountered his stroking fingers. “Oh.” She couldn’t pry her gaze from his.

His gentle but trembling hand palmed a slow path down her neck and along her spine. Finally, yet too soon, it came to rest at the small of her back, and warmth pooled there. Exerting a slight pressure, he urged her toward him.

Heart hammering with as much wonder as worry, Faith allowed Justin to tuck her face into his neck. Marvelling at her sense of destiny—her cheek against his, his scent enveloping her—she wondered when melancholy ended and elation began.

They stayed that way for a span of time that might have been moments or hours; Faith didn’t care which. Oddly, in Justin’s arms, his heart beating against hers, she felt protected and cherished.

A rusty voice near her ear asked, “Are you ill?”

Startled, Faith jumped and smacked the top of her head against his chin. She looked up, not certain who she expected to see, and there sat Justin—more alive than dead—rubbing his jaw.

“Oh! No, sir. I am not ill, you are. I expect you think you have awakened in a mad house.” Faith rubbed the top of her head, then thought better of it and gave over to rubbing his chin. “Did I hurt you? Oh dear, what a foolish question. Surely, you have suffered worse. Well, but perhaps you do not remember.”

With furrowed brows, he touched his stomach and grimaced. “Some demon has taken possession of my insides. Death, I think, had me in its clutches.” He paled further. “Death.” His eyes turned to flint. “Beth.” He looked straight through Faith. “I have to kill my brother.” What little colour he had regained, drained entirely away.

Faith believed hers did also, so stricken was she by his savage statement. Did the brothers hate each other so much?

Justin was as close to passing out as…“You must allow me to give you your medicine.”

He was too weak to argue. She brought the vial to his lips and to her relief he swallowed. But only once. Then he pressed his lips together and pushed her arm aside. “Enough! Evil crawls into me when I drink that.” He closed his eyes. “No more.”

Before long, he slept.

The entire episode might have been her imagination, so peacefully did Justin rest now. So normally.

She sighed. Normal.