Elizabeth Mansfield (21 page)

Mickley frowned. “Tell ‘im I’m busy,” he said curtly, but he immediately reconsidered. Dolph had never before sent for him. Something worrisome must have occurred at the stables to have caused the groom to make this unusual and urgent summons. Perhaps—dreaded prospect!—there was something wrong with one of the captain’s Spanish horses. “Wait,” he said to the stable boy, and, with a last, rueful glance at the indifferent, plump-and-saucy Betty, followed the boy out the door.

When he learned the substance of Dolph’s fears, the batman immediately mounted one of the carriage horses and set out to search for Gil. It was more than an hour before he came upon the scene of the accident and discovered the boy, still unconscious, lying under a trembling, whimpering, doomed animal that, in his fall, had badly injured three legs, two of his own and one of the boy’s.

Mickley carried Gil in his arms back to the house, pausing at the stables only long enough to instruct Dolph to have the suffering animal shot. Gil, now awake and white-lipped with pain, shuddered at those words. He had enough experience of horses to know that the shooting was necessary, but he couldn’t keep back a flood of bitter tears. His own pain was nothing when compared with the agony of realizing that he’d caused the injury that would end the life of his beloved Bellerophon.

Betty Rhys, who was not as indifferent to Mr. Mickley’s attentions as she’d pretended, had kept watch at the window for his return. She was the one who first saw Mickley approaching the house with the limp boy in his arms. By the time Mickley reached the front door, she’d alerted the entire household. Kit, Letty, Caro, and a number of the servants were already in the doorway, tense with alarm. They made way for Mickley, who brought the boy into the drawing room and laid him down on the sofa. Caro and Letty followed. Caro immediately gave Gil a small dose of laudanum for the pain, while Kit, at the doorway, ordered a footman to ride out for the doctor and sent the rest of the onlookers about their business.

The anguished child continued to sob. Caro cradled him in her arms, Letty wept, and Mickley went about the difficult business of cutting off the boy’s boots. Kit shut the door and crossed the room. He sat down on the edge of the sofa and spoke to Gil softly but honestly about the necessity of ending Bellerophon’s pain. Nevertheless, the boy was inconsolable. Caro had never heard him weep so bitterly. “It’s all my fault,” he wept. “All my fault. I should never have ridden him out today.”

The doctor—an elderly, bewhiskered, kindly man who’d treated the Whitlow family for many years—soon arrived and made a swift examination of the wounds. He found, to everyone’s relief, that the blow to the cranium was not serious.

But the boy had suffered a badly broken tibia. After assembling the needed splints and bandages, the doctor began, in a surprisingly gingerly manner, to feel the now bared leg. Kit. wondered at the doctor’s seeming hesitation. His movements, a moment ago so quick and assured, were now slow and awkward. Mickley and Kit, who’d had much experience with broken bones, exchanged troubled looks. “Have you set many fractures, doctor?” Kit asked, restraining the man’s arm.

“In truth, Your Lordship, not many,” the doctor admitted. “I usually bring in a bonesetter when I have a patient with a fracture, but the fellow has gone to visit his brother in Ashton. It will take three hours to bring him here, and ‘tis best for the boy if I set the bone at once.”

“Then, if you’ll stand aside and supervise,” Kit said, drawing Mickley to his side, “
we
can be your bonesetters.”

The doctor looked dubious, but he could not countermand the orders of the viscount, no matter how politely given. “Have you done it before, my lord?” he asked as he stepped aside.

Caro, startled and terrified, cried out, “No, Kit, please!”

Letty, equally frightened, asked in a shaky voice, “Can’t we wait for the man with experience?”

“Waiting can be more dangerous than any wrong these men can do,” the doctor told her.

“Don’ ye worry none, ma’am,” Mickley assured Caro as Kit knelt down beside the boy and slid his hands up and down the leg. “The cap’n an’ me’s done this more’n once. An’ I meself set the cap’n’s leg back in Spain, an’ anyone can see how good he’s walkin’ now. Hardly limps at all.”

Caro, feeling helpless, said not another word. She merely covered her mouth with her hand to keep from crying out again. But her eyes were fixed on the scene before her. With Mickley holding down Gil’s legs at the ankles and the doctor holding back the boy’s arms, Kit quickly and confidentiy wrenched the bone into place. Poor Gil screamed and fainted, but they did not try to revive him until the splints and bandages were all in place.

Later, when Gil was propped up in his own bed upon a massive pile of pillows, and all but Kit and Caro had been sent from the room, Caro tried to give him another dose of laudanum so that he might go to sleep. But the boy tearfully refused it. “Why won’t you take it, dearest?” his sister asked. “It will ease your pain.”

“I deserve this pain,” Gil said bitterly. “I k-killed my horse. A wonderful horse Kit brought all the way from Spain. I deserve w-worse than this.”

Caro opened her mouth to argue, but Kit stopped her. “Let the boy be, ma’am,” he said, taking the glass from her hand. “And let him go ahead and blame himself for what’s happened, if he must. He says those things because he’s young. The young are always hard on themselves. It takes maturity to be able to forgive oneself for a mistake.”

Caro looked at Kit questioningly. Why was he being so unkind to the poor boy?

Gil had stiffened in offense. “Are you s-saying I’m a b-baby?”

“No, of course he isn’t,” Caro quickly assured him.

But Gil wanted assurance from Kit. “I can be mature,” he said, his bottom lip trembling. “It’s just that this was a very b-big mistake.”

“Yes, I know.” Kit looked down at him kindly. “That’s why you’d have to be
very
mature.”

Caro now caught on to Kit’s motive. “And you’re only twelve,” she added, playing along. “It’s hard to be mature at twelve. Especially when you’re hurt and aching so badly.”

“I’m almost thirteen. I can
so
be mature. Don’t you think I can?”

“It’s not for me to say.” Kit sat down on the edge of the bed and riffled the boy’s hair. “Are you willing to forgive yourself, even for a very big mistake?”

“I g-guess so,” Gil said, wiping his cheeks with the back of his hand.

“Good! Then let’s see you drink this down.” Gil eyed the white liquid suspiciously. “How long will it take before I fall asleep?”

“About fifteen minutes, I should think,” Caro said.

Gil took the glass. “Will you tell me the next adventure of Black Bart while we wait?” he asked Kit plaintively. “Just to take my mind off ... off other things?”

Kit threw Caro a quick glance but said, “Of course,” without waiting for her response. “Black Bart was last seen standing on the yardarm, isn’t that right?”

“Yes,” Gil said, almost eagerly, “tied and blindfolded and about to be hanged.”

Kit nodded. “Black Bart, pirate of pirates, most daring of the daring, despite his blindfold, whirled about on the yardarm on one foot like a tightrope walker and swung the other at the nearest seaman, knocking him down onto the deck. Then, as the admiral and crew watched in astonishment, he broke from his wrist bonds, pulled off the blindfold, waved in farewell, and dived into the sea...”

Five minutes later—Black Bart barely had time to swim back to the pirate ship—Gil was asleep. The laudanum had done its work. Kit covered the boy and stood up, looking round for Caro in the hope—nay, the expectation—that she would at least offer him a word of praise for his ingenuity as a storyteller, if not for his skill as a bonesetter. But he was to get no word of praise. She hadn’t waited to hear what happened to Black Bart. She was gone.

TWENTY-EIGHT

He didn’t go looking for her, not consciously. But as he walked down the corridor toward his own apartments, he heard a muffled sob. It was coming from a small, infrequently used sitting room only a few doors down from Gil’s bedroom. The door was ajar, and he peered in. The room was in shadows, dimly lit by the fading evening light glimmering in from the windows, but there she was, huddled on the window seat, embracing her knees. Her forehead was lowered upon them, and she was sobbing softly. “Caro!” he exclaimed, striding across the room. He dropped down on the seat beside her and lifted her head to his shoulder. Her cap tumbled off and fell unheeded on the seat behind her. Purely by instinct, she burrowed her face into his neck and continued to weep.

“What is it, my dear?” he murmured, his fingers wandering fondly through the mass of her curls. ‘There’s nothing to cry about. A boy’s bones knit with remarkable ease. He’ll be good as new in little more than a month, I promise you. And meanwhile, we’ll fit him with a pair of crutches. In a matter of days you’ll see him hopping about the place like a cricket.”

“I know. But, you see, this is all m-my f-fault!” she cried into the hollow of his shoulder.

“Good God! You, too? What nonsense is this?”

“I upset him with my scold last night. I was m-much too severe. I know I was. I made a s-scene that s-set him on edge.”

He grasped her shoulders and, holding her off from him, gave her an angry shake. “Dash it, woman, must I deliver to you the very same homilies I—” he began, but the sight of her face stilled his tongue. The evening light from the window illuminated not only her tousled curls (that had been hidden from his view for so long under that irritating mobcap that he’d almost forgotten how lovely they were), but her eyes, now wide with surprise, the wet curve of her cheek, and her beautiful mouth that was swollen by her brief indulgence in weeping. His breath caught in his throat, his blood seemed to bubble in his veins, and his eyes fixed themselves on that soft, trembling mouth. He was caught, helplessly caught, by an urge so overwhelming that no act of will could stop it. Slowly, like a sleepwalker directed by a force not his own, he pulled her into his arms and lowered his mouth to hers.

She, shocked, froze in midsob. For a moment she didn’t quite realize what had happened. Again acting purely by instinct, she sagged against him, letting her lips go soft against his and her body bend to the pressure of his arms. It was a lovely feeling, soothing away the anxiety and distress she’d been experiencing for hours. There was warmth here in his arms, and a most unfamiliar sense of security. It was brought on, she supposed, by her gratitude for what he’d done for her today, setting Gil’s bone, getting him to forgive himself, and even entertaining him with stories. She was more than grateful, she realized. She was in his debt. But all that could not explain this other feeling—an almost inexpressible delight. She might have remained basking in this silvery moment indefinitely, but suddenly his hold tightened, and the pressure of his mouth became more demanding. Warmth turned to heat, and heat brought fear ... and dismay. What was she
doing?
she asked herself, and worse, what was
he
doing?

She wrenched herself from his hold and pulled herself back away from him until stopped by the window frame. She glared at him, ready to do battle. But the expression on his face stopped her. It was a look of surprise greater, if possible, than on hers. He was staring at her with eyes wide with wonder, as if he had been embraced by
her,
not the other way around. What was going on here? “Kit ... ?” she asked, confused.

He blinked, shook his head as if coming out of a dream, and then, as if it were the most natural act in the world, took her back in his arms and kissed her again, a kiss as long, as lingering, as passionate as the first.

It was all too much. She struggled vainly in his grip, all the while quite aware of her body’s shockingly warm response to this unwarranted embrace. This was exactly how she’d felt when Mr. Terence had kissed her. If only this man had really been Marcus Terence ...! If only he were not Kit Meredith ...! If her mind were not so firmly set against him, she might very well take delight in this embrace. But as it was, this act was deplorable! It would only make life in this house more difficult. She was a servant here. She had better remember that fact. She was in a situation that she herself, in her pride, had insisted upon, and she would not permit Kit Meredith to undermine it in any way, especially in so demeaning a manner as this! “Dash it,” she cried, wrenching herself free again, “have you lost your
mind?
”

He took a deep breath and, his eyes glowing, smiled slowly. “It is entirely possible.”

“I ought to box your ears!” She jumped to her feet and glared down at him. “I would have given odds that Kit Meredith, trickster and dissembler though he is, was not the sort to stoop to
manhandling
his
servants!
For shame!”

“
Servants?
Caro, for heaven’s sake!” he groaned, the glow fading from his eyes.

“Yes, servants! I am a servant here. And if you ever again forget that fact, I shall be forced to conclude that
you
are even worse than
Mr. Duckett!
” And she stormed from the room.

He gaped at the door, stunned not only by his own reaction to the embrace but even more by hers. She would not admit by so much as a blink that she’d been as stirred as he. She was the most stubborn, most wrongheaded, most exasperating female it had ever been his misfortune to know. “Damn the woman!” he swore, and having no other way to assuage the fury that welled up in him, smashed his fist through the nearest windowpane.