Kiss the Earl (14 page)

“Here we are, Miss… Oh.” Iain quieted when the door swung open. “Patrick, she's asleep.”

“Good,” the earl grumped. “If she were not, I fear there would not be enough room in my stables for all the mounts she would have me rescue.”

Her nose twitched, but she fought to still it. She was “asleep,” so she couldn't wallop him. Damn it.

The carriage creaked as the men climbed in, and then there was a soft weight descending over her. Ella allowed herself a small wiggle as she snuggled beneath the blanket that Patrick—she knew it was him because he smelled like him—had so carefully tucked around her.

The carriage lurched to a start, and Ella found her mind wandering. She'd almost lulled herself to sleep when Iain's soft-voiced question broke the silence.

“She is asleep, man. So tell me, who is this girl?”

Her stomach flipped, but Ella stayed frozen, wanting to hear what Patrick would say.

“She has told you who she is—a traveler, far from home.”

“That tale is as mad as a tinker's bum, and you know it, Patrick. I'll grant you, she's a fae wee thing, and the color in her hair is extraordinary, but how can you believe such a fanciful load of shite?”

Patrick's voice was earnest. “I do not expect you to understand why I believe her, but know that I have good reason. How can you listen to her and doubt her words? Iain, she has a shyness, a beauty that is startling and strange, and I—” He stopped then, and Ella wanted to scream at him to finish the sentence.

“You do not know what to make of her,” Iain said for Patrick.

Ella gritted her teeth. That hadn't been what Patrick was going to say, and she knew it, but the dark-haired cousin had screwed it up.

“I confess I do not,” Patrick said softly. “She…she bewitches me.”

And Ella's heart gave a ragged thump. He couldn't be talking about her. She didn't bewitch anybody, and certainly not a handsome guy like Patrick.

It got quiet then, for several long minutes, and Ella couldn't fight the feverish fog in her brain anymore. But as she drifted off to sleep, she wondered if she really could be bewitching.

If she tried.

They rode in silence for the next few hours. At first, Patrick thought his own reticence was due to Iain's line of questioning, and then his suspicion that Ella was not as asleep as she'd seemed. But as the dark miles jolted past, Patrick grew more and more worried about the woman lying in the seat opposite him.

Her breathing was shallow, and her cheeks flushed. She moved restlessly, her limbs making small jerking movements and her forehead furrowing.

She was very, very ill, and he was afraid for her.

He paid no mind to his cousin, who was snoring beside him. After Iain's impertinent questions about what Patrick felt for Ella, Patrick was of a mind to toss the blighter from the carriage and leave him to bounce in the rutted road. But he'd never do such a thing, especially since he fully intended to make use of Iain's presence once they reached Meadowfair Manor.

“Oooooh.” A low moan came from Ella then, the plaintive sound nearly slicing Patrick in twain. Her legs shifted against one another, and she moaned again.

“Shhh, my angel,” Patrick murmured, slipping from his seat to occupy the space next to her. Without conscious thought, he slid his arm behind her, cradling her head against his chest. “We shall be there soon.”

It was a lie, but he did not regret the telling. A shaky breath escaped him and he pressed a kiss to her too-warm head.

They'd arrive at Meadowfair in a day or so. He just hoped it would be soon enough.

* * *

The trip to Meadowfair Manor was the longest of Patrick's life. It was hard to nurse an ailing woman in the close confines of a carriage, but he did his best. When she was conscious, which wasn't often, he forced as much water down her throat as he could. The rest of the time he kept her bundled against the chill of the spring air, bathing her forehead with a cool, wet cloth when the fever raged.

And when the carriage, on its fourth set of horses since their headlong journey across England began, turned and began to roll down the long, curving drive that led to Meadowfair Manor, Patrick wanted to shout with relief.

“Ella,” he whispered down to her. The afternoon light was slanting across her face, making her skin look gray. He didn't care for that, not at all. “We've arrived at my home. I shall see you installed in the largest bedchamber and have the doctor fetched straightaway.”

There was no answer from Ella, not that he'd expected one.

“I suppose you'll want me to see about fetching the physician?” Iain's dry tone covered up a good deal of his own worry, and Patrick couldn't help but be grateful for the blackguard's company.

“Please.”

The carriage lumbered to a stop in front of the huge carved oak door of Meadowfair Manor. Patrick had just climbed down, his arms open and waiting to take Ella from Iain, when that same door blew open like a tempest had suddenly appeared on the other side.

“Oh, my lord, you've returned! And so unexpected, here in the middle of the Season.” Sharpwicke, his butler, was grinning like a vicar in a room full of sinners. He clapped his pudgy hands together and rubbed. “Mrs. Templeton! His lordship has returned. Ah, the excitement you've missed. Baron Brownstone's two footmen were here not two days past, asking for you. Not to worry. I told them you were in London, but now here you are! And who is that with you, sir? Surely you've not gone and taken a bride without a word to us. I would have assembled the staff to greet you, my lord, not that there's above seven of us here, with the rest seeing to your home in Town. Mrs. Templeton, oh, where can that mad old woman be?”

“Sharpwicke,” Patrick said in a mild tone as he carried Ella up the front steps to the door, “please cease your prattling. This is not my bride. This is Miss Ella Briley, and she is very ill. And after she's settled, I would like to hear more about Brownstone's emissaries.”

“Hello there, Sharpwicke.” Iain clapped the butler on the shoulder, nearly knocking the old man over. If possible, the butler grinned even more broadly at the familiar greeting. “Can I prevail upon you to have a horse saddled for me? I must fetch the doctor. Quick as you can, there's a good man.”

“My lord?” Mrs. Templeton appeared then, her arms full as she held a furry cat. She spared a glance at Sharpwicke, who was scurrying toward the stables, his bowed legs nearly a blur as the tails of his coat flew out behind him. “Oh my goodness, it is you! Welcome home.”

His housekeeper bobbed an elegant curtsy.

“Thank you, Mrs. Templeton.” Patrick didn't stop; he continued through the foyer and mounted the stairs. “I shall need the fire stoked in my bedchamber, as well as warm water and some tea brought up. I shall put Miss Briley in my bed, and we'll tend to her there.”

Mrs. Templeton gasped, and Patrick glanced back at her. Elspeth, the cat, gave a yowl of protest and leaped to the stairs, dashing off with her tail as fluffy as a bottlebrush.

“My lord, are you sure? Your own bedchamber? Surely that is not proper, do you think?”

Patrick kicked the door open without ceremony, and Mrs. Templeton wrung her hands as she followed.

“It is a simple matter of logistics, Mrs. Templeton. Miss Briley is very ill, and this is the largest bedchamber in the house. Therefore it makes sense to care for Miss Briley here. Now please, make haste and get me the warm water and tea. Oh, I shall need some clean bandages as well. And send the stable lad to Brown Hall. Under no circumstances is he to let on that I have arrived, but have him see if Miss Amelia is there. Go, quickly.”

Hands wringing, Mrs. Templeton left to do as he bid.

Gently as he could, Patrick pulled back the coverlet and laid Ella down upon the sheets. She moaned low, deep in her throat, and a tear escaped from beneath her closed eyelid.

“I know it hurts,” he said, smoothing her black hair across the pillows. “Do not worry. Iain will have the physician here in a trice.”

Sinking onto the bed next to her, Patrick laid a hand across her brow. Still hot—agonizingly so. She could not go on like this much longer.

He'd known her so briefly, but he could not imagine life without her, were she to perish. The thought sent chills down his backbone. Never before had he felt this strongly for someone, not even Amelia.

And for just a moment there, staring at Ella's face, drawn with pain and fever as it was, he thought he might understand Amelia just a little bit more. He understood how she could brave her father's wrath, and society's bad opinion for the man she loved.

He thought that maybe, if things were different, he and Ella might—

The door flew open and Mrs. Templeton bustled into the room, followed by the only footman still on duty at Meadowfair Manor; the others had all accompanied him to staff his house in Town. When the buckets of warm water had been set in front of the hearth, the footman bent to start the fire.

Mrs. Templeton set her burden down on the table in the corner of the room. “Here we are, my lord—a tea tray, and some biscuits for you as well. If you've traveled as fast and as far as I suspect, then you'll be needing the nourishment. Here, allow me to undress the young lady. You've left her boots on, and now there's dirt on the sheets.”

Patrick stood and allowed Mrs. Templeton to see to Ella. He didn't know what to do, not with her, not with himself.

Something had changed, and he was not sure what.

* * *

Amelia was not at Brown Hall. Honestly, he hadn't expected her to be near if she was not in his own home, but he could not regret the effort of discovering the fact. Now all he could do was wait. Until Ella was better, he would not leave her side. He was standing with his back to the fireplace, hands clasped behind him, watching Ella breathe, when a knock came at the bedroom door. Sharpwicke poked his curly gray head in through the crack.

“Doctor Reston has arrived, sir.”

“Bring him up, please, Sharpwicke.” Patrick couldn't hide his relief at the physician's arrival. Finally, a bloke who knew what was what, who could look at the wound on Ella's foot and know what to do about it.

When Iain appeared at the door, Patrick was quite prepared to hand him every single cent of his fortune that wasn't entailed. But the Scotsman's face was drawn and dark.

“What is the matter, Cousin?” Patrick said, losing a bit of his cheer.

“You'll see in a moment,” Iain murmured, glancing back over his shoulder. “No matter what the man says, do not leave her side.”

Patrick drew himself up to his full height. He'd not planned to leave her anyway, but with Iain's warning ringing soundly in his ears, he'd make double sure to watch over her.

“This is Doctor Reston, my lord,” Sharpwicke said, his normally ebullient manner somewhat subdued as he held the door open for the physician.

Patrick blinked. Twice.

Dressed all in black, with a somewhat beaten leather bag in one hand, the doctor meandered his way into the room. His dark hair was lank and stringy, showing thin as it hung over the center of the man's head, and was obviously in need of a good washing. He was tall and thin, rather like a fence post, really. He gave Patrick a smarmy, toadying smile.

Patrick disliked him on sight. But what choice did he have? Since Thomason's death, Reston had taken over in Cromer. He was the only physician in the area.

Patrick stepped forward. “I am Fairhaven. This young lady is Miss Briley, and she is in need of attention.”

A filmy monocle appeared in the man's hand, and he put it up to his eye with a sniff. “Yes, my lord, I can see that she is.”

The man set his bag down on the edge of the bed, and Patrick fought the shudder that ripped down his spine at the man's proximity to Ella. He stepped closer, well aware of Iain right behind him.

“Please tell me what occurred before the young lady found herself in this position?” The doctor opened his bag and began rummaging through it.

“She has an injury to her heel. She stepped on something sharp, and the wound has worsened since…” Patrick trailed off as he caught sight of the man's hands. They were streaked with dirt, but under the man's nails was a thick, reddish-brown substance. Patrick slammed his eyes closed, trying to get his temper under control.

“Since what, my lord? Pray continue.”

A clinking sound wrenched Patrick's eyes open, but then a red mist descended over him. The man had put a basin beneath Ella's arm, shoving the nightshirt Mrs. Templeton had dressed her in all the way up to her shoulder. He'd laid out a row of none-too-clean knives, and was selecting one as he prodded the soft flesh of Ella's arm.

She had spoken of this before. He could picture her face, drawn and fearful as she described how harmful the practice of bleeding a patient was. He would not allow this.

Patrick launched himself forward, not heeding the man's panicked cry as he grabbed the doctor by the back of the neck and slung him into the wall. The knives clattered to the floor, the basin banging against the washstand before rolling to a stop beneath the bed. Bouncing to the ground, the man began to bluster and blubber. Patrick did not care. He'd gone past caring the minute that filthy demon had presumed that Ella could afford to lose one drop of her precious blood.

“Get out,” Patrick snarled, glaring down at the man at his feet. The doctor scrambled to pick up his instruments of torture, but Patrick slammed his boot on the man's hand before he could reach for another knife. “Leave these, and get out. You shall never harm another person in or around this area. Your tools are filthy, your methods barbaric, and if you even presume to breathe the same air as Ella again, I shall—”

“Easy, Cousin,” Iain said, grabbing Patrick's shoulder and pulling him back. “Let the man leave. I think he understands you.”

The man shot them a fearful look, but he did not say another word, just gathered his bag, leaving the knives where they were, and quit the room.

Patrick moved to Ella's bedside, staring down at her, while an unnamed emotion started curling through his chest. It was intense, like his anger had been moments ago, but it was different. Somewhat soothing but frightening, it roiled and bubbled and grew until it filled his torso, trickling its way to his fingertips, then back to his heart.

He closed his eyes and then moved away from the bedside. He gathered what he needed, then returned to her side. Iain said nothing, just watched as Patrick dipped the soap into the warm water, and began slowly, tenderly scrubbing her arm where that man had dared to touch her.

“Don't worry, you are clean now,” Patrick said as he rinsed the dirt from her skin. “And that man is gone.”

“I grant you, the man was in need of a good scrubbing,” Iain said as he sank into a chair by the fireside, “but why did you not force him to wash and then bleed her?”

Patrick shot Iain a dark look. “You were not in the war. You have not seen the men that I saw die, Iain. I am convinced that bleeding does nothing but weaken the sick body. And from what Ella has told me, in her time, there is no such practice.”

Iain sat forward, bracing his arms on his knees as he speared his cousin with a piercing look. “You are prepared to gamble her life on this?”

“I am.”

Shaking his head, Iain smiled. “Do as you wish, Cousin. I believe that you might save this girl, you know.”

“I fully intend to.” Patrick placed a pillow beneath Ella's legs, propping her feet over a basin. He'd need to clean those wounds again. They'd not been able to do so on the road, and that fact had worried him sorely.

Iain stood, stretching his back. “I believe I shall visit your kitchens. I find that such a long journey has made me famished. Shall I have Mrs. Templeton send you up a tray with your dinner?”

Patrick nodded, but before his cousin could leave the room, he stopped him.

“Iain, may I ask a favor?”

A grin spread across Iain's face, his white teeth contrasting with the two days' worth of dark beard that was sorely in want of trimming. “Of course.”