Pleasures of a Notorious Gentleman (11 page)

Ainsley ordered the servants to bring up warm water and cloths. Mercy fought off the images of the wards crowded with men that sought to distract her from her purpose. She’d felt a sense of relief when she’d left Scutari. She knew she’d done good works there, had helped many a soldier, provided comfort. But she’d lost a good deal of her innocence there, because she’d discovered so much she couldn’t control. And she’d learned that not all men were good. War brought out the best and the worst. It was not only one’s enemies that a person had to fear.

She washed her hands, surprised that the water appeared as clean afterward as it had before. In the hospital it had always been tinged with blood. Exactly as they had in Scutari, her hands trembled slightly, not enough for anyone except her to notice, but bothersome just the same. She forced them into submission, into steadiness. She’d not have John’s father, a man who had shown courage on the battlefield, think her cowardly in any way.

Over her head, she slipped an apron she’d asked to borrow from one of the maids. She reached around to tie it—

“Allow me.”

Startled, she lifted her gaze to Ainsley. Enough lamps had been lit to provide a good deal of light. His eyes, an incredible green, held a great deal of compassion.

“You’re almost as pale as Stephen is,” he said quietly. “Are you certain you’re up to this task?”

She nodded jerkily, her mouth absent of any dampness at all. “I’ve administered ether before.”

“You’re very brave, Miss Dawson.”

“You give me far more credit that I deserve.”

His gaze traveled over her face, and she realized she’d misjudged him. He was formidable when it came to managing situations, but he was not a hard man, and she reversed her earlier conclusion. Some woman would be very fortunate to have him.

“I doubt it,” he said as though they were conspirators. “I’m a rather good judge of character. Our family will once again be in your debt.”

“I wouldn’t want John to lose his father.” Now that she knew Stephen was alive, that John would have a chance to know him, to grow up within his shadow. “If you’ll excuse me?”

“Yes, certainly.” His expression communicated faith and trust in her abilities—both a relief and a burden.

She walked swiftly to the head of the bed. It had been little more than an hour since she’d first seen his leg, and during that time he’d diminished. He’d been fooling them all into believing he was strong and well. The moment for pretense was past, and he’d sunk into the pain. His skin, stretched taut across his cheekbones, seemed hotter to the touch. They had not a moment to lose.

She took the glass inhaler with its ether-soaked sponge and placed it carefully over Stephen’s nose. “Simply breathe,” she said solemnly.

He wrapped his long, slender fingers around her wrist and she wondered if he could feel her thready pulse. “Smile for me,” he ordered.

“I can’t, not at a time like this. There’s no joy in it.”

“Don’t let the last thing I see be your worried frown.”

“You’re not going to die. And when you awake, I’ll smile to your heart’s content.”

He shook his head. “Smile.”

She should not have been surprised by his insistence. He’d never backed down when she’d known him before. Why would she think he’d changed? He was stubborn, determined to have his way. But she didn’t find fault with him. She simply wanted this ordeal finished. Closing her eyes, she thought of the first time that
he
had grinned at her. Such a devilish smile, filled with self-assurance and teasing. He’d seemed to take nothing seriously, and for a few moments, in his company, she’d been able to do the same.

Opening her eyes, she forced her lips to curl upward, her brow to relax, her eyes to sparkle. “Now, Major . . . Stephen,” she said, her tone filled with a lightness she didn’t feel, “follow my orders and breathe . . . deeply.”

She settled the inhaler back into place and watched as his eyelids grew heavy. They fluttered, his eyes opened wide, and then they closed, his thick, dark eyelashes—which matched the blond of his hair not at all—coming to rest on his cheeks.

As far as she was concerned, the moment when he opened those beautiful blue eyes again could not come soon enough.

Chapter 5

E
very time the agony in his leg brought him to the surface of wakefulness, she was pouring something thick down his throat and he began the spiraling descent once again into oblivion. The only consolation was that until he succumbed completely to the sweet allure of a painless existence, she caressed his brow with cool fingers, wiped his chest with a damp cloth. For those few moments when awareness hovered, he wondered how much longer the physician would be ripping into his leg. Or was he finished? Was that the reason for liquid instead of ether? Everything was a confusing swirl of pain and nothingness.

When he awoke with no agony, panic set in. He feared his leg was gone. He couldn’t feel it. Throwing off the covers, he struggled to find it.

Her hands met his, palm to palm, cool to heat. “No, no, you must let it heal.”

“It’s gone. I can’t feel it. He took it.”

“No. It’s the laudanum.”

She’d give him more. The panic would subside. The ache would settle in. He could feel it then with the panic gone. He wanted to explain why it was so important that he not lose the leg. He’d lost his memory; he couldn’t bear the thought of losing something else. He should have told her before. When they’d walked through his brother’s garden. He wished there’d been roses to pluck for her. He’d have shaved off the thorns before handing one to her. He wanted to slip a violet behind her ear. He wanted to lie her down on clover, while the sun beat warmth over their skin, and passion unfolded.

Strange. Strange, how when he became lost in his own mind, he felt the allure of her, the tug of her. He wanted to draw her near, kiss her. He wanted to talk with her. Wanted to know her secrets, her dreams. He wanted to make her smile.

Not that pitiful attempt that she’d given him before he’d succumbed to the lure of the ether. It had been more grimace than anything. Forced from her. He wanted to see her real smile, one of joy. He wanted soft laughter to accompany it, teasing laughter, the sort that would erupt as she ran barefoot across a field of daffodils.

She swam in and out of his vision.

“Why did you come to my bed?” He didn’t know if he’d thought the words or actually spoke them. No answer came. But the question seemed to reverberate on the air. Her reason a secret. He didn’t fancy secrets unless they were his.

Somewhere he thought he heard a baby cry. Then she was gone. He didn’t want her to leave. Why? Why was she important? Who was she?

Remember. Remember. Surely here in this swirling vastness he could find answers. But his mind worked no better here. It was worse. It was hot. Perhaps he was in hell. At last. He’d done wicked things, selfish things. He knew he had no hope of heaven.

His leg. He had to find his leg. Now, while she was gone. But when he reached down, her hand was suddenly holding his, and she was whispering words he couldn’t understand. He simply wanted to wake up.

To drink in the whiskey of her eyes. To ask for forgiveness. To make matters right.

H
is fever came with a swiftness that alarmed Mercy. Dr. Roberts had discovered a piece of steel—which looked to be the tip of a sword—embedded in Stephen’s leg. He surmised that all of his activity of late, as he’d grown stronger, had forced it to begin working its way to the surface, but it had done some nasty damage on its journey.

Having witnessed the chaos as the wounded were treated following a battle, Mercy was not surprised that a piece of metal could be overlooked. Weary physicians worked swiftly, blood was in abundance, lighting was inadequate. Based on the thick, unsightly scar that ran from Stephen’s hip to knee, she could only surmise that it had been a ghastly gash to begin with. He was no doubt fortunate that they hadn’t simply lopped off his leg. She’d seen limbs that had looked almost perfect as they were being carried out for disposal. They would all visit in her dreams once she took time for a moment’s sleep.

Instead she tended to Stephen’s needs as though she alone could save him, leaving his side only for short spans of time to hold John. He was far from being neglected, however. Jeanette saw to his needs for sustenance and cleanliness. The duchess had taken a fancy to him. On more than one occasion Mercy had caught her rocking him or carrying him through the hallways, telling him of his past—even if it didn’t truly originate here. Ainsley’s father was not Stephen’s and yet Stephen had grown up in this house.

Mercy yearned to walk along behind them and hear the tales of Stephen as a child. But it was he as a man who needed her now.

She supposed it was because of John that no one raised an eyebrow at her being alone in the room with Stephen. Or perhaps it was because he was incapacitated, with a raging fever and a leg that must once again go through the process of healing. During the daylight hours she could hear the buzz of activity inside the house and out. But it was with the night closing in, when all grew quiet except for an occasional creak or a moan of things settling in, that she was the most content.

Shadows could hide a great many sins, and she felt less likely to be accused of being the fraud she was. Nor was she likely to be interrupted. For all that the duchess loved her son, she did not sit by his side through the long hours until dawn. That task was reserved for Mercy, and she gladly welcomed it.

Knowing she wouldn’t be disturbed, her hands didn’t shake when she moved the sheet aside, removed the bandages, and examined Stephen’s wound to ensure it wasn’t festering. Gingerly, she would apply a salve to help with healing that the physician had left with her. Using clean strips of cloth brought to her by a servant, she would carefully wrap his leg.

Then she would begin the nightly ritual of bathing him. She would start at his feet, wiping the moist cloth over his soles. From there, she would travel upward, wondering at each scar—whether it be small or large—how it had come to be. The amount of puckered flesh told her of many battles fought, many wounds sustained. She’d not been there to treat all of them. He might not have even been brought to Scutari. As the war lingered, so other hospitals were outfitted, closer to the battles. The long journey from field to hospital had cost many a man his life. But what was to be done when the military lacked so much?

Her sojourn stopped at his left arm where a saber had once sliced deep. She skimmed her fingers over the mutilated flesh that she’d first bandaged in November of 1854, shortly after she’d arrived at Scutari, one of more than three dozen nurses accompanying Florence Nightingale. She’d been completely unprepared for the horrors that awaited them. The Battle of Balaclava, immortalized by Lord Tennyson in “The Charge of the Light Brigade,” had taken place before they’d arrived, but the wounded were wallowing in the overcrowded Barrack Hospital and on a nearby ship. The army had been ill equipped for the tremendous influx of casualties. Some soldiers had received only cursory treatment. They lay on stuffed sacks or nothing at all.

Even now, the smell of rancid meat made her violently ill. It reminded her too much of putrid flesh and the stench of that hospital when she’d first walked into it.

She’d considered herself fortunate to be selected to accompany Miss Nightingale. In her naïvete, she’d even been excited. Reality had slammed into her with the force of a hand grenade. She’d wanted to run, to return to England’s green fields. Instead she’d strengthened her resolve. If these men could fight to survive, the least she could do was help them battle death. So she’d donned her uniform: a hideous black woolen dress, unbleached apron, and white cap. Around her shoulders she wore a scarf with “Scutari Hospital” emblazoned in red thread to identify her—as though someone might mistake her for anything other than what she was: a woman who had come to give comfort.

Although one night, someone had mistaken her for something else. When those thoughts intruded, she shoved them back. She would not journey into that particular hell. Others had needed her, had rescued her from dark thoughts. In saving them, she’d saved herself. In saving Stephen, she had allowed for him to be there to save her.

Life was a strange circle. She tried not to decipher it, but rather to accept it as it came.

It was the third day after she’d arrived in Scutari when she caught her first glimpse of Captain Stephen Lyons, sitting up in a corner, fevered. His arm had become infected, but he’d stubbornly refused any sort of treatment until those around him were tended to. By the time he finally relented, the physicians wanted to amputate. He’d been as determined to keep his arm as he’d been to keep his leg. He’d proven to them that he still retained use of it, convinced them to work to save it.

“I could treat two more men in the time it’ll take me to try to save that arm,” one doctor had lamented.

“Then treat them,” he’d retorted. “And come back to me when you’re done. But I swear to you that I’ll make saving my arm worth the military’s bother.”

She’d assisted as another doctor cut away the dying flesh. Stephen had grunted only once, when the doctor had begun his work, and he’d remained stoically silent after that, his jaw clenched so tightly, she was surprised he hadn’t pushed his teeth down through his chin.

He was her first close look at bravery. She suspected the seeds for her admiration of him had begun that cold, dark night.

She’d wished that she could devote all her time to him, but far too many men required attention. But as he recovered, she sought him out as often as she could, wiping his brow when he was fevered—as she did now. She had studied his face, memorizing every line and curve, so she recognized now that he sported more creases and deeper furrows. Patting the cloth along his throat, across his chin brought to mind a long-ago night when she’d been doing the same. His eyes had suddenly sprung open, his mouth had curved up slightly.

“Hello, sweetheart.”

His voice had been rough, scratchy, but her heart had reacted as though they were at a ball and he’d invited her to dance, beating a steady staccato like that of a drummer pounding the drum before battle.

“Would you care for some water?” she asked breathlessly, embarrassed that she seemed unable to control her reaction to him.

“Love some.”

Her hands trembled as she poured water from a nearby pitcher into a glass. With a great deal of care and gentleness, she slipped an arm beneath his shoulders and lifted him slightly, cradling him, and bringing the glass to his parched lips. “Only a bit,” she admonished, pulling away after he had a few sips.

He was breathing heavily when she lay him back down, as though he were the one going through all the effort.

“I have . . . my arm.” The words were a statement and a question.

“Yes,” she reassured him. “I believe it was your threat to murder whoever took it that convinced them.”

“I cannot be held accountable for what I may have said under the influence of pain, although I daresay I did want to bloody well murder someone.” His words sounded weary, but she had no doubt he meant them.

“It would serve better to murder the enemy, don’t you think?”

“What’s your name?”

“Mercy.”

“Mercy.” His eyes began to flutter closed. “Now I have a name for the lady who visits my dreams.”

He drifted to sleep, and she sat there far longer than she should have, wiping his brow. When she had finally left his side in the early hours before dawn to retire to her bed, it was
he
who visited
her
dreams.

That evening, as she was returning to the hospital to begin her duties, she spied him leaning against the wall. She knew that to be caught alone with a man outside the hospital was grounds for dismissal, knew she should carry on as though she’d not seen him, but she couldn’t seem to help herself. She approached cautiously. “Captain, you should not be out here.”

“Miss Mercy.” He murmured her name as though it was the gentle refrain of a sonnet. She couldn’t deny the pleasure it brought her. One of the other nurses, Miss Whisenhunt, had told her that in London he was known for his charming ways.

“Be careful,” she’d warned. “He’ll have your skirts raised before you even realize he’s tossed you onto your back. Not that any lady objects, if she’s fortunate enough to garner his attention . . . from what I hear.”

She knew a great deal about him. That his family was nobility. That he was a second son. That
marriage
was not a word that would ever cross his lips. Still, Mercy could not help but be intrigued by him.

“Captain, please, you must return to the ward,” she coaxed.

“Do not deny me a few more moments. I needed to be rid of the foul stench of that place.”