The Dream Read online

  His knife rent the thin material. He glanced up to see that Grims had his face averted. Even as the situation was, he smiled at his butler’s ingrained manners.

  Jason glanced at her back as he pulled the chemise apart.

  “Mother of God.” He felt poleaxed. Forget women not being marred with gunshot scars…

  Scars crisscrossed her back. Some were faint in the light, no more than a whisper of white; others were pink, puckered, and long. He gently traced one that snaked from her back, around her ribs, to curl under her left breast.

  The woman had been beaten, and looked as if repeatedly. His stomach clenched at the thought. She was so small.

  It might not be proper, but he looked down the rest of her spine, cataloguing the marred perfection of her back. Who would have done such a thing?

  “Poor mite,” Grims whispered.

  Jason looked across the still woman to see pity in his butler’s eyes. He didn’t know why he said the words, but said them he did. “Not a word of this to anyone, Grims.”

  Grims flared his nostrils, in what Jason knew was insult. “Of course not.”

  Bare as she was, they pulled the blankets up to cover her form. Grims threaded the needle and heated it yet again.

  Just a little longer.

  “This side shouldn’t be as bad,” Grims muttered.

  It shouldn’t be, but it was. The wound didn’t distract him, the idea of what he was doing to her, the needle through her flesh… A faint scent, sweet and almost familiar, teased him. Only one thought echoed in his mind. Who had mistreated this woman?

  The entry wound did not take nearly as long to stitch as the jagged exit wound. On this side it was but a small round hole. Again, Jason tied the knot off and cut the black thread.

  “There.” He sighed, and flexed his fingers, handing the needle back to Grims, who was leaning close to inspect the stitches.

  “Very good, my lord.” With a wry grin, the older man said, “What a fine stitch you sew.”

  Jason ignored the jab.

  “She will probably get the fever,” Grims predicted.

  “Probably.”

  “I’ll get the bricks hot, my lord, and see if Mrs. Meddows has any laudanum.” He looked to the bed. “If she wakes, she’ll be in pain.”

  Jason nodded and went to work on cleaning the cut on the right side of her forehead, lost almost at her hairline. He gently washed the gash, noted the huge bump and wondered if that was what kept her unconscious or if it were the loss of blood. Shock? He dropped the crimson stained cloth into the wash basin and set it aside before pulling a chair up closer to the bed.

  Bright morning sunlight washed away memories of storms and the lingering fog. He glanced out over his lawns and noticed with some surprise that not as much time as he’d supposed had passed. Perhaps an hour or two.

  He sat in the chair, huffing out a breath as he did so. Resting his head against the chair back, he studied the woman in his bed. And for the first time, actually saw her.

  She was small and slight, that he knew. Earlier, he’d not taken the time to observe more than her weight, her wound, or the fact she was breathing. Now he did.

  Her hair, braided and coiled at the back of her neck was the color of autumn leaves, though it might simply be termed light brown. The sun shone through the glass panes and across the bed, glinting gold in her hair of blonde, burnished browns and flickering reds. A widow’s peak, centered on her forehead, heart-shaped her face. He leaned closer and noticed her straight brows were the same color as her hair, her eyelashes crescents against her pale cheeks. A straight, sculpted nose made her profile classic. Lips that might normally be any other color were pale and chapped, marred by a small, almost crescent scar slightly off center of her top lip. He reached out and traced the imperfection and wondered if she’d received that scar from the same person who’d marked her back. Her skin was translucent and he could see the veins in her neck, the faint beat of her heart evident. His dark blue counterpane was pulled to her shoulders. Lovely shoulders really.

  The image of her back flashed unbidden in his mind, and he tried to shake it.

  God, he was tired. He glanced at the clock on the mantle and wondered when Lockley would return with the physician.

  He sincerely hoped the man would not be a quack.

  * * * * *

  Dr. Patteson tied off the bandage. “The stitches are nice and tight, my lord. I couldn’t have done better myself.”

  Jason ignored the words. “Will she be all right? I’m worried about infection, or inflammation of the lung. I have no idea how long she was out in the rain. Possibly all damn night.” And he’d seen what happened to soldiers in the rain.

  The doctor shook his head and pushed his spectacles up his nose. “I would gamble on her getting the fever then. She’s lucky as it is. A little bit lower, a little to the left and she’d most certainly be dead.”

  Jason thought the words rhetorical and didn’t see the need to answer them.

  The doctor continued. “I will leave this bascilicum powder to sprinkle on the wound when the bandage is changed.” He held up another bottle, “Infuse a pinch of this one in a cup of tea twice daily and have her drink it. It should help fight infection and help with fever.”

  Jason nodded.

  “If she gets the fever, keep her rubbed down and send for me.”

  “Will you get here sooner than before?” He really didn’t like using his rank to intimidate, but he would if need be.

  The doctor sighed. “My lord, I’m the only doctor in Himpley Downs. I have several patients. And regardless of popular belief, infections, childbirth and mishaps make no distinction between the classes. I go as I’m needed.”

  Jason barely bit back his retort, but the man spoke the truth. He rubbed a hand over his face.

  “Thank you.”

  He walked the man out, asking him questions yet again.

  * * * * *

  “Mary. Mary…” she whispered, thrashing about on the bed. “No, please, please no, baby. Please don’t go.”

  Her words were faint, but still Jason caught them. He ran the cold cloth over her face again, down her neck. For hours now he’d rubbed her down, but her fever still raged. She’d started it late that morning after the doctor left. Grims offered to get Mrs. Meddows or one of the other maids to help wash the woman down, but at the look Jason threw him, Grims left.

  He knew his staff wondered at the lord of the house nursing the stranger—and in his room at that. But he owed them no explanations, if he could come up with one. Which he couldn’t and he’d tried.

  Something about her pulled at him. Or maybe it was the fact she was left for dead. He’d been left for dead once. Jason shook off the thoughts.

  It was now dark.

  He still knew no more about the woman than he had earlier, except that she was the only survivor of the robbed stage. The coachman and guard were found dead, the coachman further up the road from the guard who lain on the roadside by a deceased colonel. Jason wondered if the attack was mere coincidence or something more. Why had it happened practically on his doorstep? Because of the storm, he’d missed the meeting he was supposed to garner information on and, with the finding the chit, he hadn’t had the time to worry over it. But now, he wondered…

  She was indeed lucky. If he could only get her fever down.

  Again she tossed her head on the pillow. “No. No. Please, don’t. Please…”

  “Shh. You’re safe.”

  The cold water in the basin chilled his hands, but still he dipped the cloth and ran it over her again. After hours of this, he knew her body as he did own. Well, almost. Her petite frame made him feel protective, or perhaps it was the scars, or the tears that leaked from beneath her closed eyes, at the pain of her feverish rantings, he knew not.

  Her warm, flushed cheeks scared him. Normally, a woman in his bed with such a rosy complexion would make him smile in triumph, but not now. Now, he just wanted to get the damn fever down. H
e’d fought for years on the Continent, knew what fever could do to a grown man, hardened by war. From what he could see, this woman had suffered enough in her life without having this to add to her pain.

  “You’ll be all right,” he whispered to her, brushing a damp strand of hair from her temple.

  He wished he knew her name. Something to bring her out of this, to at least acknowledge her whereabouts. Then he’d find out who she was.

  Her rest was fitful and scattered. Throughout the night he listened to the desperate whispers pleading for Mary, begging for Theodore to stop.

  Who was Mary? Her child? He knew women’s bodies well enough, that he knew she’d born one. There were telltale silvery lines on her small breasts and two on her lower abdomen.

  And Theodore?

  He picked up her hand and wiped it with the cloth, her palm burning in his. He twirled the gold band on her finger. It was loose and he pulled it up just a bit. For a woman as pale as she was, there was still a faint white band on her finger from wearing the ring for some amount of time. So was it Theodore who had marked her so? Her husband? Or someone else?

  The more Jason worked and prayed over her, the more he wondered about her. Who she was, what she was doing here, why fate had shoved her into his hands.

  * * * * *

  A moan jerked him awake. Jason blinked in the flickering candlelight as Grims wiped the woman’s brow, the counterpane tucked up under her chin.

  “I think it might be coming down, my lord,” Grims whispered.

  He shot his hand out and laid it on her forehead. Was it just hope or did she feel cooler?

  “How long have I been asleep?” he asked.

  One haughty gray brow rose. “We can’t have the master falling ill, even if he is unaccountably stubborn.”

  Jason stretched and rolled his neck.

  Again the woman moaned.

  “Perhaps she is coming to?”

  Jason hoped so.

  “Madam? Madam? You need to wake up.” To Grims he said, “Where is that infused tea the doctor blathered about?”

  “My lord?”

  Jason pointed. “There, that bottle. Take it and infuse a pinch—however the hell much that is—in a cup of tea for the lady to drink.”

  Grims did as he was told.

  The woman sighed and he put his hand to her good shoulder, reaching across her. “Madam. Wake up. Wake up.”

  A voice filtered through the haze, tunneling and echoing off her ears. The mumbles, garbled in their sounds, finally slid into place.

  “I need to know who you are.”

  Who she was? Surely that made no sense.

  “Come now, I know you can hear me.”

  Hear him? Of course she could hear him. He was all but yelling.

  She licked her dried lips and tried to open her itchy eyes. Finally, she cracked open one eye. The room was dark. Someone was leaning over her, a dark form, shadowed in the dim lights.

  “There you are,” he said.

  He. A man.

  Theodore? She shook her head and gazed up at him, the old fear swimming in her stomach. He leaned closer and she tried to shift away.

  Pain seared through her shoulder, down her arm and up her neck. Her head throbbed as she tried to take a deep breath.

  “Easy.”

  All she saw was his hand moving.

  She closed her eyes and waited.

  Silence.

  A touch featherlight down her cheek.

  He cleared his throat. “You are safe here, Madam. No one will harm you while you’re a guest in my home.”

  The voice wasn’t Theodore’s. It was clipped, rough, yet soothing, and most definitely British. Nor was the touch Theodore’s. Then she remembered—Theodore was dead.

  She was in England. Memories of the dock floated through her mind, the coach, Colonel Ludlow.

  A shiver danced through her.

  Gunshots. Death. Air. And the voices.

  “Stupid wench.”

  “Are you out of your mind?”

  Emily opened her eyes and focused on the man hovering over her. She licked her lips again, felt the dry, cracked skin.

  “Where,” she whispered.

  “Where are you?”

  She blinked and looked at the dark-headed stranger. His hair, black as a raven’s feather, complimented his dark eyes set beneath dark slashes of brows. A strong face, almost narrow, but not, chiseled cheekbones and jawline. His lips appeared firm, yet tilted a bit just at the corners. His nose, straight and Romanesque. Perfection marred by a large crescent scar curving from his hairline to his jaw on the left side of his face. Who was he?

  “I’m Jason Claymere. You are at Ravenscrest Abbey, my estate in Kent. Do you remember what happened?”

  His voice was soothing. The short, no-nonsense syllables different from what she was accustomed to hearing in Maryland. Not that she’d never heard an Englishman, but Colonials spoke slower or seemed to. Maybe not. She raised her right hand to her aching head. Must have addled her wits.

  “Do you remember what happened?” he asked again, in that low voice. It reminded her of water over rocks, rain on leaves.

  Definitely addled wits.

  She cleared her throat and rubbed her forehead.

  It was then she realized she was without clothing. Gasping again, her gaze flew to him.

  One dark brow winged up. “You’ve had the fever.”

  The fever. Oh.

  “Wh-where are my clothes? My cloak?” The letters. Her money. She’d had letters in her cloak pocket, and enough coin to last her a bit, hadn’t she?

  He shook his head. “Your clothing was quite ruined, Madam. As for your cloak it is drying on the back of that chair over there.”

  “My letters? Money?”

  His eyes narrowed on hers. “All in good time. As with you, your belongings are safe here.”

  Where did he say here was?

  “You’ve been unconscious for an entire day.”

  “I hit something, a rock or tree.” She remembered rolling and rolling and slamming into something. Emily looked at this man perched on the edge of this bed. “I jumped from the carriage.”

  A look that could only be shock crossed his features, both brows arched, wrinkling his forehead. “Jumped?”

  She was tired. “Yes, jumped. I did not want to wait until the man got control of the horses. They’d kill me then.”

  A knock sounded at the door. The man rose and strode across the room. She could hear him whispering, but it was too dark to see to whom he was speaking. The room was in shadows, but still she knew wealth when she saw it. The bed hangings of deep blue, looked to be silk, shot with golden threads. The feather mattress was so thick it all but swallowed her. Cool sheets, soft against her bare skin, cradled her.

  In moments he was back, carrying a tray.

  “There is tea here with medicine in it. The doctor left it, and you’re going to drink it all down. I want you well.” The order sounded stern, but lacked the hardened edge she was used to in being told what to do.

  Chamomile wafted up from the teacup and mixed with another heady scent. He sat on the bed and lifted her head in the crook of his arm. Emily grasped the blanket to her naked chest and drank the brew in sips. She shook her head. “No more.”

  He glanced in the cup. “I think that’s enough in any case.” He set it aside and looked back at her. He still held her and she tried to shift away. Carefully, he eased her down and brushed her hair back. “So, you jumped out of a moving carriage?”

  Whether it was condescension or slight amusement, she couldn’t tell. “A runaway carriage. The shots spooked the horses.”

  A grin flickered at the corner of his mouth. “My pardon. A runaway carriage.”

  “Yes. Then…” The voices and the pain in her shoulder. She looked down, seeing and feeling the bandage against her skin.

  “Then?”

  “It was raining and the ground seemed to be moving. Someone said, ‘Stupid wench’.
And then the other voice asked the first man if he was out of his mind.” She yawned and shivered. “That’s all I remember.”

  “That you remember anything is a blessing.” He looked down at her hand. “Were you traveling with your husband?”

  Why did he want to know?

  “I am a widow.”

  “I thought as much.” He looked back at her and she realized his eyes were a deep dark blue framed with thick, spiky black lashes. “And where does this brave and impetuous widow hail from? I can’t quite place your accent.”

  “Maryland,” she said, closing her eyes. The pain in her arm fired in a hot pulse through her body.

  “The Colonies?” The shock in his voice made her open her eyes.

  “America,” she corrected. “And regardless of what the colonel said, you are not going to win the war. It’s already…” A shot rang out. The Colonel weaved and fell. “The Colonel…he’s…is he?”

  His eyes softened. “Dead? Yes, unfortunately.” He tilted his head, a grin at the edge of his mouth. “A Colonial.”

  “Yes, as I was saying,” she cleared her throat, “the war’s over.”

  “A Colonial,” he mumbled.

  “American.”

  “I thought you were all uncivilized tea dumpers.”

  She glared at him. The man gave a new meaning to the word arrogance. It all but oozed out of him and his perfectly clipped words, and the way he sat on the side of the bed as though he had every right to do so with that slight amusement in his eye.

  “Americans prefer coffee. And we did win the war. Apparently your sainted tea is a bit weak. Perhaps that’s why we didn’t like it. Perhaps if you’d been more concerned with winning than with tea time, things might be different.”

  What was she doing? She knew better than to speak to a man thus. She stilled and looked away from him, focusing on a single candle flame in the silver candelabrum. She was in his home, wounded, ill and he could do anything he wanted to if he so chose.

  Stupid, so very foolish. Had she learned nothing? The flame weaved, then stilled.

  His laughter startled her, a deep rumble that faded as he softly said, “You need not fear.”