She made an impatient movement toward him, but Ivo held her back.
“Let go of me!”
The Corsican looked at her stonily.
She held out her free hand to Dyemore. “Tell him.”
He stared at her a moment, his gray eyes glassy, and she wondered if he was beginning to lose his senses. Lord, if he fainted now it would be a disaster. His servants would turn against her.
Dyemore said something in Corsican to Ivo, and the servant released her.
Immediately she was across the room and bending over the duke.
Nicoletta hissed her displeasure.
Iris ignored her. “Ask your maidservant if she has any bandages to stop the bleeding. And tell your men to fetch a doctor from the village at once.”
Out of the corner of her eye she saw Nicoletta slip from the room. Did she understand English?
“No.” Dyemore’s eyes were on her, calm, cold, and emotionless, though he must be in pain. “No doctor. I don’t trust anyone in the village. You may bind it yourself, if you must.”
“Oh, I think I must,” she replied tartly. “The ball is still in your shoulder and has to be taken out.”
He blinked slowly. “We haven’t time for you to remove the ball. My men will be back with the vicar soon. Bandage the wound so that it doesn’t bleed. Ubertino will help me into some clothes.”
“This is insane,” Iris muttered, but she moved to do as he bid. Perhaps she had fallen under some spell. Perhaps she’d gone mad from her internment in that horrid little hut the Lords of Chaos had kept her in.
Perhaps this was all some dream and she would soon awaken in her boring room, safe in her brother’s London town house.
Except she was a practical woman, a woman not given to vapors or delusions, and she knew well enough that this was no dream. This was a real man bleeding under her hands, his skin solid and much too cold.
She hadn’t touched a man like this since James had died five years before.
She blinked and looked at her fingers, smeared with Dyemore’s scarlet blood. The wound was in the duke’s right shoulder, a jagged, oozing hole below his collarbone. It hadn’t seemed to have broken the bone there. That was lucky, at least.
Nicoletta returned with two more male servants following her, their arms filled with clothing, bandages, and water pitchers.
Iris reached for one of the bandages, but the maidservant snatched it first.
“Let the lady have it,” Dyemore barked. “She has experience tending the wounds of soldiers.”
The Corsican woman pursed her lips, but gave the bandage to Iris.
“Thank you,” Iris murmured as she accepted it.
Really she supposed she couldn’t blame Nicoletta. She was obviously very loyal to the duke and didn’t trust the same woman who had shot him to nurse him now.
Iris took the bandage, wet it in the water one of the men held, and began wiping the worst of the blood away. Dyemore’s skin was darker than her own, noticeably so, cool and smooth. She set aside the dirty bandage and folded a clean one until she had a thick pad. This she placed against the wound.
“Hold this, please,” she said to the plump maidservant.
Nicoletta pursed her lips again, but moved to do as she asked.
Iris wound longer strips tightly around Dyemore’s chest and over his shoulder.
When Iris was done she stepped back.
Dyemore sat upright in his chair, his jaw clenched, his forehead beaded with sweat.
He met her gaze and said gently, “Wash your hands, please, my lady. Nicoletta will help you with your coiffure.”
Iris blinked. She wasn’t sure she wanted the other woman near her hair, but she followed the maidservant to a corner of the sitting room. Two of the manservants came with them, obviously to keep her from bolting out the door. This was insane—she was being prepared to marry Dyemore, a man she neither knew nor completely trusted.
Belatedly Iris realized she wasn’t even sure what part of England they were in. She’d been kidnapped from Nottinghamshire, but it had taken several days’ journey for the Lords of Chaos to bring her to her hut prison. Even if she were to dash from Dyemore Abbey, she wouldn’t know in which direction to run.
Or to whom.
Perhaps she could enlist the vicar’s aid when he arrived? Signal to him that she was being married under duress? But he would be one man against two dozen of Dyemore’s Corsicans. Even were the vicar the most valiant of men, she didn’t see how he could prevail.
And Dyemore was right: the Lords of Chaos would be after her when they discovered that she still lived. They’d track her down. Bring her back to their ghastly revels. Or simply murder her outright.
He was her only safety.
Her only hope.
Nicoletta deftly combed out her tangled hair and pulled it into a simple knot. She was quick and competent. More importantly, she didn’t vent her anger by pulling Iris’s hair.
“Thank you,” Iris murmured to the woman.
Nicoletta met her eyes and nodded. Her soft mouth was still pursed in disapproval or irritation, but her eyes had gentled a bit.
Or at least Iris hoped so.
One of the manservants came running into the room. He said something in Corsican.
Dyemore replied, “Send the vicar up, then.” He turned to Iris. “Come here, my lady.”
She swallowed. Was she really going to do this mad, mad thing? Unlike some widows, she’d not discreetly taken a lover. She’d waited—perhaps naively—for a gentleman who esteemed her enough to make her his wife. More than that, she wanted to be cherished when next she lay with a man.
When next she married.
She’d not wanted another cold, loveless marriage.
This was not at all what she’d planned.
Dyemore watched her hesitate. He’d dressed in a black silk banyan while Nicoletta had tended her hair. It was buttoned all the way to his neck, making him look severe and dour. He might just pass at a glance for a gentleman lounging at home, perhaps a little the worse for drink.
He held out his good arm to her, his hand commanding. “Come now. The vicar is here. We haven’t much time.”
He should look weak, sitting there in front of the fire, his face pale and sickly, his black, shoulder-length hair sticking to the sweat at his temples. He seemed a stark figure of death, here at the center of this house of gloom.
But his eyes were icy gray and in control.
She wished desperately that she knew what he was thinking.
He’d already saved her once. What other choice did she have?
Iris crossed the room and placed her hand in Hades’s palm.
Raphael gripped Lady Jordan’s hand with the hazy notion that if he let her go she’d flee his rotting abbey. Leave him here all alone in his house of death and despair.
Take her light away from him.
He blinked, straightening. His shoulder was throbbing, as if some animal had burrowed within his flesh and were steadily gnawing, attempting to reach his heart.
But that was fantasy.
He needed to focus his mind. Keep and protect her, this woman with the blue-gray eyes and sweet pink lips.
Valente entered the sitting room. Behind him was a small spare man, his bobbed wig askew on his shaved head. The man gripped a black book in both hands. He looked both completely bewildered and completely terrified.
Bardo brought up the rear, towering over the vicar. “He thinks we will murder him, Your Excellency.”
Raphael nodded. “Vicar, what is your name?”
The man, who had been staring at Raphael’s scar in horror, started. “I … Er, Jonathon Webberly, sir, but I must protest. Who are you and what—”
“I am Raphael de Chartres, the Duke of Dyemore.” He hadn’t time for histrionics. “And I sent for you so that you might wed me to my fiancée.”
He drew Lady Jordan closer to him, ignoring how she stiffened.
The vicar’s gaze shot to her. “
Your Grace … That is … This is very unusual. I—”
“Can you marry us legally or not?” Raphael rasped.
“I … Yes, of course the marriage would be legal, Your Grace. I’m ordained in the Church of England and need only register a marriage. But this is highly irregular, especially for a gentleman of your importance.” The vicar licked his lips nervously, glancing at Lady Jordan. “Surely you must wish to call the banns and celebrate your nuptials in the village church?”
Lady Jordan made an aborted movement.
Raphael tightened his hand around hers, keeping her still. “Do I need to call the banns or be married in a church for this marriage to be valid?”
“No, Your Grace,” the man said, looking distressed. “The Church naturally frowns upon such hasty weddings, but legally there is no requirement to call the banns. That is—”
“Then I have no desire for delay. I wish you to marry us at once.” He stared at the man coldly, well aware of the impact of his visage.
Mr. Webberly nodded jerkily and opened his book.
Raphael concentrated on staying alert. He let the vicar’s words wash over him, aware of her fingers in his hand all the while.
She was … different from other women in some way he still was unable to understand. She was more pure, more bright, more golden. She called to him on an animal level. Her song had seeped into his veins, his lungs, and his liver until he could no longer divide her from his marrow.
He needed her.
And now he was marrying her, Iris Daniels, Lady Jordan.
The notion was as wrong as that of a spring robin tied to a carrion raven.
Yet he would not stop this monstrosity. More, he’d kill any man who tried to gainsay him.
He wanted her.
Past reason. Past honor and good taste. Past his own vows and the things he must see done in this life. Perhaps this was madness.
Or the evil of his father.
If so, he’d succumbed.
The vicar droned on until it was time for them to make their vows. Raphael turned to see if she would protest at this late stage. Perhaps weep and say that she was being forced to do this. Beg Mr. Webberly to help her from this dreadful place and her hideously scarred presumptive husband.
But how could he forget that this was the woman who had faced him down with a pistol? Who had shot him only an hour or so before?
She was nothing if not courageous.
Lady Jordan made her vows in a cool, clear voice.
He responded in turn, his voice as ever emotionless and firm.
The vicar pronounced them man and wife and closed his black book, looking up. His eyes strayed to Raphael’s injured shoulder and widened.
Raphael realized that his wound had bled through the cloth.
He nodded to Ubertino. “Pay him well.”
The Corsican bowed, took a heavy purse from his pocket, and handed it to the vicar.
The Englishman’s eyes widened. “Your Grace, this is much more than I am accustomed to receiving for a simple wedding.”
“My duchess and I are most appreciative of your inconvenience,” Raphael replied silkily. “And, of course, I will expect the utmost discretion from you on this matter, Mr. Webberly.”
Any fear that he’d been too subtle was laid to rest when the vicar paled. “I … I … Yes, naturally, Your Grace.”
“Good. I do so value my privacy. I would not enjoy being the subject of gossip.”
The man gulped and backed a step, clutching his book and purse to his chest.
Raphael nodded to him. “My men will see you safely home.”
“Thank you, Your Grace.” The vicar hurried from the room with Valente and Bardo close behind.
Raphael sighed and let his head fall against the chair back.
Beside him his new duchess tsked. “You scared him half to death. Was that truly necessary?”
“If word reaches the Lords of Chaos that I am weakened, both our lives will be in danger. Therefore, yes, it most definitely was necessary.” With an effort he opened his eyes and glanced at her. There were shadows beneath her eyes, and her pale pink lips drooped. A smudge of dirt highlighted her left cheekbone, and he had the ridiculous urge to wipe it away. “I think now I will retire if you do not mind, madam.”
She knit delicate brows. “Not before the ball is removed from your shoulder.”
His eyelids were so very heavy. “I cannot think such argumentativeness is attractive in a wife.”
“Perhaps you should’ve thought of that earlier,” she retorted, but her tone was gentle.
“Humph.”
“Send your men for a surgeon.”
He opened his eyes wide in order to shoot her a glare. “You said you have experience with gunshot wounds.”
“Yes, but I’ve never actually removed a bullet.” Her face was drawn with fear, and yet he still detected a glow beneath her surface exhaustion.
He waved the objection aside. “I trust you and we have no other choice. If the Lords of Chaos find that I am wounded they will be like a pack of wolves on a lame ram. I won’t survive the night—and neither will you.”
He heard her huff, but her hand crept under his shoulder, urging him to rise. Then his men were there as well, a much stronger support. He could walk. He wouldn’t be carried, damn it. Not in his father’s house.
The stairs were tricky, the treads kept trying to trip him up, but they made it to the floor above. They trudged past the duke’s rooms, and finally arrived at the duchess’s rooms—the rooms that had once been his mother’s.
He lay down in his bed with gratitude that nearly overwhelmed his senses.
“I will need a knife and a pair of tweezers or tongs if you have them,” his wife said politely, almost apologetically.
“You trust this woman with a knife at your flesh, Your Excellency?” Ubertino growled in Corsican, even as Nicoletta trotted out of the room.
With effort Raphael opened his eyes and simply looked at his gathered servants, one by one, and said in English, “She is your mistress, your duchess, now. You will respect her. Do you understand?”
He heard his duchess draw in her breath.
There was a spattering of muttered agreement from his servants.
“I am not the one to whom you vow allegiance now,” he barked.
Ubertino jerked his head to his fellow servants and turned to his wide-eyed duchess. The Corsican bowed low and said, “Your Grace.”
She swallowed. “Thank you.”
When she turned back to Raphael she was frowning, her brows lowered over those blue-gray eyes, like thunderclouds over a Yorkshire moor sky. A fanciful thought.
He didn’t usually have fanciful thoughts.
Someone was unbuttoning his banyan.
He opened his eyes to see her, Lady Jordan, looking quite worried, with Nicoletta beside her. But that wasn’t right, was it? She was the Duchess of Dyemore now.
“Bring me my mother’s jewelry box,” he ordered the maidservant.
Nicoletta hurried out of the room.
The bandages were being tugged away from his wound. He gasped at a shard of pain.
“I’m sorry,” his wife whispered.
“Your Excellency.” He opened his eyes to see Nicoletta holding out the jewelry box. There seemed to be a halo about her head, and he wanted to chuckle. Nicoletta was too sharp tongued by far to be a saint, surely?
“Open it,” he said.
She took a key from a ring at her waist and inserted it into the lock, then opened the box and brought it close to him so that he could see the contents.
Raphael lifted his good hand—it felt uncommonly heavy—and stirred a finger through the jewels until he found the ring. His hand trembled as he lifted the ring from the box. “Lock it again and give the key ring to Her Excellency.”
Nicoletta pursed her lips but did as he said.
His duchess merely looked bewildered on being handed a key to a treasure box.
“It is yours
now,” he said, his voice … Something was wrong with his breath. His gasped. “As my wife. As my duchess. This is yours as well.”
He took her hand—so warm in his—and placed the heavy, chased ring on her finger. It wouldn’t fit her ring finger—his mother had been a fragile creature with very thin hands. Instead he pushed it onto the smallest finger of her right hand. The sight of it there, glowing gold, the central round ruby burnished with the years it had guarded his mother’s family, satisfied something within him.
His hands dropped to the bed like lead weights.
“Protect her,” he whispered to Ubertino as the room darkened. Someone was weeping. Nicoletta? “Promise me. Protect her.”
Iris’s eyes stung, which was ridiculous.
She hardly knew this man, husband or not. What matter to her if he lived or died? He was arrogant, abrupt, and demanding—the last things she’d wanted in a husband.
And yet she wept for him.
She blinked, trying to clear her vision. Her fingers were stained with blood as she worked on the wound, the gold of the heavy ring Dyemore had placed on her little finger all but obscured by the gore.
She glanced at Dyemore and realized that his face had relaxed. Black lashes lay against his pale cheeks and his lips were parted softly, though the right side was still twisted even now.
He’d passed out.
For a timeless moment she stilled.
He was entirely at her mercy, this ruthless, violent, powerful man. This man who had saved her life and then demanded she marry him. He’d lain down and without hesitation or fear let her cut into him.
He trusted her—with his life, it seemed.
She’d never been so important to someone before.
She inhaled and picked up a small pair of tweezers—probably from a toiletry kit. The servants had brought a stack of cloths, a pair of scissors, water, a basin, a sharp knife, and the tweezers and laid them out neatly on a table beside the bed. They had also lit two candles on the bedside table to provide light in the otherwise dim room.
Carefully sliding the tweezers into the wound along the knife blade, she delicately probed. She was glad he was unconscious—she hated the thought of causing him further pain.
She moved the metal implement about in Dyemore’s flesh, in his shoulder, as the blood continued to ooze out, staining his banyan and the sheets. Sweat slid greasily down the center of her back.