She went up in front of him, turning awkwardly as he carried the end of the chain behind her. He came out of the hidden entrance and straightened, catching her arm again, moving as fast as possible with the weighty encumbrance of the steel. He'd not had time to think through the logic of where he'd found her and why she'd been there and how it was possible—he knew only that he wanted to be out of there and back in the safety of the house immediately.
They were down the steps when Merlin cried, “Wait! Wait a moment. My hedgehog—"
Her sudden stop made the chain go taut. Instinctively, Ransom swung his arm back, letting go of a loop rather than allowing it to jerk her forward. But Merlin had braced for the tug. The slack sent her toppling backward onto the lowest step. There was a loud crack, a puff of lichen and sandstone, and a blow to Ransom's upper arm that made him stagger sideways.
For an instant he stared stupidly at the chain still in his hand with a confused idea that a link had popped. He'd seen that happen once, on a towing barge. The recoil had killed a cow standing eighteen feet away on the bank.
But the chain seemed whole. As he stood there looking at it, Merlin scrambled up and turned away, pulling it after her.
"Merlin—never mind that.” He frowned at the stone step, where a fresh slash showed white through the weathered surface. He looked up at her. “Come on."
She ignored him. The chain reached its full length and lifted between them. It seemed suddenly even heavier than before—so heavy that his hand would not take the weight. It slid from his fingers. Ransom stepped forward to catch it, but Merlin was already dragging it toward her with a loud clatter, looping it as she went.
He straightened, blinking at the link that bounced crazily along at the end of the chain. The movement woke a tiny, peculiar curl of nausea in the back of his throat. “Hurry up,” he said.
"Just a...” She was stooping in the shadows of the temple. The steel clanked. “...minute."
He squinted into the little building. The evening contrast made his eyes do odd things, causing the shadows to waver and slide. She straightened and bent over again, and the late sun flashed a moment on the links of steel. He kept trying to think how the chain might have snapped, and then remembered that it had not. The sequence went around in his head like a revolving wheel.
"Merlin.” He swallowed. There was a bitter taste in his mouth. “I'll send someone back for the hedgehog."
The temple echoed with the sudden rattle of metal. “There!” she said. “Got you.” Much clinking and rustling followed.
Ransom squinted and swallowed again, trying to compensate for the strange things the twilight seemed to be doing to his vision.
Merlin came out of the temple, carrying the looped chain in both hands. “He's in my pocket,” she said, as if that would be the foremost question on Ransom's mind. She stopped when she reached him. “Here."
Ransom moved to receive the chain as she dumped it. The weight of it hit his arm, and dropped right through his hands.
Bewildered, he watched it go down, just managing to catch the tail end. He heard the clatter as steel hit the steps again. He felt peculiar. Sick. As he stood there trying to make sense of the scene, something wet slid between his fingers. He turned his palm. In the last glow of daylight, brilliant copious streams of red flowed down his hand and soaked his cuff.
"The devil,” he said vaguely.
A sharp burst of sound exploded in the quiet air, matching the first one. But this time there was no chain falling to the stone that might have caused it. He blinked.
"What was that?” Merlin exclaimed.
Ransom wasn't really listening. He was still looking in bafflement down at his palm. And at his coat, torn wide open across the underside of his arm, and the bright blood that seeped rapidly through it. There seemed to be crimson everywhere: on his shirt, on his breeches, dripping off his hand, and puddling on the lichened stone at his feet.
"He's shooting at us!” She sat down suddenly on the step.
The numb place on his arm began to burn.
"Get down!” Merlin gave her end of the chain a tug.
The jerk sent a burst of pain through his arm as he stumbled and went to his knees. Then, because it seemed too difficult just at that moment to straighten up, he leaned his forehead on the second step and lay there, trying to catch his breath. He heard another loud crack. Merlin whimpered.
He managed to turn his head. The world seemed to go unbalanced around him. “All right?” He groped toward her with his good hand. “Merlin..."
"Yes, I'm all right,” she whispered. From his sideways view with his cheek pressed to the stone, he saw her turn to him. “Quick, move closer over here!” The chain clattered as she tugged at his hand, trying to pull him with her into the shelter of the sandstone slab that flanked the stairs.
"Shooting,” he mumbled, trying to think through the dizziness. He took a panting breath and swallowed. “Shooting..."
"Oh, my God."
Suddenly she was pulling on him bodily, trying to make him roll toward her. The pressure sent pain rocketing through his arm and shoulder. “Don't—” He couldn't seem to get enough air in his lungs to speak.
"You're shot! Where are you shot?” She sounded a little breathless herself.
"Arm,” he panted. “Scratch..."
He felt her leaning over him. She circled his chest and dragged him into a clumsy mil that forced a strangled groan from his throat. He hit his back and bit into his lower lip, wanting badly to retch and too dizzy to manage it.
"That's an artery,” she said, just as another cracking explosion sent a splatter of stone and lichen into the air over their heads.
"Merlin,” Ransom croaked, and tried to reach for her.
"Yes, yes, I'm all right.” She sounded suddenly impatient. “Don't talk to me now."
He heard the chain clatter. It fell across his arm, and he winced. Then she was working away at him, the sound of scissors slicing through fabric mingling with the quick chink-chink of the manacles. He looked up at her face through his eyelashes. There was a familiar crease between her brows and that look of utter concentration in her gray eyes.
She pulled the sleeve away from his arm. The chain clanked with every move she made. He closed his eyes, and when he opened them, she was tying his arm above the wound with a pair of the gaudy tinker's ribbons.
She moved away, sitting up a little, digging her chained hands into the bulging pocket of her apron as the hedgehog tumbled out. A fourth shot made her duck down swiftly, but she kept feeling in her apron. “He's coming closer."
"Naturally,” Ransom whispered. His voice was hoarse. He lifted his head to see if he was still bleeding, and giddy nausea surged into his throat. “Go ... back in the ... temple.” He wet his lips. “Lock the...” God, he was so dizzy. “You can ... lock the door."
She shook her head, drawing something out of her pocket. “You've already bled too much. You'll fall down if you try to get up."
"You,” he said, breathing hard to keep his head clear.
"I have to fix you,” she said calmly. From the corner of his eye, he could see her opening a tin box and unwrapping a bulky little package.
"Merlin, for the love of ... We've no way ... He'll walk—right up here..."
"No, he won't. He's going to think we have a gun, too.” She tapped the package with a self-satisfied smile. “I've been making rockets."
He stared up at her blearily. His arm throbbed in swollen agony. The deep evening sky seemed to fade and brighten again every time he moved his head.
"I'll set them off in the drainpipe,” she said. “That should make a nice bang.” She shifted out of his line of vision, sliding up the steps, the chain slinking along with her. Through a faint singing rash in his ears, he heard rustling and tapping movements, and then the unmistakable scrape and snap of a flint.
She moved back suddenly, throwing herself against him, her torso half-curled around his head and shoulders. Ransom bit back light-head
ed sickness at being jostled.
Something above them exploded with a report that made his whole body snap to convulsive attention.
Merlin's arm tightened around his throat, and then she was gone, scooting back up again to rustle and strike the flint. Another sharp explosion cracked in his ears just as she threw herself against him again. It was followed by a shot from their attacker, and then the sound of movement through the underbrush.
Ransom went stiff, trying to gather himself to rise. But he was fading, and he knew it.
"Coward,” Merlin said.
It took him a long time to realize she meant their attacker and not him, and that the crash of noisy passage was receding. Merlin set off another rocket. As the echoes died away, he could just hear the sound of retreat in the distance. Spurred by the disgust in her voice for the other man, he tried again to sit up.
"Lie down,” she ordered. “You aren't fixed yet."
She held his arm, loosening the tourniquet. He smelled his own blood with every breath, a thick, heady, rusted sort of smell that he associated with butchers’ shops and the nicks he always got when he shaved himself. As she turned away and searched in her pocket again, he attempted to lift his shoulders. When she saw what he was doing, she pushed him down.
He allowed it, not having much choice, since his head rang like the inside of a parish bell. “Merlin,” he said weakly. “Why ... do you have ... rockets ... on your person?"
She was leaning over his arm. At that, she glanced up at his face. Ransom could barely see her, but he thought her expression looked guilty. “I told you,” she said. “I made them."
She turned back to his arm and bent over, tightening the tourniquet and then doing something to the wound that brought a shuddering sob of pain from his throat.
"Made ... ‘em,” he gasped, trying to keep his mind from whatever torture she was practicing on his arm. “Why?"
"There's no saying when one might need a rocket.” Her voice held a touch of annoyance. “I told you not to talk to me."
He was silent then, drifting from anguish to darkness and back again. He thought he heard her say something, but the words slipped past him, meaningless.
"What,” he mumbled finally, coming to precarious consciousness and finding that she'd left off the torture and was looking down at him. He could see her more clearly, but the light was flickering, a mellow color that danced and cast shadows on her face. “What ... di’ you do?"
"Fixed you,” she said. “They're bringing Theo's doctor."
"Thirsty.” He took a breath and wet his lips. “Who's bringing..."
"Quin found us.” A trace of accusation. “Ransom, you didn't tell me we were right here at Mount Falcon!"
He tried to smile, but it didn't seem to work. It occurred to him that perhaps he was dying from this ridiculously minor wound. He supposed, vaguely, that if one could die from slit wrists, a slit arm was not very different. But it seemed an absurd and undignified way to go, to just lie down and trickle away.
Merlin was still looking down at him. He became aware that she was holding his hand, and that something softer than the stone step was under his head. The chain that bound her hands together was draped across his chest.
He wanted to ask her if he was dying, but he thought it would sound ridiculous. It seemed as if he ought to know that himself, one way or the other. Finally, having considered it from several foggy directions, he murmured, “Fixed me, Wiz?"
"Of course,” she said promptly.
He looked up at her, and got lost in a tangle of how pretty she was in the flickering light and how clever she'd been to chase off the kidnapper with her rockets and how he wished she would lean down close enough that he could kiss her. Something warm and sloppy seemed to make a hazy glow in his chest. “Merlin—” He swallowed. “Everything ... y'did—” He closed his hand on hers. A long time seemed to pass, and then he remembered what he was saying. “Good girl,” he mumbled. “Good girl."
She nodded, with a little smile, and the chain clinked as she stroked his forehead gently.
That worried him. It didn't seem like the kind of gesture anybody would normally make over His Grace the Duke of Damerell. Then she sniffed. He saw something glisten on her face, and that really worried him. He struggled against the encroaching darkness. He still could not bring himself to ask, but ... just in case ... there was something he wanted to...
"Merlin,” he murmured, tightening his hand. He waited until she was looking into his eyes again. A dark lock of hair had fallen loose from her pins and hung in a graceful curve over her shoulder.
"Yes?” she said.
He quirked his lips up a little—the best he could manage as a smile. “Love you ... Wiz,” he whispered. He rubbed his thumb across her knuckles. “...all my heart..."
Just in case ... just in case ... just in case...
Chapter 15
At three a.m., Merlin paused outside the gilt-trimmed door to Ransom's chamber. She touched her lower lip, frowning at the door carving that reflected gold and shadow from her shielded candle.
He'd be asleep, of course.
She just wanted to see him. Just for a little while.
She was feeling guilty. It was one thing to sneak about and evade Ransom's odious orders when he might appear at any moment and take her to task for it. It seemed like another thing entirely when he'd come so near to not being there at all. Even though the doctor and Thaddeus had virtually poured a dose of laudanum down her throat and tossed her in bed as soon as it was clear Ransom was out of danger, she felt reprehensible for sleeping all day through her schedule of lessons.
Worse, the six nocturnal hours she'd just spent installing the pinion gear weighed like iron on her conscience. And after two days in chains, she had a pretty good notion of just how heavy iron could be.
The night nurse was an old governess of Shelby's. He called her Prune-Face, which Merlin was fairly sure was not her real name. So Merlin hadn't used any name in particular when she'd woken the woman in her bed in the adjoining room a few moments earlier. The old governess had roused only long enough to snort and nod when Merlin said she'd take over for an hour.
After glancing at the little bottle half-concealed by the nurse's pillow, and taking a sniff in the earthenware water pitcher, Merlin had decided that the nurse would be fortunate to rise before noon, having helped herself so liberally to Ransom's medicine and spirits.
Merlin let herself into his room as quietly as she could. Stuffy warmth hit her. There was another candle, guttering very low in the far corner, and a coal fire that seemed to be radiating enough heat to fill several rooms.
Underneath the gigantic canopy, Ransom lay on his side, turned away from her. Candlelight and shadow slid over his bare skin above the sheet, making the bandaged poultice around his upper arm stand out in glowing white.
She set down her candle and moved around the bed.
He was awake, his good arm curled under his head. He made no attempt to turn toward her, but waited until she came within his range of vision.
"Wiz,” he said softly. Merlin nodded.
He smiled without moving, a dreamy lift of his lips. “Thought it would be Prune-Face."
"No.” Merlin hung a few feet away. She felt suddenly shy. “I told her to sleep."
"Mmm. Good idea. I much prefer the present company."
"You should be asleep, too."
He made a low, amused sound. “In this oven? I just lie here and bake, Wiz. I hope you're not offended by my informal attire."
Her gaze slid over his arm and the curved, shadowed muscles of his chest, warm ivory in the candlelight. On the floor next to the bed, his nightcap made a puddle of cotton.
He saw her glance at it and smiled again without moving. “Rebellious patient. I've already driven my nurse to drink."
She nodded. “I know."
A long silence engulfed them. Merlin stood fingering her skirt, wondering what to say. She hadn't expected him to be awake. She'd just wan
ted to see that he was safe and comfortable. The doctor had said as much, but—she'd wanted to see for herself.
"Come here,” he said.
She moved forward.
"Closer."
She went all the way to the edge of the bed.
"Down here,” he said, without turning to look up at her. “So I can see your face."
She gathered her skirt and knelt, where she was at eye level with him.
"That's better.” His golden-green hawk's eyes seemed soft and unfocused under the heavy, dark lashes. “I get a little dizzy when I try to sit up, you see."
"You should rest."
He sighed. “I'm afraid there isn't much choice for a man who falls down if he tries to stand up."
"Is it very painful?"
"No.” His mouth flattened. “Not at all. This is an embarrassingly unheroic injury, my dear. Half an inch long, clean cut, a few stitches, no fever...” He closed his eyes. “I just managed to stand about bleeding a bit too long."
Merlin lowered her gaze. Those terrifying minutes when she'd worked to stop the crimson flow were all too clear in her memory. She looked at the even rise and fall of his chest, watching the candles dance red highlights off smooth skin and the sprinkling of hair on his forearm.
"You fixed me, Wiz,” he said quietly.
The gentle depth of his voice brought a lump to her throat. She shook her head, still looking down.
"Doctor told me.” The bedclothes rustled as he shifted a little. “Where did you learn that?"
"Learn what?” She was watching the gold signet ring on his hand, trying to make the blur in her eyes go away.
"I don't think many well-bred young ladies would know how to tie off a hemorrhaging artery."
"Oh.” She shrugged a little. “Uncle Dorian taught me."
Ransom smiled. “Bless the queer old nibs."
"He made me do anatomy. I didn't like it much."
He reached out, moving his injured arm with slow care, and laid his palm against her face. He slid his thumb back and forth across her cheekbone.
"Ransom?” she asked.
"Mmm?"
"Do you remember...” Her voice was trembling a little, and she swallowed. “Do you remember what you said to me last night?"