A roar of assent answered him.
Beside Bronwyn’s bearer, the whore shook her head. “’E’s not th’ man what sold me th’ fake stock. ’Tis th’ other.”
“What?” Bronwyn’s bearer turned so quickly, he almost dislodged her.
The whore repeated, “’E’s not th’ one—”
“Damn it.” The bearer inspected Oakes and his progress. Looked up at Bronwyn’s still, set face. Remembered the kind impulse that made him pick her up. And separated the people in front of him with the swath of his beefy arms. “Get outta th’ way, we’re hangin’ th’ wrong man.”
The mob rumbled as they turned on the man beneath her, prepared to kill him for interfering. From the other direction, a now menacing Oakes waded toward the ringleader. The gray-cloaked shadows fanned out around the box, closing in a tight-knit snare.
The helpful assistants of the mob tightened the noose around Adam’s neck. The minister called, “So must all swindlers perish!” He failed to notice the danger until Oakes stepped up on the box in one oversize step. As Oakes straightened, the ringleader craned his neck back, and back, and back. He retreated several steps and in a painfully comedic move fell backward off the box.
The fickle crowd guffawed.
Oakes turned on the other men who had so eagerly volunteered for the hanging, and they abandoned the box like fleas off a drowning dog.
“It’s Oakes!” someone called. “’Ey, Oakes, you wanna ’ang ’im?”
Oakes faced the crowd and seemed to swell. His face contorted, his arms swung back and forth, back and forth, and that same someone asked, “’Ey, Oakes, don’t you want us t’ ’ang ’im?”
Oakes glared.
Willing to abandon one victim for another, the someone yelled, “Then we’ll ’ang th’ other one.”
But the other one had disappeared, mysteriously whisked away by gray-cloaked figures.
“Oakes!” Bronwyn shrieked. “Catch me.”
The man beneath her helped her launch herself into Oakes’s arms, and from Oakes she flung herself toward Adam. With one bleak glance he collapsed into her arms. “Help me get this noose off him,” she commanded.
They laid the unconscious Adam down. His leg now gaped where the bullet had entered, and Bronwyn tugged her scarf tight to slow the bleeding. She looked up; the crowd had melted away, except for a few who remained in ghoulish curiosity. Coldly Bronwyn made use of them, ordering them to lift her love and carry him to Judson’s carriage. This she would commandeer. Wherever he was now, he owed her that much.
Oakes loped along beside them, keeping the bearers in line by his mere presence. “Where will we go, m’lady?”
“To Madame Rachelle’s.”
“Good.” Oakes nodded. “That’s one cunnin’ woman, even fer a frog.”
Gaping at the massive fellow, she asked, “You know her? Be careful with him.” She caught Adam’s lax hand before it bumped the frame of the carriage door and frowned at the men. “He’s not a sack of potatoes. Let me get in first, and I’ll hold his head in my lap.”
They smoothly maneuvered him onto the seat. Bronwyn flinched as they tucked his legs up, but she demanded, “Can any of you drive?”
They backed away, but Oakes plucked one of them up by the neck. “He can drive us.”
“Us?” Bronwyn asked.
“I’ll go wi’ you t’ see you get there wi’ no trouble.” Oakes glared at the designated coachman, and the driver scrambled onto the seat as if his breeches were on fire. Oakes gave him directions, then entered and sat opposite Bronwyn. As if she’d just asked, he answered her previous question.
“Madame Rachelle brought me ’ere. She ’as Judson in ’er ’ands, an’ that froggie will know just ’ow t’ treat a scum like ’im.”
Bronwyn bit her fingernails as Oakes laid the unconscious Adam across Rachelle’s bed.
“Do ye want me t’ call a doctor?” Oakes asked.
“Do you wish to kill him?” Daphne snapped. “He has lost enough blood, and all your English physicians would do is bleed him again.” She rolled up her sleeves. “Leave him to me. I will pull him through.”
In a pig’s eye, Bronwyn wanted to snap back. But here in the sickroom, the reckless French girl demanded respect.
It seemed Oakes thought so, too, for he said, “I’ll just be goin’, then.”
“Where?” Bronwyn demanded.
“Home.”
Bronwyn prodded, “Where’s home? I wish to reward you for your help.”
“Naw.” He shook his head and kept on shaking it. “I ’elp folks so’s they’ll treat me good.”
“And do they?” Daphne asked.
“Aye.” He shambled toward the door. “No one ever tries t’ beat me or nothin’. Take care of ’is Ludship.” His last words echoed down the hall, and the women turned back to their gruesome task.
Bronwyn glanced around. “Should I light the candles?”
“As many as you can find, s’il vous plait. I need the light.”
Bronwyn watched as Daphne brought shiny instruments out of a black bag and laid them on the table beside the bed. She trembled as Daphne inserted the scissors to cut away Adam’s breeches and she saw the shredded skin and muscle.
“Oh, stop whimpering.” Daphne rinsed her hands in the basin by the bed. “This is what I trained for, practiced for. If you cannot help me without fainting, I will ask one of the others.”
“No!” Bronwyn leaped forward. “I’ll assist you.”
Daphne smiled with grim appreciation. “I rather thought you would. The bullet struck only the fleshy part of his leg, and left the necessary parts intact.” She glared at Bronwyn. “You must be happy to hear that, mademoiselle.”
Without a blush, Bronwyn glared back.
Satisfied with her composure, Daphne pointed at the wound. “The bullet entered the leg in the front, exited through the back. That’s good.”
“It went out the back?” Bronwyn asked, dumbfounded. “He has a wound at the back, too?”
“You had not noticed?” Daphne snorted. “Have you no practical function in this world?” Without waiting for an answer to that hypothetical query, she continued, “I could sew him up immediately—”
“You’re going to sew him?”
“How else would I put this together?” Daphne waved an encompassing hand.
Bronwyn cleared her throat. “I don’t know.”
“I could sew him up immediately, but he has bits of cloth from his breeches contained in the wound. They must be removed, or they will fester. Monsieur le Vicomte may struggle when I probe and clean.”
“He’s unconscious,” Bronwyn objected.
With brisk efficiency, Daphne wrung out a cloth and laid it on Adam’s forehead. “Pain has a way of bringing the patient to life, and I want to do a good job on him.”
“Because he’s your first gunshot patient?”
“Because he is going to take you away from here and you will never come back,” Daphne declared with a fervency that almost frightened Bronwyn. “You think you can sweep in here and capture my mother’s heart, but I tell you, when you are gone Rachelle will remember me once more.”
“Rachelle isn’t your mother,” Bronwyn retorted.
“No, but she cares for me as if she were.” She lifted her head and glared. “She’s all I have in the world.”
Silence reigned, then Bronwyn asked, “Where is Rachelle?”
“She and the others are stowing your Carroll Judson in the pantry below.”
“Bless them.” Bronwyn imitated a smile through lips so tight they were bloodless and grasped Adam’s wrists firmly.
Mixing water with brandy, Daphne bathed the wound and picked away bits of thread and cloth. With her forceps she began to probe into the muscle. Adam twitched and moaned, and Bronwyn leaned her weight against him.
Daphne took his leg between hers to keep it still. Her fingers flew, her brow puckered. Her breath sounded loud in the room, and she muttered as if she were puzz
led.
“What’s wrong?”
“There is something in here.”
Dreading the reply, Bronwyn asked, “Did the bullet hit the bone?”
“Non. It is not a bone fragment, but it is loose.”
“There are chips of a ship deck in there.”
That caught Daphne’s attention.
“That’s why he limps. A cannonball struck near him, and—”
“I see.” Daphne slipped a finger in beside the forceps. “When Monsieur le Vicomte recovers, he will thank me for this.”
Her glib guarantee reassured Bronwyn even as the slow torture dragged Adam back to consciousness.
“There.” Daphne held up a red fragment. “I will go back for more.”
Sickened, Bronwyn looked away, but she saw the leg that looked so like a display in a butcher’s window. She took a breath, but the odors of blood and muck fogged her mind. Light-headed, she wavered, but a mutter from the bed made her look down.
Adam was awake.
Delight filled her with a manic energy, sweeping her faint away. She wanted to hug him, kiss him, assure herself—and him—of his health. Instead she whispered, “Adam, you’re going to be well soon.”
He didn’t answer, only stared. Stared so fixedly that alarm touched her. He looked at her as if she were a stranger. His complexion was bloodless. Beneath his shirt his chest rose and fell, endlessly seeking oxygen.
“Adam?”
“Is he awake?” Daphne asked.
“He is, but he doesn’t speak.”
Daphne abandoned the leg that so fascinated her and came to his head. She groped through his thick hair. “There isn’t a bump.” With her thumbs she lifted his lids and peered into his eyes. “Do you know who you are?”
“Yes, and what’s worse, I know who you are. Can’t I afford a real doctor?”
Bronwyn’s relief found voice in laughter, and it escaped in a whoosh.
Unamused, Daphne stepped away. “You are ungrateful, monsieur.”
Reminded of Daphne’s dedication, Bronwyn sobered. “Yes, you are, Adam. Daphne has done all a doctor could do, and more, I suspect.”
“She’s hurting me at least as badly as any damned doctor who’s worked on me before,” Adam allowed. He hesitated for the beat of a heart, then asked, “Will I lose my leg this time?”
“No,” Bronwyn cried, but he paid her no attention.
“No,” Daphne answered firmly. “I don’t even believe there will be infection. The powder ignited so close to your leg, it purified the wound as it inflicted it.”
He searched her face, then nodded, satisfied with her competence and her truthfulness. “You may continue.”
Daphne returned to the leg while Bronwyn poured a large glass of brandy. Sliding her arm under his shoulders, she supported him while he drank; then he sank back.
Doggedly Bronwyn ignored Daphne’s work, but she couldn’t ignore Adam’s groans as Daphne delved deeper and deeper, or the way he jerked and clenched the sheets.
At last he burst out, “Woman, must you maul me?”
Daphne lifted her face in triumph. “I got it!”
“Got what?”
Bronwyn wiped his forehead with a wet rag as Daphne exulted, “I found the splinter that caused you such pain. Look!” She thrust the forceps before his face, and clamped between their steel jaws was a dripping piece of wood, encased in slime. “You will have no limp now!”
Gripping Daphne’s wrist, Adam brought it closer to inspect the chip. “You’ve done something no other doctor could do. I thank you. Bronwyn, look—”
With one sigh as she passed into unconsciousness, Bronwyn slid off the bed and onto the floor. Daphne made a disgusted noise and prepared to help her, but Adam stopped her. “No. She doesn’t want to be here with a man all London despises, and I don’t want her here. Leave her. Just…leave her.”
Chapter 20
Adam was sitting up for the first time in days. His color was good, he moved with an ease that amazed Bronwyn.
And he had become a stranger.
Not a stranger, really. She recognized this Adam, remembered him from the first time she’d met him. His lips curved in an insincere smile. He radiated hostility. Somehow, some way, he’d become the Adam of long ago. He’d retreated behind a mask as stiff and as cold as any worn by Carroll Judson, and she didn’t understand why.
She only knew he wore it well. He wore it with the ease brought from years of practice.
She brushed the velvet material on the arm of the chair with the edge of her hand. The light fell on it, sparking it to beauty. Trying to maintain her composure, she admired it while avoiding his gaze. “We have arranged for you to be transported back to Boudasea Manor tomorrow.”
“Fine.”
Hardly encouragement, but she had to try. She wanted to speak with him be with him, as she had been with him before. “Madame Rachelle has Judson locked in her pantry.”
One elegant brow lifted as he drawled, “In her pantry?”
“It has the best lock in the house.” She smiled slightly. “She visits with him every evening, making sure he’s comfortable and well fed.”
“I would think she’d be anxious to place him in the prison, where he’d be uncomfortable and ill fed.”
“Not at all.” She smoothed the green velvet the other way until it displayed its dark side. “The jailers can be bribed, she says, to provide pleasant surroundings and decent food, and if enough money is produced, to provide escape.”
“I see.” His hands, which had been resting on the covers, rose and templed at his chin. “Why not keep him here, then, and torment him as he tormented…others?”
Unable to help herself, she asked, “Like me?” His mouth tightened, and she lost her nerve. “She wants to keep him healthy, the better to have him survive the travail she plans for him.”
“What travail is that?”
“I don’t know. She says he will decide.”
“Interesting.” His eyes narrowed.
“Your mother wanted to come into London, but she found the excitement too much for her.”
“Lord, yes.” The mention of his mother brought a spark to his eye. “Don’t let her risk her health. She’s all I have.”
She recognized a cutting blade when exposed to one. She’d seen too much of the knife, and his words stabbed at her deliberately. “You have more than that.”
“You mean my betrothal?”
A step in the right direction, she determined. “Exactly.”
A smile played about his mouth. “Olivia should not be exposed to the evil London vapors.”
Her fingernails lurched through the nap of the velvet, destroying the pattern she’d so carefully created. “Oh, Olivia didn’t even want to come. Not even when she was told you were sick, and she adores nursing. I don’t, you see. It makes me ill. Invalids are quite beyond my ken.”
“Are they? Yet you revived from your ordeal with scarcely a whimper. You were kidnapped, bound, gagged, used as a pawn in a dreadful maneuver.”
It sounded as if he accused her, but she refused to experience guilt for recovering from her bruises without scars. “Yes.”
“You were there when Judson and I were trying to kill each other.”
“Yes.” She had to try and explain, make him see she would have given her life for him. “I was there when the mob took you, too. I forced this big man to carry me forward. I kicked him, trying to make him intervene. I did what I could to rescue you”—she faltered at his forbidding frown—“but the mob proved too much for me.”
He dismissed her earnest plea with barely a shrug. “I wouldn’t expect one small woman to stop so determined a lynching. It’s you I am concerned about.” So serious he seemed almost caring, he asked, “Are you well?”
Unsure of the dependability of her voice, she nodded.
“Did he hurt you?”
“Judson?” Her voice rasped in her throat. “He tried.”
“Did he rape you?”
r /> As plain as that. The seaman had overtaken the gentleman, and Adam didn’t wrap his query in any pretty camouflage. She could be plain, too. “No. He tried….” She wasn’t as tough as she wanted to be. The memory of her wrestling match on the seat of the carriage made her choke. She wanted comfort. She wanted to throw herself on Adam’s chest and weep, but no sympathy swayed that cold man seated on the bed. A wave of nausea struck her, and she put her chin down, breathing deeply until she could finish. “He tried, but was incapable.”
He never flinched, never moved. Her emotion meant nothing to him. “Is that why he was late coming to kill Walpole?”
“I suppose.” Was that all he had to say? Was he repulsed that Judson had tried to assault her? Did that make her dirty in his eyes? She rose, clung to the back of the chair as dizziness swept her. “I must go. There are things I need to attend to.”
Adam watched as she walked to the dresser, found it with her hand, moved to the door casing, caught it, held it, then groped out of the room. Remorse gripped him, but he held tight to his resolve. He must not involve Bronwyn in his exile from society, but how difficult it was to deceive her. She knew him better than anyone alive. She knew him too well. She had become everything his mother wished for him.
This mask he wore, so familiar, once a part of him, no longer fit. Under the reproach of Bronwyn’s gaze, cracks developed. Chips threatened to break off and reveal his true countenance, but he could hardly let that happen.
What kind of man would subject the woman he loved to the censure of society? Not he. He had always known innocence was no defense, but a London mob had had to beat it into him before he had truly understood. Even now he cringed as he remembered standing on the platform on Change Alley, a noose around his neck, and seeing Bronwyn on the shoulder of some dock walloper. She hadn’t been cheering his demise, he knew, but she had been about to witness it nevertheless. She had seen the scorn of the crowd, of the gentlemen and the streetwalkers.
She thought she wanted him, and without conceit he knew she did. Physically they were a match. He’d told his mother he wanted to be the father of his first child. He’d told Bronwyn he used any method, including passion, to keep her close. He’d told himself he seduced her just to bend her to his will. He didn’t mind hiding the truth from his mother, from Bronwyn, but he knew now he’d been hiding it from himself.