th’ way to Middlesex? In this soup? But, sir—”
“I know the place is not staffed, but we’ll need privacy. Absolute quiet.” Neil shot the man a pointed look that dared him to question the business any further.
“Aye, as ye say, sir. Bearsden ‘tis then. Posthaste.” He saluted with a tug of his cap and a sly, gap-toothed grin.
Neil reentered the inn and looked around the taproom. The Marleigh driver hadn’t come in, probably intending to sleep in the stables. Neil approached the burly keeper. “I’m to meet my wife—short woman, reddish hair, dark eyes. Which room?”
The man squinted and pursed his lips. “Maybe she’s here, maybe she ain’t.”
Neil sighed, plopped two guineas on the bar and cocked his head. “She’s been quite ill, the poor dear, in hospital until yesterday. Did she seem all right?”
“Can’t say. Don’t care. Third room on the right, top o’ th’ stair,” the man said, hefting the coins in his hand.
The stairs creaked under Neil’s weight, and he fingered the bottle in his pocket as he climbed. At the third door he stopped, saturated his handkerchief with the concoction, re-stoppered the bottle and knocked softly. He heard her answer, “Yes?”
“Hurry, darling, you must hurry! He’s coming!” he whispered frantically, hoping she’d take him for his nephew.
It worked. The door opened a crack and Neil pushed his way through. She opened her mouth to scream and he covered her face with the wadded linen. She fought him, struggled wildly for a few seconds and then collapsed against his chest. Quickly, he lifted her deadweight in his arms and laid her on the bed.
How light she was, like swan’s down. So delicate. He turned her this way and that until he had her securely bundled in her cloak. Then, cursing, he awkwardly shut her overstuffed suit-case and carried them both downstairs.
“A relapse,” he explained to the wide-eyed innkeeper. Managing the door latch with some difficulty, Neil exited the inn with his burden, dumped her into the waiting coach and climbed in behind her. He arranged his little charge in a comfortable position as Oliver barreled through the fog toward Middlesex.
The tiny witch would have a hell of a headache when she woke up, but nothing compared to the one she’d probably give him. What did one do with a shameless, greedy female secluded in a deserted old manor house to make her want to stay awhile?
Neil dismissed his scruples and smiled. The possibilities seemed deliciously endless.
Bearsden Manor, Middlesex
Sunlight streamed through the window and sliced across her face. Elizabeth forced one eye open and quickly clamped it shut against a shard of brightness. Her head ached abominably and her stomach churned like a kettle at full boil. She tried to roll off the bed to find a chamberpot, but froze when a huge hand settled on her shoulder.
“Stay where you are,” a deep voice warned.
Elizabeth screamed.
Terrorized, she struggled with all the wildness of a cornered fox. This was it. He’d kill her now! But not, by God, without a fight! She struck out with her fists. Desperate to live, Elizabeth flailed against him until her body heaved violently.
He dodged to one side as her stomach emptied the little that was in it. Heedless of indignity or even death, she retched endlessly before collapsing back against the pillows.
Fear shifted to anger and frustration. She’d done all she possibly could and it wasn’t enough. Her eyes wouldn’t open. They joined the rest of her body in total and complete exhaustion. “Do it, then,” she rasped. “Just do it.”
“Look, I’m sorry about this, but it’s your own fault.” The voice was calmer now, only tinged with irritation.
Elizabeth braced herself for whatever came next—hands around her throat, a knife, a pistol ball? What did it matter? Her muscles felt disconnected and refused to react. Rage deserted her suddenly, left her empty, spent. She was just too tired to care anymore. Let him do his worst. Everyone else had.
If only her voice would work, she could curse him. One parting shot: See you in hell, you bastard! No, she wouldn’t go there. She’d already paid for all her sins. Surely.
Thoughts scattered as she grasped for something pleasant to distract her from whatever pain might ensue. His words now were seductive, scary, threatening, luring her back from every comforting scene she tried to picture. Couldn’t the wretch just be quiet and get on with it? Her muzzy mind couldn’t grasp the content of what he said, but she sensed exasperation in his tone. Was the idiot trying to talk her to death?
His muttering ceased as he tugged her this way and that, rustling and yanking at the bedcovers. Then there was a peaceful stillness, broken only by the sound of pouring water. Her limbs lay weighted, lifeless. Her eyelids felt too heavy to open. The odor of sickness faded.
A cool cloth was swiped across her face and neck. Ah, that felt good, brought memories of Mother. Good memories to die with. “Mama,” she whispered, hoping her mother would be waiting to welcome her. Her father, too.
“No, I’m not Mama. Here, drink this,” the voice ordered, gruff and impatient. “I said drink!”
She drank. Poison, then. Of course. He was a doctor. She welcomed the creeping oblivion, weary of fighting a useless battle she couldn’t begin to win or even understand. The weeks of sleeplessness and watchfulness had only delayed the inevitable. Death in a water glass. Ironic.
Her last thought contained relief and a little regret. She ought to have married old Purvis Hilfinger when she was sixteen. She’d be in Northumberland right now, raising babies and counting sheep. Ah, counting sheep…one, two, three…
Neil started to cover her. He ought to undress her so she would be more comfortable, at least get her out of that pinching corset. God only knew how long she had worn the damned thing—all day before, probably, and certainly throughout the night. ‘Twas a wonder she could breathe at all.
He placed his hand lightly on her chest Breathing was too shallow and she looked pallid as a corpse. A bad reaction to the chloroform? Nonsense, the queen herself had used it. He’d employed it on hundreds of patients without any ill effects.
But none of them were women, his conscience reminded him. Maybe he’d used too much and for too long a time. What did he know of delicate constitutions such as Miss Marleigh’s or even of female medicine in general? Nothing outside the medical texts and an occasional treatise on feminine complaints. There’d been cadavers in med school, of course, and as an intern he’d observed indigent patients. But Neil could count his actual female patients on the fingers of one hand. Hardy trulls every one—camp followers he’d treated for the grippe or diseases better left unnamed.
Military medicine was virtually all he knew. Battlefield surgery, dysentery, saddle sores, the odd appendectomy. What if, in his desperation to protect Terry, he’d done real injury to this fragile girl? Suppose she died
