Lyn Stone - The Scot

“I have to leave, Suz. You’ll be on your own to look after him.”

She choked, coughed and fought for breath while he patted her soundly on the back. “Wh-why must you?” she sputtered.

He crouched on the floor beside where she was sitting and took her hands in his. “Because someone wants me dead and if I stay, that could put you and James in danger.”

“No! Suppose they follow you and—”

“You mustn’t worry.” He was shaking his head and smiling at her. “You see, I’m sailing after all. They’ll know I’ve gone, but not how. Once I reach London, I’ll hire the protection I need and a Bow Street man to find out who is responsible for this.”

“Father, I am so afraid for you after tonight’s shooting.”

“Two of the men are dead. The one who escaped will need time to hire more help and find out where I’ve gone.”

He squeezed her hands. “And you, my sweet girl, will be safer without me around. Still, I want you to promise me that you will head for the Highlands as soon as James is able to travel by coach. No one can touch you here at the Royal, so stay inside until you go. When you are ready to leave, do so with as little fanfare as possible. James will know how to arrange that. I’m leaving him well armed. Trust me, there’s none better to protect you.”

She sniffed. “He does seem rather proficient at stopping bullets.”

The earl chuckled. “He’s a large target, I grant you, but he’s also a bang-up shot. I am leaving you in the best of hands.”

Susanna knew she couldn’t dissuade him. “Go then and Godspeed.”

He released her hands and stood. “I shall wire you the minute I arrive.”

“Assuming they have the telegraph where I’m going.”

“Yes, assuming that. If not, I will get a message to you. Return one to me to let me know how James is getting on. Mind you keep an eye on him. Expect some fever, but I’m sure he’ll be fine.”

“You have done that before, haven’t you?” she asked, inclining her head toward the bedroom where he had just performed surgery.

“A time or two in the wars,” he admitted, “long before you were born.”

Susanna jumped up then and threw her arms around him. “Please, please take great care. I no longer care that you gave me away to him. I still love you, Father.”

He dropped a long kiss on top of her tousled hair. “And I love you, Suz. I promise you’ll see the wisdom in this one day.”

She doubted there was any wisdom in it at all, but that was the least of her worries right now. She had a husband in the next room who might die if she proved a poor nurse. And a father who might die if he made a misstep and trusted the wrong person.

James woke with a start. Rain pounded against the windows as incessantly as pain lashed his leg and head. His throat felt so dry, he knew he’d have trouble speaking. “Water,” he groaned, wishing he could throw himself out that window.

No one answered. He turned his head on the pillow, not an easy feat. It felt as if it might roll right off onto the floor. His lass was curled in a very uncomfortable-looking chair not three feet from the bed.

“Suz,” he croaked. Still she didn’t move. She was asleep. For some reason that made him angry. The least she could do was wake up and watch him die.

He called to her again, louder this time. “Susanna!”

Her eyes flew open as she scrambled up from the chair, the act lacking her usual grace. “Hm? Oh!” she cried. Without pause, she reached for the basin on the table beside the bed.

James watched her hands plunge into the water and frantically wring out a large cloth. She slapped it on his bare chest and moved it side to side.

“Damn me!” he cried while icy tendrils streaked out from the site of impact. “I’m not a floor that needs scrubbin’!”

She backed off, leaving the rag where it was. Tears leaked from her reddened eyes and her fisted hands covered her mouth. “You are awake,” she mumbled, adding a sniff.

“And freezing, thanks be to you!” He shivered, grabbing with one hand at the covers which lay twisted round his waist and flinging the cold soggy cloth off himself with the other. It landed on the floor with a plop. “Where’s your da?”

“Gone,” she said, releasing a deep shuddery breath and running a trembling hand through her hair. She looked a fright.

James narrowed his eyes and observed her a bit more carefully. Her simple skirt and shirtwaist were splotched with dark spots and looked as if they’d been wadded up somewhere for days before she donned them. The pale translucence of her skin troubled him. He’d seen statues with more color. “Poor lass, what’s happened to you then?” He reached out one hand to her.

She stared at it, but moved no closer. “You…I thought you might die,” she whispered, her gaze darting to the lower end of the bed.

James smiled up at her. “Ah. You’ve been worried.”

Her nod was jerky and she wavered a bit, unsteady on her feet.

“Well, my head’s fair screaming and the leg’s paining me some, but I’ll live. Help me up?”

“No! Wait!” she cried, rushing to the bedside again, bending over him and pressing both palms against his shoulders.

Not much need since he’d already discovered the agony of trying to rise. And the impossibility of it. His breath rushed in and out. He held it for an instant, trying to still his panic. He felt incredibly sick.

“I…I canna move my legs,” he rasped, determined not to scream the words. Susanna had thrown herself across his body to hold him down and he couldn’t see whether his legs were even there under the covers. Had a surgeon amputated? He had read once that pain could be felt long after limbs had been taken off.

Susanna raised herself a bit from her restraining position and looked him in the eye. “Be calm. Please be calm. If you thrash about you might hurt yourself worse than you already are.”

He bit his lips, feeling the dryness. Everywhere she touched him prickled with pain, his skin overly sensitized by the fever. “I won’t be thrashin’, lass. My legs…” He searched her eyes, praying he could take the news with courage.

“Oh. I forgot. You could not get up even if you tried.” She brushed a hand over his forehead. She seemed a bit steadier now and even offered him a saucy smile.

“Good God, woman, are you heartless? Where’s your pity?”

She got up, pushing off him with a purpose. “Oh, spare me the dramatics, will you? I shall untie your ankles if you promise not to—”

“You tied me to the bloody bed?” he shouted, his arms flailing as he tried to sit up. God in heaven, he wished he’d not promised her da he wouldn’t beat her!

She had paused now, her arms folded tightly across her chest. “You keep a civil tongue in that head of yours, sir, or I shall call a footman to bind your arms as well. And your mouth!” she warned him with a glare. “Now that you are lucid, there is no excuse for cursing!”

The curses he kept to himself in that instant would have curled her hair.

“There now,” she said, nodding. “You see the importance of behaving yourself and shall be rewarded.” In moments, she had loosened the strips of linen that bound his ankles to the bedposts.

James breathed easier now, overwhelmingly relieved to see the columns of both legs right where they should be there beneath the blankets. He couldn’t seem to take his eyes off the welcome sight. One thigh was mounded over with what must be the bandages covering his wound. Gingerly, he tested his ability to move it. Bless God, it worked to some extent. It ached, but the pain was not piercing so long as he kept it still.

His head hurt much worse, as though it would explode. He reached up and explored his brow, feeling a sticking plaster.