The Wicked Truth

“All 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.

Chapter Two (#ulink_1b15c088-73be-5913-94c8-2199cb5e84f4)

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 right here in his bed?

Neil shook himself. Where the hell had he put his objectivity? Her functions had simply slowed because of the drug and her constrictive underpinnings. Stupid to react like some cork-brained first-termer who’d never attended a bedside before. You’ve given her a stimulant, now take off the damned corset and see if she improves!

Still he hesitated. She was no willing paramour who wanted him to see her naked, but a helpless woman he’d rendered unconscious. This was wrong, all of it. After taking the oath to preserve health and life, he’d purposely put someone at risk.

Hell, he always got too involved with his patients, but how could he help it? The responsibility for another’s life was daunting, too much like playing God without a rule book or the proper power to pull it off. As with Jon.

If only he had thought this out first and found another way to prevent her meeting with Terry. Neil cursed himself for reverting to that inborn proclivity to act on impulse. He thought he’d had that conquered years ago.

“I’ll make it up to you, you know. Anything you want” Anything but let you wed Terry, he added silently, reason returning.

Nonsense, he thought. What unmitigated foolishness. She’s just a hardheaded adventuress with a nose full of chloroform who needs a bit of care to bring her around So get on with it.

Bending over her, Neil released the row of tiny buttons on her bodice and stripped her as efficiently as he had all the battle victims he’d tended.

The breathing improved immediately, Neil noticed with relief. Her skin color looked better, too. Peaches and cream, soft, silken…beautiful. He forced his gaze away from her breasts, embarrassed at his lack of decorum, guilty at the way his body reacted to the sight of her. He cursed the impulse to touch her.

Stalking across the room, he snatched one of his old linen shirts out of the wardrobe. It smelled of cedar and starch, but not unpleasantly. She’d certainly prefer this to his rummaging through her valise for a night rail. The weathered case looked ready to explode at a touch. He didn’t think he could deal with a scattered sea of her frilly furbelows.

When he’d dressed her and neatly tucked her in, he bundled her soiled clothing along with the sheets he’d removed and stowed them outside in the hall. Then he pulled the bedroom draperies shut and sat down to wait. Exhausted as she was, it might be awhile before the mild stimulant kicked in and she woke again.

What the devil would he do with her then? Several things hopped to mind. His lecherous thoughts had dissipated a bit, only to return now with hurricane force. Neil suspected that was going to happen with disturbing frequency as long as he kept her here, his guilt notwithstanding.

The delicate little piece looked like a tuckered-out child lying there. This feeling of tenderness toward Elizabeth Mar-leigh bothered him. It was undeserved on her part, and maddening on his. But she seemed so vulnerable. Her cap of red-gold curls framed such an angelic face, barely free of its baby roundness. This one was no infant, though, and most assuredly no angel. He’d do well to remember that and keep his sympathy—and his hands—to himself.

Why had she embarked on such a wanton life? he wondered. If she had controlled her baser nature, there would have been no impediment to her wedding his nephew—a beautiful, wealthy heiress for a fine, fledgling earl. The Marleigh name was one of England’s oldest and most respected. That is, until she had destroyed it with those foolish escapades of hers.

Neil passed his thumb over the watch Jon had left him, rubbing it like a talisman, renewing his promise to keep Terry safe. He looked down at, the case and the glint of gold mocked him, made him think of the Marleigh woman’s gilded curls.

She had ruined herself, but, by God, she wouldn’t ruin Terry! If hiding her here was the only way to prevent the marriage, so be it. Perhaps when the lad found her missing at their appointed rendezvous, he’d become disenchanted and give up thoughts of marriage. He might search for her, of course. Probably would, given Terry’s tenacious nature. But he would never look here.