He strolled over to the chair, pulling it close. “I’m enchanted to hear it. Are you ready to talk?”
“About what?” She eyed him suspiciously.
“About what happened.”
A deep color suffused her too pale skin, and belatedly he realized she was thinking about those moments on the kitchen table, not being shot. Interesting priorities. “When you were shot,” he clarified, allowing himself a faint smile, which clearly failed to endear himself to her.
Only a little of the color began to fade. “I don’t remember. I didn’t even realize I’d been shot. I was walking just past Stratton Street and I felt something knock against my arm. I turned to look, but there was no one around, so I kept walking. Until I felt too weak to go any farther.”
He nodded. “That’s when I found you.”
Her eyes flashed open in clear distress. “You found me? I thought I’d made it as far as the servants’ entrance.”
“I’m afraid not. You were about to collapse on the street, right at the edge of the square, when I caught up with you.”
“You were following me?” Her thin voice was slightly stronger.
It should have amused him, her clear lack of trust, but he was having trouble finding anything amusing nowadays.
“Not with a gun, Miss Russell. I do my hunting in the countryside.” He waited to see if she’d react to her true name, but she didn’t notice. “In the meantime, can I get you something?”
“There’s nothing you can get me,” she said, and he recognized the slight grogginess in her voice from the effects of the laudanum. Clearly someone had managed to get some in her, probably in the barley water he’d
given her.
“Try me.”
She was too groggy to appreciate his double entendre. “I want my arm freed from this damnable board. I don’t like being trussed up. I want a bath—my hair is caked with blood, and I want people to stop giving me laudanum. It gives me a headache. Most of all, I want this to have never happened.”
He surveyed her calmly. “I can’t do anything about the last—even I can’t turn time around, but I expect I can manage the rest.”
Her eyes were drifting closed. “Just let me sleep,” she murmured, closing her eyes.
He allowed himself the odd pleasure of watching her. She did look terrible—her hair had dried blood in it, her skin was parchment white with a blue tinge to her eyelids, the smallpox scars were turned toward him, and he surveyed her dispassionately. Why had she allowed such a minor imperfection to control her life? The Bryony Russell he knew was no fainting violet, content to hide away from life. She was a fighter.
And yet she’d done just that.
There were still a great many mysteries to unravel about his little spy. He only hoped he’d have the time to do so before he did what he had to do, the absurdly decent thing, and send her away.
Someone had given her laudanum again, and she wanted to scream. Her head was pounding, her body aching, and something was tugging at her arm. She opened her eyes and turned her head, only to see Kilmartyn there, untying the knots that kept her strapped to the board and to the bed.
She was so relieved she didn’t say anything, simply watched him as he went about the business with surprising efficiency. And then she remembered she didn’t trust him.
“What are you doing?” she croaked.
“Following your orders.”
What orders? What was he talking about? Her arm came free, and a momentary shaft of pain slammed down on her, leaving her breathless, sweating.
“Just breathe,” he said. “I promise I’ll be very careful.”
Careful doing what? Murdering her like he had his wife? They’d left her alone with him—how did she know he wouldn’t finally finish her off? If he killed once, killed twice, then he could easily kill again.
He’d discarded his coat and cravat, dressed simply in a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up. He came around the other side of the bed and gently slid his arms underneath her, lifting her effortlessly. It wasn’t the first time he’d carried her, she thought, though she could barely remember the other occasions. She only knew that she’d felt safe in his arms, held high against his warm chest, his beating heart. She tried to keep her neck straight, but her head hurt, and it felt so much better to let it rest against his shoulder as he carried her through the dark hallway.
He pushed open a door, and suddenly she was enveloped in heat and light and a warm mist, and she lifted her head, looking around her in shock.
“Milady said she wanted a bath,” he said. “Do you think you can stand for a moment? I’ll catch you if you fall.”