CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
BRYONY MOVED CAREFULLY, looking at her arm. It was heavily bandaged, but to her amazement there was no fresh blood, despite their exertions, and the pain was almost… bearable.
She managed to sit up on her own, though she hissed in pain, biting her lip. A lip that felt swollen, sensitive, reminding her of things she needed to put out of her head.
Cradling her arm, she looked around her. It was hard to decide which hurt worse—her head or her arm. Most people had thought it was strength of character that had enabled her to get through a broken leg and a case of fever without resorting to laudanum, but they hadn’t understood the vicious effect it had on her.
She waited until the dizziness passed, then swung her legs over the side of the bed. Everything about her felt slightly abraded, her breasts, between her legs. And wicked girl that she was, she liked it. She managed to find his discarded robe and pull it around her, and by the time Mrs. Harkins pushed open the door she was sitting in a chair by the open window, breathing in the rain-drenched air.
“My goodness, Miss Russell, what are you doing out of bed!” she cried in a voice just a trace too loud for Bryony’s aching head.
She winced. “Getting some fresh air.”
“Well, you get right back in bed, young lady,” the cook said sternly. “His lordship said I was to let you sleep, but I was thinking you might be hungry. I’ve got some beef broth, and another dose of laudanum might do you some good.”
Did Mrs. Harkins know how she’d spent her night? Of course she did. She was in Kilmartyn’s bedroom, now decorated in a deep blue that supposedly matched her eyes, wearing nothing but his robe. Bryony started to shake her head and then thought better of it. “His Lordship has no idea how quickly I heal,” she said. “I have every intention of getting dressed, and I’m starving. No beef broth, and definitely no laudanum.” To prove her point she rose, able to hide the slight unsteadiness of her legs. “Perhaps you would be good enough to tell me where my clothes are?”
“Not the ones you wore when you were shot,” Mrs. Harkins said, not in the least bit cowed. “You’re going to need new sleeves on that one. And don’t be thinking of getting those clothes yourself. I’ll send Emma,” she added with a sniff. “Otherwise you’ll be back in bed in a trice, wishing you hadn’t been so stubborn. And let’s just hope you don’t take a fever and die from getting up too soon. Then you’d be sorry.”
“At that point I’m not certain I’d notice,” she said in a practical voice.
“Oh, his lords
hip would notice all right. He said I was to bring you breakfast, and he’d be back in an hour or two. Personally I think they might hold him a bit longer this time, but—”
“Hold him?’’ she echoed, filled with sudden panic. “Where is Lord Kilmartyn?”
“Why, Scotland Yard came and got him again,” Mrs. Harkins said. “Didn’t I tell you? Though why they’re making such a fuss of it I’ll never know. That Lady Kilmartyn goes off whenever she pleases, never leaving so much as a word for the staff or her husband. Why they think she’d been murdered is beyond me.”
Maybe because they know about the destruction I hid, the bloody clothes I threw away, she thought guiltily. It couldn’t be Kilmartyn—he couldn’t make love to me like that, kiss me, days after slaughtering his wife. He’d have to be some kind of monster.
Then again, making love to her was a sure way of sealing her lethal case of infatuation, so that she’d never say anything. Making love… no, he’d called it fucking… was more enjoyable than killing. At least, to some people. Why would he want someone like her, why…
She stopped. Foolish, hurtful thoughts. Why was it that she was the one who was so cruel to herself? No one else, save perhaps her mother, long ago, had ever made her feel ugly. And last night, this morning, Kilmartyn had made her feel… radiant.
“Emma will bring your clothes, and she’ll assist you in bathing and dressing, though she has little training as a lady’s maid.” Mrs. Harkins’s bearing was stiff, affronted, and too late she realized how she’d addressed her. Miss Russell.
“Mrs. Harkins,” she said tentatively, “I’m so sorry I lied to you.”
“That’s neither here nor there, miss. We’re here to serve, whatever you might need.” There was no change in her affronted dignity.
“I need your friendship.”
Mrs. Harkins unbent, just the tiniest bit. “Quality and staff aren’t friends, miss.”
“They are if they want to be. We’ve worked side by side. We scrubbed pots, I peeled carrots and potatoes for you, I drank tea at your table.” That wasn’t all she’d done at her table, but she wasn’t about to tell the woman about that.
The cook eyed her doubtfully, and Bryony couldn’t blame her. She’d lied, and lies were hard to forgive. After a moment Mrs. Harkins gave a slight nod, not a full acceptance, but it was at least a crack in her armor. “Emma will be with you shortly. And his lordship will be back soon—he’s already been gone longer than he expected. I know he’ll want to see you.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Harkins,” she said meekly.
“And I’ll have her bring you tea, and some of those little cakes you like,” she said, unbending a little further. “You must be hungry, and a little solid food won’t do you any harm.” Mrs. Harkins looked at her for a long, considering moment, and then she nodded. “You’ll do,” she said obscurely.
She was gone before Bryony could ask her what she meant. She waited until the footsteps died away, and then, holding on to the window sill, she pulled herself to her feet, standing for a moment as she pulled her strength back in. She’d told Mrs. Harkins nothing but the truth—she healed quickly, and despite the pain in her arm and the emptiness in her stomach she felt almost normal.
And the panic in her heart. What were they asking him at Scotland Yard? What had he told them? She needed to go outside and see if those bloody clothes were gone, she needed to check the rooms and make certain everything looked normal.
It took her a ridiculously long amount of time to traverse the hall and make it up the narrow servants’ stairs. Her clothes were where she’d left them when she’d begun her ridiculous attempt at flight. What would have happened if she hadn’t turned back? Would she have been safe? Or was the man who shot her following her even back then? Would he have tried to shove her in front of a train? Was he responsible for her tumble in front of the carriage?