Chapter 8

EIGHT

Bella was breathless with exertion, her lungs heaving and her muscles quivering with strain. It had taken no small amount of effort and ingenuity to maneuver his large form to the narrow bed which had been hers as a child. Toward the end of her life, Amarantha had been nervous about traversing the narrow stairs and they had switched rooms. Thinking of how difficult it had been just to get him from the yard into the house, she shuddered. Had she been required to get him upstairs—well, she'd have failed and likely injured them both in the process.

Staring down at him, his large form filled the much too small daybed, his shoulders well past the edges of the mattress on either side and his feet hanging over the end. And his clothes were drenching the bedding beneath him. He would catch a chill. Bella knew the next step would be to get the remainder of his wet clothing off him. It would not be an easy task.

Carefully, she unbuttoned his waistcoat and then, blushing furiously all the while, unfastened his trousers. By the time she was done stripping the clothes from him, she was winded from her efforts. Rolling him back and forth on the bed, no mean feat given the small amount of space that was available, all the while patiently working the layers of clothing off one by one—she was utterly exhausted from the task.

Now, standing by his bedside examining him for other injuries, Bella attempted to keep her composure. It was impossibly difficult. She wasn't certain any man had ever been put together quite so perfectly. Even in repose, the strength of his body was evident in the heavy muscles of his chest and shoulders, his long legs with well muscled thighs and calves. But her inspection wasn't simply to ogle him. There was a much more practical reason for her examination.

He had no other injuries. Not a scratch. The only mark on him, from the ends of his hair to the tips of his toes, was the gash on his forehead. It was no mere accident. It simply couldn't be. If he'd fallen, if he'd been struck by a carriage on the road there would be something else, surely!

It wasn't as if she'd presumed it was an accident, but a part of her had hoped that it was. Accidents happened to everyone. But as the only mark on him was the gash at his hairline, it was quite clear that what had happened to him had been quite deliberate. Someone, she thought with a chill, had tried to kill him. Because of her.

Picking up his clothes, she draped everything over the chair backs near the hearth or on nearby pegs so they could dry. Then she returned to the bed once more and placed her hand to his forehead. No fever. Not yet. But it was a nasty gash and he'd been out in the elements for longer than she liked. The risk was significant. Tucking the blankets around him, Bella went to the kitchen and began gathering some herbs. When she returned to his bedside, she gently tended the wound, applying a poultice to it that would ease the bruising and swelling and hopefully spare him any petrification of the wound. As she did so, he stirred, fitful and clearly in pain.

"Shh… be still. Let the remedies do their work," she said softly. "You will feel better soon." And he would. Because she would not let the curse take him.

Under her breath, as she continued her ministrations, she began to chant softly. The words would seem nonsense to anyone else, but there was power in them. She felt it coursing within her, welling up and spilling out. Hoping it would be enough, she didn't stop the slightly melodic incantation until she'd finished treating his wound. Then she simply sat back, waiting for whatever it was that would come next.

Desmond drifted in and out of consciousness. Any movement resulted in pain, his head feeling as though it would simply explode. But there was something else, something more than just the pain. Strange as it was, there was also a kind of solace—a peacefulness. Soft hands soothed his skin and bathed his brow. A sweet and feminine voice, a familiar voice , whispered low and soft, offering a kind of comfort that was entirely foreign to him. A vision danced in his mind of a lovely, pale face with cherry red lips and a wealth of dark waving hair surrounding it. A woman whose kiss could render him senseless. A woman whom he desired above all else.

Still he clung to that voice, clung to her touch. It was his peace, his respite. But all the while, there was something else that hovered around the edges. A sense of urgency pressed upon him. Why? Why was he in pain? How had he come to be where he was? Was the angel in his mind's eye in some sort of danger?

Lost in the confusion, he could do nothing but give himself over to the tender care of a person he knew nothing of. Save for kindness. She was unfailingly kind. That sort of kindness was unfamiliar to him. So much so that he had to wonder if perhaps it wasn't simply some fevered dream, a hallucination crafted in his mind to offer him something that was sorely missing in his day to day life.

Thoughts of his life in London brought tension to him instantly. He didn't want to go back there. He didn't want to return to the loneliness that he now knew had been his constant companion. Whether that tension caused more pain or simply made him more aware of the pain that already existed, he could not bite back the groan of discomfort that escaped him.

Instantly, those cool hands were there again, stroking his hair, touching his face with a gentleness that was simply an anathema to him. He opened his eyes, looking up to see her lovely face looming over him.

"You are my angel," he whispered.

A soft laugh was the immediate response. "You would be the first to say so… but you mustn't talk. Rest. Just rest, Desmond. All will be well."

"It's not safe," he said. "It's not safe for you here because I'm in no condition to protect you." But his words were frantic, almost insensible. He was slipping away again, but that sense of urgency allowed him to hold on for just a moment longer.

"Who did this to you?"

He didn't answer. Unconsciousness claimed him again, and he slipped into the darkness.