He turned his face into her hand, nuzzling against it for a moment, a wounded animal seeking comfort. Then, he closed his eyes and settled back into an uneasy sleep.
He had expected there to be flames.
There was torment, of a sort. His shoulder throbbed with a pain greater than he’d ever experienced. But he was chilled rather than burning and floating in a darkness so profound that he feared there was no end to it. Perhaps this was the true nature of hell: cold and isolation for all eternity.
Sebastian Morehead had known that he was damned, even before he’d provoked the duel. One could not lead a life ofdebauchery and not pay for it in the end. He had clinched the matter by picking a fight with Septon. Julian was a devil with a saber and Sebastian a middling swordsman, at best. The duel had been close to suicide, an unforgivable sin that should have ensured damnation.
He had been cowardly, as well. A brave man would have shot himself and not left it to a friend to murder him in the name of honour. That was one more thing added to his crowded ledger when he met St Peter. He would plead guilty on all counts.
But there had been no judgement. At least, none that he could recall. His mind was cloudy, but intact. He remembered the duel, and the thrust that had finished it. There had been a moment of surprise where he’d seen the blade stuck in his shoulder, but felt nothing. Then a searing pain as he’d dropped his weapon and the sight of his own blood dripping on the ground as they’d carried him to the carriage.
And then…
Distant voices. Shrieks of maids. Muttering. Fussing. Liquid being forced between his lips and down his throat. Then, nothing but more pain. Pain and darkness.
He was alive, but not for long. There had been too much blood on the ground. And he was so very cold.
In the distance, he felt a change. It was far away, as if he was at the bottom of a well. The world he remembered was a distant whisper above him. The pounding anguish of his wound as heavy as water between him and reality.
His eyelids were heavy, too. Like lead. That was why it was so dark. It would be so easy to stay asleep, sinking deeper and deeper until there was no going back. But there was something…
He forced his eyes open and looked up into the face of an angel. Dark hair, luminous skin and grey eyes that stared into his with such tenderness he wanted to weep with joy.
‘It’s all right,’ she said. ‘You are home. I will take care of you. Now, rest.’ She was caressing his face and for a moment, the gentleness of her touch overshadowed the pain in his body and he dared to hope that there might be salvation. This was heaven and undeserving though he was, she said he was home.
He closed his eyes again and returned to the dark.
Chapter Two
That night, Cassandra dozed in a chair next to the bed, waking occasionally to feel the duke’s forehead and check his bandages. It was too soon to tell if he would survive. She did not think an infection would take hold until tomorrow. But the injury must be causing him pain for he tossed in his sleep moaning each time he tried to move his arm.
There was no note as to how much laudanum he’d had, and she wondered if she dared risk giving him a little more. It had been hours since the doctor had gone. A few drops would not hurt.
And if he died?
He might do so anyway. The least she could do was give him an easy passing. She measured out a dose and forced it into him, offering a silent prayer that the Lord would guide her hand.
In the morning, the doctor arrived to visit and stared at her in surprise as she stepped away from the bed. ‘What happened to the girl that was here when I left?’
This was the moment she had been fearing. A wrong word might be her undoing. She gave the surgeon a deferent smile. ‘She was nothing more than a maid. The family thought it would be better to have someone with nursing experience…’ She dropped a curtsy to indicate that she was the one chosen.
The doctor nodded in approval. ‘Very good. And what can you tell me of the night?’
She gave him her report and watched as he examined the duke and called for his valet to change the dressings. Then, he looked back to her and suggested she rest while he finished the examination. He rang for the butler, who escorted her to a dressing room adjoining the duke’s bedroom, where a cot and washbasin had been set for her, and a breakfast tray left. She smiled in gratitude and refreshed herself, then lay down on the bed to nap.
It was late afternoon when she came out into the bedroom again to find the doctor getting ready to leave. ‘I have left medicines,’ he said. ‘But short of another bleeding to take down the fever, there is little more I can do. If there is family that might wish to visit, I would recommend they come immediately.’
‘I will tell them,’ she said, doing her best to keep her face impassive to hide the panic she was feeling. If the newspapers were correct, the Duke had no kin to call for. Just last month, she had seen the obituary of his grandmother. It had said that Westbridge was the last of his line.
She glanced at the bed with a sadness she had not felt before. At a time like this, there should be someone here who knew and loved him. Someone to pray for his soul, rejoice in his recovery, or mourn his passing. He was still young and had probably assumed there was plenty of time to find a wife and beget an heir. If he died now, he would do it alone. It was not fair.
There was only one thing for it. She must see that he did not die. Hadn’t she come here to prevent just such a thing? She must remember that the end of this man would be the end of Julian, as well. Both their futures depended on her skill as a nurse.
He could not die.
She gave the doctor an efficient smile and looked over the medicines he had left, most of which would be useless in theface of sepsis. Then, she pulled a chair to the Duke’s bedside and settled into it. ‘I will be here for him, if he needs anything.’
‘See that you are,’ the doctor said, and hurried away as if he did not wish to be present when the inevitable happened.
