His grip loosened, and she stumbled back from him, her hand to her mouth. “Harpy. . .” he’d said, laughter and concern in his voice, but she whirled and ran, through the crowded ward without a backward glance.
For six days she didn’t return. Six long days while she relived that kiss, the feelings that had flooded her body, the disgust, the fear, the longing, and then she knew she couldn’t stay away any longer. She’d returned to the hospital in the middle of the night, and for a panicked moment she hadn’t been able to find him.
He was in a small room off the hall, a room with a bed and a table and nothing else, and in the lamplight she could see he slept deeply. There was laudanum on the small table, in reach if he needed it, and she knew from experience that he’d been using it too freely.
She climbed onto the bed, careful not to jar him, but he slept on, the siren drug keeping him captive. She lay against his undamaged side, watching him. His hand lay on the bed, and she took it in hers, held it while he slept, and it was hours before she drifted off, content just to watch him breathe.
When she had awoken he was gone, the bed empty, and the kindly sister was looking at her in pity.
“His family came, Emma,” she had said. “He remembered who he was. His family was in Somerset, but we sent a message, and they arrived this morning, full of relief and tears and rejoicing.”
Emma had felt nothing, nothing at all. “Did he say anything?”
Sister had shaken her head. “He was still sleeping when they took him – I don’t think he knew you were here. He’d been missing you—kept asking for you, but I told him we never knew who’d be helping. I thought it would be better not to say anything to the family.”
“Very wise,” she’d mumbled, climbing off the bed.
He had forgotten her, had her lovely boy. The moment his memory had returned her existence had been relegated to a trifle, not even worth a word of thanks or farewell, and she could thank God he’d been too deeply drugged to realize she’d been there last night.
She hadn’t been surprised. Apparently, he was the son of a marquess, a lord himself. No wonder he’d wanted to distance himself from the dingy hospital and the soiled doves who worked there.
She’d been grateful, so grateful that his leaving had prevented her from making a very great mistake. He had gone, and she had accepted it, determined to move on with her life.
Until she found him again, in the house of Melisande’s lover, and known, to her joy and despair, that her life wasn’t through with him yet.
Chapter 14
“Bloody hell,” Melisande, Viscountess Rohan, said succinctly, and at another time Emma would have laughed. For some strange reason her sense of humor had vanished. She’d fallen asleep thinking about Brandon, remembering things she’d done her best to forget, and she awoke late in the morning feeling unaccountably bereft, only to have Melisande swan in an hour later and plop herself in the nearby chair.
“Benedick’s been teaching you terrible words,” Emma said instead, leaning back in her bed. She was actually feeling better. She had the gift of healing quickly, though right now she wanted to hide in her bed rather than join Melisande’s guests. “Don’t let your children hear you.”
“In fact I learn more from the Gaggle,” Melisande countered cheerfully. “I particularly like the word ‘fuck.’ You look better, at least. Not quite so much like death warmed over. Everyone will be glad to hear it. How are you feeling?”
Emma closed her eyes. All things considered, she was feeling more than adequate. Her ribs were bruised, not broken, and the cut above her eye was minimal, despite the fact that it had provided the most gore. Her hands hurt from fighting off the man, but they were strong and used to abuse. Her entire body ached, but she’d do. Clearly her attacker had expected someone with ladylike demeanor, not the sort to kick him in the bollocks. If she’d been that kind of lady she’d be dead.
“Better,” she said. “I believe I might even be able to travel by this afternoon. I must get back to London.”
Melisande gave her a long look. “Maybe that knock on the head did more damage than we thought. You’re not going anywhere. Someone tried to kill you, you ninny! You can’t seriously expect me to believe you just happened to meet up with a brute who spends his time murdering women? On a path that no one takes? I don’t think so.”
“Why in the world would someone want to kill me?” Emma countered patiently. “I have no money, no power, no secrets. . .”
“Oh, you must have secrets,” Melisande protested. “Some particularly juicy ones, I don’t doubt, though you’ve never given in to my entreaties to share them. I have to rely on Mollie Biscuits and Long Polly to hear all the naughty details about the most proper gentlemen of my acquaintance.”
“I’d rather not think about it,” Emma said in a quiet voice.
“My dear,” Melisande said gently, covering her hand with hers.
Emma smiled, quite without bitterness. “It’s in the past, love. I’ve moved beyond it and prefer to keep it that way. But as you can see no one would have any reason to hurt me. If I were the keeper of secrets I would have used them by now. Besides, men tend to discount women—they don’t realize how dangerous they can be.”
Melisande laughed. “True enough. So you’re convinced this was simply random? You were in the wrong place at the wrong time?”
“Of course.”
“Then tell me why Rosie has disappeared,” Melisande said.
Emma shrugged, ignoring the pain in her head. “She’s probably terrified that her bad advice almost got me killed, and she ran off rather than face you or Benedick.”
“Good thing she has,” Melisande muttered. “I’d box her ears.”