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.Hepburn did a somersault and came back to his feet.Reaching down, he grabbed Baldy and dragged him up to stand on his feet.“What were you going to steal?” He clipped Baldy on the chin.“Nothing.I vow.Nothing.” Baldy was weaving, punching, trying to strike Hepburn.Hepburn punched him in the chest, boxed his ear, smashed his nose.Blinded by his own blood, Baldy fell to the ground and gasped.“Don’t know ye.”Hepburn stood staring at the men on the ground, chest heaving, his expression demonic.To the writhing Baldy he said, “I’m the earl of Hepburn.These are my people that you killed, that you robbed.”Blubbering, Baldy promised, “Ne’er again.”“That’s right.Never again.” Leaning down, Hepburn pulled him up by his shirt and punched him again.Clarice couldn’t watch anymore.She rode to his side.“Lord Hepburn!” She slid from the saddle.“Lord Hepburn!” She caught his arm as he prepared to hit the now-unconscious man.“Lord Hepburn, stop.You have to stop!” The sour taste of bile coated her throat, and her voice quivered abominably.Lifting his head, Hepburn stared at her as if he’d never seen her before.His hair stood on end.His sleeve had been slashed by the knife.Blood sheeted his arm.He looked as if the devil himself had taken possession of his soul, and she feared he would hit her too.Then his chest rose in a long, slow breath.His face cleared.He dropped his arm.He dropped the body.In a voice that sounded frighteningly calm and normal, he instructed, “Your Highness, ride back to MacKenzie Manor and send someone for MacGee.I’ll tend to him until they get back.”“But”—she indicated his wound—“my lord, you’re hurt.”Glancing at his arm indifferently, he said, “I’ve had worse.MacGee hasn’t, poor bastard.” He whistled for Blaize and the stallion trotted over.Hepburn lifted her into the saddle, and the touch made her shiver in terror.But not revulsion, God help her.Never revulsion.“If we don’t get MacGee help, he’s going to die.” Hepburn slapped Blaize’s rump to start him off.“Hurry.”FifteenA princess performs needlework to create an object of beauty, and to display her beautiful hands and graceful gestures.—THE DOWAGER QUEEN OF BEAUMONTAGNEFrom the window of Hepburn’s study, Clarice watched Robert ride in, bloody, bruised, and apparently unfazed.She marked his progress through the corridors by the female shrieks of horror and his low, reassuring murmur.She stood in the twilight shadows as he entered the room, and she heard him say, “I’m fine, Millicent.I don’t need a surgeon to stitch up such a small scratch.I must look at the mail that arrived this afternoon, then I promise I’ll rest.Go back to your guests.God knows they need you more than I.” He shut and locked the door in his sister’s anxious face and made his way toward his desk, where the mail was stacked on a silver salver.Clarice took the moment to study him.He sported a slight puffiness around his eyes, a little bruising at his jaw, but all in all, for a man who had been in a vicious fight only a few hours before, he looked very good.Except for that slash on his arm—it needed tending.Without lifting his head, he said, “Don’t hover there, Your Highness, come out and care for me.That is what you intended, isn’t it?”He hadn’t appeared to, but he had noticed the table she’d set up with her scissors, her sewing kit, and the basin of warm water.He had noticed her too, and as she stepped into the light, he looked directly at her.His eyes were red-rimmed.He was still in a rage.Her heart speeded up.She wanted to run.She wanted to stay.She wanted to make sure he was all right.She didn’t care.She had seen him at his worst, in an uncontrollable rage, a rage so deep and murderous he would have gladly killed.And she’d seen him at his best, for he’d been fighting for his people.But the composure and compassion Grandmamma had taught her was deeply ingrained, and he…With great deliberation he looked away, putting a distance between them that had nothing to do with proximity and everything to do with rebuff.So she managed to speak with serenity.“How is MacGee?”“His wife’s dead, but he’ll live.” With a sneer at the pile of mail, Hepburn moved toward her.“He’s with the surgeon in town.”With much satisfaction she noted Hepburn wasn’t going to deny his injuries to her.“You’ve got blood on your hands from handling MacGee.” She dipped Hepburn’s hand into the basin of water.Red oozed off his knuckles—and oozed, and oozed.It was his blood, she realized, Hepburn’s blood.Of course.The way he’d battered those men had been fierce and brutal.How could he not have hurt his hands?She said, “I’ll wrap your fingers as soon as I stitch the slash on your arm.Remove your shirt.”He didn’t move.He stood there as if he hadn’t heard her, or as if she were speaking a foreign language.She reached for his wrecked cravat, intending to help him, but so swiftly she never saw him move, he knocked her hands away.With his right hand he grabbed the gaping slash in his left sleeve, ripped the material off, and tossed it away.“There.”Modesty? From the man who only last night urged her toward his bed? She picked up soft strips of cotton, dampened them, and gently wiped off the dried blood from his wound.She didn’t believe it.“Where did a princess learn to stitch a knife wound?” He stood with his head hanging.His chest rose and fell in hard breaths, and his voice was guttural.Yet the question was reasonable.“Grandmamma isn’t a woman who suffers fools lightly.” Carefully Clarice touched the edges of the wound, trying to see how deep the knife had gashed.The muscle was mostly intact, but the skin curled back and would take more stitches than she’d realized, which made his indifference all the more incredible.He had to be in intense pain.Absentmindedly she continued.“Grandmamma taught all of us girls to sew, and when the revolution started, she told us that we might have to work among the wounded.She said it was our duty to our loyal soldiers.She said we would be the symbols that they were fighting for.”“And did you work among your loyal subjects?”“No.Grandmamma said we should stay and die for our country.My father thought not.He sent us to England.Sometimes I wish we hadn’t gone…but that’s foolishness, I suppose.I suppose, if we had stayed, we would be dead too.As long as we’re alive, there’s hope that—” She caught herself.She didn’t like to talk about hope.She didn’t like to feel hope.It made an otherwise perilous life almost unbearable.She especially didn’t want Hepburn to know that in the deepest, darkest corner of her heart, a tiny flame of optimism never died, for she feared that somehow he would use that flame against her, just as he had used her affection for Blaize to ensnare her into the madness of his charade.She urged him toward a chair beside the table.“Won’t you sit while I place the stitches?”“No [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
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.Hepburn did a somersault and came back to his feet.Reaching down, he grabbed Baldy and dragged him up to stand on his feet.“What were you going to steal?” He clipped Baldy on the chin.“Nothing.I vow.Nothing.” Baldy was weaving, punching, trying to strike Hepburn.Hepburn punched him in the chest, boxed his ear, smashed his nose.Blinded by his own blood, Baldy fell to the ground and gasped.“Don’t know ye.”Hepburn stood staring at the men on the ground, chest heaving, his expression demonic.To the writhing Baldy he said, “I’m the earl of Hepburn.These are my people that you killed, that you robbed.”Blubbering, Baldy promised, “Ne’er again.”“That’s right.Never again.” Leaning down, Hepburn pulled him up by his shirt and punched him again.Clarice couldn’t watch anymore.She rode to his side.“Lord Hepburn!” She slid from the saddle.“Lord Hepburn!” She caught his arm as he prepared to hit the now-unconscious man.“Lord Hepburn, stop.You have to stop!” The sour taste of bile coated her throat, and her voice quivered abominably.Lifting his head, Hepburn stared at her as if he’d never seen her before.His hair stood on end.His sleeve had been slashed by the knife.Blood sheeted his arm.He looked as if the devil himself had taken possession of his soul, and she feared he would hit her too.Then his chest rose in a long, slow breath.His face cleared.He dropped his arm.He dropped the body.In a voice that sounded frighteningly calm and normal, he instructed, “Your Highness, ride back to MacKenzie Manor and send someone for MacGee.I’ll tend to him until they get back.”“But”—she indicated his wound—“my lord, you’re hurt.”Glancing at his arm indifferently, he said, “I’ve had worse.MacGee hasn’t, poor bastard.” He whistled for Blaize and the stallion trotted over.Hepburn lifted her into the saddle, and the touch made her shiver in terror.But not revulsion, God help her.Never revulsion.“If we don’t get MacGee help, he’s going to die.” Hepburn slapped Blaize’s rump to start him off.“Hurry.”FifteenA princess performs needlework to create an object of beauty, and to display her beautiful hands and graceful gestures.—THE DOWAGER QUEEN OF BEAUMONTAGNEFrom the window of Hepburn’s study, Clarice watched Robert ride in, bloody, bruised, and apparently unfazed.She marked his progress through the corridors by the female shrieks of horror and his low, reassuring murmur.She stood in the twilight shadows as he entered the room, and she heard him say, “I’m fine, Millicent.I don’t need a surgeon to stitch up such a small scratch.I must look at the mail that arrived this afternoon, then I promise I’ll rest.Go back to your guests.God knows they need you more than I.” He shut and locked the door in his sister’s anxious face and made his way toward his desk, where the mail was stacked on a silver salver.Clarice took the moment to study him.He sported a slight puffiness around his eyes, a little bruising at his jaw, but all in all, for a man who had been in a vicious fight only a few hours before, he looked very good.Except for that slash on his arm—it needed tending.Without lifting his head, he said, “Don’t hover there, Your Highness, come out and care for me.That is what you intended, isn’t it?”He hadn’t appeared to, but he had noticed the table she’d set up with her scissors, her sewing kit, and the basin of warm water.He had noticed her too, and as she stepped into the light, he looked directly at her.His eyes were red-rimmed.He was still in a rage.Her heart speeded up.She wanted to run.She wanted to stay.She wanted to make sure he was all right.She didn’t care.She had seen him at his worst, in an uncontrollable rage, a rage so deep and murderous he would have gladly killed.And she’d seen him at his best, for he’d been fighting for his people.But the composure and compassion Grandmamma had taught her was deeply ingrained, and he…With great deliberation he looked away, putting a distance between them that had nothing to do with proximity and everything to do with rebuff.So she managed to speak with serenity.“How is MacGee?”“His wife’s dead, but he’ll live.” With a sneer at the pile of mail, Hepburn moved toward her.“He’s with the surgeon in town.”With much satisfaction she noted Hepburn wasn’t going to deny his injuries to her.“You’ve got blood on your hands from handling MacGee.” She dipped Hepburn’s hand into the basin of water.Red oozed off his knuckles—and oozed, and oozed.It was his blood, she realized, Hepburn’s blood.Of course.The way he’d battered those men had been fierce and brutal.How could he not have hurt his hands?She said, “I’ll wrap your fingers as soon as I stitch the slash on your arm.Remove your shirt.”He didn’t move.He stood there as if he hadn’t heard her, or as if she were speaking a foreign language.She reached for his wrecked cravat, intending to help him, but so swiftly she never saw him move, he knocked her hands away.With his right hand he grabbed the gaping slash in his left sleeve, ripped the material off, and tossed it away.“There.”Modesty? From the man who only last night urged her toward his bed? She picked up soft strips of cotton, dampened them, and gently wiped off the dried blood from his wound.She didn’t believe it.“Where did a princess learn to stitch a knife wound?” He stood with his head hanging.His chest rose and fell in hard breaths, and his voice was guttural.Yet the question was reasonable.“Grandmamma isn’t a woman who suffers fools lightly.” Carefully Clarice touched the edges of the wound, trying to see how deep the knife had gashed.The muscle was mostly intact, but the skin curled back and would take more stitches than she’d realized, which made his indifference all the more incredible.He had to be in intense pain.Absentmindedly she continued.“Grandmamma taught all of us girls to sew, and when the revolution started, she told us that we might have to work among the wounded.She said it was our duty to our loyal soldiers.She said we would be the symbols that they were fighting for.”“And did you work among your loyal subjects?”“No.Grandmamma said we should stay and die for our country.My father thought not.He sent us to England.Sometimes I wish we hadn’t gone…but that’s foolishness, I suppose.I suppose, if we had stayed, we would be dead too.As long as we’re alive, there’s hope that—” She caught herself.She didn’t like to talk about hope.She didn’t like to feel hope.It made an otherwise perilous life almost unbearable.She especially didn’t want Hepburn to know that in the deepest, darkest corner of her heart, a tiny flame of optimism never died, for she feared that somehow he would use that flame against her, just as he had used her affection for Blaize to ensnare her into the madness of his charade.She urged him toward a chair beside the table.“Won’t you sit while I place the stitches?”“No [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]