Eve Silver (33 page)

Anthony would try and save even this woman, she who had cost him so much. His wife. His daughter. His good name, seeing him branded a monster, a murderer.

Looking back toward the flames, she watched as Anthony grabbed the woman’s defenseless form, tugging and pulling in a desperate bid to free her. Cookie screamed and batted at his hands, hindering his every effort.

“Let me die,” she cried. “This time, let me die.”

 With a snarl, Anthony seized the edge of the wreckage, struggling to pull it clear as the flames danced closer, higher.

Emma could see now that Cookie was covered in blood, a thick hunk of wood protruding from her belly. She sucked in a breath, her heart pounding as Anthony renewed his desperate bid to free the woman who had cost him so much.

Like a man possessed, Anthony jerked on the wreckage, using a broken piece of the wheel to hack frantically at the walls of the flaming cage. And then Emma realized that the dark shadow beneath Cookie’s suddenly still form was a pool of blood, that even if Anthony succeeded in freeing her, she would die, her wounds too terrible to heal. Perhaps she was already dead. Emma thought she was.

“May God grant you peace at last,” she whispered.

Anthony reached one last time into the fire, his fingers resting on the side of Cookie’s neck. Then he made one last attempt to pull Cookie free, but from his expression, Emma suspected the woman was already gone. She watched, her belly clutching with fear, terrified now that the licking flames would take him from her.

“Stay here, darling.” She gave Nicky's shoulder a firm squeeze, and then she wove unsteadily toward Anthony.

The flames would soon reach his clothes, but he remained determined, seemingly unaware of the danger to his own life and limb. With a cry, she threw herself against him, sending them both to the ground, rolling away from the blaze.

He was warm and solid against her, his breath coming in harsh gasps. She could smell ash and the stink of burning hair and flesh.

“I’m sorry, Emma. Christ. I’m sorry.” His arms came around her, holding her so tight she could barely breathe. He stroked her hair, his fingers tangling in the long strands, and then he tipped her face, his mouth swooping down in a hard kiss that tasted of smoke and desperation.

Together, they rose and staggered toward Nicky, who flung himself into their outstretched arms.

Emma wrapped her arms around Nicky, holding him close, both of them surrounded by Anthony’s loving embrace, cast in the flickering light of the dancing flames.

Looking toward the wreckage, Emma felt as though she had walked through the fire herself, so raw and vulnerable was her sensibility. Tightening her hold on those she loved, she held them close and wished that she could wake and find it all a terrible dream.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

“Have you stopped bleeding?” Anthony asked, pulling back to examine Emma’s head. The mere sound of his voice was a soothing balm after the frightful trauma of the past hours.

“Yes,” she whispered, running the tips of her fingers along his soot-stained cheek. “How did you reach us so quickly?”

“Meg,” he said. “Smythe is the father of her babe.” Emma gasped, but held back her questions as he continued, “He told her of an encounter with Cookie. Called her a raving lunatic. From Meg’s scattered account I managed to piece together something of the story.”

“But how did you know which way to go? The road forked. If you had taken the wrong path…” She could not stop touching him, or Nicky, who nestled sleepily in his father’s arms. She ran her hand along the child’s soft cheek, tears clogging her throat, and then traced the strong column of Anthony’s throat, the hard line of his jaw.

“Oh, God.” Tears clogged her throat. “And now? How is Meg now?”

“Now, she lies wracked by a labor that came too early.”

“You must return.” Emma gnawed on her lower lip, anxious to question him about all Cookie had revealed, to share her suspicions and certainties, yet she knew that her questions must wait.

“I—”

She pressed her fingers to his lips, stopping whatever protest he meant to make. “You must, Anthony. Free yourself of the past, of the ghosts who haunt you. The time is long overdue.”

He was silent so long, she thought he would balk, would refuse to do what must be done. And then he turned and strode toward the waiting coach to place his sleeping son on the bench and hand Emma in along with him.

He closed the carriage door, leaving her alone with the child, and the dark. She could hear a soft huff of inhalation and exhalation, and she closed her eyes, tears pricking the backs of her lids. Full circle. She had come full circle, riding a coach in the blackness of night to a fate she could not be certain of.

The coach creaked and shifted as Anthony climbed up on the bench, and then it began to move, eating up the distance to Bosherton. She thought she might have dozed, for in the space of a heartbeat they drew up before a small cottage and Anthony came round to pull open the door.

She glanced at the sleeping child.

“Leave him,” Anthony whispered. “Griggs is here to keep an eye.”

She nodded and climbed out just as Mrs. Bolifer hurried from the cottage.

“You are back, Lord Anthony, and none too soon. My store of knowledge is exhausted. Meg needs you now. Come,” Mrs. Bolifer said brusquely.

If Anthony was offended by the housekeeper's inappropriate tone, he gave no sign.

“I think Meg is not long for this world,” she urged. “The sheets are soaked with blood, and the girl's barely conscious. She is calling for you.” Looking at the ground, the housekeeper hesitated, and then whispered, “She says she does not want to die.”

He blanched at her words, and Emma could sense a strange current pass between master and servant.

“I cannot, Tabby,” he said, looking away to stare at the horizon. “You know I cannot.”

Emma was startled to hear Mrs. Bolifer's given name pass his lips. She was even more amazed when the woman stepped forward and laid her hand on his arm, as though she were friend rather than servant.

“I brought your instruments. Even now they are in the kitchen, sitting for the past hour in a pot of boiling water, just as you used to instruct me.” The housekeeper's voice was firm, bracing. “I know you can do what needs to be done. The girl will die without you. She doesn't deserve that. Doesn't deserve to be sacrificed to your demons.”

“I am no longer a physician and surgeon,” Anthony snarled. “I do not deal in life. Only death.”

Emma rushed forward and drew abreast of the housekeeper, and standing side by side with the older woman, she faced him down.

“You deal in death to save life,” she cried desperately, sensing that it was not only Meg’s life that hung in the balance, but Anthony’s battered soul. “I know nothing of your demons, nothing of the horror that haunts you, but I know that you risk your own life to try and understand disease. Terrible, horrible disease that you grow in a dank tower. You do that to prevent contagion. To save lives.”

He said nothing, his silence a bitter constraint on her reckless hope.

“You risked your life to save Cookie, a woman who tried to steal your son, who by her own account murdered your pregnant wife, pushed her down the stairs.” She heard Mrs. Bolifer’s startled gasp, but it was Anthony’s reaction she focused on. Time enough for explanations and tears later.

He grew still, so still that she thought he ceased to breathe.

“Delia told me that she had done the deed herself. All this time I thought—” His words broke on a strangled groan. “I blamed myself. I thought she would rather be dead than married to me. And in the end, she begged me—” He shook his head. “I could not do as she asked, and I could not save her.”

He seemed hewn of stone, each muscle and sinew corded as he stood, stiff and unmoving, his expression glacial. She thought he would surely crack, so rigid was his composure. Staring at her with eyes dark and unreadable, he looked untouchable, unreachable by their pleas. Time hung suspended.

Emma held out one hand in supplication.

“Please,” she whispered brokenly. “Anthony, please.”

“And if she dies? As Delia died?” he rasped. “As I
let
her die?”

So this was his private hell. This blame he cast upon himself. Emma made a soft sound of denial.

Raising his hands before him, Anthony turned his palms upward, and then clenched them into fists. His fingers were blistered and raw, testament to his attempts to save Cookie. His hands, like his face were blackened with the soot from the fire, and the smell of smoke yet clung to him. Emma saw these marks, badges of his walk through purgatory's fire, confirmation of his survival. If only he could see himself as she saw him, not as monster, but as hero, despite all his human flaws.

“If I kill her?” His tone was bleak. “Or worse, if I can save neither one? Neither Meg nor her babe?”

“Surely both will die without your intervention,” Emma said simply, and she knew she spoke the truth. “You offer her hope.”

Anthony's nostrils flared as he sucked in a breath.

“Such faith in me.” There was no sarcasm in his tone. Only a sweet sense of wonder.

“Yes,” she said. “Such faith. Unshakable trust.”

He looked away from her, toward the cottage, and his expression hardened.

“Your faith is misplaced, Emma. I could not save Delia, and when she begged me to take the child from her belly, I refused. Coward that I was, I refused. I could not kill her in order to save her child, and to open her womb was a death sentence as surely as if I slit her throat. No woman has survived such surgery. And so I let them die. Delia, and her baby with her. My fault. My hands are stained with their blood.”

Her heart felt as though it would shatter, like a delicate crystal cast against hard stone. So now she knew. He blamed himself for his wife’s death, for the death of Nicky’s sister, though she doubted any other surgeon would have done differently.

“No!” she cried, with such vehemence that the sound ricocheted through the silent night, echoing her denial. “You killed no one, and you let no one die. You are a man, Anthony. It is not your choice who lives and who dies.” Emma dragged in a tremulous breath. “But think of Nicky. You
did
save
him
. Think of the love you bear him. Would you deny Meg that opportunity? Would you deny an innocent babe its chance for life. You can use your knowledge to heal. Or you can hoard it like a miser, hiding behind your own pain and misery.”

Anger flared in him. She saw it in the way his pupils dilated and the way his lips compressed thinly. His expression reflected such icy rage that she thought he might freeze her with a single glance. It was the cold, controlled fury she had seen before, and she stared him down, unafraid.

As suddenly as it blazed, his anger abated, and she watched, heart in her throat, as he reached a new resolve.

Holding Emma's gaze, Anthony spoke softly, and she thought he spoke only to her. A promise to her. Her heart swelled and blossomed, nurtured by hope.

“I will do what I can,” he said, never taking his eyes from hers. And then in low tones meant only for her ears, “For you. I will do this for you. Face my demons and vanquish them, because you believe I can, and so I believe I can. And for myself, because I
am
the man I once was before circumstance and tragedy played havoc with my heart.”

“I believe in you,” she whispered, his words swelling inside her, bright as any star.
I love you
. That declaration she held back, whispering it only within her heart, saving it for later, for the time that would be right for the sharing.

He turned away and strode toward the cottage, calling a rapid string of commands as he went.

 “I'll need water to wash, and a fresh sheet to tie over my filthy clothing, lest I carry disease to the new mother. Mrs. Bolifer, fetch my instruments. Lay a clean cloth on a tray, and spread them on it for easy reach. I'll need fresh linens. Boiled water in basins so it may cool. And a bottle of carbolic acid. Hurry.”

Emma knew little of the preparation that surgeons undertook, but she knew enough to recognize that Anthony’s approach was unusual. To her understanding, cleanliness was rarely a consideration.

“Griggs,” he called, turning back toward the coachman. “Take Nicky home. Send Glynnis to sit by his bed. Then fetch the magistrate. There is the matter of a dead woman on the road to Tenby.” Anthony’s voice caught on the last, and Emma knew the pain he felt at such tragic loss.

“Aye, Lord Anthony.” Griggs gave a curt nod.

“And Griggs, see if you can find the horses. They escaped when the coach overturned, and I dislike the thought that they’ve been harmed by this night’s dark deeds.”

“Aye.”

Emma watched Anthony's broad back as he strode into the cottage, then she whirled to face Mrs. Bolifer.

“I want to help,” she said resolutely. “Tell me how to help.”

She wasn't certain what answer she had expected, but the housekeeper's nod of assent was a surprise.

“Come along then, girl.” She led the way through the door. “There’re clean linens there. Tear them into strips. Mind, wash your hands first so you don't carry Lord Anthony's ‘wee animalcules’ to Meg,” Mrs. Bolifer ordered. She rested her hand on Emma's forearm and gave a gentle squeeze.

Emma nodded, then frowned as a thought came to her.

“Has Meg been alone this whole time?”

The housekeeper shook her head. “No. Her sister, Alice, is with her. Come along, now.” She marched toward the narrow door at the far end of the common room.

Less than twenty minutes later, Emma stood unmoving, bearing silent witness to the life-and-death struggle playing out before her, watching Anthony as he worked over Meg. The girl, whimpering piteously, writhed on the floor in a nest of stained sheets that had been set out close to the fire atop a bed of straw. The hours had worn away at her reserves, robbing her of her strength.

Alice moved away from her spot by her sister’s side, weeping softly. Emma recognized her as the sullen-eyed maid who had given her the blanket her first day at Manorbrier. Her eyes were dull now, full of grief.