He caught her up with a low laugh. The scent of outdoors clung to him; wet earth, dampness, leaves. The mist on his coat sank through the thin layer of her robe. Feeling her tremor, Cam opened his coat with a wordless murmur and pulled her into the tough, warm haven of his body. Amelia couldn’t contain her shivering. She was vaguely aware of servants moving through the entrance hall, of her sister’s presence nearby. She was making a scene—she should pull away and try to compose herself. But she couldn’t. Not yet.
“You must have traveled all night,” she heard herself say.
“I had to come back early.” She felt his lips brush her tumbled hair. “I left some things unfinished. But I had a feeling you might need me. Tell me what’s happened, sweetheart.”
Amelia opened her mouth to answer, but to her mortification, the only sound she could make was a sort of miserable croak. Her self-control shattered. She shook her head and choked on more sobs, and the more she tried to stop them, the worse they became.
Cam gripped her firmly, deeply, into his embrace. The appalling storm of tears didn’t seem to bother him at all. He took one of Amelia’s hands and flattened it against his heart, until she could feel the strong, steady beat. In a world that was disintegrating around her, he was solid and real. “It’s all right,” she heard him murmur. “I’m here.”
Alarmed by her own lack of self-discipline, Amelia made a wobbly attempt to stand on her own, but he only hugged her more closely. “No, don’t pull away. I’ve got you.” He cuddled her shaking form against his chest. Noticing Poppy’s awkward retreat, Cam sent her a reassuring smile. “Don’t worry, little sister.”
“Amelia hardly ever cries,” Poppy said.
“She’s fine.” Cam ran his hand along Amelia’s spine in soothing strokes. “She just needs…”
As he paused, Poppy said, “A shoulder to lean on.”
“Yes.” He drew Amelia to the stairs, and gestured for Poppy to sit beside them.
Cradling Amelia on his lap, Cam found a handkerchief in his pocket and wiped her eyes and nose. When it became apparent that no sense could be made from her jumbled words, he hushed her gently and held her against his large, warm body while she sobbed and hid her face. Overwhelmed with relief, she let him rock her as if she were a child.
As Amelia hiccupped and quieted in his arms, Cam asked a few questions of Poppy, who told him about Merripen’s condition and Leo’s disappearance, and even about the missing silverware.
Finally getting control of herself, Amelia cleared her aching throat. She lifted her head from Cam’s shoulder and blinked.
“Better?” he asked, holding the handkerchief up to her nose.
Amelia nodded and blew obediently. “I’m sorry,” she said in a muffled voice. “I shouldn’t have turned into a watering pot. I’m finished now.”
Cam seemed to look right inside her. His voice was very soft. “You don’t have to be sorry. You don’t have to be finished, either.”
She realized that no matter what she did or said, no matter how long she wanted to cry, he would accept it. And he would comfort her. That made her eyes water again. Her hand crept to the open neck of his shirt, partially open to reveal a glimpse of sun-burnished skin. She let her fingers curl around the linen placket. “Do you think Leo might be dead?” she whispered.
He offered no false hope, no empty promises, only caressed her damp cheek with the backs of his fingers. “Whatever happens, we’ll deal with it together.”
“Cam … would you do something for me?”
“Anything.”
“Could you find some of that plant Merripen gave to Win and Leo for the scarlet fever?”
He drew back and looked at her. “Deadly nightshade? That wouldn’t work for this, sweetheart.”
“But it’s a fever.”
“Caused by a septic wound. You have to treat the source of the fever.” His hand went to the back of her neck, soothing the tautly strung muscles. He stared at a distant point on the floor, appearing to think something over. His tangled lashes made shadows over his hazel eyes. “Let’s go have a look at him.”
“Do you think you could help him?” Poppy asked, springing to her feet.
“Either that, or my efforts will finish him off quickly. Which, at this point, he may not mind.” Lifting Amelia from his lap, Cam set her carefully on her feet, and they proceeded up the stairs. His hand remained at the small of her back, a light but steady support she desperately needed.
As they approached Merripen’s room, it occurred to Amelia that Win might still be inside. “Wait,” she said, hastening forward. “Let me go first.”
Cam stayed beside the door.
Entering the room with caution, Amelia saw that Merripen was alone in the bed. She opened the door wider and gestured for Cam and Poppy to enter.
Becoming aware of intruders in the room, Merripen lurched to his side and squinted at them. As soon as he caught sight of Cam, his face contracted in a surly grimace.
“Bugger off,” he croaked.
Cam smiled pleasantly. “Were you this charming with the doctor? I’ll bet he was falling all over himself to help you.”
“Get away from me.”
“This may surprise you,” Cam said, “but there’s a long list of things I’d prefer to look at rather than your rotting carcass. For your family’s sake, however, I’m willing. Turn over.”
Merripen eased his front to the mattress and said something in Romany that sounded extremely foul.
“You, too,” Cam said equably. He lifted the shirt from Merripen’s back and pried the bandage from the injured shoulder. He viewed the hideous seeping wound without expression. “How often have you been cleaning it?” he asked Amelia.
“Twice a day.”
“We’ll try four times a day. Along with a poultice.” Leaving the bedside, Cam motioned for Amelia to accompany him to the doorway. He lowered his mouth to her ear. “I have to go out to fetch a few things. While I’m gone, give him something to make him sleep. He won’t be able to tolerate this otherwise.”
“Tolerate what? What are you going to put in the poultice?”
“A mixture of things. Including apis mellifica.”
“What is that?”
“Bee venom. Extract from crushed bees, to be precise. We’ll soak them in a water-and-alcohol base.”
Bewildered, Amelia shook her head. “But where are you going to get—” She broke off and stared at him with patent horror. “You’re going to the hive at Ramsay house? H-how will you collect the bees?”
His mouth twitched with amusement. “Very carefully.”
“Do you … do you want me to help?” she offered with difficulty.
Knowing her terror of the insects, Cam slid his hands around her head and pressed a hard kiss to her lips. “Not with the bees, sweetheart. Stay here and dose Merripen with morphine syrup. A lot of it.”
“He won’t. He hates morphine. He’ll want to be stoic.”
“Trust me, none of us will want him to be awake while I’m applying the poultice. Especially Merripen. The Rom call the treatment ‘white lightning’ for good reason. It’s not something anyone can be stoic about. So do whatever’s necessary to put him out, monisha. I’ll be back soon.”
“Do you think the white lightning will work?” she asked.
“I don’t know.” Cam cast an unfathomable glance back at the suffering figure on the bed. “But I don’t think he’ll last long without it.”
* * *
While Cam was gone, Amelia conferred with her sisters in private. It was decided that Win would be the one most likely to succeed in making Merripen take the morphine. And it was Win herself who stated flatly they would have to deceive him, as he would refuse to take it voluntarily no matter how they beseeched him.
“I’ll lie to him, if necessary,” Win said, shocking the other three into speechlessness. “He trusts me. He’ll believe whatever I say.”
To their knowledge, Win had never told a lie in her life, not e
ven as a child.
“Do you really think you could?” Beatrix asked, rather awed by the notion.
“To save his life, yes.” Delicate tension appeared between Win’s fine brows, and splotches of pale pink appeared high on her cheeks. “I think … I think a sin committed for such a purpose may be forgiven.”
“I agree,” Amelia said swiftly.
“He likes mint tea,” Win said. “Let’s make a strong batch and add a great deal of sugar. It will help hide the taste of the medicine.”
No pot of tea had ever been prepared with such scrupulous care, the Hathaway sisters hovering over the brew like a coven of young witches. Finally a porcelain teapot was filled with the strained and sugared concoction, and placed on a tray beside a cup and saucer.
Win carried it to Merripen’s room, pausing at the threshold as Amelia held the door open.
“Shall I go in with you?” Amelia whispered.
Win shook her head. “No, I’ll manage. Please close the door. Make certain no one disturbs us.” Her slender back was very straight as she entered the room.
* * *
Merripen’s eyes opened at the sound of Win’s footsteps. The pain of the festering wound was constant, inescapable. He could feel the toxins leaking into his blood, feeding poison into every capillary. It produced, at times, a perplexing dark euphoria, floating him away from his wasting body until he was at the periphery of the room. Until Win came, and then he gladly sank back into the pain just to feel her hands on him, her breath on his face.
Win shimmered like a mirage in front of him. Her skin looked cool and luminous, while his body raged with miasma and heat.
“I’ve brought something for you.”
“Don’t … don’t want—”
“Yes,” she insisted, joining him on the bed. “It will help you to get better … here, move up a bit, and I’ll put my arm around you.” There was a delicious slide of female limbs against him, beneath him, and Merripen gritted his teeth against a dull burst of agony as he moved to accommodate her. Darkness and light played beneath his closed eyelids, and he fought for consciousness.
When Merripen could open his eyes again, he found his head resting against the gentle pillow of Win’s breasts, one of her arms cradling him while her free hand pressed a cup to his lips.
A delicate porcelain rim clicked against his teeth. He recoiled as an acrid taste burned his cracked lips. “No—”
“Yes. Drink.” The cup advanced again. Her whisper fell tenderly against his ear. “For me.”
He was too sick—he didn’t think he could keep it down—but to please her, he drank a little. The crisp-sour taste made him recoil. “What is it?”
“Mint tea.” Win’s angel-blue eyes stared into his without blinking, her beautiful face neutral. “You must drink all of this, and then perhaps another cup. It will make you better.”
He knew at once Win was lying. Nothing could make him better. And the bitter tang of morphine in the tea was impossible to conceal. But Merripen sensed an intent in her, a strange deliberateness, and the idea came to him that she was giving him an overdose on purpose. His exhausted mind weighed the possibility. It must be that Win wanted to spare him more suffering, knowing the hours and days to come were beyond his endurance. Killing him with morphine was the last act of kindness she could offer him.
Dying in her arms … cradled against her as he relinquished his scarred soul to the darkness … Win would be the last thing he would ever feel, see, hear. Had there been any tears in him, he would have wept in gratitude.
He drank slowly, forcing down every swallow. He drank part of the next cup until his throat would no longer work, and he turned his face against her chest and shuddered. His head was spinning, and sparks were drifting all around him like falling stars.
Win set the cup aside and stroked his hair, and pressed her wet cheek to his forehead.
And they both waited.
“Sing to me,” Merripen whispered as the blinding darkness rolled over him. Win continued to stroke his head as she crooned a lullaby. His fingers touched her throat, seeking the precious vibration of her voice, and the sparks faded as he lost himself in her, his fate, at last.
* * *
Amelia lowered herself to the floor and sat beside the door, her fingers laced in a loose basket. She heard Win’s tender murmurs … a few rasping words from Merripen … a long silence. And then Win’s voice, singing gently, humming, the tones so true and lovely that Amelia felt a fragile peace steal over her. Eventually the angelic sound faded, and there was more quiet.
After an hour had passed, Amelia, whose nerves had been stretched to the limit, stood and stretched her cramped limbs. She opened the door with extreme care.
Win was easing from the bed, tugging the bedclothes over Merripen’s prone form.
“Did he take it?” Amelia whispered, approaching her.
Win looked weary and strained. “Most of it.”
“Did you have to lie to him?”
A tentative nod. “It was the easiest thing I’ve ever done. You see?… I’m not such a saint after all.”
“Yes you are,” Amelia returned, and hugged her fiercely. “You are.”
* * *
Even Lord Westcliff’s well-trained servants were inclined to complain when Cam returned with two jars of live bees and brought them to the kitchen. The scullery maids ran shrieking to the servants’ hall, the housekeeper retreated to her room to compose an indignant letter to the earl and countess, and the butler told the head groomsman that if this was the kind of houseguest Lord Westcliff expected him to attend, he was thinking seriously of retiring.
As the only person in the household who dared go into the kitchen, Beatrix stayed with Cam, helped in the boiling, straining, and mixing, and later reported to her revolted sisters that it had been great fun crushing bees.
Eventually Cam brought what appeared to be a warlock’s brew up to Merripen’s room. Amelia waited for him there, having laid out clean knives, scissors, tweezers, fresh water, and a pile of clean white bandages.
Poppy and Beatrix were commanded to leave the room, much to their disgruntlement, while Win closed the door firmly behind them. She took an apron from Amelia, tied it around her narrow waist, and went to the bedside. Placing her fingers at the side of Merripen’s throat, Win said tensely, “His pulse is weak and slow. It’s the morphine.”
“Bee venom stimulates the heart,” Cam replied, rolling up his shirtsleeves. “Believe me, it will be racing in a minute or two.”
“Shall I remove his bandage?” Amelia asked.
Cam nodded. “The shirt, too.” He went to the washstand and soaped his hands.
Win and Amelia removed the linen shirt from Merripen’s prostrate form. His back was still heavily muscled, but he had lost a great deal of weight. The sides of his ribs jutted in ledges beneath the swarthy skin.
As Win went to discard the crumpled shirt, Amelia untucked the end of the bandage and began to pry it loose. She paused as she noticed a curious mark on his other shoulder. Leaning over him, she stared more closely at the black ink design. A chill of astonishment ran through her.
“A tattoo,” was all she could manage to say.
“Yes, I noticed it a few days ago,” Win remarked, coming back to the bed. “It’s odd that he never mentioned it, isn’t it? No wonder he was always drawing pookas and making up stories about them when he was younger. It must have some significance to—”
“What did you say?” Cam’s voice was quiet, but it reverberated with such intensity, he might as well have been shouting.
“Merripen has a tattoo of a pooka on his shoulder,” Win replied, staring at him questioningly as he reached the bed in three strides. “We’ve never known about it until now. It’s a very unique design—I’ve never seen anything quite like—” She stopped with a gasp as Cam held his forearm next to Merripen’s shoulder.
The black winged horses with the yellow eyes were identical.
Amelia lifted he
r gaze from the astonishing sight to Cam’s blank face. “What does it mean?”
Cam couldn’t seem to take his gaze from Merripen’s tattoo. “I don’t know.”
“Have you ever known anyone else who—”
“No.” Cam stepped back. “Sweet Jesus.” Slowly he paced around the foot of the bed, staring at Merripen’s motionless figure as it he were a variety of exotic creature he had never seen before. He picked up a pair of scissors from the tray of supplies.
Instinctively Win moved closer to the sleeping man’s side. Noticing her protectiveness, Cam murmured, “It’s all right, little sister. I’m just going to cut away the dead skin.”
He leaned over the wound and worked intently. After a minute of watching him clean and debride the wound, Win went to a nearby chair and sat abruptly as if her knees had been unbuckled.
Amelia stood beside him, feeling a sting of nausea in her throat. Cam, on the other hand, was as detached as if he were repairing the intricate mechanism of a clock rather than treating festering human flesh. At his direction, Amelia fetched the bowl of poultice liquid, which smelled astringent but curiously sweet.
“Don’t let it splash into your eyes,” Cam said, rinsing the wound with salt solution.
“It smells like fruit.”
“That’s the venom.” Cam cut a square of cloth and pushed it into the bowl. Fishing it out gingerly, he laid the dripping cloth over the wound. Even in the depths of his sleep, Merripen jerked in reaction and groaned.
“Easy, chal.” Cam laid a hand on his back, keeping him in place. When he was assured Merripen was still again, he bandaged the poultice firmly in place. “We’ll replace it every time we clean the wound,” he said. “Don’t tip the bowl over. I’d hate to have to go back for more bees.”
“How will we know if it’s working?” Amelia asked.
“The fever should go down gradually, and by this time tomorrow we should see a nice leathery scab forming.” He felt the side of Merripen’s throat and told Win, “His pulse is stronger.”
“What about the pain?” Win asked anxiously.
“That should improve quickly.” Cam smiled at her as he quoted a Latin phrase, “Pro medicina est dolor, dolorem qui necat.”