She laid on her side in bed the next morning and blinked in confusion. A strong arm draped over her hip. Her leg draped over his thigh and her hands curled up under her chin against a bare chest. Her nightgown had ridden up, and something warm and firm pressed between her legs. Quite pleasantly. Trying to scoot back only created friction that made her breath hitch in pleasure.
Mark groaned and shifted closer.
Her eyes bugged. Mark had worn nightclothes instead of his usual pantaloons - and he had slipped out of the slit. And preassure built against her flesh.
The man shifted and he pressed in the most exquisite way, his hips gradually arching as he groaned in sleepy desire.
"Mark," she gasped, grabbing his shoulder as her leg tightened around him of its own accord, drawing him tighter. He wasn't aware and wouldn't want this to happen, but dear heaven she did.
He gave a deep, male sigh of ecstasy and cupped her bottom as he began to roll on top of her.
Heat rushed and her heart pounded, making it impossible to breath fast enough. There was nothing frightening or painful about it with him. Her fingers bit into his shoulders and pulled him closer. Maybe he was aware and did want to evoke their agreement. Her heart soared with hope. This was romantic and gentle. Surely he'd kiss at any moment. She closed her eyes and wasn't afraid because it was Mark.
The moment he started to roll onto her belly, his eyes shot open. "Oh shit!" He shot off the bed and stumbled back against the dresser as he shoved himself back in his pants. The dresser rocked off its front legs and hit the wall from his force before it slammed down on its legs. He grabbed it to support his bad knee. The man looked wild with mussed hair and huge eyes. "Christ, I'm sorry. I thought I was dreaming..." He ran his hands over his face. "Are you hurt?"
She sat up in embarrassment and pulled up the sheets. "No. I thought that...um..."
He held out a hand and shook his head. "No. No, no, no, no." His forefinger wiggled at her. "This is not me acting on our agreement. Lord!" His head dropped back against the wall.
"Are you alright?"
His hands ran over his face. "Sleeping in the same room isn't wise."
Getting up, she went to him. "Come sit - it's not good for your knee to stand." The man seemed reluctant but let her lead him to the bed. She stood before him. "Now, I have no objections to it that we...just...had sex." Her cheeks burned.
A snort interrupted as she propped up his leg on the bed. "That was not sex."
She frowned and met his eyes. "But you were...and you touched me."
"Woman, you will know when we have sex. That was...a rubbing. I didn't even enter."
Her eyebrows rose and she. sat on the bed. "You mean it feels better than that?"
"If that's how good I am, I should be shot," he snorted.
"Oh my," she whispered.
"And we will do it as nature intended."
"How's that?" Goodness, this was curious.
"Without clothes."
"Oh." Oh my. If something could burst into flames, her face posed serious risk of doing so. Then she touched her scars. Being naked would mean he'd see those in full view.
His blue eyes rolled. "It is thickened tissue, nothing more. If you're so bothered, my knee looks like Frankenstein - you can focus on how ugly that looks," he snorted.
"It's not ugly," she frowned, "it's honorable."
He gave a dry look.
She smiled. "You are welcome to dream about me any morning." Then she popped up and grabbed her fresh clothes laid out over the chair last night.
"You aren't going to rant at me for taking advantage of you?"
He didn't deny it being her he dreamed about this time. "Why?" she asked from within the expansive closet to change for privacy. "You enjoyed it, I enjoyed it...and it's not like I can get pregnant."
"What are you doing?"
"The doctor is coming at nine o'clock to remove your sutures. Don't look."
"Why?" He grumbled in a low voice, as if to himself. "It's not like I haven't seen everything."
"I heard that!" She called from around the door.
"It's not as if I only think of - "
She backed up a step and bent over to pick up her dress that fell on the floor.
"Sex." The word came out strangled...as if full of lust.
With a frown of confusion, she straightened and looked over her shoulder. Right at Mark. "Oh!" Whipping her dress up to cover herself, she darted back in the closet.
The chit fretted so much when Englewood arrived that he let her stay just to shut her up. He sat in bed with the sheets over his lap and his knee exposed for the suture removal while she hovered and patted his hand.
"Does it hurt?" The wench fretted and rubbed his arm.
He shook her off. "No! My head is what is starting to hurt!"
The woman blinked and then frowned, finally getting the point. "Oh, I'll go get a cold rag." Or perhaps not. She bustled out.
The doctor chuckled. "She doesn't know what sutures feel like - she just trying to help."
"Hurry up and cut them. Or kill me before she returns," he growled.
Englewood just laughed and continued taking his time. "She's good for you."
"She's the death of me."
"A sweet girl. Seems very fond of you."
"Daft is what she seems like," he grumbled.
When she returned, Mark snapped, "I said it will be fine!"
"You need surgery!" Dr. Englewood looked ready to strangle him.
"It just needs more time, you quack!"
"Mark!" She gasped. "Calm yourself." Then she turned to the doctor. "What happens if he doesn't have surgery?"
"His knee keeps healing with more and more adhesions, locking it up so he can't bend it anymore."
Mark snorted.
She turned to him. "You disagree and think time will heal it?"
"Yes," he snapped. "Cutting it open will create more scar tissue. Forcing increased range of motion will break the adhesions on their own."
A glance at the doctor said otherwise. "The level of adhesions he has won't be fixed by exercise. At best, it'll leave him with a cane."
"But there is no harm in waiting?" She glanced between the two men, who both seemed ready for a duel.
Dr. Englewood shrugged. "He simply delays the inevitable."
She looked at Mark. He wouldn't be pressed in his present mood. "What exactly should be seen at this stage?"
"Nearly full range of motion," the doctor replied. He bent up Mark's knee far less than half way and nodded toward Mark.
The poor man grit his teeth, clearly in great pain. "It will come," he panted through his teeth.
She walked the doctor to the front door. "Thank you for coming. I'll try to convince him." Then she handed over his top hat and coat.
"Do. He's just prolonging the healing and causing himself undue pain."
"Yes, but I think he needs to come to the realization on his own. He can use a cane now instead of crutches?"
"He can, but he'll have more difficulty getting around with it than crutches. Do not tire yourself out with him - the babe needs rest too." Then he gave a nod goodnight and departed.
When she returned upstairs, Mark leaned on a cane and wore only pantaloons. The man limped heavily trying to make it to the washroom. His stiff knee, still swollen from limited movement, could barely bend. He threw a glare over his shoulder, as if warning to keep quiet, and kept going.
"I wish you'd reconsider, Mark."
"No," he snarled.
"Why?"
"Because it will heal on its - "
"No, what is your real reason?"
He sti
He stilled and threw a cold look that froze the words on her lips before he continued his laborious journey to the washroom.
She followed. "Mark!" Her hand caught the door as he shut it. "Mark, talk to me."
"It's daylight, isn't it?" he snapped.
"What?"
"Get in your own room," he snarled and slammed the door.
Mark kept to his room all day, so she finally posed a question to Brigands as she made extra dinner with him to take home for his ailing wife. "So, Mark won't let the doctor operate." She sighed.
He nodded and kept peeling potatoes.
"Why?"
"It's not my place to say, my lady."
"Please, call me Tanya," she pleaded again. "I don't like all the 'my lady' and 'marchioness.' I'm lower bred than most - "
"And classier than even duchesses," he interjected.
Her cheeks flushed at the sweet compliment. "Still, it's not right. I'm sure I should actually be 'sir'-ing you."
"No." He cracked a smile. "Besides the master would have my head. You're a high-born lady now. You can forget the past, but never forget to look back from time to time." When she paused and looked at him in question, he continued. "Your past does not define your future, but never forget what you made it through to get there. I believe it's those who look back are the ones who remain kind and humble."
She smiled. "Why, Brigands, you are a philosopher. I think those are the wisest words I've ever heard." Then she resumed washing the potatoes. "I think perhaps you should tell Mark those words. Is he afraid of surgery?"
"No."
"Does he have some kind of medical condition?"
"Fit as a horse."
"He just believes he's correct about his own diagnosis?" She frowned.
"He knows the surgeon is correct."
Her eyebrows rose. "So, what?"
He looked at her. "Even if the master terminates my employment, my duty is to be loyal for the years I was in service. Don't make me break that."
"Brigands," she said softly, "my concern is for him. He is causing himself pain and possibly further damaging his knee. Have you seen him walk with the cane? He barely can. He will be crippled without surgery." When the older man bit his lip in hesitation, she added, "Do you wish for him to be like that permanently?"
His shoulders sagged in defeat. "He took My Lady Anna for surgery - cut off her breasts - too late." His voice fell to a solemn, quiet tone.
She gasped in horror, never having heard of such barbarism.
"No, my lady, it has saved women. It is somewhat of a newer theory, but it has worked. He tried everything else first. Lady Anna agreed to it. A terrible surgery, but he made sure she was not awake for days until the worst of the pain passed. He found the best surgeon for it. It's not as horrific as it sounds."
"He did it because he thought it would save her?"
"Yes. The cancer weakened her, the surgeries even more, and then...the master grew desperate. He...he prolonged her death, in hindsight. She was a living corpse by the end." His misty eyes met hers. "It is his punishment to himself to not take surgery that he needs because he did surgery on her too late. Not even weeks later, her belly began to swell with cancer. By that time, she knew it was too late." A tear crept down his wrinkled cheek. "The moment she said she wanted him to stop and let her die, he did. It ripped out his heart and he wept nonstop until she died in his arms two days later." He sniffled and seemed to remember himself, squaring his shoulders and turning to peel potatoes.
She brushed away the tears with the back of her hand. "It's madness that he's punishing himself. How could he have known that he operated too late?"
"He believes he should've known - he was a doctor. He went to university to learn how to save people." Brigands turned his head and met her eyes. "I think it drove him to madness, to a degree, to be able to save others but not able to do anything for the one he would've traded his life for. I saw him a few months after her came back after her death." The loyal man didn't allude to the asylum. "He's never been the same...since you've arrived, he's finally putting on weight. He's even animated enough now to rip everyone's heads off." A smile touched Brigand's lips. "I don't mind because it means he can feel something again, even if it's anger. And anger is a step toward healing."
Brigands took up dinner and returned. "He expects you in thirty minutes and, um, without much talking." He cleared his throat uncomfortably.
"What were his exact words?"
He wouldn't quite meet her eyes. "Not ones meant for a lady's ears. A good heart does lie beneath, my lady."
Once she saw Brigands off with a meal for his wife, she turned off the lights and headed upstairs. Mark laid in bed with his eyes closed and ice on his knee. She tiptoed in and stripped to her chemise to go to sleep.
"Fetch my bag."
She startled and spun around. He looked at her through pained eyes. "What do you need?" She dug his medical bag out of the closet.
"A syringe and soapy rag."
So she got both and sat on the edge of the bed as he sat up and set aside the ice. "What are you doing?" Her heart beat faster when he bent his knee as much as possible and cleaned a spot with the rag.
"The damn pressure is making me insane," he grunted.
The blood drained from her face when he inserted the needle far into his knee with a grunt of pain.
"Get a bandage."
Dragging her eyes away, she walked over to his bag and sank to her knees as the room spun.
"Deep breath, slow release," he ordered.
She did and the room stilled. Grabbing a bandage, she pulled herself up.
"Don't turn around yet." A moment later he said, "Alright."
She took the bandage over to him, trying to ignore the bloody fluid in the syringe on the nightstand.
"Better?" When she nodded, he wrapped his leg and frowned. "How did you sit through an entire knee surgery?"
"I didn't look."
"Then why stay if it wasn't to help?" He continued wrapping.
"In case you needed me."
"I was unconscious."
"What if something had happened?"
He met her eyes at that countered response. "You didn't need to stay." His tone took on a gentler note.
"I wanted to." She shrugged and met his eyes.
He looked at her for a long minute.
A flush crept up. "What's that look for?"
"Nothing." The man pushed himself up. Scooping up the supplies, he grabbed the cane and limped to the washroom.
"I can do that."
The man threw the words over his shoulder, "I prefer not to rescue a fainting damsel in distress tonight."
Her mouth fell open in offense. "I can have a strong stomach if I have to!"
A chuckle floated from the bathroom.
She climbed in bed and got settled with a smile. When he limped out, a pinched look of pain crinkled the corners of his eyes. "Mark, you look like you hurt. Wouldn't cutting the adhesions feel better?" But a dark look flung her way as he got in bed. "Does it have to do with Anna?" She frowned. He didn't deserve to hurt like this.
He froze and growled the words deep in his chest with an icy coldness. "You come in here to sleep, nothing else." Then he finished settling in bed.
"I just think it's ashame to ruin a body like this," she purred and draped herself against him, her lips inches from his. Her arms slipped around his neck, and she looked into his wide eyes. "Mark?" she purred.
The man lifted her off. "Don't climb on me like a child," he snapped and jerked up the sheets.
She wrapped her leg around his good one and stroked his muscular arm. "You are a cranky man." A smile bloomed and her hand strayed downward.
He practically jumped two feet. And fell off the bed.
"Mark!" She peeped over the edge. "Are you alright?"
"Goddammit! What the hell is wrong with you?!" He pushed himself up awkwardly
When she got up to help and took his arm, he jerked it away. "I'm sorry. I meant to tease you, Mark."
"Do I look like a damn playmate?! Get in bed!" The man got in bed and jerked up the covers, holding his hip that he must've landed on.
Walking around to her side, she bit her lip. "I didn't mean for you to get hurt. I was just trying to get you to smile. If it would make you feel better, we can..."
He stopped and looked at her with eyebrows touching the clouds. "You're horny?! This is because you're horny?!"
She frowned. "What's horny?"
"What you are," he snapped.
"Oh," she said in confusion.
"Good Lord, get in bed. We're not having sex."
She got in and he turned off the lantern. "Mark? Is it bad to be horny? Is that why people don't like me?"
Silence for a moment. "Horny is wanting sex."
Rolling to face him in the dark, she pursed her lips. "I don't want sex. I thought you did."
"No," he grumbled and muttered something.
"Are you angry with me?"
He growled.
"Oh," she said with a heavy heart and stayed on her side of the bed. There wasn't much worse than going to bed with hard feelings from someone. But then lots of people didn't like her...but this was Mark.
He shifted.
She tucked her hands under her cheek and rolled away to stare out the window. Snowflakes floated down in the crisp winter air, setting a romantic, nostalgic mood. Yet, she wouldn't trade being anywhere else than with this cranky bear.
An arm slipped around and pulled her back against a hard chest. "Sometimes I need a fit. I'm not used to having anyone around," he said gruffly.
Lacing her fingers with his over her belly, she smiled. "I know." Silence. "Is your knee up for going outside?"
"Now? It's almost midnight."
"The perfect time for a moonlit walk in the snow. We won't go far, and the cold might help your knee feel better." She popped up and pulled on a dress.
"You're serious?"
She dug out a sweater from his closet. "Here." Then she tossed it at the bed and dug out stockings for him. "You need more warm clothes. I - " The words died on her lips when she looked at him.
He stared at the sweater in his lap. A tear slipped down his cheek. "She made this on her last Christmas. We didn't know she was sick yet," he whispered. "She was so proud of it - she couldn't knit to save her life." He smiled, lost in the memory.
"Should I put it back? Maybe tonight isn't a good night to wear it." She walked over and stroked the corner of what was so precious to him. When he nodded, she traded it for a different sweater.
The man was silent in sad reflection still outside. "Mark?" She leaned forward to look at him while she walked on his arm, wearing his cloak at his insistence to cover her belly. "She wouldn't want you to still mourn her so deeply."
But his gaze remained focused on the ground. "When you lose the one you're meant for, it feels like your heart is ripped out of your chest and you're left to live with a gaping wound that bleeds no matter what you do," he said softly. "To live without your heart feels like unyielding torture without any hope of escape."
To be loved that much only existed in fairytales...or so she'd always thought. An ache formed deep inside to know no one would ever love her like that. But the ache was even deeper seeing him in such pain. Turning to face him, she took his gloved hand. "Do you want to talk about her?"
He simply shook his head with a broken heart.
She stood on her toes and gently pulled him down. Then she pressed a kiss to his cheek and hugged him. For the first time, he held on tight and buried his face against her neck...as he quietly wept. She held on and stroked his hair as the snow drifted down. The infamous, murderous, insane Mark Debonairo fell apart in her arms.
When he quieted minutes later, he turned away and brushed at his eyes. She caught his arm. Reaching down her neck collar, she pulled out her own handkerchief used to hide her scarred breasts. "You have been judged enough. Let yourself be sad. Goodness, you're getting frostbite on your cheeks." Pulling off her gloves, she set her hands over his damp, red cheeks. An unfamiliar, gentle look overcame his eyes. "Mark?"
His head lowered and his lips brushed in a tender kiss. When he pulled back, most of the grief was gone. Something besides grief reflected in his eye. "Let's do something fun."
She blinked. "Like what?" A laugh bubbled up.
"A snowball fight."
"Really?" Her eyebrows shot up.
He bent down and made a snowball.
"Oh ho, no." She backed up with a smile.
The man straightened and tossed it in his hand, a hint of a smile turning up the corner of his mouth. "One..."
"Mark!" she squealed.
"Two..."
She took off trotting through the powdery fluff and grabbed a handful of snow. Something plopped against her bottom. "Cheater! You didn't say, 'three'!"
He laughed, the sound rich and deep and carefree. "You girl! You don't get warning - " A snowball planted in the center of his chest.
With a laugh, she scampered away.
Snowballs soon flew through the air. Although he hit his target more often than her, his pelts hit gentle and he gave chances for escape. "Careful you don't fall!" he called when she ran from him and toward the barn.
Running around the corner of the barn with a squeal, she slammed to a halt. Her heart shot into her throat coming almost face-to-face with a snarling, foaming coyote. It foamed far, far too much.
"Tanya?" He chuckled and his labored footsteps crunched through the snow. "Wh - "
Shaking with fear, her feet anchored to the ground in uncertainty.
"Back up," he whispered. "Very slowly."
Slipping a foot back under her skirt so the coyote wouldn't see, her heart pounded wildly. "Mark?" His name came out in a quivering whisper.
"I know, he's rabid." He inched sideways out of the corner of her eye toward an axe near the barn.
The coyote snarled and leapt straight for her. And she screamed and threw up an arm.
Mark darted in front of her, swinging his cane up just in time. The coyote caught it in its mouth and snapped it, taking Mark to the ground. "Get the axe!" he yelled.
She ran for it, her fingers curling around the moment Mark screamed. Whirling, she screamed and swung as the coyote stumbled toward her. The axe knicked the beast's side that was covered in blood. Blood that couldn't be the coyote's. The animal stumbled and recovered, not even seeming to register pain. Mark scrambled over and grabbed the axe from the ground just as the coyote lunged. Mark fell backwards as the wolf landed on his chest.
Darting over, she reached to drag the limp beast off of him.
"No!"
She startled and jerked a hand back.
"Don't touch any blood." He shoved the dead coyote off, the axe buried in its throat. As he sat up, blood blossomed across his ivory sweater over his belly. "Go to the neighbor's...send for the doctor," he said weakly. Blood dripped into the snow.
Pulling off the cape, she laid it over him. "Press." Tears fell and panic gave the strength to rip off strips of the petticoats as bandages. "You'll bleed out."
He pressed the cape to his belly and took the bandages. "Go," he whispered, his face growing as pale as the snow. "Go south. North...could have...highwaymen..."
She took off running and looked over her shoulder. Mark laid in a heap, already unconscious, surrounded by a red halo in the snow. Her legs pumped and she held her belly, her lungs burning from the cold air. Jack Frost bit through the thin dress, rapidly numbing the hot burn in her calves. "Help!" She screamed as she got closer to the house. "Help! A rabid coyote!"
The light in the house turned on upstairs. Hope flickered. She screamed again. The front door opened and a man stepped out in his nightclothes with a lantern.
"Send for the doctor! My husband was attacked by a rabid coyote! He's bleeding out!" She panted, almost ready to faint from breathing so hard when she reached him.
He eyed her belly. "You're Debonairo's woman?"
"His wife. Please, ride for the surgeon. I cannot go fast enough." She sank onto the step, her belly cramping in protest from the abuse.
"About time the Devil came for him," the man spat and shut the door.
"NO! Please!" She dragged herself to the door and banged her fists against the wood. Tears streamed down. "Please! He's dying!"
"Mistress?" A female whispered. She looked up at a young girl who peeked out a window. "The mayor lives just down the road, he does. Hurry!"
Dragging herself to her feet, she grit her teeth against the pain and clutched her belly, pushing herself to a run again. It took forever to run across fields of white, stumbling into deep snowbanks too many times to remember. The moon cast enough glow to reveal a cottage in the distance. That had to be the mayor's house.
She fell against the door and banged a fist, her lungs burning almost as much as her belly.
An older man opened the door in his long underwear, and she fell into his arms. "Marchioness?" He pulled her inside and laid her on the floor.
"Mark...attacked...by rabid coyote...Get doctor," she panted and clutched her belly.
"Boys!" He bellowed and grabbed his cloak.
Two teenage boys stumbled down the stairs, along with an older woman.
"You two go for the surgeon. Debonairo was attacked by a rabid coyote. Martha, watch that the girl doesn't deliver the babe. Fast now!"
She tried to get up. "I'm...coming."
"No, you're frozen and with child. You stay." The mayor and boys left.
Now that help was on the way, tears coursed down. The mayor's wife helped her up. "Dear, come warm the babe by the fire. Your husband is too ornery to die. Here, I'll make some tea and get you a blanket." She sat her in a rocking chair before the fire.
"It's my fault. I wanted to go out in the snow. Then the coyote came..." She burst into tears and rubbed her cramping belly.
"There, there. It was an accident." The woman set a kettle on the stove and lit the oven.
Oh god, the cramps grew worse. "I think the babe is coming." Not now. Mark needed her and it was too early.
"You're distressed and tired from running." The woman pressed a glass of water into her hand and felt the babe. "Labor has sweeping contractions. Drink and you'll be fine."
"He jumped in front of us to save us," she wept.
"Sure, dear. He'll be fine."
"No, he did! It tried to attack me twice and - "
"You've been wandering in the cold. The beast doesn't even give you proper clothes to keep warm," she scolded.
"I gave him my cape to keep warm," she sniffled, the tears coming faster from having to defend Mark when he'd been a hero.
The woman didn't seem to hear as she pulled up a chair. "Dear, sometimes things happen for a reason. People sometimes get what's coming to them."
"He's a good man!" She rubbed the babe, who refused to quiet.
But the mayor's wife just eyed her belly. "Dear, a good man would not kill his wife and take on a new one for...you know."
"What?" She blinked in confusion.
She looked at the scandalous display of bosom. "For satisfying appetites when she's in a delicate way on top of it." The woman patted her back.
But he hadn't taken advantage. And he couldn't get a dressmaker to come out, probably because of his reputation. And she wasn't decent because she'd used the handkerchief to dry his tears because he'd finally opened up for a moment. He'd die because he'd been protecting her and the babe. None of it mattered to anyone else...because no one would believe it. She sobbed into her skirts.
The mayor's boys returned and tried to convince her that it was a chance to escape from her monster, her prisoner, her enslaver. It took tears and begging them before they returned her home.
She ran upstairs, holding her belly that didn't cramp quite as hard anymore. The sheriff waited outside the door, with the mayor nowhere in sight. He stopped her. "The doctor is stitching him up. He's in bad shape. Once that's done, he needs a blood transfusion from me. I think it best if you wait out here - "
She plowed through the door and cried out in horror at the terrible mapping of stitches concentrated over his belly, with some scattered here and there across his chest and arms. His knee was bandaged again like the doctor had done the surgery. The sheets matched his complexion.
The doctor glanced at her as he finished tying a stitch. "Ah, here she is. Come hold down your man. I need to give him an injection for the rabies."
Creeping closer, her heart pounded seeing him awake. His eyes didn't quite focus like he'd been drugged for the pain. Taking his bandaged hand, tears streamed down as she whispered, "Why did you do it?"
"I felt like hunting," he grunted, his words a little slurred.
A watery laugh burst out, so relieved that he was well enough for sarcasm. She leaned down and kissed his forehead.
"Hold him down, sheriff." The doctor pulled out a very long-needled syringe.
Her head snapped up. "Hold him down?!"
"The rabies antidote is very painful. He'll need it twice a day for seventeen days."
"No," Mark spoke up. Everyone looked at him. "I'll be still." His hand tightened in hers.
Her heart lurched - he would be still if she would hold his hand.
"Alright. He's weak from the blood loss," the doctor agreed.
Mark didn't seem weak when he clutched her hands during the injection in his belly. He broke out in a sweat and spat an impressive string of curses as he clutched his stomach afterwards.
"Get a basin." The doctor packed up.
She grabbed one and handed it to the doctor.
"For Mark."
She held it out to Mark, just in time for him to sit up and get sick.
"Side effect of the vaccine," the doctor said and cleaned his glasses. He sat in a chair.
"Don't go yet," Mark gasped and squeezed his eyes shut, drawing deep breaths. The nausea seemed to pass a moment later and he laid back, so she took away the basin.
When she returned, the doctor nodded toward her. "What do you want to do about her?"
Mark grunted. "Hm?" Then he cracked his eyes open.
"She has bloodstains on her dress. Whose blood?"
He cursed and ran a hand over his face.
Looking down at the speckles of red on her blue dress, she gasped in horror. "The babe!"
"Precisely," Dr. Englewood said. "We don't know if you're infected or if the injection is safe for the babe. But if you are infected, I guarantee you'll both die without it. And where do we inject?" He looked to Mark.
Mark studied her belly. "Odds are it's the coyote's blood, so they're infected. We go from her back."
She laid on her side in bed in her chemise with the back ripped open. The sheriff held her steady while Mark and the doctor discussed where to inject.
"Ready?" Mark sat up and his good hand braced her shoulder firmly.
"Is it going into the babe?"
"No, we're going to use your body to process it for him. It burns." His hand tightened.
As soon as they finished injecting the fiery fluid, she shot upright and got sick in the fresh basin the sheriff held out. The doctor felt her pulse as Mark slipped a hand under the blanket and listened to the babe with a stethoscope. Then he frowned and felt her spasming belly. His hand slid up her chemise under the blankets to lay his hand against her bare skin. "She needs three glasses of water," he ordered.
The doctor and sheriff left without question.
His hand didn't move, the intimacy so comforting and safe. Mark would be alright, and he'd be here to make sure the babe was safe. She closed her eyes to relax.
"You ran, didn't you?" It came out like an accusation.
She blinked and looked over her shoulder at his scowl. "No, I walked because you were dying."
"Don't get smart with me, woman. Goddamn lucky you didn't birth on the side of the road, Jesus Christ."
"Just because you're angry with God doesn't mean you need to sin."
He snorted. Thankfully the sheriff and doctor walked in with the water.
After she drank, he helped her lie back against the pillows before he laid beside her with a hiss of pain. "The babe is sound."
The doctor nodded and packed up. "Keep his bandages clean. I'll be by twice a day with injections for the two of you."
Once the physician and sheriff left, she rolled toward him. "Is this going to harm the babe?"
He closed his eyes and set a hand on her belly. "Odds are he'll be fine. Not doing it is fatal to both of you. It doesn't matter if it does anything because we'll love the babe no matter what."
Tears blurred everything. "You'll love him?" He didn't respond, but she didn't expect him to. "It's my fault - we should've stayed in bed."
"It was an accident. We'll take care of the babe."
"Look at you too!"
"Just scratches."
She brushed away a tear. "Dr. Englewood said your muscles saved you from being gutted. You have more than fifty stitches."
"About time I look more manly," he replied dryly without opening his eyes.
"It isn't funny!" She sniffled.
"I'm alright, you're alright and the babe is alright," he grunted.
"And you're addicted to the medicine again, aren't you?" She burst into sobs of guilt.
His hand rested over hers. "Calm down, woman. Do I look high?"
She gasped. "He did surgery without drugs?!"
He snorted. "Chloroform."
She blinked. His speech did have an odd slur to it. "But you seem so coherent."
"Goddamn ass only gave enough for a ten-minute surgery. Now there's just the tingling to dull pain."
"Ohh, poor thing." She curled up to him. It took no more than a moment after he rested a hand on her belly that his soft snores filled the silence.
The next morning, Dr. Englewood left after giving the injections to go calm down Brigands, who had a fit that Mark had taken her out that late in the cold.
She pulled on her dress over her chemise. "Mark? Why do the neighbors think I'm your mistress?"
He choked on his drink of water. "Who does?"
"The mayor's wife."
The man's face reddened slightly with a fierce look by the end of the tale. "So they think I keep you prisoner here for sex."
"Isn't that our agreement?" She frowned in confusion.
His eyes practically popped out of his head. "No!"
"But, I'm to see to your needs and live here."
"Dammit, woman! That's not how we discussed it, and it's not what you will tell everyone! That's illegal to do that," he snapped.
"Oh. I don't understand the difference." She frowned and sat on the edge of the bed.
He dragged a hand over his face. "Sometimes I wonder how you made it to adulthood. You aren't a sex slave. We are wed and I've made it clear that you're free to leave. We also agreed to see to each other's needs."
"I don't understand all of this sex stuff," she sighed.
In a temper, the man put on his spectacles and picked up a book off the nightstand to read.
"You'd think for having had sex, it would make more sense to me," she mumbled and stood to tidy the room. A very ungentlemanly curse left his lips with such vigor that she startled.
"A jackshit ass forcing you to be rutted does not qualify him as having had sex with you!" he shouted. His neck burned red and his eyes shot sparks over the rim of his reading glasses.
She blinked in surprise and confusion. "Alright..."
"God! Dammit!" he barked, breaking up the curse for emphasis and ripped off his spectacles only to wince from the sutures protesting.
Oh my goodness, he couldn't be... "Mark? Are you jealous?"
"No!" That came out with too much emotion, though.
She bit back a smile. "Oh. I thought maybe you didn't like it that a man tossed up my skirts and took my virginity while I was sobbing..." With a shrug, she glanced at him out of the corner of her eye as she knelt to sort laundry.
The man looked every bit capable in that moment of murdering her attacker. How interesting that it seemed to bother him after all.
"People told me that sex is sex," she pressed and picked up a sock.
His teeth audibly ground together and he huffed like an angry bull.
"Sex does result in a babe and you had to repair the damage. I'm quite certain I have had sex."
He exploded. "He had no right to you! You're my wife! Your first time is with me, and that babe is mine!" His nostrils flared with rage as his chest heaved, his gaze livid.
Her heart quickened. He did care. So much joy flooded and she cracked a smile. "No, you're not jealous at all." Not giving him a chance to deny it, she sat on the edge of the bed with one of his dirty shirts in her lap. "Of course I'm yours, Mark."
"My property, I meant," he grumbled and opened his book, not doing so well looking nonchalant.
Liar. She smiled. "Of course, Mark."
"You could've had a hundred lovers before we wed for all I care," he grunted, his eyes on the page.
"A hundred. One shouldn't matter then." She pursed her lips, unable to resist goading him just a hint again.
That lethal look returned to his eyes as he glanced over the rim of his glasses.
She looked at him in all seriousness. Perhaps is wasn't because he cared. "Men don't want used women, do they?" Maybe he didn't want what had already been touched.
He snorted and resumed reading. "You make it sound like a horse." When she didn't move, he set down his book with a sigh. "There's a difference between assault and sex," he said gruffly.
"Is there?" It was more of a statement than a question.
His eyes narrowed. "Why do you ask?"
"I don't know." Because others said differently. She returned to the laundry on the floor.
"Who said that?" he demanded, as if somehow knowing.
"It doesn't matter." She set his dark business clothes in a separate pile.
"No, it doesn't because I'm your husband," he snapped.
She bit her tongue so he would calm down. Only, he didn't.
"What dipshit told you otherwise?!"
"Mark - "
"Don't irritate me," he warned.
"Oh. I thought you already were." She cracked a smile and picked up a small load of laundry.
"Leave those for Becky," he ordered. "Who?"
Not able to turn around and face him, she stood there holding the clothes. "While he was having his way," she whispered.
"Tanya." His voice softened. "Put down the damn laundry and come here." When she settled on the edge of the bed at his hip, his forefinger lifted her chin. "First, what have I told you? You hold your head high and do not look down for anyone. Second, are you going to believe that filth or me?"
Her eyes met his. Put that way, it sounded like such a silly question.
"Third, you didn't give yourself to him, so I consider you a virgin. Fourth, I'm not a virgin - does that bother you?"
"Men aren't supposed to be, and you were married."
"I'm rumored to be a servant of the Devil and to enjoy pleasures of the flesh. How many women do you think I've had?" When her face burned at such a question, he said, "One."
Her mouth fell open. "Just Anna?"
He nodded. "Surprised, I see," he said dryly.
"So, you're not very good in bed then?"
"I..." He snorted and seemed at a loss for words. "Anna never complained!"
"But I bet she was a virgin."
"We grew up together - naturally she was," he retorted.
"So she wouldn't know if you were bad." She held back a smile.
"I never got one complaint!"
"Oh my, you're defensive." A soft giggle leaked out.
"We'll see what tune you're whistling in a few months," he grumbled.
"Yes, Mark," she purred.
"Get me some water," he growled.
"Tell me something first: do you regret marrying me?" The smile faded in all seriousness. She didn't seem to be anything like Anna. When he simply grunted, she stood and shoved down the heartache.
"Ask me a goddamn stupid question like that again, and you'll sleep in your own bed." He grabbed her wrist and swatted her bottom.
Even though the skirts absorbed the impact, she spun around with huge eyes that he'd raised a hand.
A slight twinkle danced in his eyes as he picked up the book and sat back against the pillows.
The man was being playful! She smiled. "I think I shall enjoy making love with you."
The man stared, completely speechless, as she left.
That afternoon, Dr. Englewood had to leave right after the injections for an emergency.
"Promise not to faint? I'm not catching you," he stated as she unwrapped his bicep.
"Ha ha. You could have warned me that you were going to drain fluid from your knee that day."
"There are sutures under the bandage."
"Oh, you're funny," she said dryly and took off the bandage. The blood drained to her feet the moment a red, swollen infection under strained sutures came into view. She sank onto the edge of the bed.
"Don't get your petticoats in a bunch," he grumbled and dug in his bag. "Have Brigands come up." He pulled out scissors.
"Why?"
"He's stitched before." He took the scissors to his arm.
"What are you doing?!" She yanked the scissors away.
"The sutures are trapping the infection." The man scowled.
"You'll cut off your arm from that angle."
"So get Brigands," he huffed.
"I can do it. I'm just not good with surprises." She eased the scissors under the first stitch and cut, picking up a bit more speed as his poor flesh split from the strain. Scrubbing out the infection didn't cause as much queasiness as expected. She glanced up. Beads of perspiration glistened on his brow even though he remained silent. "I'm sorry."
"Scrub it hard," he snapped. No further words came forth as she cleaned it out.
"Thank you for saving us. Again," she said quietly.
His eyes met hers. "I would've have kept my word if I'd let him maul you, now would I?"
"Why do you keep coming for us?"
"I just told you," he growled.
She studied his profile for a moment. It was somewhat hard from hardships he'd known but also strong and beautiful. Deep underneath, kindness hid there too. Once done with cleaning, she washed and left to find Brigands.
He stood in the kitchen making meals with a large man wearing an apron.
"Oh. Hello." She frowned in confusion.
"My lady, this is Tim, the new cook." Brigands wiped his hands on a towel. "The Marquess hired him to assist with meals so that I may leave early in the evenings to attend to my wife."
Her eyebrows rose for a moment. "He did?" Then she stepped forward and held out a hand to the rotund man. "Tim, a pleasure. I'm Tanya."
His chest puffed up, rising well to the occasion of shaking hands with a woman. He pumped it up and down in his beefy hand. "My lady. Mr. Brigands, a friend of my father, recommended me for the job. I'm sure you'll be pleased with the meals. As soon as you have a moment, I'll discuss the menu with you for the week."
"Oh." She smiled and folded her hands over her belly. "I'm afraid I've never prepared a menu. Brigands has done well. I'm sure he can guide you to what the Marquess likes. I like most anything." Then she looked at Brigands. "May I borrow you for a moment?"
"Of course, my lady." He followed her into the hall and walked up the stairs on her right.
"Brigands, I need your stitching abilities. Mark's arm is infected and I had to cut the sutures. I've never stitched anything alive."
He smiled. "It's simple. If you can darn a sock, you can stitch a man. I'll show you."
Brigands washed his hands after her and then surveyed everything she laid out that seemed necessary. He picked up the needle.
"Is there a reason for an audience?" Mark snapped.
"She would like to learn how to do this," he replied calmly and bent over Mark's arm.
"It's why I have you. Go do something, woman," he ordered.
"I am doing something." She sat on the edge of the bed to watch.
"Don't get smart with me," he barked.
"My, you are cranky."
Brigands jumped in before Mark could respond. "You just do a quick in and out, my lady."
Her skin went cold and clammy as the needle plunged through Mark's flesh again. "Wait, don't we give him brandy or something?"
Mark snorted. "It's a scratch and I'm not five."
The older man glanced at her. "It's not terribly painful, but it's best to be quick." His fingers deftly tied another knot. "About eleven, my lord?"
"Fine."
"Eleven what?" She looked from one man to the other.
"Sutures," Brigands answered.
"Eleven?! Without anything?!"
Mark sighed. "Are you going to sit here and yap? Brigands, stitch her mouth shut when you're done."
"My lord, I think she only worries about you."
"If I wanted a nanny, I would've hired one."
Brigands did another stitch and then turned to her. "Here."
"Me? No, I - "
"You only learn by doing," he coaxed.
"Right after she hits the floor," Mark grumbled. "Get on with it, woman, or do you like prolonging pain?" he barked.
She hesitantly took the needle and Brigand's place.
He leaned over her shoulder as she poised the needle. "Yes, right there. Quick in and out...oops, a bit too far out."
A curse slipped past her lips as he had her start over.
"Glad I'm not bleeding to death," Mark snorted.
"You know, you can stuff it. I've never done this before," she retorted.
"I can tell."
"The first time is hardest, my lady," Brigands said with such patience. "Try again...good! Now, tie a loose knot around, through...Good. No, no, just...once."
"Dammit, you just do it," she said in distress when he had to cut the suture out.
"Yes, please," Mark grumbled.
"You're doing fine. Slow down - he won't bleed out," Brigands urged.
"Could at this rate," Mark sighed.
"You're an awful teacher," she retorted under her breath and glared at Mark.
He glared right back.
Brigands smiled. "He was a professor - "
"Enough!" Mark barked.
The dear old man instantly silenced, and she glanced at Mark. "I pity your students." She spotted Brigands smother a laugh. Then she poised the needle again.
"There. Now slowly take it around, loop, pull gently...stop. Good!" He cut the thread. "Seven more."
"No, I'm done - "
"A lady needs to know how to stitch her husband and children. You're doing just fine." Brigands offered an encouraging smile.
"He's a doctor, and you can stitch him," she protested.
"Yes, please don't leave me in her hands," Mark begged.
Brigands met her eyes. "You have good stitches in the dress you wore when you arrived. You're a good seamstress. You can do this, my lady."
With reluctance, she turned back to Mark just to make Brigands happy. Bending over his bicep, she continued despite Mark's barbs. Biting her tongue from replies, she focused on the task at hand.
"Does it really need to be an all day event?" Mark snapped.
Tying off the fourth suture, she handed the needle to Brigands to finish.
"You're doing just fine," the man frowned. "Those are good stitches."
"Please finish," she said softly without meeting his eyes.
"But you're doing so well..."
"Please," she whispered in a beg as tears stung behind her eyes.
When he reluctantly took the needle, she hurried out - bloodied hands and all. For the first time, she couldn't hold up to Marquess Debonairo's temper. She cried.
A knock came on the bedroom door minutes later. She brushed at the tears that refused to stop. "I'll be out in a few minutes!"
"My lady, may I come in?"
Hestitating for a moment, she walked over to the door and unlocked it.
Brigands stepped in. "He's a bitter man. You did just fine," he said gently and led her to sit in a chair. "Don't let him shake your confidence. It was your first time, and after the first couple stitches, they looked as good as any surgeon's."
She sniffled in embarrassment. "I'm sorry. I've been told my whole life everything I'm not good at. I just wanted to help, and I thought I could do it for him..." The tears welled again.
He handed over his handkerchief. "My lady, I'm not...well, I'm not sure why it's so important to you to please him, but it won't happen. Since the late Marchoness passed, he hates everyone. I gave up long ago trying to get his approval. I do my job and I know I'm doing it right, so that's what counts. Do your best, my lady. He'll point out any errors, believe you me. Grumblings like he was doing are not criticisms from him."
"I think you do a wonderful job. I don't know why you've stayed."
He smiled. "Because of you, my lady. I was giving up on him, but then you came. It is a pleasure to serve you, my lady."
She got up and flung her arms around the man. "You're the first friend I've ever had," she wept.
He patted her back, a slight catch coming out in his voice. "Let me tell you one thing my father told me: a man's worth isn't measured by what people say about him but what his friends say about him. And may I say that you are the finest lady I've ever had the privilege to meet."
Pulling back, she looked at him with a smile and sniffled. "Really?"
"Yes, but don't tell my wife," he winked.
She gave a watery laugh. "Brigands, I wish you had been my father."
He sobered and took the handkerchief to dry her eyes himself. "I feel sorry for your father - he didn't know how blessed he was," he said in a thick voice.
That really did make her cry.
