Heartless by Anne Stuart
“Don’t waste your time with him, Emma,” Sister had said as she pushed past her into the little room. “Thirty-seven’s been asking for you.”
She’d managed to compose herself by the time she found him at the far end of the row of beds, a rough curtain shielding him from the others. “You decided to delay your departure, I see,” she said caustically from the foot of his narrow bed.
His smile was faint but clear. “My own harpy! I’m counting on your torment to keep me alive.”
“I’m more than happy to oblige.” She sank down on the chair beside him. And so had begun almost two weeks, where he had slowly improved, where each night he had demanded a kiss, insisting he wouldn’t be alive when she returned if she didn’t give him one.
She knew it was hogwash, just as she knew he didn’t belong in the rough wards of St. Martin’s Military Hospital. He had the voice of a gentleman, and she had yet to meet anyone who could falsify those tones. She had kissed him anyway, the soft brush of her mouth against his—harmless, innocent. Until the last night, when the kiss became something quite different.
He’d grown stronger, he’d been sitting up in bed, and she’d moved her chair closer, night by night. For some reason she continued to hold his hand—the human touch kept him tethered to this earth, she thought, never realizing it kept her tethered to him. Until the last night, or early morning, when she rose to leave him, and leaned over to give him her chaste, affectionate kiss.
Instead he’d caught her arm, tugging her off balance, and deftly managed to slip his hand behind her head to hold her in place while he deepened the kiss, pushing her mouth open with his, using his tongue.
She’d been too shocked to react, had simply let his kiss her, long and slow and hard, so thoroughly she felt. . . she felt. . .
His grip loosened, and she stumbled back from him, her hand to her mouth. “Harpy. . .” he’d said, laughter and concern in his voice, but she whirled and ran, through the crowded ward without a backward glance.
For six days she didn’t return. Six long days while she relived that kiss, the feelings that had flooded her body, the disgust, the fear, the longing, and then she knew she couldn’t stay away any longer. She’d returned to the hospital in the middle of the night, and for a panicked moment she hadn’t been able to find him.
He was in a small room off the hall, a room with a bed and a table and nothing else, and in the lamplight she could see he slept deeply. There was laudanum on the small table, in reach if he needed it, and she knew from experience that he’d been using it too freely.
She climbed onto the bed, careful not to jar him, but he slept on, the siren drug keeping him captive. She lay against his undamaged side, watching him. His hand lay on the bed, and she took it in hers, held it while he slept, and it was hours before she drifted off, content just to watch him breathe.
When she had awoken he was gone, the bed empty, and the kindly sister was looking at her in pity.
“His family came, Emma,” she had said. “He remembered who he was. His family was in Somerset, but we sent a message, and they arrived this morning, full of relief and tears and rejoicing.”
Emma had felt nothing, nothing at all. “Did he say anything?”
Sister had shaken her head. “He was still sleeping when they took him – I don’t think he knew you were here. He’d been missing you—kept asking for you, but I told him we never knew who’d be helping. I thought it would be better not to say anything to the family.”
“Very wise,” she’d mumbled, climbing off the bed.
He had forgotten her, had her lovely boy. The moment his memory had returned her existence had been relegated to a trifle, not even worth a word of thanks or farewell, and she could thank God he’d been too deeply drugged to realize she’d been there last night.
She hadn’t been surprised. Apparently, he was the son of a marquess, a lord himself. No wonder he’d wanted to distance himself from the dingy hospital and the soiled doves who worked there.
She’d been grateful, so grateful that his leaving had prevented her from making a very great mistake. He had gone, and she had accepted it, determined to move on with her life.
Until she found him again, in the house of Melisande’s lover, and known, to her joy and despair, that her life wasn’t through with him yet.
Chapter 14
“Bloody hell,” Melisande, Viscountess Rohan, said succinctly, and at another time Emma would have laughed. For some strange reason her sense of humor had vanished. She’d fallen asleep thinking about Brandon, remembering things she’d done her best to forget, and she awoke late in the morning feeling unaccountably bereft, only to have Melisande swan in an hour later and plop herself in the nearby chair.
“Benedick’s been teaching you terrible words,” Emma said instead, leaning back in her bed. She was actually feeling better. She had the gift of healing quickly, though right now she wanted to hide in her bed rather than join Melisande’s guests. “Don’t let your children hear you.”
“In fact I learn more from the Gaggle,” Melisande countered cheerfully. “I particularly like the word ‘fuck.’ You look better, at least. Not quite so much like death warmed over. Everyone will be glad to hear it. How are you feeling?”
Emma closed her eyes. All things considered, she was feeling more than adequate. Her ribs were bruised, not broken, and the cut above her eye was minimal, despite the fact that it had provided the most gore. Her hands hurt from fighting off the man, but they were strong and used to abuse. Her entire body ached, but she’d do. Clearly her attacker had expected someone with ladylike demeanor, not the sort to kick him in the bollocks. If she’d been that kind of lady she’d be dead.
“Better,” she said. “I believe I might even be able to travel by this afternoon. I must get back to London.”
Melisande gave her a long look. “Maybe that knock on the head did more damage than we thought. You’re not going anywhere. Someone tried to kill you, you ninny! You can’t seriously expect me to believe you just happened to meet up with a brute who spends his time murdering women? On a path that no one takes? I don’t think so.”
“Why in the world would someone want to kill me?” Emma countered patiently. “I have no money, no power, no secrets. . .”
“Oh, you must have secrets,” Melisande protested. “Some particularly juicy ones, I don’t doubt, though you’ve never given in to my entreaties to share them. I have to rely on Mollie Biscuits and Long Polly to hear all the naughty details about the most proper gentlemen of my acquaintance.”
“I’d rather not think about it,” Emma said in a quiet voice.
“My dear,” Melisande said gently, covering her hand with hers.
Emma smiled, quite without bitterness. “It’s in the past, love. I’ve moved beyond it and prefer to keep it that way. But as you can see no one would have any reason to hurt me. If I were the keeper of secrets I would have used them by now. Besides, men tend to discount women—they don’t realize how dangerous they can be.”
Melisande laughed. “True enough. So you’re convinced this was simply random? You were in the wrong place at the wrong time?”
“Of course.”
“Then tell me why Rosie has disappeared,” Melisande said.
Emma shrugged, ignoring the pain in her head. “She’s probably terrified that her bad advice almost got me killed, and she ran off rather than face you or Benedick.”
“Good thing she has,” Melisande muttered. “I’d box her ears.”
“You would not, and you know it. You’re a ridiculously understanding mistress.”
Melisande didn’t deny it. “Not when they put my dearest friend in danger. But you’re insisting this was entirely random?”
“What else could it be?” Emma said faintly.
“Then perhaps you could tell me what in the world is going on between you and my brother-in-law.”
The question shouldn’t have been unexpected, but it felt like a blow. Fortunately, she was qui
“Of course he’s not—Charles is too stiff, and not in the right way, to ever take himself to a brothel.”
“We’re really having a lowering effect on your language,” Emma said, shaking her head.
“To hell with my language. You know perfectly well I’m not talking about stuffy old Charles. I’m talking about Brandon. And you. What in the world is going on? He was more than politely concerned about you—why, he spent the rest of the evening pacing, refused to come to dinner, avoiding everybody. When I went to look for him he was down in the servants’ hall, questioning the servants.”
She did her best to ignore the treacherously warm feeling that filled her. “Don’t go imagining things, Melly. There’s nothing between us. I imagine he was simply concerned that someone had been hurt. Truly, I’ve never seen Lord Brandon before he arrived.”
“Liar,” Melisande announced succinctly. “I may have been in distress at the time, but I know perfectly well you saved his life that awful night three years ago. You stopped him from hanging himself. Did you think Benedick wouldn’t have told me? Brandon thought it was some angel who’d come, and I didn’t bother to disabuse him of the notion.”
Emma didn’t blush—she had grown skilled at schooling any errant emotions. So he’d remembered that much, had he? What else had come back to him? Clearly not enough. “I prefer not to talk about it.”
“Aha! That proves there’s something more to it! If you simply met him then, there’s no reason you would want to avoid the subject. What is it between you and Brandon?”
Emma sighed with false ennui. “Nothing! How could there be? As it is, I only saw him that one time and he was barely conscious. He has no memory of me, and I have only the faintest recollection of him.” The moment she spoke she cursed herself. If she’d had her wits about her she could have said “Oh, is that the man I helped?” in an artless tone. Not that it would have done any good—her friend knew her too well.
“I doubt you’re disgruntled about that,” Melisande said judiciously. “And now that I think of it, you’ve always seemed a bit more interested when we’ve discussed Brandon than anything we’ve said about Charles or Miranda or their parents.”
“Well, isn’t that only logical? I hadn’t met the others.”
Melisande was like a terrier with a rat, and she wasn’t about to let go easily. “You met his parents at my wedding, you met Miranda and the Scorpion when everything exploded with the Heavenly Host. Charles is the only other one you’d never seen before—he wasn’t sure he approved of me enough to make the journey to our wedding, so that won’t wash. You’ve been on edge ever since the christening, when Brandon arrived, and you ran off when Charles mentioned Brandon’s fiancée.”
“I hadn’t realized he was betrothed. It surprised me.”
“He’s not betrothed!” Melisande corrected her automatically. “And simple surprise isn’t enough to make you go haring off in a storm like that. Not only is he not engaged to that pathetic little girl, I doubt he ever intends to do such a thing, ever. This is just some scheme that Charles has cooked up. I told Benedick he needed to put a stop to it, but you know Benedick. He’s the opposite of Charles—he doesn’t want to interfere.”
“It scarcely matters. Your brothers’ matrimonial plans have nothing to do with me,” Emma said.
“I wonder.” Melisande was eying her speculatively. “In the end it’s just as well, I suppose. Brandon will simply say no, and Charles will sulk. There’s no way Charles can compel him to do anything. I’m sure Miss Bonham will be much relieved—she looked quite terrified when she saw Brandon, and he deserves better than that. It will be up to us to make the poor girl feel comfortable. Charles hinted there was some sort of scandal attached to her name—well, there’d have to be, wouldn’t there? For her to come out here to meet an unknown fiancé? She and her companion are very close, but we must do our best to help the situation.”
“I need to get back to London, today. I’m sure you’ll provide excellent support, and the smaller this house party is, the better.”
“You’re not going anywhere,” Melisande said firmly. “Not until you can provide me with a good enough reason.”
Emma couldn’t still a desperate laugh. “You can’t keep me hostage here, Melly.”
“Of course I can. I have the Rohans at my back. So tell me why you ran. Why you’re still so desperate to run. It’s not like you—you’re the bravest woman I know.”
“Hardly,” Emma said, but she knew that look on her friend’s face, that stubborn, determined expression. Melisande’s determination had served her well in the face of public disapproval—she had established the Dovecote, both here and in London, she had embraced a former whore and madam without question, giving Emma her first experience with unqualified love and acceptance. Emma owed her the truth, or at least a good portion of it.
“Perhaps I. . . might have met Lord Brandon before that night he tried to hang himself,” she said carefully.
Melisande’s eyes lit up. “Oh, my goodness! Never tell me he was one of your customers? I gather he was quite the wild one before he went into the army, giving his dissolute ancestors a run for their money. I’ve even had a hint or two that he was a favorite of the ladies. Apparently, he was particularly adept with his. . .”
“No!” Emma said in a strangled voice. “He was never one of my. . . um. . .”
Melisande sat back, staring at her. “Why are you being so missish?”
“I didn’t fuck him, if you prefer me to use more colorful language. It’s a word I know particularly well; I just don’t happen to like it very much.”
“So?” Melisande was unabashed. “If it wasn’t in your professional capacity, how did you meet him and when? And why is he acting like you’re a complete stranger?”
Emma’s head pounded, her heart ached, and she just wanted Melisande to go away. There were times when she wished she could cry—if she could just burst into tears Melisande would go into maternal mode, comfort her and stop with these incessant, painful questions. But Emma was not about to beg for mercy. She made it through life by facing difficulties head on and that wasn’t going to change.
“To him I am a complete stranger.” She took a deep breath. She’d learned that when something would be painful it was best done quickly, and she went on. “I used to volunteer at the soldiers’ hospital, remember? That was how I discovered my affinity for the medical arts. Your brother-in-law was one of the men I looked after when he first came back from the Afghan War. He was very ill, and he had no memory of who or what he was.”
“And?”
“Isn’t that enough?”
“No. Taking care of an unconscious man is not the sort of thing to make you react like this. It’s most uncustomary.”
“I didn’t say he was unconscious,” Emma muttered. “He was in a great deal of pain, but he was able to talk. And we did. Talk that is. It helped him get through the long nights.”
For a long time Melisande looked at her, saying nothing. “I see,” she said eventually. “And what happened?”
“Absolutely nothing. I came back to the hospital and he was gone. His family had discovered him, and he was whisked off to be properly cared for like the aristocrat he is, and his memory came back and he forgot all about me.”
“So you had this connection with him all this time, while Benedick and I were going about trying to stop the Heavenly Host, and you never said a word to me?” Melisande’s voice was prosaic, but Emma knew her too well not to miss the well-hidden strain of hurt.
“What was the point? He’d forgotten me, he was doing his best to kill himself with opium and anything else destructive he could find. There was nothing I could do, and you had enough going on. You didn’t need an unimportant fact like that distract
“An unimportant fact like you’d fallen in love with a lost soul who was bound up with licentious, murderous degenerates?”
“Don’t be ridiculous! Who falls in love with someone they barely know?” Emma’s mouth twisted in a grim smile. “Whores know better than to fall in love.”
Melisande slapped her. The blow was swift and unexpected, though more shocking than painful. “That’s my dearest friend you’re talking about,” she said sternly. “Don’t you dare call her names.”
Emma managed a shaky laugh. “You’re far too good to me, Melly.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” There were bright tears in Melisande’s eyes, and the ache in Emma’s heart deepened. Melisande was uncharacteristically silent for a few moments, and then sighed. “You know, it would probably be better if you weren’t in love with him. And don’t waste your breath saying that you’re not—I’ve known you for many years—I can tell when you lie. If he ever did marry, his wife would have a lifetime of emptiness.”
Emma shot a glance at her. “She would not!” she said, knowing it was unwise of her.
“No intimacies, no children. . . his wife would have little useful role in the household.”
“No intimacies, no children,” Emma echoed, perplexed. “What in heaven’s name are you talking about?”
“Why, his injuries. I hadn’t realized they were quite that extensive until Charles told me. He cannot perform a husband’s duties, he cannot father children. He’s a eunuch. But if you tended him you must already know that.”
Emma stared at Melisande in shock. “What?”
Even outspoken Melisande blushed slightly. “His wounds. He lost his. . . that is to say. . . well, Benedick was most upset.”
“I imagine he was,” Emma said grimly.
“I expect Charles managed to communicate the distressing situation with great delicacy to Miss Bonham,” Melisande said doubtfully. “Though a small, evil part of me would have loved to have heard him try.”