Devil in Spring
Page 84
“Mrs. O’Cairre,” she exclaimed in concern, going to her at once. “What are you doing here? How are you?”
“I’m well enough, milady. And you?”
“I’m well enough too,” Pandora said. “I’m sorry about the way my manservant barged into your shop yesterday. He’s very protective. There was no way I could stop him, other than crowning him with a heavy object. Which I considered doing, incidentally.”
“No harm done.” Mrs. O’Cairre’s smile dampened slightly, and her clear hazel eyes clouded with worry. “But a man came to the shop today, asking questions. He wouldn’t give his name, or say what business he was about. I beg your pardon for asking, milady, but have you talked to the police?”
“No.” Pandora regarded her with increasing concern, noticing a film of sweat on the woman’s face, and the dilated blackness of her pupils. “Mrs. O’Cairre, are you in some kind of trouble? Are you ill? Tell me how I can help you.”
The woman tilted her head, regarding Pandora with an almost affectionate regret. “You’re a sweet soul, milady. Forgive me.”
A hoarse male shout distracted Pandora’s attention. She glanced toward the crowd, startled to see Dragon violently pushing and shoving his way toward her. He looked absolutely berserk. What was the matter with him?
He was upon them before Pandora could take a breath. She was stunned to feel him slam his wrist and forearm hard against her collarbone as if he were trying to break it. A frightened breath escaped her at the impact, and she reeled backward. He caught her and pulled her against his massive chest.
Bewildered, she spoke against the soft velvet of his livery coat. “Dragon, why did you hit me?”
He made a brief reply, but she couldn’t hear him above high-pitched screams that had begun to erupt around them. As he eased her away from his chest, she saw that his sleeve had been cut open, as if with a pair of scissors, and the fabric was dark and wet. Blood. She shook her head in confusion. What was happening? His blood was all over her. There was so much of it. The coppery smell rose thickly to her nostrils. She closed her eyes and turned her face away.
In the next second, she became aware of Gabriel’s arms around her. He seemed to be shouting orders at people.
Thoroughly baffled, Pandora stirred and looked around. What was this? She was on the ground, half-propped in Gabriel’s lap. And Helen was kneeling beside them. People were crowding all around them, offering coats, calling out advice, while a policeman worked to hold them back. It was strange and frightening to wake up in such a situation.
“Where are we?” she asked.
Helen answered, her face very white but calm. “We’re still at the Haymarket, dearest. You fainted.”
“I did?” Pandora tried to gather her wits. It wasn’t easy to think, with the way her husband was gripping her shoulder like a vise. “My lord, you’re holding my shoulder too tightly. You’re hurting me. Please—”
“Darling love,” he said in a muffled voice, “hold still. I’m applying pressure to the wound.”
“What wound? I have a wound?”
“You were stabbed. By your Mrs. O’Cairre.”
Pandora looked up at him in amazement, her brain slow to absorb the revelation. “Not my Mrs. O’Cairre,” she said after a moment, her teeth chattering. “If she’s going around stabbing people, I’m disowning her.” Her shoulder was beginning to hurt more and more, the dull throbbing sharpening into pain that pierced down to her marrow. Her entire skeleton rattled constantly, as if she were being shaken by invisible hands. “What about Dragon? Where is he?”
“He went after her.”
“But his arm . . . he was hurt . . .”
“He said the cut wasn’t deep. He’ll be fine.”
Her shoulder felt like it had been burned with scalding grease. The ground was hard and cold beneath her, and her entire bodice was strangely soggy. She looked down, but Gabriel had covered her front with his coat. Tentatively she maneuvered her arm to lift the garment.
Helen stopped her, pressing a light hand to her chest. “Dear, try not to move. You must stay covered.”
“My dress is clammy,” Pandora said fitfully. “The pavement is hard. I don’t like this. I want to go home.”
Winterborne pushed through the crowd and crouched beside them. “Has the bleeding slowed enough to move her?”
“I think so,” Gabriel replied.
“We’ll take my carriage. I’ve already sent word to my staff physicians—they’ll meet us at Cork Street. There’s a new surgery and clinic in the building next to my store.”
“I’d rather take her to my family doctor.”
“St. Vincent, she needs to be seen by someone quickly. Cork Street is only a half-mile away.”
She heard Gabriel curse quietly. “Let’s go, then.”
Chapter 20
Nothing Gabriel had ever been through had felt like this, real and yet not real. A waking nightmare. Nothing had ever made him afraid like this. Staring down at his wife, he wanted to howl with anguish and rage.
Pandora’s face was strained and white, her lips blue-tinged. Blood loss had weakened her severely. She was propped in his lap with her legs extended across the carriage seat. Although she was weighted with coats and lap blankets, she shivered continuously.
Tucking the coats around her more snugly, he checked the bandage he’d fashioned with a pad of clean handkerchiefs. He’d bound it with neckties that went around her arm, crossed over the joint of her neck and shoulder and wrapped beneath her opposite arm. His mind kept returning to the moment when she’d collapsed in his arms, blood welling from the incised wound.
“I’m well enough, milady. And you?”
“I’m well enough too,” Pandora said. “I’m sorry about the way my manservant barged into your shop yesterday. He’s very protective. There was no way I could stop him, other than crowning him with a heavy object. Which I considered doing, incidentally.”
“No harm done.” Mrs. O’Cairre’s smile dampened slightly, and her clear hazel eyes clouded with worry. “But a man came to the shop today, asking questions. He wouldn’t give his name, or say what business he was about. I beg your pardon for asking, milady, but have you talked to the police?”
“No.” Pandora regarded her with increasing concern, noticing a film of sweat on the woman’s face, and the dilated blackness of her pupils. “Mrs. O’Cairre, are you in some kind of trouble? Are you ill? Tell me how I can help you.”
The woman tilted her head, regarding Pandora with an almost affectionate regret. “You’re a sweet soul, milady. Forgive me.”
A hoarse male shout distracted Pandora’s attention. She glanced toward the crowd, startled to see Dragon violently pushing and shoving his way toward her. He looked absolutely berserk. What was the matter with him?
He was upon them before Pandora could take a breath. She was stunned to feel him slam his wrist and forearm hard against her collarbone as if he were trying to break it. A frightened breath escaped her at the impact, and she reeled backward. He caught her and pulled her against his massive chest.
Bewildered, she spoke against the soft velvet of his livery coat. “Dragon, why did you hit me?”
He made a brief reply, but she couldn’t hear him above high-pitched screams that had begun to erupt around them. As he eased her away from his chest, she saw that his sleeve had been cut open, as if with a pair of scissors, and the fabric was dark and wet. Blood. She shook her head in confusion. What was happening? His blood was all over her. There was so much of it. The coppery smell rose thickly to her nostrils. She closed her eyes and turned her face away.
In the next second, she became aware of Gabriel’s arms around her. He seemed to be shouting orders at people.
Thoroughly baffled, Pandora stirred and looked around. What was this? She was on the ground, half-propped in Gabriel’s lap. And Helen was kneeling beside them. People were crowding all around them, offering coats, calling out advice, while a policeman worked to hold them back. It was strange and frightening to wake up in such a situation.
“Where are we?” she asked.
Helen answered, her face very white but calm. “We’re still at the Haymarket, dearest. You fainted.”
“I did?” Pandora tried to gather her wits. It wasn’t easy to think, with the way her husband was gripping her shoulder like a vise. “My lord, you’re holding my shoulder too tightly. You’re hurting me. Please—”
“Darling love,” he said in a muffled voice, “hold still. I’m applying pressure to the wound.”
“What wound? I have a wound?”
“You were stabbed. By your Mrs. O’Cairre.”
Pandora looked up at him in amazement, her brain slow to absorb the revelation. “Not my Mrs. O’Cairre,” she said after a moment, her teeth chattering. “If she’s going around stabbing people, I’m disowning her.” Her shoulder was beginning to hurt more and more, the dull throbbing sharpening into pain that pierced down to her marrow. Her entire skeleton rattled constantly, as if she were being shaken by invisible hands. “What about Dragon? Where is he?”
“He went after her.”
“But his arm . . . he was hurt . . .”
“He said the cut wasn’t deep. He’ll be fine.”
Her shoulder felt like it had been burned with scalding grease. The ground was hard and cold beneath her, and her entire bodice was strangely soggy. She looked down, but Gabriel had covered her front with his coat. Tentatively she maneuvered her arm to lift the garment.
Helen stopped her, pressing a light hand to her chest. “Dear, try not to move. You must stay covered.”
“My dress is clammy,” Pandora said fitfully. “The pavement is hard. I don’t like this. I want to go home.”
Winterborne pushed through the crowd and crouched beside them. “Has the bleeding slowed enough to move her?”
“I think so,” Gabriel replied.
“We’ll take my carriage. I’ve already sent word to my staff physicians—they’ll meet us at Cork Street. There’s a new surgery and clinic in the building next to my store.”
“I’d rather take her to my family doctor.”
“St. Vincent, she needs to be seen by someone quickly. Cork Street is only a half-mile away.”
She heard Gabriel curse quietly. “Let’s go, then.”
Chapter 20
Nothing Gabriel had ever been through had felt like this, real and yet not real. A waking nightmare. Nothing had ever made him afraid like this. Staring down at his wife, he wanted to howl with anguish and rage.
Pandora’s face was strained and white, her lips blue-tinged. Blood loss had weakened her severely. She was propped in his lap with her legs extended across the carriage seat. Although she was weighted with coats and lap blankets, she shivered continuously.
Tucking the coats around her more snugly, he checked the bandage he’d fashioned with a pad of clean handkerchiefs. He’d bound it with neckties that went around her arm, crossed over the joint of her neck and shoulder and wrapped beneath her opposite arm. His mind kept returning to the moment when she’d collapsed in his arms, blood welling from the incised wound.
