“The surgeon is digging the ball out of his chest. He is not a young man, my lord, and he also has a terrible gash on his head.” Scargill paused a moment to regain control over his shaking voice. “If he regains consciousness, my lord, perhaps he can tell us who did this.”
The earl straightened over Cassie. “I will be down to see him as soon as I can leave her safely. Send one of the men to fetch the dead man from Vannone’s hut, Scargill. It’s possible there may be something to identify him.” He pointed to Rosina’s motionless form. “Please remove her. Marrina can bring her back to her senses.”
The earl washed the blood from his hands and sat down on the bed beside her. With infinite care, he traced the line of her jaw, and gently probed her head. Methodically, he pressed his hands over her body from her bruised breasts, still slightly swollen from her pregnancy, to the bruise over her ribs, larger and darker than it was at the hut.
Cassie opened her eyes unwillingly, and saw the earl bent over her belly, his large hands pressing her lightly. She waited for the tearing pain in her belly to consume her again, but it did not come. For an instant, she felt whole, until her mind communicated to her that there was still pain to be endured, throbbing pain between her thighs and a sharp pressure, like a vise, closing about her chest. She closed her eyes tightly and pressed her head down against the pillow to keep from crying out.
She felt his hand upon her cheek.
“Cassandra.”
She drew a jagged breath against the pain and opened her eyes to him. For an instant, she was back in the hut, flung upon her back, and the men were digging their fingers into her, savaging her.
“Cassandra,” his voice cut through the horror, and she fastened her eyes upon his face.
“Where am I?”
“You are at home, Cassie, safe with me. I know your pain is great, love. I will give you some laudanum.”
Laudanum. Her mind held fast to the word. It would make her forget, hide her away from her body, from the pain. He lifted her gently, and she avidly gulped down the liquid.
She lay very quietly, waiting for oblivion. Slowly, the pain began to separate itself from her, as if it were outside her, someone else’s pain. She stared at him above her before she slipped into sleep, curious at how his dark face could be set into almost impassive lines, but his eyes black with rage.
The earl wrapped wide strips of linen about her chest and covered her. He quickly bathed and changed his bloodstained clothes. He gazed down at her one last time, thankful that the laudanum would keep her in sleep for many hours, and pulled himself away.
When he entered the guest chamber where they had taken Joseph, the men around the bed did not for a moment notice his presence. The surgeon, Signore Bissone, a slight, balding little man, his shoulders bent by his sixty years, was wrapping thick white bandages about Joseph’s chest.
“Well?”
Scargill turned quickly at the sound of his master’s unnaturally harsh voice.
“He will live, my lord, he has told us so himself.” A faint smile broke the tight lines about Scargill’s mouth.
Signore Bissone slowly straightened and looked thoughtfully at the earl. “I have removed the ball from his chest, my lord, but I must be frank with you. The wound is deep, and I fear the fever. As for the blow on his head, that will not kill him.” He shrugged. “It’s a tough old man he is, my lord.”
Joseph’s eyelids flickered open as the earl approached him.
“I am glad you are such a resilient old bird, my friend,” the earl said, and tightly gripped Joseph’s hand. Joseph’s gnarled fingers moved slightly within his grasp.
“The madonna?” Joseph’s normally deep voice was breathless.
“That is all I hear from either of you. How is the other doing? She will recover, Joseph, I swear it.”
“They hurt her so badly,” Joseph mumbled, trying desperately to keep his wits focused. “I am sorry, my lord. I have failed you.”