The Countess by Catherine Coulter

business.” I heard John laugh.

“Just let her lie there in peace for a while,” he said.

“All right,” I heard my husband say, “but I don’t like it. I would feel better

if Cuthbert looked her over.”

“Not until I’m dead,” I said. I managed to open my eyes and look up into

Lawrence’s face. “You are my husband. You are supposed to care about me. Don’t

torture me. Don’t let this Cuthbert fellow near me.”

“Very well,” he said, and I heard the amusement in his voice as I floated into

the ether once again. It was warm there, the voices all vague and blurred, the

pain tamped down.

I don’t know who carried me to my bedchamber, but it was Belinda’s face I saw

before I fell into a very nice deep sleep with the help of some laudanum from

Mrs. Redbreast, that wonderful woman.

When I woke up, it was late afternoon. I lay there, waiting for my body to hurt

or not to hurt. To my relief, all I felt was a nagging headache. I slowly got

out of my bed. Belinda had undressed me and put me in a nightgown.

I heard a squawk. There was Belinda, seated in a chair near the bed, ready to

leap up.

“No, no, my lady, don’t move. Your parts, they’re not ready to move yet, surely.”

“My parts are just fine,” I said, and set my feet on the floor. I rose slowly. I

was stiff, felt bruised and achy, but otherwise I was all right. “It wasn’t a

deep rabbit hole,” I said, thought of John, and smiled. Despite everything, I

smiled.

She was at my side in the next instant. I held up my hand to ward her off. “No,

Belinda, I am just fine. I think I should like a very hot bath. It will soak out

all my aches and pains.” And it would also get rid of her, I thought, then felt

guilty. She was worried about me. But I didn’t want anyone around me. I watched

her walk from the room, looking back at me several times, frowning.

I was afraid. My derringer. I panicked, then reached under my pillow. It was

there. Who had put it there? John, I hoped. If it had been Belinda, she would

have said something, probably to Lawrence. No, it had to be John. Had he allowed

Belinda or anyone else to see it, or had he managed to come into my bedchamber

and pull it from under my riding skirt? The thought of him doing that was enough

to send me back onto my bed. I sat there holding my derringer, just looking

across the room at the windows with the bar holes in the casements. The bars for

Caroline because she had been mad.

I don’t think I did anything but breathe until Belinda returned with enough

buckets of hot water to drown me.

An hour later, with her following on my heels, clucking over me, wringing her

hands, I left The Blue Room, dressed in a sturdy old gray gown that was faded

from so many washings and some walking boots. I’d worn both a lot at Deerfield

Hall, trudging on the moors. I pulled on an equally old velvet cloak and gloves.

The derringer wasn’t strapped back against my thigh this time. It was right in

my cloak pocket. I could pull it out and fire it in but a moment of time. I

could protect myself, and I most assuredly would. My head ached, but I was more

angry than hurt now.

Brantley was by the front door. He saw me and became as still as the plaster

statue of the naked

Greek god that stood in a recessed corner just outside the drawing room.

“I am going for a walk,” I said, and my voice was as cold as the air seeping in

beneath the great front doors. “I will be fine, Brantley. You are not to worry

about me. It was just a rabbit hole, a very big one, but I am not a milksop. I

will be just fine. I am just going down by the stream. I like it there.” And I

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