The Rebel Bride by Catherine Coulter

“My lord, the towels.”

“No, Emma, I don’t think it wise to lessen the pressure. Bring blankets, we must keep her warm.”

His arms were buried by the covers, and though they began to ache, he pressed his hands all the harder against her.

Mrs. Cradshaw stood away from the bed, her gaze drawn to the bloody, torn clothing on the floor. “She lost the child. Ah, the poor lamb, she lost the child.”

“Yes,” he said, not looking up.

“I’ll remove all the clothing,” she said, leaned over, wrapped the soaked material in the towels, and rose, somewhat shakily. “Would you prefer that I remained, my lord?”

“No, Emma, it’s not necessary. Take the clothing and burn it.” The sharp command was cold, impersonal, but there was misery in his gray eyes, and she hated it, hated the finality of it.

She moved slowly to the door. “Dr. Quaille should be here shortly.”

He eased one hand from between her thighs and rested it briefly on her abdomen. It was an absurd gesture, for he had no idea of what he was probing for. He moved his hand to her breast and flattened his palm to feel her heartbeat. Though rapid, the beat seemed regular and steady.

He’d begun to despair of his actions, when the door was suddenly thrown open and the portly, red-faced Dr. Quaille bustled forward, his stark black cloth suit proclaiming his profession.

He was panting from his exertion at running up the stairs.

“She’s lost the child,” Julien said. “I wasn’t certain what to do for the bleeding. It wouldn’t stop.” He slowly pulled back the blankets. “As you see, I’ve pressed the cloth against her, hoping to stop the bleeding. There’s been so much blood. Jesus, so much blood and she had such pain.”

“Excellent, my lord, excellent.” His voice was calm, reassuring, gentle even as he drew some frightening instruments from his worn leather bag.

“You’ve done just right. Now if you’ll allow me to examine her, I’ll fix it up, I swear it to you.”

Still, the young earl didn’t move. Dr. Quaille said even more gently now, “You’ve done just as you should, my lord. I myself couldn’t have contrived better, under the circumstances.”

Julien slowly removed his hand. His shirts were soaked through with blood. He winced and said in a voice of despair, “It seems I’ve failed, for she still bleeds too much, doesn’t she?”

“No more than I expected. Would you care to wait outside, my lord?” He saw the young man’s pain, his fear, boundless fear and helplessness, but he didn’t want him to stay and witness what he was about to do.

“No,” the earl said only.

Dr. Quaille had no choice but to proceed. He removed the shirts from between the countess’s legs. There was little new blood now. “As you see, my lord, your stratagem worked. The bleeding has nearly stopped.”

Julien watched tight-lipped as the doctor plied some of the more unpleasant-looking instruments of his trade. Thank God Kate wasn’t yet conscious.

There was a sharp, insistent rap on the door, and Julien moved swiftly to answer. Mrs. Cradshaw, Milly, and two footmen laden with tubs of hot water and mountains of clean linen stood in the corridor, their faces white and stricken. The mirror image, Julien thought, of his own.

“Ah, excellent.” Dr. Quaille looked up as Julien set the tubs on the floor beside the bed. To Julien’s relief, he tossed the instruments aside and rose. “You need worry no more, my lord, for the countess will soon be on the mend again. In large measure due to your quick thinking.”

“But the bleeding.” Julien frowned down at the scarlet cloths.

“It’s natural for the bleeding to continue, in fact, for several more days. And, I would add, my lord, that my examination indicates no internal problems. What I mean is,” he amended, seeing the questioning look on the earl’s face, “the countess is young and quite healthy. You will have as many sons and daughters as you will want. Of that I’m certain.”

“My thanks, sir,” Julien said simply.

“Now, my lord, I suggest that Mrs. Cradshaw put the countess in her nightclothes. Then we shall awaken her.”