A Murder in Time(146)

71

Kendra woke sometime during the night, possibly the early hours of the morning. She wasn’t sure; she’d lost track of time. Which was a hell of thing for a time traveler to admit, she supposed.

Vaguely she remembered being held and rocked. It had taken a couple of minutes for her to understand that she was being held in Alec’s arms, on horseback. There were no ambulances or EMTs in the nineteenth century.

She’d passed out again, but came to as Dr. Munroe worked on her. She realized there were no anesthesiologists, either. When she’d moaned in pain, he’d spooned some liquid into her mouth that had knocked her out cold, which probably accounted for the vile taste in her mouth now. And the icepick headache—though that could’ve come from having the crap beaten out of her.

She opened her eyes. Or, rather, eye. The other was swollen shut. Her face felt monstrous, twice its normal size. Using only her good eye—and, Jesus, even that hurt—she took stock of where she was.

It was not, she realized, the bedchamber she’d shared with Rose. Above her was a shadowy canopy. Across from the bed was a Carrara marble fireplace. A low fire crackled in its hearth, a hazy glow. She could make out paintings, the gleam of wood, the dark shape of furniture. Her heart constricted in fear when one of those shapes rose. She let out a little moan of terror, her whole body tensing for attack.

“Sh-sh, sweetheart.” She recognized Alec’s voice. He approached the bed and touched her hand, a featherlight caress. “You are safe, Kendra. Morland is dead.”

“It’s over?”

“Yes. Go to sleep. You must rest.”

Kendra closed her eye. She doubted whether she would sleep, but next time she awoke, it was morning. A maid was bent over a nearby table, her back to her.

“Molly.” Her voice was so low and raspy that she was surprised that the tweeny even heard her.

Molly spun around and hurried over to the bed, where she burst into tears. “Oh, miss!” She attempted to mop up the flood with her apron. “Ye ’ad us ever so worried!”

“I’m fine. Just bruised . . .” She tried to sit up, and pain sizzled down her side. Oh, yeah, and stabbed.

“’Ere now, let me ’elp ye.” Molly plumped up the pillows and gently placed them behind her so she was at least half-sitting. “Oi’m ter let ’is Grace know as soon as ye woke up.”

She hurried out of the room. Ten minutes later, the door opened again, but it was Dr. Munroe who came in. He set his black bag on the bed, studying her gravely through his Harry Potter glasses. “Well, Miss Donovan. It’s been a while since I’ve had a subject who was still breathing. You were fortunate. The knife missed vital organs. You shall have a scar.” The dark eyes turned speculative. “Of course, it shan’t trouble you any more than your others.”

Kendra knew he was waiting for some sort of explanation. Since she couldn’t give him one, she said nothing.

“You are an enigma, Miss Donovan.”

“I guess I have you to thank that I’m an alive enigma.”

He smiled. “Yes, well, let’s make certain you stay that way. I need to inspect your wounds. We wouldn’t want infection to set in.”

Kendra shuddered. Even in the twenty-first century, infection was the predominant worry in hospitals. So-called superbugs could be more deadly than the illness that brought the person into the hospital. She didn’t want to consider what could happen if she got an infection here.

Munroe might work as an M.E. but he knew how to deal with the living. He was both gentle and thorough in his examination.

Afterward Kendra sank back against the pillows, exhausted. “So what’s the verdict, Doc?”

“I do believe you shall live, Miss Donovan.”

He was putting his instruments into his bag when the door flew open and Rebecca ran into the room in a swirl of lemon-colored skirts. Ignoring the doctor, she rushed over to grab Kendra’s hand, and like Molly, burst into tears.

“You’re the second person who started crying after looking at my face. I’m going to get a complex.”

“Pardon me!” Rebecca blotted her tears with a lacy handkerchief.

“Miss Donovan shall recover, your Ladyship.”

“Yes. Thank you, Dr. Munroe. It is only . . . dear heaven, Miss Donovan. You look simply awful!”

“Wow. Thanks.”

“Oh. You know what I mean.”

“Never fear, Lady Rebecca,” Munroe assured her. “The inflammation ought to subside in a few days. The bruising will take longer, though I shall have a poultice brought up to help with both matters. It should be applied three times a day.” He gave Kendra a long look. “I shall return later, Miss Donovan. Do not exert yourself.”

Rebecca sat on the bed. “Can I get you anything, Miss Donovan?”

“A glass of water?”

She popped off the bed, and hurried over to the table that held a glass and carafe. A moment later, she returned, handing Kendra the glass. “I simply cannot believe what has transpired,” she admitted. “Mr. Morland was the monster . . . and Thomas. And poor Gabriel . . .”

“Gabriel?”

“Oh.” Her eyes slid away. “I am uncertain—”

“Tell me what happened to Gabriel.”