Duke of Desire (Maiden Lane #12)(19)

Nicoletta drew off the bandage and revealed a mass of swollen, angry red tissue. The stitches Iris had placed the night before were lost in the puffy mess.

Iris inhaled. She’d seen men die within days from infected wounds like this.

Nicoletta picked up a squat earthen pot and pulled the stopper out. She dipped a wooden spoon in the wide mouth and came up with a gob of glistening honey.

“Not yet.” Iris stayed her hand.

The maidservant frowned and indicated that she wanted to put the honey on the wound.

“Yes, I know,” Iris said. “But first …” She glanced around and beckoned Ubertino and Valente to the bed. “Come here.”

“Your Grace?” Ubertino asked.

She looked at the manservant, seeing the concern in his bright-blue eyes. “I need you and Valente to hold the duke down while Nicoletta and I tend to him. It may hurt him and he mustn’t injure himself more.”

“Yes, Your Grace.” Ubertino spoke to Valente and the men took up stances on either side of the bed, their hands holding down the duke’s forearms.

Ubertino looked up at Iris.

Iris nodded at him.

Then she lifted the carafe and poured the wine directly onto the wound.

The duke shouted and tried to jerk away, but the manservants held him against the pillows.

His crystal eyes opened, staring accusingly up at Iris as she continued to pour the wine onto his festering skin.

“Cruel lady,” he rasped, and she faltered.

The alcohol must burn him. Must hurt him terribly. But she’d seen the doctors do this when tending men with infected wounds.

Their patients hadn’t always lived.

Finally the carafe was empty and she stepped back.

His gaze followed her even as Nicoletta leaned forward with the honey, carefully smoothing it onto the wound. He didn’t move, didn’t so much as wince as the maidservant worked, though that must hurt as well, for she was pressing the sticky stuff into the oozing flesh.

Instead he kept his eerie eyes locked on Iris.

And she couldn’t do anything but hold his gaze, standing there as if she were a mouse hypnotized by a dying snake.

At last his eyelids closed, just as Nicoletta stepped back to stopper the jar of honey and wrap the spoon in a bit of cloth.

Iris took a breath and wondered at the ache in her chest.

She could hear the maidservant murmuring behind her, but she couldn’t take her eyes from the face of the sleeping man. Such an awful face. Ravaged and scarred. She’d seen men horribly wounded in warfare. They wore bandages or scarves or hats to hide the worst of their injuries. Not Dyemore. He stood straight and met others’ eyes squarely, unashamed of his scar.

She touched his hand, lying on top of the bedcovers. His fingers were long and elegant, the nails square and well shaped.

Nicoletta patted her on the shoulder, urging her to sit in a chair that one of the men had placed beside the bed.

“Thank you,” Iris murmured.

Behind her the door shut, leaving her alone with the duke.

She dropped her head into her hands, only now realizing that she wore only a shirt and a banyan.

Iris stifled a hysterical laugh. Dear God. What had she gotten herself into? Married to a man who said he was waging war against the Lords of Chaos?

He moaned, moving restlessly against the sheets.

She looked up and touched his hand again—too hot under her fingers. All the complaining in the world wouldn’t change her lot. She’d been married for three years to a man she hadn’t loved.

Who hadn’t loved her.

She’d survived that.

And she would survive this.

In the meantime she knew only one thing: she didn’t want the duke to die.

His dreams were filled with flame and demons.

The demons danced on burning coals, their cloven hooves sending sparks into the smoky air. Long forked tongues flickered through the mouth holes in their animal masks, and dolphin tattoos swam over their naked skin. They called him their prince, and when he ran from them, they chased him through the abbey, pleading that they loved him and wished only to crown him their king.

He fled, his heart seizing with nameless dread, his lungs choked with smoke.

Everywhere he turned, the abbey corridors were filled with flames, and though he burned he was never consumed.

Behind him he could hear them crying, calling their terrible love, chasing him into the endless dark.

Until he came to the heart of the inferno, deep, deep underground. He was there, standing still with grapes in His hair and a smile on His unspeakable face.

He reached out long, stained fingers. “My sweet boy.”

Raphael picked up the knife, for he knew what he must do …

He woke gasping, his throat so dry he felt he was choking.

The right side of his face burned, and for a moment he was still there, holding that awful knife.

“Here,” a woman’s voice murmured.

A cool arm slid under his neck, and for a fraction of a second he thought she was Madre, petite and dark and always so sad. But then she held a cup to his lips and he knew it was his duchess, practical and English, and with eyes that held the light after a storm.

The water was sweet.

He drank and then opened his eyes. “Iris.”

She laid a cool hand against his brow. “Do you want more water?” Her voice was low, nearly a whisper, perhaps because it was night.