Stranger in My Arms(72)

“Lady Lonsdale,” he said quietly, coming to her side. “Rachel.” He looked down at her as she tried to shrink away. “What happened to you?

How long have you been ill?” He took her thin, cold hand in his large one and gently chafed her fingers.

She stared at him with the eyes of a wounded animal. “I don’t know,” she whispered. “I don’t know what happened. He didn’t mean to do it, I’m certain … but somehow I fell. Rest… that’s all I need. It’s just that . . it hurts dreadfully.. “I can’t seem to sleep.”

She needed a hell of a lot more than rest, starting with a visit from Dr. Slade. Hunter had never taken much notice of Rachel, thinking of her only as an attractive but less interesting imitation of Lara.

However, seeing the faint resemblance she bore to his wife, and her obvious suffering, he was aware of a twist of pity in his chest “Lara sent me for you,” he muttered. “God knows you shouldn’t be moved, but I promised hen” He broke off abruptly, filled with frustration.

Lara’s name seemed to pierce through Rachel’s pain-fogged nightmare.

“Oh, yes… Larissa. I want Larissa. Please.”

Hunter cast a sideways glare at the housekeeper, who stood nearby.

“What the hell is going on?”

“She’s been bleeding, sir,” the housekeeper replied softly. “Ever since the fall. Nothing we do seems to stop it. I wanted to send for the doctor, but the master forbade it.” Her voice dropped until it was barely audible. “Please, sir… take her away from here before he comes back. There’s no telling what might happen if you don’t.”

Hunter looked back at the listless figure on the bed, and pulled the covers back. There were rusty splotches of dried blood on Rachel’s nightgown, and more beneath her. Gruffly he ordered the housekeeper to assist him, and together they pulled a soft cambric robe around the ailing woman. Rachel tried to help, gamely lifting her arms into the sleeves, but even the smallest movement seemed to cause her agony. Her lips were blue and tightly compressed as the housekeeper buttoned the front of the robe. Hunter leaned over and slid his arms beneath her, speaking as if she were a small child. “Good girl,” he murmured, lifting her easily. “I’ll take you to Larissa, and you’ll be better soon.-” He tried to be gentle, but she moaned in pain as he cradled her against his chest, her bare feet dangling. Swearing silently, Hunter wondered if moving her would result in her death.

“Go on, milord,” the housekeeper urged at his hesitation. “It’s for the best-you must believe me.”

Hunter nodded and carried Rachel from the room.

Her head dropped on his shoulder, and he thought she had fainted, but as he brought her down the stairs, he heard a feeble whisper. “Thank you…

whoever you are.”

The pain and blood loss must have made her delirious, he thought “I’m Hawksworth,” he said, trying not to jostle her as they continued down the staircase.

“No, you’re not,” came her faint but certain reply … and her thin fingers touched his cheek in gentle benediction.

The carriage ride to Hawksworth Hall was torturous, Rachel whitefaced and ill, gasping every time the wheels hit a rut or hole in the road.

She lay curled on the length of the velvet seat, cushioned by pillows and blankets that did little to ease her misery. After a while Hunter found himself flinching at Rachel’s quiet moans, her pain affecting him more than he expected.

Like everyone else, Hunter had wanted to ignore Lonsdale’s past treatment of Rachel, reasoning that what transpired between a married couple in the privacy of their own home was not his concern. He had no doubt that many people would say that he was going too far in removing Rachel from the Lonsdale estate. Damn them all, he thought savagely, as Rachel whimpered in misery. It was the fault of everyone in Market Hill and all the Lonsdales’ friends and relatives-they had collectively allowed the situation to come to this.

It seemed almost miraculous that Rachel didn’t die during the hideous carriage ride. They finally arrived at Hawksworth Hall, and Hunter carried her into the house with great care. He found old Dr. Slade already there, waiting with Lara. His wife did not seem surprised by her sister’s condition, and he guessed that her imaginings had led her to expect the worst.

At Lara’s direction, Hunter brought the patient to his wife’s own bedroom and settled her on the linen sheets. While maids bustled about and Lara bent over Rachel, and the doctor rummaged through his case, Hunter wandered from the room.

His part was done. He supposed he should feel some sort of satisfaction at having fulfilled his promise, but instead he was troubled and restless. He went to the library and closeted himself there, drinking slowly, wondering how the hell he would deal with Lonsdale when he arrived. No matter how remorseful Lonsdale appeared, Hunter knew that he couldn’t allow him to take his wife back. How could Lonsdale convince any of them that he wouldn’t harm Rachel again-how could they be certain that he wouldn’t eventually kill her?

Lonsdale wouldn’t change, Hunter reflected, starting on his second brandy. People never did. He thought of what Lara had said to him earlier: Somehow you’ve changed into a man I can trust and rely on.

A man I could love. The earnest confession, spoken with such gentle hope, had filled him with bitter longing. He hadn’t known how to respond, still didn’t. He wanted Lara’s love. He would do anything to have her, though he might prove as destructive to her in his own way as Lonsdale was to Rachel.