Page 107 of Deceiving an Earl
“There is nothing you could have done against a monster like Needham,” Oliver said. But right then, as Ellen’s blood smeared his hand, he swore revenge on the bastard.
Ellen moaned, and Oliver leaned down to whisper in her ear. “I’m here. You will be fine, and I will protect you from now on.”
Her lips moved, but no words came out, and then she went still. Oliver’s gaze flew to her chest, willing it to rise and fall. It did, but shallowly.
“Where’s the physician, damn it!”
“On his way, my lord.”
Oliver looked at her hand, at the misshapen fingers and the blood-caked fingernails. He couldn’t believe that this was his Ellen.
The physician arrived, forcing Oliver to step to the side and watch as the man poked and prodded, testing for broken bones while Oliver felt as helpless as he’d ever felt before. A slow rage burned through him. He would get Needham for this. The man would regret ever laying a hand on her.
But first he would see her well again, and this time he wouldn’t allow her to push him away. He was here for good, and she would just have to accept it.
With the help of the butler and two other footmen, they rolled Ellen onto a bedsheet provided by the housekeeper then carried her to her room on the makeshift gurney.
They gently placed her on the bed and, even though they were as careful as they could be, she still moaned, and the sound cut through Oliver like a knife.
They were asked to leave as the housekeeper and the physician tended to her. Oliver paced the length of the hallway, unable to stand still, while Philip slid down the wall and put his head in his hands.
“I should have stayed,” he said.
“Do you think you would have stopped him?” Oliver stood in front of Philip, looking down on his blond head. Just like his own had been at that age.
There was no denying that he’d felt a connection to Philip the moment he’d first seen him. It wasn’t love, for he didn’t know the boy well enough, but it was something. A knowing, if you will. Ellen had never admitted it to him, but he was beginning to believe that they’d conceived Philip their night together in the gazebo.
He had mixed emotions about Ellen keeping such important information from him, among them a dull anger of all that he had missed of Philip’s life. But anger had been such a prevalent emotion of late that he couldn’t hold on to it. Especially not when Ellen was fighting for her life. Mostly he was just tired. Tired of the anger, of the missed chances, and now of the fear of losing her again, this time to death.
“I could have tried to stop him,” Philip said. “Instead I ran away.”
Oliver lowered himself to sit next to Philip, and he put his head back against the wall. “You didn’t run away. You ran for help. No one can fault you for that.”
“But he nearly killed her.” Philip lifted his head, and Oliver saw that the boy had been trying to hide the fact that he’d been crying. His face was red and wet with the many tears that had run down his cheeks. “What if she doesn’t survive?” he whispered.
“Don’t talk like that.” Oliver sounded much sharper than he’d intended, but the words produced a fear that nearly paralyzed him. She would not die. He would not live without Ellen in his life. Not any longer.
Philip put his head down, and his body shook with silent sobs. Oliver could only put his hand on the boy’s shoulder and sit in silence while he cried.
Cracked ribs, four broken fingers on one hand, a broken orbital bone, and so many cuts and bruises that you couldn’t count them all. That’s what the doctor told them. He was optimistic that she would heal fully, although her fingers might pain her for the rest of her life.
She was resting uncomfortably when Oliver and Philip were finally allowed to see her. The housekeeper had dressed her in a white, frilly nightdress and pulled the covers up to her bosom. Her arms were crossed outside the blankets. Her hair hung in a thick braid over her shoulder, and the blood had been cleaned from her.
Her eyes were swollen shut, and a slice on her cheekbone was seeping. The physician said that she’d been punched with so much force it had caused the orbital bone to break.
Her lips were cut and puffy and her hand was bandaged, the broken fingers splinted. That had caused the worst pain, according to the physician. She had moaned when he’d set the fingers. His hope was that they would heal straight, but he wasn’t positive they would.
He had bound her ribs but didn’t think they had to worry too much about her moving around. He thought she would be unconscious for quite some time.
“It’s the body’s way of healing,” he said. “In sleep it will repair itself.”
Philip had hung back by the door, unable to look at her until Oliver coaxed him forward. He didn’t know how he was going to convince the boy that this wasn’t his fault. Philip felt quite a bit of guilt.
Finally Philip had stepped up to the bed and looked down on his mother. She was nearly unrecognizable, only the color of her hair and the arch of her brows gave her away.
Philip stuck close to his side.
“Who did this?” the physician asked as he was packing up his supplies.
