Page 36 of Felicity Cabot Sells Her Soul
Felicity had trembled like a leaf caught in a high wind the whole way home. She was trembling still, seated at the edge of the bed and clad in her worn linen nightgown as the doctor examined her.
Ian scrubbed one hand across his face as he paced the floor, his shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows. It was difficult only to glance at her, difficult to see that brilliant red mark covering half her cheek and jaw, and to know that someone had struck her. Every time he looked at her, even for the briefest moment, he was struck by a flash of rage so pure and blinding that it pounded in his head.
Felicity’s legs dangled over the side of the bed, her toes flexing as the doctor examined the mark, turned her face this way and that, checked the inside of her cheek to ensure she’d not cut it upon her teeth. “It just wants time,” he pronounced at last, his voice faintly exasperated—as if he thought Ian’s insistent summons had been quite an overreaction. “You can expect some soreness, perhaps some bruising, but it will heal with no lasting effects.”
“She struck her head when she fell,” Ian barked, glaring at the man as he began to pack up his supplies.
“There are no immediate signs of concussion,” the doctor said blithely. “Pupils are normal, no slurred speech or confusion. I’d not recommend nodding off for a few hours just to make certain of it, but I suspect the only consequence of that tumble will be a rather nasty bump.” He pulled a small bottle from his case and latched the bag. “If you like, I can leave you with a vial of laudanum for the pain.”
“No, thank you,” Felicity said through the chatter of her teeth.
“Yes,” Ian said, immediately after. “We’ll take it.” He snatched the vial from the doctor’s hand, set it upon the clutter of other items which had accumulated upon the nightstand, right beside the ring she’d never shown the least interest in. “What do I do for her?”
The doctor adjusted his spectacles on his face. “Well. She’s had ashock,” he said blandly.
“Of course she’s had a damned shock. She was attacked on the street.” The words had ended up in a guttural growl. “What do Ido?”
“Keep her calm,” the doctor said. “Laudanum for the pain, should it become necessary. A few drops only in a cup of tea.”
Calm?Calm? He couldn’t even keep himselfcalm. Wrath sizzled along every nerve ending, resulting a succession of jerky, intemperate movements. Pacing with such anxious, frantic steps that even the rugs upon the floor could not muffle the slap of his feet.
Felicity shifted upon the bed. “You needn’t speak of me as if I were not present,” she said sourly, but her eyes—her eyes followedhim. Nervous, wary. Eyes still red-rimmed from those heart-rending sobs that had consumed her in the carriage.
His arms still carried the memory of her fierce trembling, as if it had been seared into his muscles. Her hair was now clean and brushed to shining damp tendrils, but his fingers remembered catching within the tangles her fall had made of it. The way she’d winced when he’d gingerly examined that bump at the back of her head. His ears were still filled with the awful little sounds she’d made, ragged and tortured.
She hadn’t even protested when he’d cradled her to his chest, held her tightly in the circle of his arms through the short carriage ride home. She’d said nothing still as he’d carried her up the stairs, shouting for the servants who had come running to attend to the succession of demands he’d cast out tersely. A bath, a mug of cider liberally laced with brandy, a fresh nightgown, the doctor—he’d lost count of what he’d demanded, and of whom.
But there had been no room in her for anything but fright—not anger, not offense, not even righteous indignation to have been handled so. Her pupils had been blown then, huge and stark, with just the tiniest ring of brilliant green around them. Her face pale and wan.
She’d recovered herself a bit since, if the doctor were to be believed. But still she trembled.
“I don’t anticipate further complications,” the doctor said as he collected his bag. “But should anything develop, you may call for me again at any hour.”
“What sort of complications?” Ian asked as he trailed the man to the door.
“Dizziness, confusion, nausea. Head wounds can be a tricky business.”
And she had hit the groundhard. He’d heard the strike of her head evenfrom the distance he’d been at. He’d seen her teeter precariously on that last shove before the villain had dashed off into the night. Had known there was no possible way he might have reached her in time.
And she had justlainthere where she had fallen. Anyone else might have thought the fall, the strike of her head had sent her reeling, scattered her senses…but he’d seen the limpness of her limbs even before the villain had released her. They’d scattered already.
He’d lost years of his life in those endless seconds it had taken him to reach her where she had fallen, silent and utterly still upon the pavement. His heart had yet to recover from the fear that had squeezed it in his chest, and she—she had justlainthere. Eyes gone dull, staring sightlessly up at the sky. If not for that first tiny whimper, he’d have thought her dead already. And she might have been, had he chosen the wrong path home. Had he been just a little slower to catch up to her.
The doctor retrieved his hat and coat from Butler, who had stationed himself just outside the door. “There’s no reason to think she won’t recover swiftly,” the doctor said. “But keep a close watch for the next hour or so, just to be certain. Good evening to you both.”
The door closed, and they were alone once more. The chaos of the last hour or so tore at his mind. Keep her calm. How was he meant to do that?
She looked—notcalm, but listless and muted. As if she’d been painted over in sepia. A shade, he thought. At most half present, and the rest of her…the rest of her had gone somewhere else. Somewhere he couldn’t follow. Somewhere he’d never even known existed for her.
He had the strangest sense that what remained of her here was a version of her he’d never met. Felicity Nightingale, perhaps. He knew Felicity Carlisle; his angry, recalcitrant wife. He’d known Felicity Cabot; a starry-eyed, tender-hearted dreamer. But who had she been before that? Who had she been, exactly, before he had ever known her?
The fire crackled and still she trembled. His arms ached to hold her again, but her vibrant green eyes were watchful still, following his sharp, restless movements as he paced the floor. Guarded, defensive. Her hands braced upon the bed on either side of her hips. Her shoulders pinched up about her ears. Wary.
He came to a halt just before her. The firelight cast shadows, flickered over that vivid red impression upon her face. And again that fury welled up within him. The bastard had marked her; a slap so harsh that it had knocked hersenseless.
The prowler. The letter. And now this. He said, in a searing hiss, “Who did this to you?”
“I don’t know.”
