Page 70 of Beneath the Devil's Mask
Anne glanced at Mandell’s still features, the lines of pain that unconsciousness failed to smooth from his brow. She clutched the locket tighter in her hand. She did not know how or why, but she found herself in the wicked marquis’s debt again. The least she could do was offer him a haven until he was more himself.
Her shoulders squared with sudden decision. “Have the footmen convey my lord upstairs to the front bedchamber.”
“I don’t know whether that would be fitting, my lady.” Firken said. “If only the countess would come home! She is so adept at handling these extraordinary situations.”
“More so than I, I daresay. But Lily is not here.” Anne brushed the damp locks of hair back from Mandell’s brow and added softly, “It would seem I am obliged to look after the dark lord myself.”
Anne found herself alone in the bedchamber with Mandell. She could not help reflecting upon the irony of that as she arranged a pitcher of cold water, ointment, and strips of linen upon the dressing table. During her very proper marriage to Gerald, she had rarely been closeted thus with her husband, perhaps twice a month. But she had seen Mandell abed twice in as many days.
For propriety’s sake she should have had one of the servants remain with her while she attended Mandell. But sheexperienced a surprising protective urge toward the unconscious marquis. It had been bad enough allowing the footmen and Firken to strip Mandell out of his wet garments and thrust him into the butler’s spare nightshirt. She did not wish to expose the proud Mandell to any more of the young men’s snickering comments or the older butler’s disapproval than was necessary.
As for her maid, Bettine had been terrified when she had been informed the lunatic stranger was being tucked up in the best front bedchamber. Bettine had dove for her own bed, pulling the covers up over her head, behaving as if Anne had brought something wild and dangerous in out of the night.
Which perhaps she had, Anne thought as she picked up the candle and drew closer to the oak bedstead with its heavy brocade hangings. Mandell made a formidable presence, even sprawled out flat on his back.
He was no longer resting with that deathlike stillness that had so alarmed Anne in the hall below. He had begun to toss and turn upon the pillow, twitching the sheets into a tangle below his midriff, the nightshirt pulled taut against the muscular contours of his chest.
The sight brought back a flood of memories from last night and Anne felt her cheeks heat. Gingerly she tugged on the sheet, managing to get it up to his shoulders. But when she tried to bathe his injured hand, he pulled away from her, mumbling a protest.
She was able to do little more than clean the dried blood from his knuckles as Mandell began to thrash about in earnest. A darkness settled over his features. That was the only way Anne could describe the tension that corded his jaw and caused deep slashes to appear alongside his mouth.
Anne knew little about what it was like to drink oneself into such a state but had heard it laughingly described as a conditionwhen one felt no pain. Yet Mandell seemed to be experiencing a great deal of it, a guttural cry breaching his lips.
Perching herself on the edge of the bed, Anne sought to soothe him, bathing his brow with cool water, murmuring some of the same absurd comforting sounds she often used with Norrie. Mandell looked younger somehow, more vulnerable when unguarded by his customary mask of cynicism.
She was relieved when he quieted at her touch and she continued to stroke his cheek. She was finally able to apply the ointment to his hand, bandaging the swollen knuckles with the strips of linen.
Brushing her fingers one last time across his brow, she checked for fever. His brow felt almost too cool, damp, and clammy with perspiration.
Even though she knew he could not hear her, she murmured. “Try to rest now, my lord. Sleep is what you need. I fear you will not be feeling quite well when you awaken, but I will need to talk to you.”
She touched the locket which she had fastened about her neck. “I know you do not usually condescend to answer questions, but this is one time you must oblige me.”
She eased herself away from the bed and reached for the candle. But a startled cry escaped her when Mandell suddenly lashed out. His eyes flew open wide and he seized hold of her wrist.
“Don’t,” he said hoarsely. “Don’t go.”
Anne took a tremulous breath, trying to recover from the fright he had given her. “But I must, my lord. It will be dawn in a few hours and you must try to sleep.”
“Don’t go out there!” His fingers tightened on her wrist to a painful extent. He stared up at her, his expression so wild it caused Anne’s heart to pound.
“They’ll kill you,” he said. He stared straight at her, but his eyes were glazed and Anne realized he was in the grip of some delirium. She sought to pry his fingers away.
“You are dreaming, my lord. There is no one here to harm me or you. You are at my sister’s house. Do you not remember?”
He wrenched her forward as he pushed up onto one elbow. “No!” His voice was low, savage.
“Please. Mandell. Let go. You are hurting me.”
“They will destroy you as they did her.”
“Destroyed who?” Anne cried. Struggling to make sense of his madness, she wrenched herself free.
“Mother.”
Anne had never heard a single word breathed with such anguish. Her fear dissolved before the torment that twisted his lips and haunted his eyes.
“Mandell, you are having a nightmare,” Anne said. “What happened to your mother was a long time ago. It is over.”
