Page 28 of An Earl’s Sacrifice (The Clandestine Sapphire Society #3)

T he next morning came much too soon. Meredith forced her eyes open only to see rain slashing against the windows.

She glanced at the clock surprised to find it was already after eleven.

Goodness, the chamber was cold. Very cold.

In the three years she’d lived in Cornwall, it had never been this cold so late in the season.

She snuggled deeper within the coverlets, reveling in the masculine scent that clung to the pillow before the situation hit her—she was alone.

Slowly, she rose to sitting, holding the counterpane to her nudity. After her small outburst the night before, she’d been quickly stripped of any armor. Armor ?

A small tap sounded at the door. “Enter.” Her voice cracked. She cleared her throat and tried again. “Enter.”

“Lady Pender?”

“Oh, Agnes. It’s you.”

“I brought your wrap, my lady.”

Meredith was no longer cold. Her body was one huge blush and rushed with heat. “Thank you.”

“Mr. Graham informed me that Lord Pender has departed for London.” She cast a side glance to Meredith. “Will he be returning?”

Irritation bristled over her. “Certainly.”

“It’s just that he only arrived…” Her voice trailed off.

Meredith breathed in through her nose, striving for patience then let it out slowly. “I know you are young, Agnes. And, you were not trained as a lady’s maid, but speaking so is out of line.”

“But Lord Pender—”

“Will only be away for a couple of days. Now, I’ll hear no more about it. What is my father doing?”

“Oh, ma’am, I couldn’t begin to ask about the duke. He frightens me out of my wits.”

With good reason , Meredith didn’t say. “All right.” She snatched the wrap from Agnes and the two of them stole through the bathing chamber. She ached in unimaginable places. “Start a bath for me, Agnes. Afterward, I’d best see what havoc Papa is determined to stir up.”

Thirty minutes later, Meredith eased her body into the blessed, violet scented water and thought about her husband.

Husband.

She was truly married now. She leaned her head back, smiling, and closed her eyes.

Her breasts tingled where his mouth had lingered.

And the insides of her thighs? Dear heavens, she’d never heard of or imagined the like.

Would he like it if she put her mouth on him?

On that place between his legs? Just thinking of something so indecent stirred that private part of her body to gushing hot.

She pressed her fingers to her sex to stop the throbbing that pulsed there.

It only made the ache more pronounced. She pressed harder and her fingers slipped inside.

Groaning, she pulled her fingers away only to repeat the motion.

Until she couldn’t stop. Images of his teeth grazing her nipples turned them into hard pebbles.

With her other hand, she pinched her nipple.

Faster and faster her fingers moved, in and out, until she couldn’t catch her breath.

She pictured herself licking the length of him. Something so improper, it inflamed the inferno roaring through her until her hand ached, yet unable to stop. A peak similar to the one she’d reached the night before—thrice!—inundated her.

Despite the water’s heat, another warmth flooded her fingers. Her breath caught and she couldn’t seem to take in air. Her heart pounded so erratically she grasped the sides of the copper tub to steady herself lest she sink beneath the water and drown.

After a time, her senses leveled to something more normal, even if her fingers were cramped from squeezing the tub so tightly. Embarrassment rippled through her as if she’d engaged in a forbidden activity.

“Lady Pender?” Agnes peered around the door’s edge. “Is all in order? I thought you were hurt with all that moaning.”

Meredith didn’t even have the energy to chastise her maid for her remarks. “Er, yes, thank you. A towel, please.”

“Of course, my lady.”

Guilt weighed her shoulders as if the heaviest rock lodged there. It was a wonder she could drag herself from the tub at all. Was touching oneself to completion considered adultery? She should tell him. No, she shouldn’t tell him.

Agnes emitted a soft cough. “Um, the duke sent a note requesting your presence for breakfast,” she whispered.

Perfect.

*

This infernal rain would kill him or his horse, Lucius thought.

But resentment pushed him onward. He was shocked at his desire to remain in bed next to his wife .

Wife. A word he’d never believed he would utter with any sort of reverence.

At least where Meredith was concerned. But, God, how he’d wished to stay abed, wake her the way he’d worn her to sleep the night before.

His horse hit a slick patch, jarring his attention.

Rightly so, if he didn’t wish to break his stupid neck.

The dirt-packed road to the steward’s cottage was steeped in muck, and as much as Lucius hated the thought of going to Ashcroft for help, the idea of leaving Meredith in Rathbourne’s clutches for two whole days left his options minimal.

He rode alongside the thick copse of trees, praying the path he was on was one that led to the cottage.

It was the most worn, therefore making it the most practical.

One of the first tasks he planned to embark on upon his return, he promised himself, would be a thorough tour of the estate.

One certainly couldn’t call his visit at the age of six an official tour and definitely not one that had included the steward’s cottage.

A second later, an explosion boomed through the storm.

“What the hell?” Thunder that vibrated the ground beneath him.

His horse reared up and Lucius attempted to grip the reins, but his fingers refused to work.

He tried turning but the burning sensation in his shoulder stopped him cold.

Black dots edged his vision. A gust of wind kicked up and a branch swayed, hitting him in the head, knocking him from his horse, and face down into the mud.

Meredith. He had to get to Meredith.

Blackness stole his consciousness, leaving his last impression of her horror-filled eyes.

*

“Damn it, wake up. Wake up, you bastard.”

Lucius struggled and pushed at driving out the harsh, annoying voice, but it persisted until he’d fully, aggravatingly awakened.

The pain in his shoulder gave testament to the state.

Through a slanted squint, he couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing.

Ashcroft hovering over him, wearing his spectacles. “You tried to kill me,” he croaked out.

“Wasn’t me,” he said. “And you could show a little more appreciation. I mustered every bit of integrity that seeped through my veins to haul you into my humble abode, when it appears I should have left you to suffocate in the muck.”

Lucius could only manage a low growl and hoped it came across as a thank you. “Then who?” he gasped out.

Ashcroft’s expression went grim. “I don’t know. The good news, however—”

“There’s good news?”

“Obviously, as your humor appears intact.”

Lucius grunted.

“The shot went clean through.” Ashcroft held up Lucius’s fine white lawn shirt, slit down in front where, indeed, a hole showed on the front right side, through to the back when he turned it around.

“Shot?” Lucius compressed his lips, fury muting some of the pain. “Where the devil am I?”

Ashcroft dropped the shirt, went to a basin, dipped and wrung out a cloth. “My cottage. I was on my way to the Keep when I heard the shot.”

Right. The humble abode. “You think Rathbourne was the culprit? It’s certainly clear you have no fondness for the blackguard.”

Ashcroft snorted. “Of course, not. The duke does not shoot those who oppose him. He has underlings to handle those distasteful little tasks.” He came to the long wood-hewn table where Lucius lay gripping a bottle of whiskey in one hand and the damp cloth in the other. “This is going to hurt,” he said.

Lucius frowned. “What?”

The man put a sneer on his face and didn’t answer. Instead, he poured the whiskey on the open wound.

“What the fuck?” Lucius hissed.

“This.” He pressed the cloth to his shoulder. “It needs stitching.”

“From you? No thanks.”

“It’s me, the Penhalwick doctor, or the apothecary. The doctor or Miss Lovelock can likely help, but then the whole village is likely to know you were shot at within a matter of hours if not minutes.”

Unfortunately, the man was right. “Hurry it up then,” he grated out.

Ashcroft moved to a scarred counter and took down a chipped piece of crockery.

Lucius shut his eyes, dreading the oncoming event with every fiber of his being. A minute later, Ashcroft nudged Lucius’s good shoulder then assisted him to sitting. He handed him the cup with more whiskey. “Drink up, soldier. The quicker the better.”

Advice worth taking. Lucius tossed back the entire bitter brew and slammed the crockery down on the table, surprised it didn’t shatter completely. “You laced it with laudanum. Damn you.”

With a sharp nod, Ashcroft strode across the room and opened a cupboard. He took down a small tin box that looked ancient. “That I did. To help me, not you. If you jerk your arm, well… I can’t bear the thought of informing Lady Pender of your untimely end, even if you were solely to blame.”

“Make it quick,” Lucius bit out through gritted teeth.

“Of course, your lordship .” There was that mocking crack Lucius trusted more than the man’s actual seriousness.

Lucius focused his eyes on the ceiling where years of soot marked the cottage’s age. “I see my wife has yet to update your lovely accommodations.”

“She’s been busy setting up a school for the village children.

” He dabbed at the wound. “Your wound is still bleeding but thankfully looks clean. Not much debris.” From the corner of Lucius’s eye, he watched Ashcroft pour more spirits into a shallow bowl, then pull a set of tweezers from his box.

He also took out a long, curved needle and dropped it in the bowl. He shot Lucius a quick, harsh grin.

Lucius closed his eyes, barely breathing because, blast it, his ribs hurt now.

“Stay still,” Ashcroft murmured.

Lucius had no intention of moving. It hurt too much.

He had no idea how much time had passed when Ashcroft braced his arm and the sting of the needle pierced his skin.

To Lucius’s great relief, Ashcroft worked with surprisingly practiced efficiency.

His fingers moved deftly. Of course, that didn’t stop the pain.

Perspiration beaded Lucius’s forehead and upper lip but he stayed still.

One would think the tension between them would lessen, but the air was drawn tight, quivering like a finely tuned string.

“Almost finished,” Ashcroft muttered, more to himself it seemed. It was difficult to tell with his senses growing groggy. “On this side.”

Groaning, Lucius breathed in through his nose then slowly released it, several passes until the pain ebbed to a dull throb.

His thoughts grew murky, his body heavy as if a great weight pinned him to the table though he scarcely recalled lying down.

He was rolled to his side and suffered a similar fate but felt more numb to the pain now.

A few minutes later, Lucius was rolled once more to his back.

“You’ll have to keep an eye out for infection,” Ashcroft said gruffly.

He reached into the supply box and brought out a tin of salve.

With a surprisingly gentle touch, he spread the ointment over the sutured gash.

The faint scent of herbs filled Lucius’s nostrils.

It wasn’t horrible. “This should help ward off trouble.” Lastly, Ashcroft helped him to sitting, spread more salve, then wound a tight bandage around his shoulder enough to protect the wound.

Lucius could hardly keep his eyes open, watching as Ashcroft stepped back and stripped off his glasses.

He picked up the damp cloth and wiped his hands on it. “That should hold.” Again, Ashcroft’s voice held that gruffness belying his typical contempt he usually barely managed to conceal. “You were lucky.”

“Aye.” Lucius let out a long streaming breath. “Feels like hell.” A trace of grudging appreciation filtered through him. “Thanks,” he mumbled, closing his eyes again.

“Could’ve been worse,” Ashcroft replied. It sounded as if he were repacking the small box of supplies then solidifying the fact with the soft click of the lid. “Let’s get you to a bed.”

Lucius groaned again.

Ashcroft assisted him from the table and steadied him before he could topple over. It was awkward, and worse, humiliating as hell.

Ashcroft guided them to a sparsely furnished room.

The only thing Lucius saw was the narrow bed and, testament to how he felt, it looked damned inviting. “I find it interesting you haven’t asked who might want to kill me. It’s almost as if you know the duke well.” His words slurred and were barely legible to his own ears.

“I did at one time,” Ashcroft allowed, but didn’t elaborate, or at least so Lucius could understand it. Perhaps he’d missed his response. “What were you doing out in this weather?”

“Weather?” Lucius’s stomach roiled. God, he hated laudanum. He would kill Ashcroft… later . Once he was home. “London,” he got out. “I must get to London.” He was about to lose consciousness. “You have to look after Meredith…”

“Lady Pender?” Ashcroft sounded startled. “I daresay, you can’t go to London. Not in your condition. Where is Lady Pender? She should know about this, don’t you think?”

Clarity shot through the fog. “No!” First, mauled by a bookshelf, then a bullet and a fall from his horse? No, thank you. “I have urgent business to attend to.”

“I’m surprised she didn’t insist on accompanying you. Unless—”

“Unless what?”

“She didn’t wish to disappoint the weekly Literary Society women.”

“Literary Society?” Lucius was lowered to the bed, partly due to his own knees giving out. Seconds later, his booted feet were lifted and dropped at the end. The floating sensation tempered with the sense of weightiness was odd.

“It’s one of the ways she’s drawn the women in. Engages their interest in politics and London society antics. She’s created an interest in learning to read. It’s the younger ladies who appear more eager, however.”

Lucius’s head seemed to detach from his body. He should be stunned. What other little meetings was she holding he didn’t know about?

“Where is she now?” Ashcroft asked him again. “I can’t imagine her being happy with your desire to return to London.”

A grunt he intended for laughter escaped but he doubted it conveyed much as grogginess took hold, yet the words still penetrated. “I left her soundly sleeping in my bed.”

“She didn’t know you were going?”

“She did,” he said, surprised he wasn’t annoyed. Shouldn’t he feel defensive? At the moment, he couldn’t make himself care. Ashcroft was right. Obviously, Lucius was in no condition to make the trip to London.

Seconds later, the darkness reclaimed him.