Page 10 of The Duke’s Man-At-Arms (The Duke’s Guard #11)

“N ow then, let me serve our tea. Aimee, would you please bring the plate of sliced gingerbread and scones?”

Michaela watched the two women working smoothly beside one another and wished she had someone to share her day-to-day life with. The women had formed a fast friendship, had husbands who loved them, protected them…would lay down their lives for them.

What do I have?

The answer filled her heart: the gift of healing, and the admiration and protection of Emmett O’Malley. She found that she was thinking about his statement that they would marry, and she would accept his offer—when he got around to asking her. She fought the urge to laugh and instead smiled.

“You’ll be feeling better in no time, Michaela,” the captain’s wife assured her. “I happen to keep a small supply of calves’ foot jelly on hand. It does wonders for whatever ails you.”

Michaela shivered. “But the taste .”

Aimee and Miranda laughed when they placed the teapot, cups and saucers, plates, and confections on the small table between the settee and the pair of matching wingback chairs. Without asking, Miranda handed Aimee a plate with two large slices of gingerbread. Aimee had eaten half a slice by the time Michaela had taken two small bites of her scone.

Studying the younger woman, Michaela wondered if Aimee had given any thought as to whether she was carrying a boy or girl. Would she want to know that she was carrying a boy? After all, the tales passed down from Michaela’s grandmother’s time were more often than not based on truth. Women carrying a girl were more apt to temporarily lose their looks, while those carrying a boy appeared radiant. She thought Darby Garahan would welcome the babe, no matter if it be a boy or girl, but would secretly be thrilled to have fathered a son.

Sipping from her tea, Michaela nearly bobbled the cup and saucer when Masterson burst through the door, holding O’Malley up.

“What happened?” Miranda demanded before Michaela could even form the words.

The expression on the colonel’s face reflected concern, but only for a moment. “He fell off his horse and is burning with fever.” His gaze pinned Michaela’s. “Caught him before he smacked his head.”

“Didn’t fall,” O’Malley protested, struggling to keep his balance. “Horse tossed me off.”

Michaela had never seen him in such a state. Turning to the colonel, she said, “I watched you cleanse his wound before stitching it closed. There wasn’t a speck of dirt in it.”

“Aye,” Masterson agreed. “But there was quite a bit of time in between when the injury occurred and when you noticed O’Malley was bleeding. Time enough for infection to set in.”

Masterson had already stripped the outer layers off O’Malley. He hadn’t bothered with the cambric shirt as he helped O’Malley walk toward the kitchen table. Miranda was already clearing the table, while Aimee rushed over with bed linen. As soon as she smoothed it on top of the table, the colonel tried to lift O’Malley onto it.

“I didn’t break me legs, Masterson,” O’Malley growled. “I don’t need yer help.”

To Michaela’s surprise, the colonel let go of him and stepped back. “As you wish.”

She was halfway across the room when the stubborn man swayed a heartbeat before his legs gave out. Breath held, she watched his knees hit the floor. Miraculously, O’Malley braced his hands on the floor and didn’t smack his head.

“Bloody stubborn, hardheaded Irishman,” Masterson swore. He glared at O’Malley. “Not a word!” Thankfully, O’Malley didn’t try to brush the colonel aside a second time.

Michaela wanted to ask the man why he’d let go of O’Malley, but the expression on the colonel’s face had her biting her tongue. She walked over to stand beside where O’Malley lay with his eyes closed. Had he slipped into unconsciousness?

“Do not worry about O’Malley,” Masterson assured her. “Emmett has the constitution of a warhorse. See that he doesn’t roll off the table while I wash my hands.”

She nodded and leaned close to O’Malley, calling his name, but he didn’t answer. Worry slashed through Michaela. When it was her turn to wash her hands, the colonel stood beside O’Malley, quietly speaking to him, leaving her to wonder why he had been ignoring her.

Miranda poured hot water into two bowls and placed them within Masterson’s reach, while Aimee set out a stack of clean linens. Michaela moved to stand beside Masterson, who reminded her, “You should be resting.”

She was too tired to argue with the man. “I’m a healer, colonel, I need to do something.”

He frowned at her, but just when she thought he would tell her to go sit down, he said, “I would expect no less from the angel of the streets.” Masterson’s expression changed, and for a heartbeat, the irritation was replaced with a look of longing in his eyes. He blinked and it was gone. Had she imagined it? “Your experience with wound fever is quite a bit different than mine. Given the circumstances, I shall let you take the lead, Michaela. But when I deem it is time for you to let me take over, you will do so without question. Is that clear?”

Incensed that the man thought he could tell her what to do, she replied, “I am not one of the men in your former regiment. I take orders from no one, colonel.”

“Listen to him, lass,” O’Malley rasped. “Ye cannot afford to have one of yer broken ribs pierce a lung.”

She brushed a lock of hair off his forehead. “I’m fine.”

“Nay,” he grumbled, “ye’re not. But ye will be with time and rest. I’m not feeling up to arguing with ye. Please do as Masterson says?” His green eyes locked on hers. “For me?”

How could she refuse his request? “I still think I am fully capable of taking care of you, but—”

“Oh, aye,” O’Malley interrupted, reaching up to brush the back of his hand across her cheek. “Just like I didn’t need Masterson’s help getting on the table.” He turned toward the colonel. “I’m sorry, Iain.”

The other man shook his head. “Understandable, given that you’re Irish.”

O’Malley snorted with laughter. For a moment, Michaela wondered if she would have to brace him to keep him from rolling off the table. Relieved when he lay quiet once more, she locked gazes with Masterson, who nodded. “We need to cut the shirt from his body,” she said.

Masterson withdrew a wicked-looking blade from a sheath beneath his waistcoat. She reminded O’Malley, “This might not have happened if you had donned a clean shirt when I asked you to.”

Masterson answered before O’Malley could. “It’s a possibility. Neither of us knows just how dirt encrusted that shard of glass was. Part of the filth may have worked its way in before his shirt rubbed against the wound.” The colonel sliced through the black, blood-soaked fabric.

“We’ll need to remove the bandage, and check the wound, before we cleanse it again and decide which poultice to use,” she said. The hint of irritation in Masterson’s gaze was an indication of how far the man was willing to bend and allow her to give him orders.

“I keep a poultice on hand for my husband,” Miranda announced. “It has comfrey root in it. Helps with swelling from the objects they repeatedly come in contact with. I also keep herbals on hand to reduce fever.”

Michaela nodded. “We seem to have that in common. While you use yours to heal the brave men that work with your husband and the duke, I use mine to treat women who do not deserve the wounds they have sustained.” As soon as the words left her lips, she apologized, “Forgive me. I cannot help but worry about who may need me right now, while I’m in hiding. Who will they turn to when they cannot find me? What will happen to those in need of rescuing if I am not there to help them?”

“Ye are known to those who can get word to us,” O’Malley said. “Should someone be in need of rescuing, or healing, or know of someone that does. Do I need to remind ye, ’tis what we do on a daily basis, lass?” Michaela shook her head, and she sensed he was satisfied with her response when he added, “Albeit, those we rescue are usually connected to the duke and his family.”

“Or destined to be connected to the duke through the men in his private guard,” Masterson added.

Michaela had to agree. She had been on hand twice now, and had borne witness when that connection sparked and flared to life between James Garahan and Melinda Waring, and between Darby Garahan and Aimee Anderson. Knowing the duke’s men were fiercely protective of their wives, and at the same time unreasonably jealous of their wives being around other men, Michaela said, “I’ll apologize to your husbands later, knowing how they feel about the two of you being in the same room when O’Malley is shirtless. Right now, we need your help.”

“Tell me what to do,” Aimee said. “I can handle Darby.”

Michaela was proud of the great strides Aimee had made in the short time she had been married to Garahan. “While the comfrey poultice is soaking in hot water, we need to prepare the herbal for Emmett to drink to combat the fever.”

“Not if it tastes like shite ,” O’Malley grumbled, closing his eyes.

“You’ll do whatever you need to in order to heal.” Masterson’s no-nonsense tone had O’Malley shifting as the colonel removed what was left of the shirt.

Michaela sucked in a breath at the sight of the reddened skin surrounding the bandage covering the wound. Ignoring the pain slashing through her ribs, she motioned for Aimee to bring over cloths. “The water is near to scalding—we need it that hot to draw out the infection.” Dipping her hands and the cloth in the water, she felt the heat searing her flesh, but did not complain. O’Malley was more important than the slight damage to her hands. She covered his wound with the hot cloth and noticed the way he flinched. “I’m so sorry, Emmett. It is imperative that we draw out the infection with the heat.”

When he did not respond, Aimee whispered, “Did he swoon?”

He opened his eyes. “ Bollocks! I’ve never swooned in me life. Been unconscious a time or two, though.” O’Malley looked at Aimee. “Forgive me for cursing—’twasn’t aimed at ye, Aimee lass.”

“Nothing to forgive,” Aimee said. “Darby uses colorful language all the time.”

Michaela frowned at him. “A gentleman shouldn’t use that kind of language in the company of ladies.” If he was aware enough to curse, she reasoned, O’Malley wasn’t as bad off as the signs of infection would indicate. “I hate to cause you any discomfort, but we need to use the hot cloths twice more… We’ll add soap this time.”

He blinked, and she stared at his impossibly long, dark lashes before noticing that he seemed to be waiting for her to meet his gaze. When she did, he nodded and said, “I trust ye, lass.”

Aimee set a bowl of soapy water next to Michaela’s elbow. She bit her bottom lip, dipped the cloth in the hot water, and laid the cloth over his wound.

After the third application, he closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them. “That should draw out whatever was inside. Thank ye for noticing I was bleeding, lass. I truly did not feel any pain.”

Her hands were shaking as she turned and reached for the bowl with the poultice Miranda had been soaking. Pain sliced through her ribcage.

Her sharp intake of breath had Masterson taking charge. “Enough, Michaela. I’ll take over; you can sit here and hold O’Malley’s hand to keep him still. If you are in too much pain, you can sit on the settee by the window.” His tone was firm and brooked no disagreement.

“I’ll sit beside Emmett.” She had no intention of agreeing that she had overdone it. Besides, her injuries had already been tended to, and O’Malley needed her.

The colonel thanked her in a quiet, controlled tone. He finished what Michaela started before asking Miranda for the comfrey root poultice.

While he worked, Masterson remarked, “It’s a good sign that you aren’t out of your head with fever.”

“Aye,” O’Malley said, trying to sit up. “Me head feels a bit fuzzy.”

Michaela braced herself to place her hands on his strong shoulders before gently pushing against him. “You need to lie back down and rest with a cool cloth on your head to bring the fever down.”

Masterson disagreed. “Let him sit up. He can drink the herbal with the feverfew in it first, then we’ll use the cool cloth.”

“If me fever gets any higher, and I’m out of me head, lass,” O’Malley began, “don’t be holding whatever I say against me. ’Twill be the fever talking.”

A moment ago she was desperately worried that he would fall unconscious from the fever, and now she felt her lips begin to twitch as she fought against the urge to smile. “Excellent suggestion to have him drink the herbal while he’s able to sit up, colonel.”

“Iain,” Masterson said. “As we’re up to our elbows taking care of the man who all but proposed to you, we should be on a first-name basis.”

O’Malley glared at Masterson and nearly choked on the herbal concoction. Before he could speak, Miranda said, “Aimee and I call Iain by his first name. And the other men as well.”

The expression on O’Malley’s face would have been comical if Michaela were not quite so concerned about him. “Let me help you lie down, while I bathe your face.”

“If ye need to bathe more than me face, lass, ye have me permission to ogle me impressive pectoral and abdominal muscles—after all, ’twill be yer right as soon as we wed.”

Michaela started to sputter, then began to cough, which quickly turned to a moan of agony.

“Forgive me, lass. I didn’t think me words would send ye into a fit of coughing. Easy now,” he soothed, rubbing her back. “That’s the way—breathe in and out through yer nose, mo ghrá .”

Shocked at the endearment she had heard both Garahan brothers use when trying to soothe the women they rescued and later married, she met the intensity of O’Malley’s gaze and felt herself obeying. When she had her breathing under control, she asked, “Did you mean what you just said?”

“The part about breathing ye in and out through yer nose? Aye.” She frowned at him, and he slowly smiled. “Aye, mo chroí , ye are mo ghrá … Me heart. Ye are me love.”

This time when she placed her hands on his shoulders, he lowered himself to the table.

“Close your eyes, Emmett.”

“Ye aren’t planning on heading to the stews to see if anyone needs ye, are ye, lass?”

“I will not leave your side until the fever breaks and you are sleeping peacefully.” The second time she told him to close his eyes, he cooperated. She smoothed the cool, damp cloth over his face and neck before dipping it back in the bowl of water. Her ministrations did not appear to be cooling his face down fast enough to suit her. The quicker his fever broke, the sooner her heart would return to its normal beat. Worry for O’Malley nearly overwhelmed her.

“Ye need to brace yerself not to swoon, and bathe me manly chest, lass.”

Masterson chuckled. “I’ll leave you to the tender care of the women, O’Malley.”

“I’ll only be needing the tender attentions of one woman from this day forward.” O’Malley opened his red-rimmed, fever-bright eyes and stared at Michaela. “Will ye marry me, lass?”

Shock had her sucking in a breath that had her ribs reacting immediately. Accepting the pain, she stared at him for a few moments without speaking.

“Well?” O’Malley asked. “Will ye?”

“Is it the fever talking?”

His frown was fierce as he struggled to sit up. “Nay! Masterson?”

The colonel paused with his hand on the doorknob and glanced over his shoulder. “Aye?”

“I may need a favor, depending on the lass’s answer. Will ye wait a moment?”

“I will.”

Michaela glared at O’Malley. “May I remind you that you asked me to ignore whatever you say in your fevered state.”

“I meant if I said what’s been on me mind, plaguing me, since the first moment I saw ye. Not an important question like the one I just asked ye.”

She narrowed her eyes and frowned. “I have plagued you?”

He grunted. “Aye, with the tilt of yer chin when ye’re about to say something to irritate the shite out of me like ye’re doing now. The way ye bite yer plump, rose-tinted bottom lip when ye’re feeling uncertain, and the way—”

Masterson chose that moment to interrupt, “I thought you said it was her gift of healing and the way she is able to calm the most skittish of women she rescues?”

“Aye, that, too,” O’Malley agreed. Reaching for her hand, he rasped, “I’m not out of me mind with fever, lass. I’m after giving ye the protection of me name.”

Michaela had started to shake her head when the colonel said, “O’Malley, didn’t you tell me you love her?”

An emotion deeper, and truer, than want or desire flashed in O’Malley’s feverish eyes. Michaela was stunned for a moment before she whispered, “Do you love me, Emmett?”

“With every breath I take, lass. Do ye think ye can love me back?”

Tears welled up and spilled over. Did she have the courage to tell him that if she could ever trust, ever love anyone, it would be him? She hadn’t been prepared for him to propose.

There was still the problem she had never thought to face again. Unprepared for the subject to arise, or even be considered, she knew that she feared what would happen in the marriage bed. She believed Haversham’s claim that no one would ever marry damaged goods like her, and she had let her girlish dream from when her mum was still alive of a husband and family die along with the dream of becoming a physician.

“Would ye mind if I spoke to the lass without an audience?” When no one moved, O’Malley added, “Ye have me word of honor that I will never take advantage of the lass.”

“Please, Miranda?” Michaela asked. “Will you allow us the illusion of privacy, while you and Aimee keep an eye on us from the settee?”

Miranda sighed. “Of course. Gordon has often remarked that if you cut any one of the men in the duke’s private guard, they bleed honor. When an O’Malley, Garahan, or Flaherty gives his word, he keeps it.”

“Thank ye, Miranda,” O’Malley said. “’Tis how we were raised. To go against what Da and Ma instilled in us would be akin to taking a blade through the heart.” He nodded to Masterson, who grunted, but walked over to stand guard by the door.

When the women moved to the other side of the apartment, O’Malley lowered his voice and asked, “Have I misread the longing in yer eyes, lass? Look into me eyes now and tell me ye don’t have feelings for me. No putting yer hands behind yer back and crossing yer fingers. I’m needing the truth—me heart cannot take less.”

How could she possibly love this man more every time she laid eyes on him? Pain and humiliation were what awaited her in the marriage bed. She had to tell him her secret, but how, without telling him the name of the lord responsible?

“I didn’t recognize what I was feeling at first,” she admitted. “I thought it was merely irritation when you walked into my rooms as if you had every right to be there. The next time I saw you, you were carrying those two little girls you and Darby rescued, snuggled tight against you.” Cupping the side of his face in her hand, she lowered her lips to his, feeling every sharp jab of pain that sliced through her broken ribs. She softly pressed her lips to his and drew back so she could stare into his brilliant, fevered emerald eyes.

“I know now that I have loved you from that moment, Emmett O’Malley, but there are things you don’t know about me that would have you rescinding your offer of marriage. I cannot let my past tarnish your reputation or that of the duke’s guard.”

“Masterson, would ye ask Coventry to see about obtaining a special license? I intend to marry Michaela as soon as possible.”

“Aye,” the colonel agreed as he left the room and closed the door behind him.

“But I just refused,” Michaela reminded O’Malley.

“Nay, ye did not refuse me, lass.” In a tender voice, he continued, “Ye gave me a reason ye thought would be strong enough to discourage me from marrying ye. I won’t take back me offer, no matter what ye think.”

“But I’m not—” Tears welled up, and she pushed away from the table.

O’Malley grabbed hold of her hand and gently reeled her back in. “Lass, me brothers, cousins, and I have seen and dealt with more situations than ye could even imagine, even while ye’ve been rescuing lasses in and around this city. I’ve surmised what I believe happened to ye. It matters not. Me love for ye will help ye heal from what ye suffered. I’ll only ask one thing of ye, lass. Know that I do not say this lightly, but to be truly protected by me name, we must seal our vows after we wed.”

Michaela wished she didn’t shrink inside from the thought of letting another man do to her what Haversham had. Pushing past what could not be changed, she told him, “If I could trust anyone it would be you…but I’m afraid. What if I cannot do as you ask?”

“No one will know but the two of us. But know this, lass: I don’t lie. If I’m asked if we sealed our union, I am bound by my honor to tell the truth. If your father demanded that you return home, and we had not sealed our vows, I would be duty bound to escort ye to him.”

Her stomach ached, and her ribs throbbed in time with the pain in her skull. While fear roiled in her belly, the very idea of how freeing it would be to have O’Malley’s protection tempered that. His connection to the duke and his family, Captain Coventry, and Gavin King would ensure no one would dare to touch her. But could she willingly allow herself to let another man—

She could not even finish the thought.

“I need to see what ye’re thinking. Let me see yer angel’s face, lass.”

When she looked at him, her heart melted. Everything he said he felt was there in the depths of his eyes.

“If ye truly love me, lass, like I think ye do, then trust me. Once we say the words before the vicar and witnesses, in the eyes of God we’ll be wed. Ye’ll be stuck with me for the rest of yer life. I vow I will never turn me back on ye, never hold what happened in your past that has ye fearing the future or a man’s touch.”

Had he guessed what she had not wanted to confess? It was hard to catch her breath. Her mouth opened, but not a sound emerged. He couldn’t know her shame, could he?

“Trust me, lass, I’ll never lay a hand on ye in anger, nor will I use me body as a weapon to cause ye pain. Love isn’t like that, mo chroí . After we seal our vows, I will not force you to do anything ye do not wish to, until ye come to me and tell me ye’re ready to let me heal your soul-deep hurts.” He lifted her hand to his lips and pressed a feather-soft kiss to her knuckles, then another above the bandages covering the abraded skin on her wrists. “I’ve already given ye me heart, lass. ’Tis yer turn.”

Michaela thought her earlier tears had run dry…but she was wrong. She could not hold back the cleansing tears that flowed from her eyes any more than she could hold back the need to wrap her arms around Emmett O’Malley and tell him what he wanted to hear. She bit her bottom lip and leaned toward him. Without asking what she needed, O’Malley gave it to her, wrapping his arms around her. Sheltered and safe in his embrace, she held him tight.

This was a man she could trust, and yes, he was the man who had stolen her heart. She should have accepted and acknowledged it when it happened—it was his tender care of two little moppets who’d been intended for one of the notorious brothels in London. She would tell him what lay heavy on her conscience before they wed. She would trust him with her heart, soul, and body.

She laid her head on his shoulder and felt the thundering beat of his heart against her breast, where hers drummed a rapid beat of its own.

“I’m trusting you with so much more than my heart, Emmett.”

“With God as me witness, lass, I know it. Whatever it takes to erase the pain weighing heavy on yer soul, I shall do. We’re stronger together, lass. Trust me to protect ye, and love ye the way ye deserve to be loved. With tenderness and compassion while I replace what ye fear with what ye’ll come to crave.”

His words tempted her, while the entreaty in his eyes swayed her. He was the man she had trusted without question the moment they met. Though she had trusted the Garahans, Tremayne, Coventry, and the others, there was one difference—she had not felt this deep connection and affection with anyone before. Only this man. Only him.

“I trust you, Emmett,” Michaela whispered against his lips. “And yes. I would be honored to marry you.”

His kiss was gentle and held the promise of more. “Ye won’t regret it, lass.”