“He’ll have my head,” the servant muttered, but accustomed to following orders, he poured a cup and carried it to the antechamber.
He came back a moment later carrying a quilt. “You need it more than me.” He dropped it in her lap.
When the room was finally clear, Iona crept closer to the bed.
Gerard’s head and shoulder were swathed in bandages. His breathing was ragged. She touched the strong column of his throat but she was no doctor. She couldn’t tell if it was closing up.
Holding a lamp closer, she forced herself to look away from his naked chest and explore the more likely places for bee stings, like his hands and wrists.
And there they were, two swelling welts on his battered fists.
Twenty-four
Sun-drenched marble met the golden sand. In the distance, azure waves lapped. Was that a palm tree? A siren’s song called. Gerard climbed over the ancient ruins. . .
Blood dripped from the columns, sinking into the pitted surfaces and staining them crimson.
“I need honey from my hive.” Frustration tinted the siren’s voice.
Gerard tried to locate the source but struggled against the murky water closing over his head.
“We can telegraph them, of course, but it will still take a day or two to ship it here. It will be simpler to take him back to Wystan.”
Winifred? His aunt was in Italy? Why? Her son! Right, her son needed a sunny clime.
He dived under the water again. Why was he in the water?
“The books recommend inhaling cannabis or lobelia fumes for lung disorders.”
Rainford? Was that Rain out there?
“The books are written by dolts who recommend coffee for insomnia. It’s a bloody bee sting.” Dare.
Then he wasn’t in Italy? On what golden shore did Roman ruins exist in England?
He tried to speak, but his throat closed up, and he heard only a raspy breath.
“He’s coming around!”
Iona. That was definitely Iona, not a siren. Still, a vision of a goddess wrapped in white linen swam through his watery vision.
“My mother’s herbal agrees with Lady Iona,” Dare’s voice continued. “Honey is the best cure if he’s sensitive to stings. He’s not feverish any longer, so this jar is working.”
“Gerard?” Iona’s voice coaxed him back to the surface.
“Don’t wake him until I check this wound.”
Pain shot through his head, and he sank below the waters again.
When he woke next, his head throbbed, his eyes seemed swollen shut, and his shoulder needed to be hacked off before he could move.
“Our healing abilities are helping,” Winifred said soothingly. “The earl is still breathing, and that’s what matters.”
“I almost killed him.”
Iona sounded so mournful, he wanted to reach for her, but he couldn’t move.
“His own blockheadedness did that,” Winifred said with scorn and affection. “He had no business entering that den of thieves.”
“He wanted to protect us from Mortimer. We would have been fine once I married Mr. White. Mortimer couldn’t have touched us then.”
“Blockheaded,” Winifred repeated emphatically. “Ives are like that.”
Gerard wanted to laugh but could only manage a hoarse rattle. He was still an Ives in her eyes, then, not an insane Malcolm who knew things he shouldn’t.
A small, cool hand caressed his brow, and the scent of roses wafted around him. He desperately needed to open his eyes but they wouldn’t cooperate.
“Will he really be all right?”
“He’ll be sore for weeks. Go with your sister. It’s better this way.”
What would be better? He wouldn’t be better. He tried to tell her to stay, but the best he could do was clench his fingers into fists.
A soft kiss pressed his cheek, and then the roses were gone.
“Where is she?” Gerard muttered, rubbing his newly shaved jaw.
“Who?” Lowell fussed with cleaning off his razors.
Gerard tried to rip off his valet’s arm, but his grip wasn’t strong yet. Lowell easily yanked away.
“The beekeeper?” The valet shrugged. “With her sister at Calder, last I heard, preparing for her nuptials.”
Gerard ground his teeth. He’d recovered enough to resist being shipped off to the wilds of Wystan, but it had taken a week before he had the strength to sit up and breathe normally. A week. She could be married already.
“Mortimer is still alive then?”
Lowell tucked away his instruments. “Mighty sick, last I heard. Your friends swore to the coppers that he was the one who shot you, so they locked him behind bars. The American hired lawyers to bail him out. They’re still arguing over whether he’s a peer and entitled to privileges.”
“He’s no more than the younger son of a viscount. Can’t they read? I want him transported.” But that was fury speaking. Mortimer had not been the one to shoot him. The cad had been flat on his back, covered in bees at the time.
Iona was marrying wealth, as she’d wanted.
He should take his reward and order the roof repaired at Wystan so he didn’t have to worry about throwing out the ladies just yet. Transporting the library would be hell anyway. He didn’t think saving the orchard would save the castle in the long run, but maybe he’d find a wealthy heiress to marry. Then he could live in London, hoping Iona was safe under Wystan’s new roof.
He’d be dead by now if Iona hadn’t taken down Mortimer. She’d saved his life with bees.
The soldier philosopher in his head said nothing, and Gerard realized the medallion wasn’t in his pocket.
“Where’s my lucky piece?” he demanded.
“Wasn’t so lucky now, was it?” Lowell said complacently. “It’s in a drawer with all your other bits and pieces.
He should probably leave it there, but what if he no longer heard voices? His head still occasionally throbbed when he didn’t rest enough. Was there any point in going to Italy if he couldn’t hear the voices?
Did he actually feel disappointment that he might not have a gift for seeing the past? His head must still be muddled.
“I’m still alive, aren’t I? Find out when the wedding is scheduled and where it will be held. If Mortimer is still
