quite put his finger on why, but he suspects he will not be turning right around once they’ve crossed the border, which is why he left the keys to his dented old pickup with his friend. Not that Peter needs the truck; he obviously has other vehicles if he must go somewhere. Still, it makes Luke feel better, as if he has posted bond or left a token in good faith, because he knows Peter will think less of him soon enough.
Lanny catches Luke’s eye as they coast into an empty intersection. “Thank you,” she says with heartfelt gratitude. “You seem like the kind of man who doesn’t like to ask for favors, so… I want you to know that I appreciate what you’re doing for me.”
Luke just nods, wondering how far he will go and at what cost to help her escape.
SEVENTEEN
I woke in a different bed in a different room, the dark-haired man from the carriage sitting at the bedside with a bowl of water and a cold compress for my forehead.
“Ah, you’re back among the living,” he said when I’d opened my eyes. He lifted the compress from my brow and dropped it into the water to soak.
A cold light was visible through the window behind him, so I knew it was day, but which day? I checked under the coverlet to see that I was dressed in a plain night shift. They had given me a room to myself that was clearly meant for a senior member of the household staff, small and dutifully appointed.
“Why am I still here?” I asked, groggy.
He ignored my question. “How are you feeling?”
The pain came on dully, sour and hot in my abdomen. “Like I’ve been stabbed with a rusty blade.”
He frowned slightly, then reached for a soup bowl sitting on the floor. “The best thing for you is rest, complete rest. You’ve likely got a puncture somewhere, in there”-he pointed obliquely to my stomach-“and you need to heal as quickly as possible, before infection sets in. I’ve seen it before. It can become serious.”
The babe. I pulled myself upright. “I want to see a physician. Or a midwife.”
He pushed a spoon through clear broth, metal ringing against china. “Too soon for that. We’ll watch awhile, to see if it gets worse.”
Between daubs of the compress and spoonfuls of clear soup, he answered my questions. First, he told me about himself. His name was Alejandro and he was the youngest son of a fine Spanish family from Toledo. Being the youngest son, he had no hope of inheriting the family’s property. The second oldest had joined the military and was captain of a fierce Spanish galleon. The third oldest served in the court of the Spanish king and would shortly be sent as an emissary to a foreign land. Thus, the family had fulfilled its customary obligations to king and country; Alejandro was free to decide his own way in the world, and through various incidents and twists of fate, he eventually found himself with Adair.
Adair, he explained, was bona fide royalty from the old world, as wealthy as some minor princes, having managed to hold on to property that had belonged to his family for centuries. Tired of the old world, he’d come to Boston for the novelty, to experience the new world for himself. Alejandro and the other two from the carriage- Tilde, the woman, and Donatello, the blond man-were Adair’s courtiers. “Every royal keeps a court,” Alejandro said, the first of many circular arguments. “He must be surrounded by educated people of breeding, who can see that his needs are met. We are the buffer between him and the world.”
Donatello, he explained, had come from Italy, where he had been an assistant and muse to a great artist whose name I’d never heard. And Tilde-her background was a mystery, Alejandro confessed. The only thing he knew about her was that she’d come from a northern land as snowy and cold as mine. Tilde had already been with Adair when Alejandro joined the court. “She has his ear and her temper can be formidable, so be careful around her at all times,” he warned, dipping the spoon for more broth.
“It’s not like I’ll be here a minute longer than I need to,” I said, reaching with my mouth for the spoon. “I’ll be gone as soon as I’m feeling better.” Alejandro made no comment, appearing to be concentrating on conveying the next spoonful of broth to my open mouth.
“There is one more member of Adair’s court,” he said, then hastened to add, “but you probably won’t meet her. She is-reclusive. Just don’t be surprised if you think you see a ghost flit by.”
“A ghost?” The hairs rose on the back of my neck, memories of the wagon drivers’ ghost stories rushing back to mind, the sad dead looking for loved ones.
“Not a real ghost,” he chided. “Though she might as well be one. She keeps to herself, and the only way you’ll see her is to stumble across her, like coming upon a deer in the wood. She doesn’t speak and she won’t pay any attention to you if you try to talk to her. Her name is Uzra.”
As grateful as I was to Alejandro for sharing his knowledge, each bit of his information sat uncomfortably with me, as each was further evidence of my ignorance and isolated upbringing. I’d never been told about any of these foreign lands, didn’t know the name of one famous artist. Most unsettling was this Uzra-I didn’t want to meet a woman who had made herself a ghost. And what had Adair done to keep her from speaking? Cut out her tongue? I didn’t doubt he was cruel enough to do it.
“I don’t know why you bother to tell me these things,” I said. “I’m not staying.”
Alejandro observed me with the beautiful smile of an altar boy and a glittering eye. “Oh, it’s just a way to pass the time. Shall I get you more soup?”
That night, when I heard Adair and his minions sweep down the hallway, preparing to depart for the evening, I crept out of my bed and to the landing to watch. How beautiful they were, swathed in velvets and brocades, powdered and coiffed by servants who had spent hours fussing over them. Tilde, with jewels pinned in her yellow hair, her lips painted red; Dona, with a spotless white cravat wound up to his jaw, accentuating his aristocratic neck and his long chin; Alejandro, in a black frock coat and forever sorrowful look-nattering at one another in their sharp-tongued way and aflutter like regally plumed birds.
But mostly I gazed at Adair, for he was captivating. A savage buttoned up in a gentleman’s finery. Then it struck me: he was a wolf in sheep’s clothing, going hunting tonight with his pack of jackals to flush out the quarry. They hunted for fun, as they’d hunted for me. He had been the wolf, I the rabbit with the tender, downy neck easily snapped by that remorseless maw. The valet placed the cloak on Adair’s shoulders, and as Adair turned to leave, he glanced up at me, as though he’d known I’d been there all along, and flashed me a look and a slight smile that sent me staggering backward. I should have been afraid of him-I
That night, I was half awakened by the party as they returned home and not surprised when Adair came into my room and carried me to his bed. Despite my illness, he had me that evening and I let him, surrendered to the thrill of his weight over me, his thickness in me, and the feel of his mouth on my skin. He whispered in my ear as we coupled, more moans than words, and I couldn’t make out what he was saying aside from “cannot deny me” and “mine,” as though he was staking a claim to me that night. Afterward, I lay next to him, shaking as the thrall passed through me.
The next morning, when I awoke in my quiet little room, the pain in my lower body was markedly worse. I tried to walk, but each step was punctuated with a sharp jab in my abdomen and I leaked blood and feces; I couldn’t imagine getting as far as to the front door, let alone finding someone to take me in. By evening I became consumed by a fever and over the next few days dropped in and out of sleep, each time waking up weaker than before. My skin grew pale and tender, my eyes rimmed in pink. If my bruises and scratches were healing, it happened more slowly than could be perceived. Alejandro, the only person who came to my bedside, delivered his prognosis with a shake of his head. “A puncture of the bowels.”
“Surely that is a trifling illness?” I asked, hopefully.
“Not if it goes septic.”
