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  “Why?” Catherine wanted so badly to reach him, to understand, that she found herself touching his hand. When no resistance was offered, she became emboldened and slid her bandaged fingers beneath his cold palm. “Tell me,” she urged. “Please.”

  Leo’s hand turned and enclosed hers in a careful grip that sent a response through her entire body. The sensation was one of relief, a feeling of something fitting exactly into place. They both stared at their joined hands, warmth collecting in the sphere of palms and fingers.

  “After Laura died,” she heard him say thickly, “I behaved very badly. Worse than I do now, if you can conceive it. But no matter what I did, nothing gave me the oblivion I needed. One night I went to the East End with a few of my more depraved companions, to an opium den.” He paused as he felt Catherine’s hand tighten in reaction. “You could smell the smoke all down the alley. The air was brown with it. They took me to a room filled with men and women all lying pell-mell on pallets and pillows, mumbling and dreaming. The way the opium pipes glowed … it was like dozens of little red eyes winking in the dark.”

  “It sounds like a vision of hell,” Catherine whispered.

  “Yes. And hell was exactly where I wanted to be. Someone brought me a pipe. With the first draw, I felt so much better, I almost wept.”

  “What does it feel like?” she asked, her hand clutched fast in his.

  “In an instant, all is right with the world, and nothing, no matter how dark or painful, can change that. Imagine all the guilt and fear and fury you’ve ever felt, lifting away like a feather on a breeze.”

  Perhaps once Catherine would have judged him severely for indulging in such wickedness. But now she felt compassion. She understood the pain that had driven him to such depths.

  “But the feeling doesn’t last,” she murmured.

  He shook his head. “No. And when it goes, you’re worse off than before. You can’t take pleasure in anything. The people you love don’t matter. All you can think of is the opium smoke and when you can have it again.”

  Catherine stared at his partially averted profile. It hardly seemed possible that this was the same man she had scorned and disdained for the past year. Nothing had ever seemed to matter to him—he had seemed utterly shallow and self-indulgent. When in truth, things had mattered far too much. “What made you stop?” she asked gently.

  “I reached the point at which the thought of going on was too damned exhausting. I had a pistol in my hand. It was Cam who stopped me. He told me the Rom believe that if you grieve too much, you turn the spirit of the deceased into a ghost. I had to let Laura go, he said. For her sake.” Leo looked at her then, his eyes a riveting blue. “And I did. I have. I swore to leave off the opium, and since then I’ve never touched the filthy stuff. Sweet Christ, Cat, you don’t know how hard it was. It took everything I had to turn away. If I went back to it even once … I might find myself in the bottom of a pit I could never climb out of. I can’t take that chance. I won’t.”

  “Leo…” She saw him blink in surprise. It was the first time she had ever used his name. “Take the laudanum,” she said. “I won’t let you fall. I won’t let you turn into a degenerate.”

  His mouth twisted. “You’re offering to take me on as your responsibility.”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m too much for you to manage.”

  “No,” Catherine said decisively, “you’re not.”

  He let out a mirthless laugh, followed by a long, curious stare. As if she were someone he ought to know but couldn’t quite place.

  Catherine could hardly believe that she was perched on the edge of his bed, holding the hand of a man she had battled so fiercely and for so long. She had never imagined that he would willingly make himself vulnerable to her.

  “Trust me,” she urged.

  “Give me one good reason.”

  “Because you can.”

  Leo shook his head slightly, holding her gaze. At first she thought he was refusing her. But it turned out that he was shaking his head in rueful wonder at his own actions. He gestured for the small glass of liquid on the bedside table. “Give it to me,” he muttered, “before I have a chance to think better of it.” She handed the glass to him, and he downed it in a few efficient gulps. A shudder of revulsion swept through him as he gave the empty glass back to her.

  They both waited for the medicine to take effect.

  “Your hands…” Leo said, reaching for her bandaged fingers. The tip of his thumb brushed gently over the surface of her nails.

  “It’s nothing,” she whispered. “Just a few scrapes.”

  The blue eyes turned hazy and unfocused, and he closed them. The pained grooves of his face began to relax. “Have I thanked you yet,” he asked, “for hauling me out of the ruins?”

  “No thanks are necessary.”

  “All the same … thank you.” Lifting one of her hands, he cradled her palm against his cheek while his eyes remained closed. “My guardian angel,” he said, the words beginning to slur. “I don’t think I ever had one until now.”

  “If you did,” she said, “you probably ran too fast for her to keep up with you.”

  He made a quiet sound of amusement.

  The feel of his shaven cheek beneath her hand filled her with astonishing tenderness. She had to remind herself that the opium was exerting its influence on him. This feeling between them wasn’t real. But it seemed as if something new were emerging from the wreckage of their former conflict. A thrill of intimacy went through her as she felt the ripple of his swallow in the space beneath his jaw.

  They stayed like that until a noise from the doorway caused Catherine to start.

  Cam entered the room, glanced at the empty glass, and gave Catherine an approving nod. “Well done,” he said. “This will make it easer on Ramsay. And more importantly, on me.”

  “Bugger you,” Leo replied mildly, slitting his eyes open as Cam and Merripen went to the bedside. Amelia followed with an armload of clean rags and toweling. Reluctantly, Catherine pulled away from Leo and retreated to the doorway.

  Cam looked down at his brother-in-law with a mixture of concern and affection. The abundant sunlight from the window slid over the shiny black layers of his hair. “I can take care of this, phral. But we could send for a gadjo doctor if you prefer.”

  “God, no. Anything he did would be far worse than your blundering. And he’d start with his damned jar of leeches.”

  “No leeches here,” Cam replied as he eased the pillows from behind Leo’s back. “I’m terrified of them.”

  “Are you?” Amelia asked. “I didn’t know that.”

  Cam helped Leo to lower to the mattress. “When I was a boy still living with the tribe, I went wading in a spring-fed pond with a few of the other children. We all came out with leeches attached to our legs. I would say I screamed like a girl, except the girls were much quieter.”

  “Poor Cam,” Amelia said, smiling.

  “Poor Cam?” Leo echoed, sounding indignant. “What about me?”

  “I’m reluctant to give you too much sympathy,” Amelia replied, “in light of my suspicion that you’ve only done this to get out of the turnip planting.”

  Leo replied with two choice words that made her grin.

  Pulling the bed linens to her brother’s waist, Amelia carefully tucked towels beneath his injured shoulder and side. The sight of his lean, smoothly muscled torso—and that intriguing dusting of hair on his chest—caused Catherine’s stomach to dive in an odd little swoop. She retreated farther behind the door, not wanting to leave and yet knowing it was improper for her to stay.

  Cam dropped a kiss atop his wife’s head and nudged her away from the bed. “Wait over there, monisha—we need room to work.” He turned to the nearby tray of supplies.

  Catherine blanched as she heard the rattle of knives and metal implements.

  “Aren’t you going to sacrifice a goat or perform a tribal dance?” Leo asked woozily. “Or at least chant something?�
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  “We did all that downstairs,” Cam said. He handed a piece of leather strap to Leo. “Put this between your teeth. And try not to make too much noise while we’re working on you. My son is napping.”

  “Before I put this in my mouth,” Leo said, “you might tell me the last place it’s been.” He paused. “On second thought … never mind. I don’t want to know.” He put the strap between his teeth, then removed it temporarily to add, “I’d rather you didn’t amputate anything.”

  “If we do,” Merripen said, swabbing carefully around the injured shoulder, “it won’t be intentional.”

  “Ready, phral?” she heard Cam ask gently. “Hold him still, Merripen. All right. On the count of three.”

  Amelia joined Catherine in the hallway, her face tense. She wrapped her arms around her middle.

  They heard Leo’s low groan, followed by a voluble flow of Romany between Cam and Merripen. The foreign language was brisk but soothing.

  It was clear that despite the effects of the opium, the procedure was difficult to endure. Every time Catherine heard a grunt or pained sound coming from Leo, she tensed all over and knotted her torn fingers together.

  After two or three minutes had passed, Amelia looked around the doorway. “Did it splinter?” she asked.

  “Only a little, monisha, ” came Cam’s reply. “It could have been much worse, but—” He paused at a muffled sound from Leo. “Sorry, phral. Merripen, take the tweezers and—yes, that part right there.”

  Amelia’s face was pale as she turned back to Catherine. And she astonished her by reaching out and drawing her close in the same way she might have hugged Win, Poppy, or Beatrix. Catherine stiffened a little, not in aversion but awkwardness. “I’m so glad you weren’t harmed, Catherine,” Amelia said. “Thank you for taking care of Lord Ramsay.”

  Catherine nodded slightly.

  Drawing back, Amelia smiled at her. “He’ll be fine, you know. He has more lives than a cat.”

  “I hope so,” Catherine said soberly. “I hope this isn’t a result of the Ramsay curse.”

  “I don’t believe in curses, or spells, or anything of the sort. The only curse my brother faces is self-imposed.”

  “You … you mean because of his grief over Laura Dillard?”

  Amelia’s blue eyes turned round. “He talked to you about her?”

  Catherine nodded.

  Amelia seemed caught off guard. Taking Catherine’s arm, she drew her further along the hallway, where there was less risk of being overheard. “What did he say?”

  “That she liked to watercolor,” Catherine replied hesitantly. “That they were betrothed, and then she caught the scarlet fever, and died in his arms. And that … she haunted him for a time. Literally. But that couldn’t be true … could it?”

  Amelia was silent for a good half minute. “I think it might be,” she said with remarkable calmness. “I wouldn’t admit that to many people—it makes me sound like a lunatic.” A wry smile crossed her lips. “However, you’ve lived with the Hathaways long enough to know of a certainty that we are indeed a pack of lunatics.” She paused. “Catherine.”

  “Yes?”

  “My brother never discusses Laura Dillard with anyone. Ever.”

  Catherine blinked. “He was in pain. He’d lost blood.”

  “I don’t think that is why he confided in you.”

  “What other reason could there have been?” Catherine asked with difficulty.

  It must have shown in her face, how much she dreaded the answer.

  Amelia stared at her closely, and then shrugged with a rueful smile. “I’ve already said too much. Forgive me. It’s only that I desire my brother’s happiness so greatly.” She paused before adding sincerely, “And yours.”

  “I assure you, ma’am, one has nothing to do with the other.”

  “Of course,” Amelia murmured, and went back to the doorway to wait.

  Chapter Nine

  After the wound had been cleaned and bandaged, Leo was left gray-faced and exhausted. He slept for the rest of the day, waking occasionally to find broth or fever tea being poured down his throat. The family was merciless in their efforts to take care of him.

  As he had expected, the opiate sent him into nightmares, filled with creatures rising from the earth to claw and pull at him, tugging him down below the surface where red glowing eyes blinked at him in the dark. Trapped in a narcotic daze, Leo couldn’t fully awaken from the dreams, only struggled in the heat and misery, and subsided into more hallucinations. The only respite was when a cool cloth was applied to his forehead, and a gentle, comforting presence hovered beside him.

  “Amelia? Win?” he mumbled in confusion.

  “Shhhh…”

  “Hot,” he said with an aching sigh.

  “Lie still.”

  He was vaguely aware of two or three other times when the cloth was changed … merciful coolness applied to his brow … a light hand curving against his cheek.

  When he awoke in the morning, he was tired, feverish, and in the grip of a profound gloom. It was the usual aftermath of opium, of course, but the knowledge hardly helped to alleviate the overwhelming dreariness.

  “You have a mild fever,” Cam told him in the morning. “You’ll need to drink more yarrow tea to bring it down. But there’s no sign of festering. Rest today, and I expect you’ll feel much better by tomorrow.”

  “That tea tastes like ditch water,” Leo muttered. “And I’m not going to stay in bed all day.”

  Cam looked sympathetic. “I understand, phral. You don’t feel ill enough to rest, but you’re not well enough to do anything. All the same, you have to give yourself a chance to heal, or—”

  “I’m going downstairs for a proper breakfast.”

  “Breakfast is done. They’ve already cleared the sideboard.”

  Leo scowled and rubbed his face, wincing at the fiery pull of his shoulder. “Have Merripen come up here. I want to talk to him.”

  “He is out with the tenants, drilling turnip seed.”

  “Where is Amelia?”

  “Taking care of the baby. He’s teething.”

  “What about Win?”

  “She’s with the housekeeper, taking inventory and ordering supplies. Beatrix is carrying baskets to elderly cottagers in town. And I have to visit a tenant who’s two months lacking in his rent. I’m afraid there is no one available to entertain you.”

  Leo greeted this statement with surly silence. And then he brought himself to ask for the person he truly wanted. The person who hadn’t bothered to look in on him or ask after his welfare even after she’d promised to safeguard him. “Where’s Marks?”

  “The last time I saw her, she was busy with needlework. It seems the mending has piled up, and—”

  “She can do it here.”

  Cam’s face was carefully blank. “You want Miss Marks to do the mending in your room?”

  “Yes, send her up here.”

  “I’ll ask if she’s willing,” Cam said, looking doubtful.

  After Leo had washed and dragged on a dressing robe, he went back to bed. He was sore and infuriatingly unsteady. A housemaid brought a small tray with a solitary piece of toast and a cup of tea. Leo ate his breakfast while staring morosely at the empty doorway.

  Where was Marks? Had Cam even bothered to tell her that she was wanted? If so, she had evidently decided to ignore the summons.

  Callous, coldhearted harpy. And this after she had promised to be responsible for him. She had persuaded him to take the laudanum, and then she had deserted him.

  Well, Leo didn’t want her now. If she decided to appear after all, he would send her away. He would laugh scornfully and tell her that no company at all was better than having her there. He would’

  “My lord?”

  His heart gave a leap as he saw her at the doorway, dressed in a dark blue gown, her light golden hair caught up and pinned in its usual stern confinement.

  She held a book in one hand and a glass
of pale liquid in the other. “How are you this morning?”

  “Bored out of my wits,” Leo said with a scowl. “Why did you take so long to see me?”

  “I thought you were still asleep.” Entering the room, Catherine left the door wide open. The long, furry form of Dodger the ferret came loping in after her. After standing tall to view his surroundings, Dodger scurried beneath the dresser. Catherine watched the ferret suspiciously. “Probably one of his new hiding places,” she said, and sighed. She brought Leo a glass of cloudy liquid, and gave it to him. “Drink this, please.”

  “What is it?”

  “Willowbark, for your fever. I stirred in some lemon and sugar to improve the flavor.”

  Leo drank the bitter brew, watching as Catherine moved about the room. She opened a second window to admit more of the outside breeze. Taking his breakfast tray out to the hallway, she gave it to a passing housemaid. When she returned to Leo, she laid her fingers on his forehead to test his temperature.

  Leo caught her wrist, staying the motion. He stared at her in dawning recognition. “It was you,” he said. “You came to me last night.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “You changed the cloth on my forehead. More than once.”

  Catherine’s fingers curled lightly around his. Her voice was very soft. “As if I would enter a man’s bedroom in the middle of the night.”

  But they both knew she had. The weight of melancholy lifted considerably, especially as Leo saw the concern in her eyes.

  “How are your hands?” he asked, turning her scraped fingers to inspect them.

  “Healing nicely, thank you.” She paused. “I am told you require companionship?”

  “Yes,” he said promptly. “I’ll make do with you.”

  Her lips curved. “Very well.”

  Leo wanted to pull her against him and inhale her scent. She smelled light and clean, like tea and talcum and lavender.

  “Shall I read to you?” she asked. “I brought a novel. Do you like Balzac?”