"Yes. Drink." The cup advanced again. Her whisper fell tenderly against his ear. "For me."
He was too sick—he didn't think he could keep it down—but to please her, he drank a little. The crisp-sour taste made him recoil. "What is it?"
"Mint tea." Win's angel-blue eyes stared into his without blinking, her beautiful face neutral. "You must drink all of this, and then perhaps another cup. It will make you better."
He knew at once Win was lying. Nothing could make him better. And the bitter tang of mor**ine in the tea was impossible to conceal. But Merripen sensed an intent in her, a strange deliberateness, and the idea came to him that she was giving him an overdose on purpose. His exhausted mind weighed the possibility. It must be that Win wanted to spare him more suffering, knowing the hours and days to come were beyond his endurance. Killing him with mor**ine was the last act of kindness she could offer him.
Dying in her arms?cradled against her as he relinquished his scarred soul to the darkness?Win would be the last thing he would ever feel, see, hear. Had there been any tears in him, he would have wept in gratitude.
He drank slowly, forcing down every swallow. He drank part of the next cup until his throat would no longer work, and he turned his face against her chest and shuddered. His head was spinning, and sparks were drifting all around him like falling stars.
Win set the cup aside and stroked his hair, and pressed her wet cheek lo his forehead.
And they both waited.
"Sing to me," Merripen whispered as the blinding darkness rolled over him. Win continued to stroke his head as she crooned a lullaby. His fingers touched her throat, seeking the precious vibration of her voice, and the sparks faded as he lost himself in her, his fate, at last.
Amelia lowered herself to the floor and sat beside the door, her fingers laced in a loose basket. She heard Win's tender murmurs?a few rasping words from Merripen... a long silence. And then Win's voice, singing gently, humming, the tones so true and lovely that Amelia felt a fragile peace steal over her. Eventually the angelic sound faded, and there was more quiet.
After an hour had passed, Amelia, whose nerves had been stretched to the limit, stood and stretched her cramped limbs. She opened the door with extreme care. Win was easing from the bed, tugging the bedclothes over Merripen's prone form.
"Did he take it'?" Amelia whispered, approaching her. Win looked weary and strained. "Most of it."
"Did you have to lie to him?"
A tentative nod. "It was the easiest thing I've ever done. You see??I'm not such a saint after all."
"Yes you are," Amelia returned, and hugged her fiercely. "You are."
Even Lord Westcliff 's well-trained servants were inclined to complain when Cam returned with two jars of live bees and brought them to the kitchen. The scullery maids ran shrieking to the servants' hall, the housekeeper retreated to her room to compose an indignant letter to the earl and countess, and the butler told the head groomsman that if this was the kind of houseguest Lord Westcliff expected him to attend, he was thinking seriously of retiring.
As the only person in the household who dared go into the kitchen, Beatrix stayed with Cam, helped in the boiling, straining, and mixing, and later reported to her revolted sisters that it had been great fun crushing bees.
Eventually Cam brought what appeared to be a warlock's brew up to Merripen's room. Amelia waited for him there, having laid out clean knives, scissors, tweezers, fresh water, and a pile of clean white bandages.
Poppy and Beatrix were commanded to leave the room, much to their disgruntlement, while Win closed the door firmly behind them. She took an apron from Amelia, tied it around her narrow waist, and went to the bedside. Placing her ringers at the side of Merripen's throat, Win said tensely, "His pulse is weak and slow. It's the morphine."
"Bee venom stimulates the heart," Cam replied, rolling up his shirtsleeves. "Believe me, it will be racing in a minute or two."
"Shall I remove his bandage?" Amelia asked.
Cam nodded. "The shirt, too." He went to the washstand and soaped his hands.
Win and Amelia removed the linen shirt from Merripen's prostrate form. His back was still heavily muscled, but he had lost a great deal of weight. The sides of his ribs jutted in ledges beneath the swarthy skin.
As Win went to discard the crumpled shirt, Amelia untucked the end of the bandage and began to pry it loose. She paused as she noticed a curious mark on his other shoulder. Leaning over him, she stared more closely at the black ink design. A chill of astonishment ran through her. "A tattoo," was all she could manage to say.
"Yes, I noticed it a few days ago," Win remarked, coming back to the bed. "It's odd that he never mentioned it, isn't it? No wonder he was always drawing pookas and making up stories about them when he was younger. It must have some significance to?
"What did you say?" Cam's voice was quiet, but it reverberated with such intensity, he might as well have been shouting.
"Merripen has a tattoo of a pooka on his shoulder," Win replied, staring at him questioningly as he reached the bed in three strides. "We've never known about it until now. It's a very unique design—I've never seen anything quite like? She stopped with a gasp as Cam held his forearm next to Merripen's shoulder.
The black winged horses with the yellow eyes were identical.
Amelia lifted her gaze from the astonishing sight to Cam's blank face. "What does it mean?"
Cam couldn't seem to take his gaze from Merripen's tattoo. ''I don't know."
"Have you ever known anyone else who?
"No." Cam stepped back. "Sweet Jesus." Slowly he paced around the foot of the bed, staring at Merripen's motionless figure as it he were a variety of exotic creature he had never seen before. He picked up a pair of scissors from the tray of supplies.
Instinctively Win moved closer to the sleeping man's side. Noticing her protectiveness, Cam murmured, "It's all right, little sister. I'm just going to cut away the dead skin."
He leaned over the wound and worked intently. After a minute of watching him clean and debride the wound, Win went to a nearby chair and sat abruptly as if her knees had been unbuckled.
Amelia stood beside him, feeling a sting of nausea in her throat. Cam, on the other hand, was as detached as if he were repairing the intricate mechanism of a clock rather than treating festering human flesh. At his direction, Amelia fetched the bowl of poultice liquid, which smelled astringent but curiously sweet'.
"Don't let it splash into your eyes," Cam said, rinsing the wound with salt solution.
"It smells like fruit."
"That's the venom." Cam cut a square of cloth and pushed it into the bowl. Fishing it out gingerly, he laid the dripping cloth over the wound. Even in the depths of his sleep, Merripen jerked in reaction and groaned.
"Easy, chal." Cam laid a hand on his back, keeping him in place. When he was assured Merripen was still again, he bandaged the poultice firmly in place. "We'll replace it every time we clean the wound," he said. "Don't tip the bowl over. I'd hate to have to go back for more bees."
"How will we know if it's working?" Amelia asked.
"The fever should go down gradually, and by this time tomorrow we should see a nice leathery scab forming." He felt the side of Merripen's throat and told Win, "His pulse is stronger."
"What about the pain?" Win asked anxiously.
"That should improve quickly." Cam smiled at her as he quoted a Latin phrase, "Pro medicina est dolor, dolorem qui necat"
"The pain that kills pain acts as medicine," Win translated.
"That would make sense only to a Roma," Amelia said, and Cam grinned.
He took her shoulders in his hands. "You're in charge now, hummingbird. I'm leaving for a little while."
"Right now?" she asked in bewilderment, "But... where are you going?"
His expression changed. "To find your brother." Amelia stared at him with mingled gratitude and concern. "Perhaps you should rest first. You traveled all night. It may take a long tune to find him."
"No it won't." His eyes glinted with irony. "Your brother is hardly one to cover his tracks."
Chapter Twenty
Approximately six hours after his search for Leo had begun, Cam knocked at the front door of a prosperous manor farm. A piece of tavern gossip had led to someone who had seen Ramsay with someone else, and they had gone to another place, where their plans had been overheard, and so forth, until finally the trait had led to this place.
The large Tudor house, with the date 1620 inscribed over the door, was located almost ten miles from Stony Cross Park. From the information Cam had gathered, the farm had once belonged to a noble Hampshire family, but had been sold out of necessity to a London merchant. It served as a retreat for the merchant's dissipated sons and their playmates.
Hardly a surprise that Leo had been drawn to such company.
The door was opened, and a trout-faced butler appeared. His lips twisted disdainfully as he saw Cam.
"Your kind isn't welcome here."
"That's fortunate, since I don't intend to stay long. I've come to collect Lord Ramsay."
"There is no Ramsay here." The butler began to close the door, but Cam braced a hand on it.
"Tall. Light eyes. Ruddy-complexioned. Probably reeking of spirits?
"I have seen no one of that description."
"Then let me speak to your master."
"He is not al home."
"Look," Cam said irritably, "I'm here on behalf of Lord Ramsay's family. They want him back. God knows why. Give him to me, and I'll leave you in peace."
"If they want him," the butler said frostily, "let them send a proper servant. Not a filthy Gypsy."
Cam rubbed the corners of his eyes with his free hand and sighed. "We can do this the easy way or the hard way. Frankly, I'd rather not go through unnecessary exertion. All I ask is that you allow me five minutes to find the bastard and take him off your hands."
"Begone with you!"
After another foiled attempt to close the door, the butler reached for a silver bell on the hall table. A few seconds later, two burly footmen appeared.
"Show this vermin out at once," the butler commanded. Cam removed his coat and tossed it onto one of the built-in benches lining the entrance hall.
The first footman charged him. In a few practiced movements, Cam landed a right cross on his jaw, flipped him, and sent him to a groaning heap on the floor.
The second footman approached Cam with considerably more caution than the first.
"Which is your dominant arm?" Cam asked. The footman looked startled. "Why do you want to know?"
"I'd prefer to break the one you don't use as often."
The footman's eyes bulged, and he retreated, giving the butler a pleading glance.
The butler glared at Cam. "You have five minutes. Retrieve your master and go."
"Ramsay isn't my master," Cam muttered. "He's a pain in my arse."
'They've been in the same room for days," the footman, whose name was George, told Cam as they ascended a flight of carpeted stairs. "Food sent in, whores coming and going, empty wine bottles everywhere... and the stench of opium smoke all through the entire upper floor. You'll want to cover your eyes when you enter the room, sir."
"Because of the smoke?"
"That, and?well, the goings-on would make the devil blush."
"I'm from London," Cam said. "I don't blush." Even if George hadn't been willing to lead Cam to the room of iniquity, he could have easily found it from the smell.
The door was ajar. Cam nudged it open and stepped into the hazy atmosphere. There were four men and two women, all young, all in various stages of undress. Although only one opium pipe was in evidence, it could have been argued that the entire room served as a huge pipe, so thick was the sweet smoke. Cam's arrival was greeted with remarkable unconcern, the men listlessly draped across upholstered furniture, one coiled on cushions in the corner. Their complexions were cadaverous, their eyes filmy with narcotic dullness. A side table was littered with spoons and pins and a dish filled with what looked like black treacle.
One of the women, who was entirely naked, paused in the act of lifting a pipe to a man's slack mouth.
"Look," she said to the other woman, "here's a new one." A drowsy giggle. "Good, we need him. They're all at half-mast. The only stiff thing left is the pipe." She twisted to look at Cam. "Gor, what a pretty man."
"Oh, let me have him first," the other one said. She petted herself invitingly. "C'mere, love, I'll give you a?
"No, thank you." Cam was beginning to feel slightly dizzy from the smoke. He went to the nearest window, opened it, and let a cold breeze into the room. A few curses and protests greeted his actions.
Identifying the one in the corner as Leo, Cam went to the quiescent figure, lifted the head by the hair, and stared into his future brother-in-law's puffy face. "Haven't you inhaled enough smoke lately?" he asked.
Leo scowled. "Sod off"
"You sound like Merripen," Cam said. "Who, in case you're interested, may be dead by the time we return to Stony Cross Manor."
"Good riddance to him."
"I'd agree with you, except that agreeing with you probably means I'm on the wrong side of the argument." Cam began to tug Leo upward, and the other man struggled. "Stand up, damn you." Cam hoisted him with a grunt of effort. "Or I'll drag you out by the heels."
Leo's bloated bulk swayed against him. "I'm trying to stand," he snapped. "The floor keeps tipping."
Cam fought to steady him. When Leo had finally gotten his bearings, he lurched toward the doorway, where the footman waited.
"May I escort you downstairs, my lord?" George asked politely. Leo responded with a surly nod.
"Close the window," one of the women demanded, her na*ed body shivering as the autumn wind swept through the room.
Cam glanced at her dispassionately. He had seen too many of her kind to feel much pity. There were thousands of them in London—round-faced country wenches, just pretty enough to attract the attention of men who promised, took, and discarded without conscience. "You should try some fresh air," he advised, reaching for a discarded lap blanket beside the settee. "It promotes clear thinking."