Suffolk, March 1814
Viscount Sedgewick was dead. He was sure of it.
He had a vague recollection of the sensation of flying as he had been thrown from his curricle. Now, he seemed to be floating in darkness. He could see nothing, hear nothing, feel … nothing.
Good Lord, he must have killed himself! How the devil had he managed something so stupid?
He had been on his way to ... where? He could not focus his thoughts clearly enough to remember. Was this what happened when you died? Funny. Though he had never actually given it much thought, he had assumed it would be different, somehow—that everything that had in life been a puzzle would suddenly become clear, that a lifetime of forgotten memories would be presented to his mind's eye with the clarity and detail of printed pages in a book. He would never have predicted that thoughts and ideas would become fuzzy and disjointed, as elusive as dandelion seeds scattered in the wind, until they were completely out of reach and could no longer be grasped at all.
Perhaps he had been wrong about death. Perhaps his mind—all he seemed to have left now, no longer having any sensation of a body—would simply fade away until there were no more thoughts at all, nothing whatsoever remaining of Colin Herriot, Viscount Sedgewick, body or mind.
No! I am not ready to go! He struggled to hang on to this one conviction, perhaps his last remaining conscious thought. I am not ready.
And all of a sudden, in an almost blinding flash, everything changed. Where moments ago—was it only moments?—there had been nothing, now there was pain. Excruciating pain. Where before Sedgewick had been conscious of no physical sensation whatsoever, he now became aware of his body for the first time, and as far as he could tell, every single part of it hurt.
Now this was more like what he had expected from death, or at least from dying. There had to be suffering, or so he had always assumed. Well, by Jove, he was suffering. The only question now was, how long would it continue? Once dead, one would think it would end. Unless ... unless ...
But no, he couldn't be there, could he? He had not done anything that terrible in his lifetime. Or had he? Oh, good Lord. His head, or at least the place where he knew his head to have once been, felt as though it were on fire, so the possibility that he was in fact there had to be faced. His poor dead soul was being tortured for his sins. But why?
To be sure, he had led a somewhat capricious life during his thirty-six years. He had enjoyed himself, but what was the harm in that? There had been all those women, of course, but they had all been willing, and often eager. partners. Sedge couldn't help it if they found him irresistible. Besides, he had never knowingly hurt any of them, and they had in most cases remained friends long after the end of an affair. Of course, their husbands might have a complaint or two against him; but even that seemed a bit far-fetched, for, after all, how many of those gentlemen could lay claim to any sort of faithfulness?
So, then, how the hell had he ended up in ... well... hell?
A sharp stab of pain pounded through Sedgewick's head, as if in reply. Dammit, what had gone wrong? How was it he was being judged so harshly?
He had gambled, too, of course, but not to excess, and had never been, as far as he knew, the cause of anyone's ruin. He was prone to be lazy at times, it was true, but for the most part had been conscientious in his duties and obligations. He kept an eye on his investments and tended his estates. Well, to be perfectly honest, he hired excellent solicitors and stewards who ensured that his estates and tenants were well tended, but it amounted to the same thing. He remained close and attentive to his widowed mother and sister, was a loyal friend to many, and generous with his time and money.
Damnation! He did not deserve this. By all accounts he should have ended up someplace altogether different. Some place pleasant and painless and beautiful, with angels strumming harps and singing in perfect harmony. By God, it wasn't fair. It simply was not fair.
Before he could formulate another thought, things got worse. It felt as though his brain had slammed up against the side of his skull. His head seemed to have moved to an awkward angle. Or been moved. Ohhhhh. The sound of his own groan echoed in Sedge's head like a clap of thunder. Could a dead person groan? For that matter, could a dead person feel pain like the pounding of Thor's hammer in his head? Thank God he had never committed any truly heinous acts in his lifetime, if this was the punishment handed down for such trivial and common sins as his own.
His present agony was soon increased by the weird, muffled sound of voices rumbling in his head. Incomprehensible and yet somehow frightening, the odd sounds only intensified the thundering pain so that Sedge thought he might go mad. By God, he was determined to see what it was he faced, despite his helplessness. Frustrated by the stygian blackness, he attempted to open his eyes.
Ohhhhh. It was going to be more difficult than he had thought. He could almost wish he were dead, but, of course, he already was dead, so what was he to do?
He tried again.
His head throbbing mercilessly, Sedge fluttered his eyes slowly open into the merest slits. Blast it all, the light was blinding! Oh, good Lord. Was it fire? The flames of hell?
He groaned and snapped his eyes shut once again. His chest tightened as he breathed heavily, exhausted by the simple effort of opening his eyes. The thought briefly crossed his mind that dead men don't breathe, but he dismissed it as simply a malicious illusion.
Why me? What have I done to deserve this?
He tried again.
This time, after very slowly cracking open one eye and then the other, he steeled himself to withstand the brightness, determined to see how bad the situation really was. Trembling with effort, he strained to keep his eyes open, blinking against the light. Everything was a bit fuzzy, but as he squinted he could make out a dark, looming shape surrounded by a fiery nimbus.
Oh God. This was too much. He quickly closed his eyes again, not yet ready after all to face his own final judgment.
The muffled sound of voices continued to assault his ears. Clamping his eyes tightly shut, he concentrated on the voices. No, not voices. Voice. One voice. Female, slightly musical, somehow soothing. Very, very slowly, he opened his eyes again. Blinking furiously, Sedge tried to bring the dark shape into focus. By God, he would face this thing.
Allowing his eyes a moment to become accustomed to the almost painful brightness, the dark shape finally coalesced into a face—a hazy countenance only inches away from his own. Sedge forced his eyes to remain open, blinking frequently to ease the pain, and the intense brightness gradually faded into a more normal sort of light that eventually allowed him to see the face more clearly.
It was the face ... of an angel.
Sedge gazed up at a vision of such dreamlike beauty as he had never seen. Before he could notice much more, his eyes fell shut again, this time of their own volition. He could not seem to keep them open. But one thing he knew for sure: that was no demon looking down on him. It was a lovely female face of creamy white skin surrounded by brilliant coppery curls and gazing down at him with huge sherry-colored eyes. She was an angel.
Ha! He had been wrong all along. He was not in hell. He had ended up in heaven after all!
He forced his stinging, uncooperative eyes open, for he must see her again, his angel. Head pounding furiously, he batted his lids against grainy, painful eyes and focused once again on the vision hovering above him, surrounded by light.
* * *
Meg Ashburton gazed down into the bleary eyes of the injured gentleman whose head was cradled gently in her arms. Using an embroidered linen handkerchief quickly retrieved from her reticule, she carefully dabbed at the bleeding gash over his left eye. All at once, his eyes fluttered and a muffled sound escaped his lips. Meg leaned closer.
"Can you hear me, my lord?" she asked, bending low over him. "Can you hear me? Try not to move. We are going to help you."
Lord Sedgewick made another inarticulate sound and squinted his eyes tightly shut.
'"My lord'? You know him, Meggie?"
Meg looked up as her brother Terrence knelt beside her. When they had come upon the curricle wreckage while traveling home on the Ixworth Road, Terrence had immediately tossed the reins of their gig to Meg. He had jumped down to see to the frightened team of chestnut geldings who were pulling nervously at the steel bar across their backs and dancing skittishly among the tangle of broken traces.
"Yes," Meg replied. She glanced briefly across the road to see that Terrence had freed the horses from the traces and pole, and secured them separately to tree branches with the carriage reins. "It is Lord Sedgewick. I met him once or twice during my Season."
Meg almost laughed at how inadequate the statement sounded, though it was perfectly true. She doubted he would even remember her.
"Ah," Terrence said.
Looking back down in Lord Sedgewick's face, Meg noted a muscle twitching near his right eye and knew he had not completely lost consciousness. He seemed to be working the muscle deliberately. Finally the eyes fluttered open again. Meg watched as he squinted up at her and blinked several times. All at once, his eyes stopped blinking and seemed to fix on hers with a dazed, disoriented look.
"Lord Sedgewick?" She was concerned by his glassy stare. His lips moved slightly as though he wanted to say something. Meg bent her face closer to his. "Lord Sedgewick?"
"An ... gel," he murmured.
Meg looked at her brother in confusion and shrugged her shoulders. Bending her face close to Lord Sedgewick's once again, she studied his dilated eyes, still fixed on hers. "I do not understand, my lord," she said softly. "What is it you are trying to say?"
"An ... gel," he repeated in a slurred, thick voice. "Angel. My ... my angel... speaks." A corner of his mouth twisted briefly into what might have been a grin but immediately became a grimace. His eyes rolled upward and then closed, and his head fell to one side.
Disconcerted by the words for a brief instant, Meg saw Terrence arch a questioning brow. Ignoring her brother, Meg directed all her concentration toward assessing Lord Sedgewick's injuries. She released his head from her hold and carefully laid it down while her eyes scanned his body. He lay on his back with one leg at an unnatural angle, obviously broken. Meg leaned over him, taking care not to jar the injured leg, and quickly attempted to survey the damage. Gently running her hands under his bloodstained greatcoat and jacket, she had not been able to find the source of the blood.
"He might have sustained a broken rib or two," she said. "I cannot be sure. But there is no obvious injury to his body. All this," she said with a sweeping gesture over the muddy, bloodied garment, "must have been from the cut on his head. He has lost a great deal of blood."
"I'll have a look at the leg," Terrence said, moving quickly to the other side of the silent figure.
Meg returned her attention to the head wound. Lord Sedgewick's thick blond hair was heavily matted with blood from the gash over his left eye. Her linen handkerchief was already blood-soaked, so she quickly began to rip the cotton lace from her petticoat, and to tear the plain cotton into strips and squares. She concocted a good-sized padding and pressed it firmly against Lord Sedgewick's bleeding temple, attempting to staunch the flow of blood. Satisfied with the results, she tied the padding tightly into place with the strips of lace. Removing her own cloak, she folded it and gently placed it beneath his head.
Absently wiping her bloodied hands against her skirt, Meg looked toward her brother. He was hunched over the horribly bent leg, and she swallowed the taste of bile at the sight of it. She had seen her share of broken bones, having grown up on a farm, and therefore was not generally given to squeamishness. However, such an unnatural bend could not fail to affect her.
Terrence looked up. "It doesn't look as though the skin has been ruptured," he said, "so we can hope it is a clean break. We won't know for certain, though, until we cut off the boot."
"Now?" Meg exclaimed in alarm. "Here?"
"No," Terrence replied as he stood up. "I do not care to take that chance. We might inadvertently cause further damage."
"Should we try to get him into the gig?" Meg asked.
"No," Terrence replied as he hurried across the road toward the two geldings, "I do not think we should move him. That leg should be set before lifting him. Besides, the gig is too small. We will need a litter." He began to untie the reins of one of the horses. "I'm going to ride to Thornhill for help," he called over his shoulder. "I'll try to locate Garthwaite. You stay with him, Meggie. Try to keep him warm."
Meg watched as Terrence slipped off the harness and tossed it to the ground. He then looped the long carriage reins over and over around his hand and walked the gelding away from the tree. She had no need to ask why he did not take their own horse, understanding at once that the superior strength of one of the beautiful chestnut geldings would serve him better than the older, slower mare they had brought with the gig. Terrence led the dancing, whinnying gelding away from the other horse, all the while stroking his long nose, crooning in his ear, and occasionally blowing gently into his nostrils. Meg watched as her brother expertly calmed the nervous animal before mounting him bare-backed in one graceful, fluid movement. Keeping the carriage reins wrapped tightly around one hand, Terrence turned him toward Thornhill and kneed him into a gallop.
"Hurry!" Meg shouted to her brother's retreating back. Oh, please hurry, she thought as she gazed down at the silent figure lying at her side. Gently taking Lord Sedgewick's hand in her own, she closed her eyes and prayed for his recovery. Surely God would not be so cruel as to let him die. Not this man.
She gave in to the sheer pleasure of holding his hand in hers, stroking his long, slender fingers, and tracing the clear lines of his palm. My angel, he had called her. Of course, he had been delirious and spouting nonsense, though Meg thought she had seen a flicker of recognition, or something, in his eyes when he spoke. My angel. Meg smiled as she hugged those sweet words close to her heart. It mattered not that the man was probably out of his mind. Any endearment from Lord Sedgewick was to be cherished, for she would doubtless never hear such from him again.
She lifted his fingers briefly to her lips, acknowledging at last how cold they were and how precarious his condition was. Meg knew firsthand the dangers of head wounds. Her own father had died of one when he had been thrown from a particularly vicious stallion he had been attempting to train. Recollections of her father's death brought a sick feeling to Meg's stomach.
No, by God, there would be no sad ending this time, if she could help it. Not for this man.
Still holding his hand, Meg kept a careful watch on Lord Sedgewick's face, alert to any sign of change in his condition. Good Lord, but he was pale. And so cold. She gently moved Lord Sedgewick's hands to his sides and tucked his greatcoat more closely around his chin and shoulders to protect him against the chilly March air.
Thank God it was not raining again this afternoon, she thought as she looked up at the overcast sky. The poor man would probably have died of a chill. She shivered and clutched her arms at the elbows. Looking up at the leaden skies, she hoped their luck would hold out. Meg's eyes followed a cluster of grayish clouds to the line of black poplar trees across the road, their spiky, leafless branches silhouetted against the silvery haze, and then down to the muddy, rutted road below. Catching sight, then, of the gig, an idea occurred to her. She quickly rose and shook out her skirts, dismissing the errant thought that the beautiful blue kerseymere—one of her favorite winter dresses—was now streaked with blood and ruined beyond repair. As she walked across the road, she tried to recall whether or not she had seen a spare horse blanket tucked away in a corner of the gig. Terrence usually kept one handy.
She pushed aside the packages of goods and supplies she and her brother had purchased that morning in Bury St. Edmund's, at last coming upon a worn and stained blanket wrapped into a tight roll. She retrieved the roll, unfurled the scratchy red wool, and shook it out, squinting and coughing against the bits of straw and hay that scattered in the air. She wrinkled her nose as she held the blanket out and examined it. Yes, it was ugly and smelly, but it would do.
Meg hurried to the other side of the road and carefully laid the blanket over Lord Sedgewick's greatcoat. This should at least help to keep him warm, she thought, casting her eyes once again to the threatening skies above.
Meg turned her gaze to the road toward their farm at Thornhill. What was keeping Terrence? Hopefully, her brother would be able to return with Dr. Garthwaite. If Lord Sedgewick had indeed sustained a compound fracture to his leg, the young and compassionate village physician was more likely to attempt a repair than to amputate, as many other doctors would. So, there was little more she could do for now, save keep an eye on the head wound.
Meg knelt once again at Lord Sedgewick's side. At least he still seemed to be breathing; and her makeshift bandage appeared to have effectively staunched the flow of blood. There did not appear to be anything more she could do, except to feel helpless and wait.
And so she waited. And waited.
She rose occasionally and stood staring down the road toward Thornhill, shielding her eyes against the midday glare. Determining at last that watching the road only made the wait seem longer, she returned to her patient and sat back down on her knees at his side. Her brow furrowed as she looked down at him. Dear, sweet Lord Sedgewick. He looked so helpless and young, though she guessed him to be at least a dozen years her senior. She had never thought to see him again, keeping so close to Thornhill as she did. With wry amusement, she considered the irony of the situation. It was her typical ill luck that when Lord Sedgewick's path finally crossed hers after all these years, it was only to lie half dead at her feet. She shook her head in dismay as she studied his ashen face.
"Do not worry, my lord," she whispered as she brushed back a lock of blond hair from his pale brow, "we will not let you die. We will patch you up and nurse you and send you back on your way."
It was the least she could do, for the only man she had ever loved.