Page 37 of Barbarous

Daphne struggled for something intelligent to say, but all she could manage was, “Torture?”

His kind eyes were bleak. “In addition to evidence of several skull fractures, there are dozens—maybe even hundreds—of scars on his chest, back, and arms—” Again he stopped, and then nodded abruptly. “Yes, it is my professional opinion he was tortured.”

They sat in silence.

It was the doctor who finally broke the spell when he set down his empty cup and saucer and cleared his throat. “I hate to eat and bolt away, but Kitty Fenwick is in the straw and it’s her first child.”

Daphne nodded absently, still reeling.

The doctor heaved himself to his feet. “I’ll be back tomorrow morning if I have no word from you in the interim. I can see myself out, Lady Davenport.” He retrieved his bag and quietly left the room.

Daphne had been a fool to think life as a slave would leave no scars, but should she have guessed he’d been tortured? She’d assumed the scar across his face was the result of one of the many sword battles she’d imagined him engaging in. She recalled the cut girth and closed her eyes, a sick feeling blooming and blossoming inside her. Will Standish would have seen the girth by now and Daphne already knew what he would say: somebody had cut it—somebody had wanted to hurt Hugh. If the girth had broken only seconds earlier—while he’d been tearing through the trees . . .

Daphne told herself not to borrow more trouble. She needed to focus on what had happened and why. Hugh Redvers had been gone from England almost two decades; who could possibly gain from his death?

Daphne could think of no one.

No one except herself and her sons.

* * *

Kemal was in the dressing room when Daphne entered the Rose Room—a bedroom her husband had occupied for the six months before his death. She fought down the thick, noxious fog of emotions the room elicited and turned her attention to its current occupant.

Hugh’s sleeping body dwarfed the enormous four-poster bed. He was breathing deeply and regularly, his torso bare but for a stark white bandage. The patch that covered his eye had been removed and she saw the eyelid was undamaged, the skin above and below pulled by a thin white line. She shuddered when she realized his eye had been open at the time of his injury; he would have witnessed whatever had delivered such a punishing cut.

Her gaze slid from his eye to the white scars that crisscrossed his massive shoulders and chest. The doctor had spoken the truth: they were too numerous to count.

She reached out to touch the raised lines that were only partially hidden by the golden hair, her mind unable to absorb what she was seeing. Who or what had done this to him—how could any human survive so much pain?

Only when she saw the tears on his bandage did she realize she was crying. She looked up to find Kemal standing across from her, his face an unreadable mask. She lifted the blankets higher, covering the terrible secrets carved into his skin, and then gestured toward the dressing room. She shut the door so they might speak without waking their patient.

“Doctor Nichols told me Lord Ramsay had prior head injuries?”

“That was before I was with him, my lady.”

Daphne wanted to prod and pry, but she suspected this man was too loyal to speak about his captain.

“The doctor wants somebody with him at all times. You take the first watch and I will relieve you at midnight.”

“I am capable of staying awake for many hours, my lady. I do not require any assistance.”

She smiled at him. “There are two of us to share nursing duties, Kemal. There is no reason for either of us to become exhausted.”

He bowed his head. “As you wish, my lady.”

Daphne left Kemal to his duties and went to the schoolroom, where the boys were anxiously waiting for her.

“Mama, what happened?” Lucien demanded, his forehead wrinkled with worry.

Daphne turned to Rowena, who often spent time with the boys to give their somewhat elderly nurse relief from her boisterous charges.

“I will speak to the boys in private,” Daphne said, leading her sons toward the battered table where generations of Redverses had done their schoolwork—or not.

She waited until the boys were seated. “Lord Ramsay had an accident while riding Pasha. He is doing well and resting in the Rose Room.”

The silence was ominous and Daphne looked from one pair of identical brown eyes to the other. “Come, I know you must have questions.”

Richard shoved back his chair hard enough to knock it over, his eyes blazing. “Is he going to die—just like Papa?”