“Then that is something we should cross when we get there. But, if she loves you as much as you love her, then she will not have married another. Wherever she is, whatever she is doing, we will unearth her whereabouts.” Isobel’s voice held an undercurrent of determination. Her own memories of the desperation to survive were still painfully raw. Her knight in shining armour had been Dominic, whose generous warmth, and loving embrace, had given her the strength and support she yearned for.
If he had been married to another and well and truly out of her reach, she would have remained on the streets and would have almost certainly have died of cold and hunger.
If Peter was desolate at being unable to find Jemima, then it was down to Isobel, and Dominic, to help him find the happiness he deserved.
BANG!
“What the -” Peter shot a startled look at Isobel, before drawing his sword from his scabbard resting upon the table by the door, pausing briefly to shoot a warning glare at Isobel.
“Wait here!” He ordered, clearly expecting her to do as instructed.
Isobel ignored him, and was two steps behind him when she entered the hallway. She gasped when she saw the large bundle of rags lying motionless on the floor. Dirty. Torn. There was, what appeared to be, a trail of water and blood behind it. Isobel’s stomach dropped and instinctively she knew this was the cause of her earlier disquiet.
“Jesus Christ!” Peter swore, before shouting for Manvers, Sebastian and Edward to come quickly.
“Isobel, get back to the library now!” Peter ordered in a voice that brooked no argument, but Isobel was made of sterner stuff.
Senses screaming, she ignored Peter’s protests, and pushed his hands away. She fell to her knees besides the sodden bundle and already knew, without removing the clothing, who it was.
A sob locked in her throat. She was vaguely aware of the pounding of running feet answering the urgent summons as she eased back the cloak. She knew it was the superfine wool of Dominic’s cloak. She could vividly recall the soft dampness beneath her cheek when she had ridden before him on the day he had found her.
“Dominic?” Isobel whispered. Her voice echoed around the cavernous main hall and did little to break the stunned silence that had settled over everyone.
Easing back the opening of the cloak, Isobel studied the bloodied mess that was her husband with tearful eyes.
Blood trickled through the congealed mass of cuts and grazes covering his face and upper neck. A long gash along his brow was bracketed by bruises and welts. His bottom lip was swollen and torn, oozing blood onto the polished marble of the floor.
“Get the doctor!” Isobel’s voice was cold and hard. She quickly tugged the cloak open further, its heavy weight hampered by Dominic’s motionless limbs. She was vaguely aware of Peter and Sebastian dropping to their knees beside her to help. Once or twice they tried to move her aside, but she wouldn’t budge.
“Oh God, Peter!” Isobel gasped, eyeing the bloodied mass of her husband. His white shirt was stained pink with blood. It was obvious, even through his dirty and torn shirt, that he was covered in numerous cuts and bruises, and most probably had broken bones they couldn’t see. Placing a gentle hand upon his chest, she swallowed a sob and heaved a sigh at the gentle rise and fall of his chest. “He’s alive,” she declared softly, her voice trembling with relief. “He’s alive!”
Swiping at the tears from her eyes, she turned towards Manvers. “Go outside - whatever you do take someone with you, and check to see if Dominic’s horse is there. If it is, bring any bags back to me.”
Manvers eyed the mistress warily. She had the look of a warrior goddess about her that was a sight to behold. Personally he had had his doubts that she had survived all alone for two months with very little to her name - her being a lady of quality and all that, but seeing the cold, battle-hardened determination on her face, he had no hesitation in her ability to handle such a dire circumstance. This wasn’t a woman who would collapse into uncontrollable sobs; this was a woman who would stand up and fight. He could see why she had captured the master’s heart so thoroughly. Abruptly making
his decision, he led two armed footmen out of the front door, to do as his mistress ordered.
“We have to get him upstairs. Have we got a door, or something, to carry him on?” Peter raised a brow to Sebastian, who quickly dispatched two men were sent down to the cellars to fetch anything suitable.
Isobel carefully cushioned the door that appeared with an array of blankets, issuing brisk orders to Mrs Holcombe, and the maids, before following her husband to their suite of rooms.
Dominic had insisted upon her sleeping by his side at night, and had instructed the lady’s rooms to be stripped, just in case Isobel took it in mind to move in there when she was angry with him. As a result, the master suite had become softer and held several feminine touches, and had become the main suite for the Lord and Lady of the house.
The men carefully eased Dominic down onto the bed, taking the opportunity to remove his sodden cloak from beneath him. As they worked, neither Isobel nor Peter needed to question who was responsible. They knew exactly who had done this. Rupert.
Rage poured through Isobel with a fiery fury that caused her hands to tremble.
“Are you alright?” Peter asked, eyeing her pale cheeks as she began to strip the shirt off her husband.
Teeth clenched, she nodded brusquely, and continued to tug and pull until the top half of her husband’s chest was laid bare.
“Maybe you should leave him to us; we can strip him and get him into bed.” Edward said, gently trying to ease Isobel toward the door.
“No!” Isobel shot him a fiery look of temper, warning him not to argue. “He is my husband. There isn’t anything here that I have not already seen before.” Her teeth were clenched to stop them from chattering. At that present time, it was helping her considerably to hold on to her anger. She could collapse into uncontrollable sobs when Dominic’s needs were seen to, and she had seen for herself the full extent of his injuries.
“We don’t know how bad he is, Isobel,” Peter said, staying her hands as they worked on the fastenings of his cuffs.
“It isn’t anything I haven’t already seen before,” Isobel repeated, glaring across Dominic’s unconscious body toward her brother; willing him to understand that she had seen, and experienced, her fair share of bruises and grazes to be able to assess just how bad Dominic’s were. “Now let us get these clothes off him, preferably before he catches a chill on top of his injuries.” She shot her brother a hard look, “Are you going to help me or not?”