“I cannot hurt any more than I do now,” she whispered. She was wrong. Suddenly, the muscles in her belly drew taut as a bowstring, then contracted ferociously. She screamed, all vestige of control stripped from her. Her legs, as if from instinct, drew up, and her hands clutched wildly at her belly. She focused her eyes, deep pools of pain, dumbly upon the earl’s set face.
“The babe,” she whispered, and then she was lost to him. He felt the fierce power of the contractions as he gently probed her belly beneath her clawing fingers. Her screams burned into his mind, and he felt completely helpless. There was nothing he could do to help her, or the child.
Cassie was scarce aware that her body was being covered and that she was being carried. Dimly, she heard him speaking to her, but his words were meaningless sounds. She tried to bring up her legs, hoping to lessen the wrenching pain, but she could not. She struck at the arms that held her, clawing for her release. She became aware of a moaning, jagged scream, and understood vaguely that it came from her mouth. It was odd, she thought, dazed by a sudden absence of pain, that she had screamed so. She never screamed. She tasted blood and salty tears. Then she tasted nothing.
The earl felt a great shudder go through her body. Her head lolled against the crook of his arm, and he tightened his grip on her. He quickened his stallion’s pace, thankful for the sliver of moon that shined weakly, lighting the road. His lips moved, and it shook him to discover that he was praying.
Chapter 18
The front gates of the Villa Parese were flung wide. Myriad candles lit the windows of the villa and splashed their light onto the courtyard. The earl flung Marco his stallion’s reins and carefully dismounted, holding Cassie tightly against his chest.
“Joseph?” he said sharply.
“The surgeon has just arrived, my lord.”
He saw Marrina standing at the foot of the staircase.
“Send me Rosina.” He shifted Cassie in his arms, and realized the cloak in which he had wrapped her was soaked through, sticky and wet. He stared down at his hand and saw it was smeared with blood, Cassie’s blood.
He shouted over his shoulder, “I must have hot water, and strips of linen,” and took the stairs two at a time.
Bright scarlet blood covered her thighs. He pressed towels against her to stem the flow, and gently lifted her hips to place more towels beneath her. They were quickly speckled with vivid red. His hands trembled, and he forced himself to draw a deep, steadying breath.
“La signorina lost the child?”
“Si,” he said shortly, briefly turning to the white-faced Rosina. He waved his hand at the blood-sodden cloak on the floor. “Take it and burn it.”
Rosina looked at the cloak and felt dizzying bile rise in her throat. She closed her eyes, blindly gathered up the soaked cloak, wrapped it in towels, and fled the bedchamber.
Cassie moaned, and his hands grew still. Her head turned slightly on the pillow, and she was again silent. He was not certain what was holding her from consciousness, her pain or her terror of what had happened to her.
The door opened and quietly closed. From the corner of his eye, he saw Rosina’s black skirt swishing as she ran to the foot of the bed.
A deep, raging curse broke from his mouth. He had bathed off most of the blood and saw that her woman’s flesh lay jagged and open. The filthy swine had ripped her. He thanked God she was still unconscious. “Fetch me a needle, Rosina, she must be stitched. And brandy,” he added sharply. He needed it both to cleanse the needle, and for himself.
“I need your help, Rosina,” he said once he had cleaned the needle and threaded it.
“Dammit, now. You must hold her legs.”
But Rosina did not move. She saw her mistress’s torn body, and the blood, and fainted quietly away, falling onto the floor in a noiseless heap.
The earl cursed and strode to the door. When he reached the landing, he bellowed, “Scargill!”
He returned to the bedchamber, stepped over Rosina’s inert body, and peered anxiously into Cassie’s face. “Please, Cassie,” he said, “don’t awaken now.”
Scargill took in the situation at a glance. Weak-stomached wench, he thought, glancing cursorily at Rosina.
“What do you need me to do, my lord?”
“Those animals ripped her open. Quickly, Scargill, I would spare her this pain.”
Scargill held her legs while the earl worked quickly and efficiently, until he had set four stitches. He laid the needle upon the night table and slowly straightened.
Scargill had himself sewn up many wounds, gaping tears from saber slashes, but none of them had left him so shaken. The madonna was so slight, her pink woman’s flesh so soft and delicate. He closed his eyes but could not escape the image of faceless men ravishing her so brutally.
“Thank you, Scargill,” the earl said quietly. He saw the murderous look in Scargill’s eyes and said to him in a voice so low that Scargill could scarce make out his words, “I will find them, you may be assured of that. One of them is already dead, and I am fairly certain that I wounded another.”
Scargill nodded numbly.