Beauty for Ashes

“Let me begin by saying that I spoke in haste earlier, not knowing of your very recent marriage. I had no wish to malign your wife’s character. It is a simple fact of my profession that most often when I am confronted by a married woman in a swoon, the diagnosis is that she is with child.”

“I see. And am I to understand by this explanation, Doctor, that you have eliminated that possibility as far as my wife is concerned?”

“Not entirely. But, in light of the situation, I believe my assumption was wrong.”

“Ah!” Justin’s left brow raised. “I am astonished at your naiveté, Doctor. I would not expect a man of your profession to rule out the possibility of a woman carrying a child on the basis of her marital status.”

“Your wife’s marital state has nothing to do with my diagnosis, Mr. Randolph. I am hardly naive, sir.” The doctor’s voice hardened. “Neither am I easily fooled.”

“Fooled?” Justin’s eyes narrowed. “You mean she was shamming?”

“No. Her unconscious state is real enough. I meant your…confusion…as to its cause may not be.”

Justin rose to his feet. “Would you care to explain that statement, Doctor?”

Thaddeous Allen glanced quickly around the room—everyone was sleeping. “Your wife’s unconscious state is the result of extreme physical and emotional fatigue brought on by very rough handling.”

Justin’s brows shot skyward. “Rough handling?”

The man slumped over the table next to them snorted, lifted his head, gave them a bleary-eyed look and dropped his head back down onto his arms. His heavy snoring resumed. Justin lowered his voice. “What ‘rough handling,’ Doctor? What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about your wife’s condition. Someone has handled her very roughly indeed. She is considerably bruised. I’m certain her collapse is a mental, physical and emotional result of the mistreatment she—”

Justin didn’t wait for him to finish. He strode across the room and started upstairs, taking the steps two at a time.

Justin shoved open the bedroom door, crossed the room and grasped the bedcovers, flinging them back from his bride’s prostrate form. His brows lowered in a dark scowl as he swept his gaze over her. The evidence of the claimed mistreatment was there—dark, ugly bruises marred the flesh of her upper arms, and a raw, jagged scratch ran from the slender column of her throat to the top of her shift. The vivid red color of the wound stood out in startling contrast to the creamy perfection of her skin.

Justin’s jaw tightened. He flicked his gaze upward to his wife’s face and, though it was turned away into the shadows, a discolored swelling along the clean, firm line of her jaw was visible to him.

“Those bruises were made by a man’s hands, Mr. Randolph. A large man’s hands.”

Justin glanced at the doctor who had followed him into the room, then leaned forward and pulled the covers back over Elizabeth’s slender form. “I am a large man, Doctor.” He turned and faced the physician. “Be done with innuendo—do you accuse me?”

For a moment the two men studied each other and then the doctor shook his head. “No, Mr. Randolph, I do not.” His voice was noticeably warmer. “I confess that was my first thought, but, having witnessed your reactions, I am now convinced it was not you that harmed your wife.” He stepped forward and nodded toward the still figure on the bed. “There is further evidence of mistreatment. Her right wrist is swollen and discolored, and there is a nasty lump on the back of her head.”

He picked up his black bag and started for the door. “Her right knee is badly bruised also, but I do not believe the injury is serious.” He reached for the doorknob.

“Doctor, wait!”

Thaddeous Allen stopped and turned to look at Justin.

“You haven’t told me what is to be done for her.”

“Only that.” The physician gestured toward the bed. “She needs rest. In these situations of cruel treatment I have often found there is great stress placed on the nerves and emotions. Unfortunately, we know little about such things.” He glanced over at his patient and then returned his gaze to Justin’s hard, set face.

“It has been my experience, Mr. Randolph, that when a person is subjected to treatment such as your wife has obviously suffered, it leaves a bruise on the soul that takes much longer to heal than the physical ones. You may need to give her a good deal of love and understanding to bring that healing about.”

The doctor shifted his black bag to his other hand and pulled the door open. “Good evening, Mr. Randolph. May God grant your wife a speedy recovery.” The door closed with a soft click behind him.

Justin stared at the closed door. Love and understanding, indeed! He turned and looked down at the slight rise in the coverlet that was caused by Elizabeth’s body. One bruised, creamy-white shoulder was exposed to the cool night air. He walked to the bed, pulled the coverlet over her shoulder and gently tucked it under her swollen jaw. What had happened to her? Why had—? Abruptly, he chopped off the thought, spun on his heel and strode to the door. He had been ensnared by compassion once—he would not allow it to happen again. Never again!

The fire flared brightly in the draft as Justin yanked the door open and stepped into the hallway. It flickered wildly as he slammed the door closed again, then settled to a steady burn that warmed the room with soft golden light and lent radiance to the pale face of the young woman lying comatose on the bed as his angry footsteps faded away.

Chapter Five

E lizabeth awakened to the sound of raindrops against the windowpane. A dull ache permeated her whole being, and the thought came to her that she was ill—that she had some dreadful disease. Tears pooled at the corners of her eyes and rolled down her face, making damp spots on the pillow. She lifted her hands to wipe the tears away and a sudden, sharp pain stung her left jaw as something solid bumped against it. There was a gold band on her finger. Her brow furrowed. She had no gold ring. She— Reginald!

Elizabeth jolted fully awake. Was she married to Reginald? A wave of sickening fear drove her lethargy away. She threw the covers aside and lunged to her feet, then halted as pain streaked through her body and the room started to spin. She groped wildly in the air for support and her hands closed on soft, warm flesh. A startled scream rose in her throat.

“Here now—you got up too quick-like.” Small, work-roughened hands eased her gently back down onto the bed and smoothed her petticoats around her legs. “There. You’ll soon feel better. The dizziness will pass. It’s only ’cause you stood so fast.” The softness of a blanket brushed her chin as it was tucked around her shoulders. Elizabeth’s eyes prickled with hot tears. How could she escape with someone watching her? She drew a deep breath to quell the nausea that had accompanied the dizziness, and opened her eyes. They focused on a round face topped by gray hair. She’d never seen the woman before. “Where am I?”

“You’re at the Wetherstone Inn. My husband owns it.” The woman smiled. “An’ a proper fright you gave him last night when Mr. Randolph come carryin’ you in. He thought there’d been an accident.”

Wetherstone Inn? Mr. Randolph? Who—? Oh! Elizabeth bolted to a sitting position. The judge! And that strange marriage proposal. Yes. Yes! She had married a man named Randolph last night to escape Reginald and—and what? Her heart fluttered wildly. She shut her eyes trying to remember. What had happened after the ceremony? Why was she here? And where was this Mr. Randolph now? She could vaguely remember him climbing into the carriage and then…then nothing. “Oooh!”

“What is it, dear? Are you feelin’ poorly?” The woman gently brushed a clinging tendril of hair from Elizabeth’s temple. “You lay back an’ rest. I’ll go fetch Mr. Randolph an’—”

“No!” The woman glanced at her sharply and Elizabeth made a valiant effort to control her sudden panic. “I—I mean, that won’t be necessary. I’m fine. Truly I am. The dizziness has passed. It’s only that I can’t seem to remember…”

“Remember?” The woman snorted the word. “My stars, child, how would you remember? You were fainted dead away! Josiah said when he opened the door you were hangin’ across your husband’s arms like a limp rag doll. An’ your Mr. Randolph, well—” the woman’s lips twitched with amusement “—Josiah says he was shoutin’ an’ stormin’ an’ hollerin’ for Josiah to help him. Hah!” The snort was louder this time, and filled with lofty disdain. “As if Josiah ever knew what to do about a woman.” The woman chuckled gleefully. “Oh, I wished I’d a been there! Josiah says Mr. Randolph was in a proper broil. There ain’t nothin’ so helpless as a man with a sick woman on his hands.”

“Oh, my! Whatever must Mr. Randolph think of me?” With a flurry of arms, legs and ruffled petticoats, Elizabeth jumped from the bed. “I must see him immediately! I have to explain. I—” She stopped dead still. What would she say? What could she say?

“Now, now. There’s no need to work yourself to a dither about last night.” The woman retrieved Elizabeth’s soft, satin slippers from under the bed and held them out to her. “You’d best put your shoes on, lest you catch a chill. There’s no need to sicken yourself over the matter. Your husband ain’t the first man to be disappointed on his weddin’ night, an’ he ain’t likely to be the last.”

Oh! Oh, my! She hadn’t even thought about that! Hot blood surged into Elizabeth’s cheeks. She looked away from the woman’s knowing gaze, accepted the offered shoes, then grabbed her dress from off the back of a chair where someone had tossed it. Had it been this woman who had removed it from her unconscious body—or Mr. Randolph? The thought made the nausea worse. Elizabeth clasped the dress and shoes to her chest like a shield and forced herself to concentrate. Why was she here with the proprietor’s wife? Where was her…her husband? And what was going to happen to her?

She closed her eyes for a moment to gain composure, then opened them and smiled at the short, stout woman who was watching her closely. Her eyes widened and she gave a startled little yelp as pain darted along her facial muscles. She lifted her hand to cup her throbbing jaw and her gaze fell on her upper arm. It was covered with ugly purple marks. “Well, I look a sight. I—I had a fall.” A tremor slid through her body at the memory of crashing to the floor when Reginald struck her.

Disbelief flashed in the woman’s eyes, her face softened. “I’ll bring you the tub I have tucked away in the kitchen an’ you can have yourself a proper soak. It will help with the soreness.” She headed for the door.

“Wait!” Panic overrode Elizabeth’s embarrassment. She took a deep breath as the woman looked her way. “Why was I left here alone? Where is Mr. Randolph?”

“Alone? Well bless my soul, child! You wasn’t left here alone. Your husband set me to watchin’ over you ’cause you was took ill, is all. He’s waitin’ on you down in the common room. You’re to join him there as soon as you’re able.” She pulled the door open and stepped into the hallway. “He’ll be at the table in front of the fire. He always sits starin’ at the fire.” The door closed behind her.

An odd sort of quivering began in Elizabeth’s knees and spread throughout her body. She dropped into the chair behind her and stared at the door. What had she done? How could she explain to this Mr. Randolph that she had been forced by circumstances to accept his offer of marriage? She couldn’t tell him about the betrothal agreement her father had signed—or about Reginald Burton-Smythe’s attack—or running away. He might send her back.

Elizabeth’s stomach roiled. She took a deep breath, but it didn’t help. This time the nausea wouldn’t be denied. She dropped the dress and shoes she still clutched in her hands and leaped for the washbowl. She reached it just in time.

She felt better—at least physically. The proprietor’s wife had been right; the warm bathwater had taken a little of the stiffness and soreness away. Elizabeth dropped her hairbrush into her open bag, leaned closer to the mirror and pushed her ivory hair comb into the piled-up mass of her still-damp hair. A few rebellious curls popped free and fell onto her smooth forehead. Why, just this once, couldn’t her hair behave? Elizabeth scowled, tucked the offending curls back under the confined tresses, then pulled a creamy length of lace from her bag and draped it around her throat to hide the ragged scratch left by Reginald’s attack. With the sleeves of her dress hiding the bruises on her arms, that took care of everything but her face. There was nothing she could do to hide that reminder of Reginald’s cruelty.

Elizabeth shuddered, closed her bag and stared down at the large gold ring resting on the table beside it. When she put that ring on her finger she would be ready—there would be no further reason to delay her meeting with Mr. Randolph. A fit of trembling seized her. Before she lost all courage, she snatched up the ring, slid it onto her finger and hurried from the small bedroom.

Dear heaven! She could not identify her own husband! Elizabeth bit back a nervous giggle and gripped the banister for support as she skimmed her gaze over the men in the common room. One of them, seated at a table in front of the fireplace at the far end of the room with his back toward her, seemed to be staring into the flames. Was that he?

Any inclination toward laughter, nervous or otherwise, left Elizabeth in a rush. The man’s long legs, crossed at the ankles, stretched out toward the fire, and one broad, long-fingered hand rested on the table. Her heart fluttered as she noted the powerful look of that hand. She suppressed a sudden, intense desire to turn and run away, descended the last step, and crossed the room.

“Mr. Randolph?”