Lord Deverill's Heir, Catherine Coulter [the best motivational books .TXT] 📗

“It isn’t fair, Paul,” the earl said, his voice harsh, raw with anger.

“It isn’t. It is too much for her to suffer you removing the ball from her shoulder.”

For an instant Arabella felt only a great weight upon her chest. With an effort she forced her eyes to open and focus upon the faces above her.

She felt bewildered. “Justin—Paul? You are both here? How very odd. Oh dear, I cannot bear this.” She gasped, her back arcing. “I’m so sorry to be such a coward.”

The pain was unbearable, deep and rending. She pressed her head back against the pillow as hard as she could, again arcing her back upward, trying vainly to escape. She felt a damp cloth being daubed against her forehead, strong hands clasping her shoulders, holding her steady.

Slowly she began to gain control over the dizzying, scorching pain. She bit down on her lower lip until her mind focused itself where she wished.

“My dearest, can you understand me?”

Justin’s voice. He sounded so worried. She hated to hear him sound so very worried. She forced her eyes open. “Yes, my lord, what can I do for you? Just tell me and I will fix anything you require.”

“Do for me? Bella, you must be brave now. Do you understand me? The ball in your shoulder must be removed. Dr. Branyon is here. He is quite perfect, you know. He will shortly be your step-papa. He loves you a great deal. He will do a good job of it. He will keep you safe.”

“Gervaise distracted me, Justin. Otherwise I would have killed him. I bungled the job. I am sorry.” Did she hear a laugh? Then suddenly, she was no longer aware of him, only of the vast blackness of the pain that engulfed her.

The earl did not look up from her face until Giles entered on tiptoe bearing Dr. Branyon’s surgical case. He gazed at the sharp, slender scalpel and the array of other equally unpleasant instruments and said in a shaking voice, “God, how I wish we could spare her this.” He had seen so many men in battle, crying out their pain until their voices were but raw sounds in their throats.

Dr. Branyon’s voice was curt. “Justin, you must hold her firmly. I shall remove the ball as quickly as possible. You cannot allow her to move or I might kill her. Hold her very still.” He added more gently as the earl hesitated, “Your pity cannot help her, only your strength.” The earl balanced himself over her, placing his hands upon her shoulders, unwilling at first to bear his weight upon her. He thought perhaps that she had fallen again into unconsciousness until Dr. Branyon, in a sudden sure movement, dug the scalpel into the wound.

She writhed suddenly beneath his hands, a choking cry torn from her throat.

“Damn it, hold her!” Dr. Branyon shouted.

Suddenly, Arabella saw herself whirled away, back into time, years ago.

Her father stood above her, his lips curled derisively, his voice mocking. “A simple fall and you shed tears and cry out your foolish pain.

I am disappointed in you, Arabella.” And he had boxed her ears. “You will not act the girl again. I will not put up with it.” Gradually, her father’s face because Justin’s. And he was here and she knew he wouldn’t leave her. She was biting fiercely down on her lower lip, tasting her own tears, trying to swallow her screams. She licked her dry lips and tasted a drop of her own blood. She gulped convulsively and gritted her teeth. She whispered to the face above her, “I will not be a coward.”

The earl looked down at her helplessly. She was staring up at him. Yet she made no sound.

“Thank God, there, I’ve found it. Hold her firm, Justin, I must draw out the ball.”

As the curved knife closed under the ball, Arabella felt a shattering explosion in her head. It was pain that was beyond anything she could possibly understand. She tried desperately to jerk away from the excruciating pain, to somehow escape it, yet she could not move. She gazed hopelessly into the blurred face above her, choked back a sob, and slid away into merciful blackness.

“Arabella!”

“She’s not dead, Justin, merely unconscious. It is amazing that she bore the pain for so long.”

The earl forced his eyes from his wife’s pale face and gazed at the bloody ball. “It did not splinter?”

“No, thank God. My little Bella is very lucky.” Dr. Branyon placed the blood-covered ball and his knife upon the table beside the bed. He straightened and ran his hand over his perspiring brow.

The earl wet a strip of linen and gently bathed away the blood from around the wound, and then with a grimace, washed away the purple rivulets from between her breasts.

“Hand me the basilicum powder, Justin. Then we will bandage her and fashion a sling for her arm.”

The earl did as he was bid, surprised that his hands went so calmly about their tasks. Soon the bandage was in place around her shoulder and her arm supported in a sling of white linen. Dr. Branyon rose and placed his hand upon the earl’s arm. “Well done, Justin. The bleeding is nearly stopped. With luck all we have to fear now is a fever.” The earl suddenly became aware that Arabella was still naked to the waist, her gown in shreds around her. “Her nightgown, Paul. I must dress her. I don’t want Lady Ann to see her like this.”

“No, not yet. Help me remove the rest of her clothing, then we will place only a light coverlet over her. I don’t want to take any chances that the bleeding could begin again. No nightgown as yet.” After stripping Arabella, who lay as still as a statue, a white coverlet to her throat, the earl straightened. “I’ll stay with her, Paul. Perhaps you should go speak with Lady Ann and Elsbeth.”

“Yes. Then I will bring Ann up