"Sir!" he cried, rattling the tray.
"Simons," Steven replied, and started up the grand black walnut stairway to his right.
"Sir," Simons called again as Marcus followed Steven up the staircase.
"I'll see myself to the second floor," Steven called over his shoulder.
The tray was set down with a clatter and was followed by the light tread of feet on the stairs behind them.
"Simons is persistent," Steven said in a low voice, taking the stairs two at a time.
The staircase followed the wall straight up to the second floor. The landing turned sharply left at the top. Marcus strode down the corridor alongside Steven, who stopped at the fifth door on the left.
"Sir," Simons called from the landing.
Steven reached for the doorknob and Marcus saw his hand shake.
"Lad," he said, gently.
"Sir!" Simons cried, his voice nearly hysterical. "You know how Mr Ardsley does not like strangers upstairs." Simons had nearly reached them.
Steven looked at Marcus, gave a single nod, then said as he pushed open the door, "He's no stranger, Simons; he is my brother-in-law."
The words "brother-in-law" rang in the silence of the bedchambers.
Simons hit the doorframe with an audible slap. "Mr Ardsley, sir," he said between heavy breaths, "I tried stopping them."
Marcus locked gazes with the powerfully-built golden-haired man who stood nearest the bed. He looked to be about ten years older than himself. He outweighed Marcus by twenty pounds, but his fit frame testified that he wasn't a man given to excessive drinking or any such habits that would quicken the infirmities of age. Cold blue eyes stared back at Marcus. Here, at last, he understood what Elise so feared.
"I am—" Simons began, but Price Ardsley said in a quiet voice, "Go along, Simons. We're fine." Price shifted his gaze to Steven. "Steven, I wasn't expecting you."
"I am sure," Steven remarked.
Ardsley focused on Marcus, and said, "Sir?"
His tone was quizzical, but Marcus understood the flicker of expression that had said, Lord Ashlund, you are a surprise.
"Pardon me, Gentlemen," Marcus said, and brushed past the men who stood in stunned silence. He felt Price's eyes settle on him as he sat on the bed beside the woman Price claimed was Elise. Marcus took her cold, limp hand in his and lifted it to his lips. "Elise," he said in a choked whisper, then gently lay her hand upon her breast. Sliding his arms beneath her, he lifted her, bed covers and all, from the bed.
A chorus of protests sounded as Marcus turned toward the men gathered in the room.
Chapter Twenty
Elise felt herself lifted into a sitting position. Next came the familiar cold rim of the metal cup against her lips. Do not drink, she warned herself silently. The thirst doesn't matter. Her mouth felt like sandpaper, parched from lack of water, but the laudanum-laced water held a greater fear than death. She allowed her head to loll to one side. A meaty hand cupped her cheek and forced her into a more upright position. Liquid dribbled past her lips and into her mouth. She kept mouth and throat muscles lax and, despite the cold of the liquid as it trickled down her neck, none made its way down her throat.
"She can barely sit up," a coarse female voice said. "Why does she need more?"
"'Tis the doctor's orders," came the all-too-familiar Irish brogue of Ramsey.
"Bah!" the woman said. "If you want to waste your time forcing it down her throat, do so. I have better things to do."
The cup left Elise's mouth and the hand released her face. Again, she allowed her head to loll to one side.
"You're right," Ramsey said.
Her head was laid back on the pallet.
"They will dose her this evening. She's not likely to come out of this stupor before then."
The woman laughed. "She's not likely to come out of that stupor ever."
"How is the bleeding?" Ramsey asked.
Elise tensed inwardly, calling forth every ounce of strength not to react openly to what she knew was forthcoming. She felt her skirts lifted, then cool air washed her legs as the woman drew back the fabric. Elise bit back tears when her legs were spread, though only slightly this time.
Soon, she told herself, soon. If I can convince them for just one more day that I don't need the laudanum, I will find a way out of this madhouse.
There came a prod to the rags between her legs, and the woman said, "Not so bad."
"Let the night shift deal with it," Ramsey muttered. "The things they ask us to do."
The skirts were yanked back over her legs and she lay motionless, counting the ten steps her jailers took to the door, then the creak of the door as it opened and the echo of the clank being pulled shut. She waited a long moment.
Was he still there?