"You deal in death to save life," she cried desperately, sensing that it was not only Meg's life that hung in the balance, but Anthony's battered soul. "I know nothing of your demons, nothing of the horror that haunts you, but I know that you risk your own life to try and understand disease. Terrible, horrible disease that you grow in a dank tower. You do that to prevent contagion. To save lives."

He said nothing, his silence a bitter constraint on her reckless hope.

"You risked your life to save Cookie, a woman who tried to steal your son, who by her own account murdered your pregnant wife, pushed her down the stairs." She heard Mrs. Bolifer's startled gasp, but it was Anthony's reaction she focused on. Time enough for explanations and tears later.

He grew still, so still that she thought he ceased to breathe.

"Delia told me that she had done the deed herself. All this time I thought-" His words broke on a strangled groan. "I blamed myself. I thought she would rather be dead than married to me. And in the end, she begged me-" He shook his head. "I could not do as she asked, and I could not save her."

He seemed hewn of stone, each muscle and sinew corded as he stood, stiff and unmoving, his expression glacial. She thought he would surely crack, so rigid was his composure. Staring at her with eyes dark and unreadable, he looked untouchable, unreachable by their pleas. Time hung suspended.

Emma held out one hand in supplication.

"Please," she whispered brokenly. "Anthony, please."

"And if she dies? As Delia died?" he rasped. "As I let her die?"

So this was his private h.e.l.l. This blame he cast upon himself. Emma made a soft sound of denial.

Raising his hands before him, Anthony turned his palms upward, and then clenched them into fists. His fingers were blistered and raw, testament to his attempts to save Cookie. His hands, like his face were blackened with the soot from the fire, and the smell of smoke yet clung to him. Emma saw these marks, badges of his walk through purgatory's fire, confirmation of his survival. If only he could see himself as she saw him, not as monster, but as hero, despite all his human flaws.

"If I kill her?" His tone was bleak. "Or worse, if I can save neither one? Neither Meg nor her babe?"

"Surely both will die without your intervention," Emma said simply, and she knew she spoke the truth. "You offer her hope."

Anthony's nostrils flared as he sucked in a breath.

"Such faith in me." There was no sarcasm in his tone. Only a sweet sense of wonder.

"Yes," she said. "Such faith. Unshakable trust."

He looked away from her, toward the cottage, and his expression hardened.

"Your faith is misplaced, Emma. I could not save Delia, and when she begged me to take the child from her belly, I refused. Coward that I was, I refused. I could not kill her in order to save her child, and to open her womb was a death sentence as surely as if I slit her throat. No woman has survived such surgery. And so I let them die. Delia, and her baby with her. My fault. My hands are stained with their blood."

Her heart felt as though it would shatter, like a delicate crystal cast against hard stone. So now she knew. He blamed himself for his wife's death, for the death of Nicky's sister, though she doubted any other surgeon would have done differently.

"No!" she cried, with such vehemence that the sound ricocheted through the silent night, echoing her denial. "You killed no one, and you let no one die. You are a man, Anthony. It is not your choice who lives and who dies." Emma dragged in a tremulous breath. "But think of Nicky. You did save him. Think of the love you bear him. Would you deny Meg that opportunity? Would you deny an innocent babe its chance for life. You can use your knowledge to heal. Or you can h.o.a.rd it like a miser, hiding behind your own pain and misery."

Anger flared in him. She saw it in the way his pupils dilated and the way his lips compressed thinly. His expression reflected such icy rage that she thought he might freeze her with a single glance. It was the cold, controlled fury she had seen before, and she stared him down, unafraid.

As suddenly as it blazed, his anger abated, and she watched, heart in her throat, as he reached a new resolve.

Holding Emma's gaze, Anthony spoke softly, and she thought he spoke only to her. A promise to her. Her heart swelled and blossomed, nurtured by hope.

"I will do what I can," he said, never taking his eyes from hers. And then in low tones meant only for her ears, "For you. I will do this for you. Face my demons and vanquish them, because you believe I can, and so I believe I can. And for myself, because I am the man I once was before circ.u.mstance and tragedy played havoc with my heart."

"I believe in you," she whispered, his words swelling inside her, bright as any star. I love you. That declaration she held back, whispering it only within her heart, saving it for later, for the time that would be right for the sharing.

He turned away and strode toward the cottage, calling a rapid string of commands as he went.

"I'll need water to wash, and a fresh sheet to tie over my filthy clothing, lest I carry disease to the new mother. Mrs. Bolifer, fetch my instruments. Lay a clean cloth on a tray, and spread them on it for easy reach. I'll need fresh linens. Boiled water in basins so it may cool. And a bottle of carbolic acid. Hurry."

Emma knew little of the preparation that surgeons undertook, but she knew enough to recognize that Anthony's approach was unusual. To her understanding, cleanliness was rarely a consideration.

"Griggs," he called, turning back toward the coachman. "Take Nicky home. Send Glynnis to sit by his bed. Then fetch the magistrate. There is the matter of a dead woman on the road to Tenby." Anthony's voice caught on the last, and Emma knew the pain he felt at such tragic loss.

"Aye, Lord Anthony." Griggs gave a curt nod.

"And Griggs, see if you can find the horses. They escaped when the coach overturned, and I dislike the thought that they've been harmed by this night's dark deeds."

"Aye."

Emma watched Anthony's broad back as he strode into the cottage, then she whirled to face Mrs. Bolifer.

"I want to help," she said resolutely. "Tell me how to help."

She wasn't certain what answer she had expected, but the housekeeper's nod of a.s.sent was a surprise.

"Come along then, girl." She led the way through the door. "There're clean linens there. Tear them into strips. Mind, wash your hands first so you don't carry Lord Anthony's 'wee animalcules' to Meg," Mrs. Bolifer ordered. She rested her hand on Emma's forearm and gave a gentle squeeze.

Emma nodded, then frowned as a thought came to her.

"Has Meg been alone this whole time?"

The housekeeper shook her head. "No. Her sister, Alice, is with her. Come along, now." She marched toward the narrow door at the far end of the common room.

Less than twenty minutes later, Emma stood unmoving, bearing silent witness to the life-and-death struggle playing out before her, watching Anthony as he worked over Meg. The girl, whimpering piteously, writhed on the floor in a nest of stained sheets that had been set out close to the fire atop a bed of straw. The hours had worn away at her reserves, robbing her of her strength.

Alice moved away from her spot by her sister's side, weeping softly. Emma recognized her as the sullen-eyed maid who had given her the blanket her first day at Manorbrier. Her eyes were dull now, full of grief.

"Take my place," Alice whispered, gesturing toward Meg's limp hand that she had held fast these many hours. "I cannot-"

Emma gave her a rea.s.suring smile, a heavy sadness tugging at her as she realized Alice was little more than a child herself.

"All will be well," she whispered, though it was a near futile hope, she knew.

"I stopped up the keyholes. Closed the windows. Drew the curtains. I've done all I can to protect her from evil spirits," Alice said, and then sobbing, she fled the room.

Moving to the low stool set beside the fireplace, Emma took Alice's place, weaving her fingers through Meg's. To her surprise, the girl squeezed her hand, and at that tiny show of strength, Emma's optimism was renewed.

"All will be well," she whispered again, this time with firm resolve. Her gaze collided with Anthony's, and he gave her a tired smile.

Emma stayed at Meg's side, wiping the sweat from the girl's brow and watching her suffering, her heart breaking bit by agonizing bit. The drapes were drawn across the windows, blocking out the bright light of the dawn. The fire in the hearth was fed, and though the room was stifling hot, Meg lay on her makeshift pallet, her body wracked by chills. Anthony said she shivered so because she had lost too much blood.

Dark shadows formed half-moons beneath Anthony's eyes, and his mouth was held in a grim line of fatigue and frustration. Emma longed to lay cool fingers on his brow and soothe his weariness. Watching him work, she had held out hope for Meg's life. At first, she had thought that if sheer determination could save the girl, then Anthony would succeed. But as time dragged on, Emma began to acknowledge that she may have asked for more than any mortal could give. Despite his efforts to turn the breached babe and see it safely born, Meg's fate was not Anthony's to decide. He had fought a valiant battle that Emma was only now beginning to suspect he would surely lose.

An involuntary sound escaped her lips as yet another spurt of blood soaked the fresh cloths that Mrs. Bolifer placed between Meg's thighs. Anthony's head snapped up, his eyes searching out Emma's in the dim light. She pressed her lips together and shook her head, willing him to understand that she knew he had tried so desperately, had done all he could do. Willing him to see the love in her eyes.

"The craniotomy?" Mrs. Bolifer whispered, her face white and drawn. "It may well be the only chance to save her life."

Emma glanced at Anthony and saw all color leach from his cheeks.

"I cannot, Tabby. Christ, there has to be another way."

"What is a craniotomy?" Emma asked, more than half certain that she had no wish to hear the answer.

Anthony made a sound low in his throat, and it was Mrs. Bolifer who replied, her voice pitched low so Meg would not hear. "The craniotomy is a last resort. He'll take the crotchet, there"-she gestured at the array of instruments-"and he'll crack the babe's skull like an egg. Pull the child piecemeal from the mother. Likely it'll save her life. The mother's, not the child's."

Emma pressed the back of her hand against her lips, fighting the nausea that threatened to overcome her. Mrs. Bolifer's words painted a picture so horrific, so grisly, that she could scarce believe the possibility.

She looked again at Anthony, at the hard, set line of his jaw and the quiet sadness in his eyes, and she knew that the terrible thing Mrs. Bolifer described was no figment of a tortured mind.

Anthony held her gaze for a long moment and then he moved so quickly that she gave a cry of surprise. He bent over Meg's prostrate form, his back toward her face. His legs straddled her body, one knee to each side of her, and with a curse he pressed his hands, the right over top the left, against Meg's undulating belly. Emma thought he would crush her, so hard did he press, seeming to force his full weight upon that still and slight form.

Emma's teeth sank into her lip, drawing blood, and her heart pounded as she curled her fingers, sinking her nails into the palms of her hands.

"Let her live," she whispered. "Oh, let her live."

The muscles of Anthony's forearms bulged, corded with effort, as he pressed against Meg's abdomen as though he were kneading dough. His shoulders shifted forward, stretching the material of his shirt taut across his back. Emma thought that the force he used would break the poor girl in two. He altered his position and increased the pressure, his head flung down, his eyes closed in concentration.

Suddenly, Meg's eyes snapped open. Her head and shoulders reared up from the bed and her face contorted in grim effort.

"Push, Meg. Now. With all you have," Anthony urged, even as he pressed and manipulated her belly.

"Emma," Mrs. Bolifer said urgently, "here. I have not two strong hands."

Emma knelt at Meg's feet, steeling herself against the puddle of blood and tissue that pooled there.

"The head, Yes. Like that," Mrs. Bolifer said, as she used her one hand to guide Emma's actions. "Now turn it, so. And once more...There!"

The baby slid from Meg's body, a slippery, red-faced miracle that resembled a gnome. Emma began to laugh as she wrapped the infant in a blanket.

"A girl, Meg. You have a daughter." Emma felt so happy she fairly sang the p.r.o.nouncement.

Glancing up, intent on sharing her joy, she found Mrs. Bolifer and Anthony exchanging a look of grim acknowledgment. The feeling of euphoria evaporated and she glanced down to find a fresh spurt of blood draining from Meg's body.

"Oh, no," she whispered wretchedly, her eyes searching out Anthony's, silently begging him to deny the harsh reality her own mind refused to accept.

"Mrs. Bolifer," he ordered crisply, "press from there. Push with all you have."

As Mrs. Bolifer shouldered Emma aside, Anthony seemed to transfer his entire weight to his arms and hands, pressing against Meg's distended abdomen with unbelievable force. She made no sound but lay insensate upon the straw. Emma wished she would cry out, even whimper, give some evidence that life yet remained in her.

Then Alice was there, taking the infant from her arms, and Emma, unable to stop herself, rushed forward, placing her hands on Anthony's, lending her weight to his.

"Push, Emma," he ordered.

And she did. She pushed with all her strength, drawing on reserves she had not thought she possessed.

"It's stopped." Mrs. Bolifer's words were barely a whisper. She repeated them, louder, and then she laughed, the sound bubbling from her lips. "It has stopped. She no longer bleeds."

"But does she live?" Emma asked, her voice hoa.r.s.e and urgent.

"She does," Anthony said, wonder in his tone. "She lives, Emma. She lives!"

Tears blurred Emma's vision as she scrambled back, dropping her hands to her sides. Anthony rose from his odd position straddling Meg's supine form and took a step toward Emma, opening his arms, and she fell into his welcoming embrace, unmindful of the blood that stained them both, caring only that in the end, there was life.

Glorious life.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN.

Slipping her wrapper about her shoulders, Emma moved to the window seat of her chamber. She sank wearily onto the cushioned bench. The sky was painted with an artist's brush in shades of pink and gold. Beautiful, she thought, gazing out as she ran her comb through her freshly washed hair.

She started at a soft sound behind her. Anthony. She could sense his presence.

Turning her head, Emma saw him sitting on the edge of the bed, watching her. His hair was still damp from his own bath, and he wore the collar of his shirt open, revealing the strong column of his throat.

"You were sleeping," he said. "And you were smiling."

"I must have dozed off." She had been dreaming of him. Kissing him. Touching him. "How is Nicky?"

"Sleeping. He has slept the day away."

"And how is Meg?"

"Fine. Weak, but amazingly optimistic after her ordeal." He smiled. "Come here, Emma mine."

She rose and crossed the room, her heart pounding a fierce rhythm. Sinking down on the mattress, she leaned into him as he twined his fingers through her unbound hair. She stared into Anthony's eyes, all the questions and conjectures that begged answers flying to the fore.

"Cookie said...about Nicky...she said..." How to ask a man if his son was truly his son? All her own insecurities about the circ.u.mstance of her birth writhed inside of her and the words clogged her throat.

He did not respond immediately. Bringing her hand to his lips, he pressed a kiss to her palm. "What is it that makes a father, Emma?" he asked. "Is it enough for a man to spill his seed, then claim the t.i.tle of parent as his right? Smythe was the father of Meg's babe. She was an unwilling partic.i.p.ant in the deed. Does that make him a father in truth? Or merely a man who did something he had no right to do? And is Meg's babe to bear the burden of guilt for that man?" He paused. "Should Nicky have suffered for his parents' mistakes?"

She inhaled in shock at his p.r.o.nouncement, his words clearly marking Cookie's ramblings as truth. "You knew. All this time you knew." He had known Nicky was not his son and had loved him nonetheless. Just as he had known she was of tainted birth and he had- No, she would not think it. Could not bear to hope that he might love her and then have that hope shattered.

"I have known since before his birth. Since the day Delia told me of her pregnancy. Yes, I knew." He shook his head. "And that knowledge seeded my hatred. Delia became pregnant for the first time on our wedding night. I was happy. She was not. Without my knowledge she sought out a woman in Whitechapel, and when the deed was done and Delia was bleeding and distraught, she came to me to fix it." He shook his head. "She destroyed my child. I brought her here and left her, alone, my anger so great that there was no forgiveness in my heart. I returned to London. She hated me for that."

"And you hated her for her betrayal," Emma whispered. "But something changed. You love Nicky-"

"Nicky is my son in all ways that matter. I do love him. He is mine, borne to me by my legal wedded wife. Was I obligated to turn him out, toss him to the whims of fate for a choice that was not his, but that of his naive and lonely mother? Was I to call him b.a.s.t.a.r.d?"