lying,’ she got out at last, and he wondered why, if she’d believed her husband was dead, the news that he wasn’t should have such a shattering effect.
‘Why would I lie?’ he reasoned, becoming anxious in spite of himself. ‘Sara—’
‘Max calls me Victoria,’ she said dully. ‘You must know that.’ Then she slid to the floor in a dead faint.
It was the second time he’d had to pick her unconscious body off the floor. Not that she weighed much. She felt wholly insubstantial in his arms. How long was it since she’d eaten a decent meal? he wondered. In the last twenty-four hours she’d only picked at her food, and he suspected her weakness was due in part to hunger.
So, why? Why had she been starving herself? Why had she run away? And how had she sustained such an ugly bruise on her hip? As Matt carried her into the bedroom and laid her on the bed his mind buzzed with a jumble of questions. The most obvious explanation was fear. But what was she afraid of?
He straightened and stood looking down at her. He wished he could believe she was a spoiled wife who had grown bored with her pampered existence and decided to give her husband a wake-up call. Could she really have been that self-indulgent? Somehow he didn’t buy it.
Her eyelids were fluttering and, realising that in a short time she was going to be wide awake and denying everything he was thinking, Matt came to an abrupt decision. Hoping she wouldn’t object too much, he took the hem of her skirt and drew it up to her waist.
He was shocked again by the sight of the ugly lesions on her hip, but he knew he didn’t have time to examine them more closely right now. Instead, he slipped his arm beneath her and eased her dress out of the way.
She began to protest now as consciousness returned, trying to push his hands away without any success. Matt wasn’t listening to her. Horror had replaced his concern and he sank down onto the bed beside her in speechless disbelief.
There was barely an inch of her torso that didn’t bear the scars of injuries old and new. Some bruises were obviously more recent than others, the colours ranging from stark black and blue to a jaundiced yellow or brown. She’d been beaten, and beaten badly, and Matt wanted to take the man who’d done this to her and wring his cowardly neck.
His hands trembled as he eased the dress away. Sara seemed to realise there was no point in trying to stop him. It was too late; too late for both of them. Matt closed his eyes for a moment against the murderous rage that was demanding revenge.
‘Your husband did this to you?’ he asked at last, when he had himself in control again, and she shrugged.
‘Does it matter?’ She sighed. His hands lingered at her waist. ‘I think you’d better let me get up.’
‘And I think you ought to have that hip treated,’ said Matt flatly. ‘From what I’ve seen, it needs medical attention.’
Her response was urgent. ‘I don’t need a doctor,’ she exclaimed fiercely, and he didn’t think this was the time to tell her that that was what he had been before he’d become a writer.
He expelled an unsteady breath, hoping she wouldn’t mistake his concern for something less commendable. ‘I’ve got some first aid stuff in my bathroom. I suggest you let me deal with your hip if you don’t want me to involve anyone else.’
‘I can do it,’ she protested, but once again he prevented her from getting off the bed.
‘I’m sure you can. I’m sure that’s what you’re used to,’ he muttered harshly. ‘But in this instance I’d prefer it if you’d let me make sure there’s no infection.’
Sara made a weary sound. ‘There is no infection,’ she insisted. ‘It’s just bleeding a bit, that’s all.’
‘So I see,’ he said grimly, unable to hide his reaction. And she suddenly seemed to realise that the lower half of her body was still exposed to his gaze.
‘Mr Seton—’
‘Don’t call me that.’ He was impatient. ‘It’s too late for us to behave as if we’re just casual acquaintances. We’re not. I know it and you know it. Whether you like it not, I feel responsible for you.’
‘Don’t patronise me!’
‘I won’t if you’ll do as you’re told.’
Her eyes flashed with sudden spirit. ‘And I’m very good at doing as I’m told,’ she told him bitterly, and he groaned at his own thoughtlessness.
‘Sara—’
‘Shouldn’t that be Victoria?’ she enquired painfully. And then, as if she’d just recalled why she was lying on the bed, ‘Did I pass out?’
Matt nodded. ‘Like a light.’ He got up. ‘Stay here. Please. I’ll be back in a few seconds.’
Sara looked up at him. ‘You did say—Max was alive?’ she ventured.
‘Yes.’ Matt hesitated. ‘Why would you think he wasn’t? What happened before you ran away?’
Sara moved her head from side to side on the pillows. ‘He was so still,’ she whispered, obviously thinking about it. ‘I couldn’t find a pulse. I was sure—’ She pressed her lips together. ‘Oh, God, he’s going to be so mad when he finds out what I did.’
Matt felt his anger surfacing again, and determinedly forced it back. ‘I’ll get my gear,’ he said, heading for the door. ‘Just—relax, okay? I won’t be long.’
She didn’t answer, and he could only hope that she’d be too distracted by what he’d told her to disobey him. It wasn’t just an excuse to get his hands on her again, he assured himself. She was in such a frail state she might pick up some infection without her being aware of it. He didn’t want to think what the ravages of blood poisoning might do to her fragile system. He’d seen too many tragic cases in the past.
Without taking the time to check what was in the bag he kept in his bathroom, he simply snatched it out of the cupboard and charged back along the landing. Only to encounter Mrs Webb at the top of the stairs.
‘Something wrong?’ she asked, her sharp eyes immediately noting the medical kit. ‘Do you need my help?’
Matt gave her a resigned look. ‘No help needed,’ he said, aware that Sara’s door was ajar and that she could probably hear everything that was being said. ‘Miss Victor just needs an adhesive plaster, that’s all.’
‘Hurt her heel, has she?’ Mrs Webb arched an enquiring brow. ‘I could have told her that those shoes she wears aren’t suitable for around here.’
‘Something like that,’ Matt agreed, his nerves screaming in frustration. ‘If you’ll excuse me…?’
‘Very formal all of a sudden, aren’t we?’ remarked Mrs Webb with a sniff. ‘Oh, well.’ To his relief she turned towards his daughter’s bedroom. ‘I expect I’ll hear all about it from Rosie. She seems to know what’s going on.’
‘Nothing’s going on,’ said Matt, gritting his teeth, but he was talking to himself. The housekeeper was already out of earshot.
Aware of the tension in his shoulders, Matt determinedly tried to relax before going back into Sara’s room. He half expected to find her locked in the bathroom, but, although she was sitting up, she was still on the bed.
‘I guess you heard that,’ he said, hesitating only a moment before closing the door behind him. ‘My housekeeper likes to feel she’s in the know.’
‘Yes.’ Sara’s tone was dry. ‘Well, I suppose it’s only a matter of time before she realises who I am.’
Matt shrugged. ‘We’ll deal with that when we have to,’ he said, sitting down beside her and opening the leather bag. ‘Now, let’s see: what have we got? Gauze; adhesive plasters;