Lion in the Valley - Elizabeth Peters [75]
“Sssh.” I put my finger to my lips. “There is no need to make such a fuss, Emerson. You will alarm—”
“A fuss? A fuss?” Emerson’s voice rose to a pitch I had seldom heard, even from him. “What the devil have you been up to? You disappear for hours and then return disheveled and sandy, accompanied by a bloody—”
“Emerson! Language!”
“The adjective was meant literally,” Emerson explained. “Mr. Nemo, am I to understand that once again I have to thank you for saving a member of my immediate family from doom and destruction?”
“It will all be explained to you, Emerson,” I said soothingly. “Mr. Nemo does indeed deserve your thanks, and the first expression of our gratitude ought to be the tending of the wounds he courageously incurred in our service. Will you be so good as to fetch my medical equipment? I believe I will operate in the open air, where the light is better, and he won’t drip blood on my carpets.”
Silently, ominously, Emerson did as he was asked, and I led Nemo to the back of the house, where I had set up a primitive but efficient area of ablution. It was even possible to bathe behind a modest arrangement of woven screens, for a ditch served as a drain to carry off the water. Emerson and Ramses did so daily, Emerson of his own free will, Ramses because he was made to; but since the exercise involved having a servant pour jars of water over one from above, I did not consider it suitable for me to emulate them.
When Emerson joined me, I had persuaded Nemo to remove his tattered robe. It was beyond repair, and I directed one of the men, who had gathered round, to fetch one of his, promising, of course, to replace it. Under his robe Nemo wore the usual cotton drawers, reaching to his knees and tied around the waist with a drawstring. The bright flush of embarrassment that suffused even his bare breast assured me he had not lost as much blood as I feared.
I hastened to set him at ease. “I assure you, Mr. Nemo, bare skin is no novelty to me. I have tended many wounds and seen many naked breasts—and yours is nothing to be ashamed of. In fact, your pectoral development is quite admirable.”
A growling sound reminded me of the presence of my irate spouse, and I hastened to add, “Though not as admirable as Emerson’s. Now, Emerson, as I work I will inform you of the latest occurrence—”
But that offer had to be delayed. Through the ring of interested onlookers burst a slight form, wild-eyed and agitated. Nemo made a violent movement as if to turn, but stopped himself.
For a moment they confronted one another in a silence fraught with emotion, their faces matching one another’s in snowy pallor. Enid raised a delicate hand to her throat. “You,” she choked. “You . . .”
I said sharply, “Do not for a moment entertain any notion of fainting, Enid. I cannot attend to both of you.”
“Fainting?” The hot color rushed back into her face. She darted forward. She raised her hand—and struck Nemo full across the face! “You bloody idiot!” she cried.
Even I was taken aback. Such behavior and such improper language from a young lady left me momentarily incapable of speech. It was my dear Emerson who rose to the occasion as only he can. Enid turned and ran, her hands over her face. The men gave way before her, but not Emerson; his mighty arm swept out and wound round her waist, lifting her clean off her feet. As she hung in his grasp, kicking and—I regret to say—swearing, he remarked calmly, “This has gone far enough. I have resigned myself to being the pawn of those vast impersonal powers who guide the destinies of humanity; but I am cursed if I will submit to being manipulated by mere mortals, and kept in ignorance even by that individual whom I had believed united to me by the strongest bonds of faith and affection, not to mention trust.”
The eloquence of his speech—aye, and the justice of his complaint—brought an unaccustomed flush to my cheeks. Before I could respond, Emerson went on in a less literary vein. “Sit down,” he bellowed. “You too, young lady—” And he deposited