The Silent Cry - Anne Perry [164]
Rhys was still completely unconscious. Once he stirred there would be nothing she could do. She must not ask the warder to hurry again, or he would become suspicious.
She unfastened Rhys’s collar and took off his tie. She undid the buttons of his shirt and eased it open. Very gently she began to examine the upper part of his body. There were no bandages. There was little one could do for bruising, except ointment, such as arnica. The worst of it was beginning to heal now. The broken ribs were knitted well, even though she knew they still caused him pain, especially if he coughed, sneezed or turned badly in the bed.
Where was the warder with the brandy and the water? It seemed like ages since he had gone.
Carefully she unfastened the waist of his trousers. This was where his worst injuries were, the ones which Dr. Wade had treated and not permitted her to see, for the sake of Rhys’s modesty. She slipped the waist down a few inches and saw the blue and purple bruising, now fading. The abrasions were still marked where he had been kicked, but the edges were yellowish and far paler. She could feel no bandaging.
“Miss!”
She froze. “Yes?”
“Water, miss,” the warder said quietly. “And a drop o’ brandy. Is ’e ’urt bad?”
“I’m not sure yet. Thank you for these.” She straightened up and took the dish of water from him, then the brandy. She set them on the small table. “Thank you very much. You can lock me in. I shall be perfectly all right. Come back and let me know when the doctor comes. Knock on the door, if you will. I shall get him ready.”
“Yes, miss. Yer sure yer all right? Yer look terrible pale. Mebbe yer should take a sip o’ that brandy yerself?”
She tried to smile, and felt the expression sickly on her face. “Maybe. Thank you.”
“Right, miss. You knock if yer need ter come out.”
“I will. Yes. Now I had better see what I can do for him. Thank you.”
At last he went and she was left alone. She swung around to Rhys and started immediately. There was no time to be lost. They could return with a doctor any moment. There was no way on earth she could explain what she was doing, if she were mistaken. It would probably ruin her, even if she were right but could not prove it.
She pulled open his trousers and his underclothes, revealing his body as far as his thighs. There were no bandages at all, no plasters, no lint, no adhesives. There was only the most fearful bruising, as if he had been repeatedly kicked and punched. Sick in her stomach, she rolled him over to lie on his face and began the examination which would tell her what she needed to know, although the slow trickle of blood even now, and the purplish and torn flesh, was enough.
It took her only moments. Then, with shaking hands, fumbling, fingers stiff, she pulled the clothes back up and rolled him over, almost knocking him off the narrow bench. She tried to fasten his trousers, but she had them crooked and they would not reach. She snatched his jacket and threw it over him just as his eyes fluttered open.
“Rhys!” She choked on the word, the anguish inside her spilling out, her throat aching, her hands trembling and clumsy.
He gasped, drawing in his breath. He was fighting her, trying to lash out, force her away.
“Rhys!” She clung onto his arms, above the splints, her fingers digging into his flesh. “Rhys, I know what happened to you! It’s not your fault! You are not the only one! I’ve known soldiers it happened to, brave men, fighting men!”
He started to shake, trembling so violently she could not keep him still, even holding him in her arms. The fierceness of his anger shook her too. He sobbed, great racking, desperate cries, and she rocked back and forth, her arms around him, her hand stroking his head.
It was not until she had been doing so