Thank God. Even if the healing slowed, this wound no longer threatened his life. She just had to worry about the fever.
Gripping the hem of his gansey and shirt, she stripped them the rest of the way off, almost losing her balance in the process. His prosthetics thunked back to the floor, and—
He had new arms.
For an instant, astonishment froze Georgiana in place. No longer dull, skeletal iron. These were steel, and shaped in proportion to his body—a combination of intricate machines designed to resemble a pair of long, muscular arms.
Where on Earth had he gotten them? Who could have made such incredible devices?
But Georgiana knew. She’d heard the whispers, rumors that had flown by airship and sailed by boat across the North Sea to the small Danish town of Skagen. Yet although she herself had called him a cheating scoundrel in her mind, that was only when she’d been at her angriest, her most hurt. She hadn’t believed the rumors. After all, Thom had only visited her bed three times. Three awful times that he’d seemed to enjoy even less than Georgiana had. So she hadn’t believed that he’d gone to another woman’s bed.
And maybe he hadn’t. Perhaps there was another explanation. It hardly mattered. As soon as he was well again, she would say good riddance to him.
He would go, anyway. Thom always did. But this time, for the first time, Georgiana would have the satisfaction of knowing that he went after she’d told him to leave—and not after she’d asked him to stay.
By evening, the rash that signaled the worst stage of the fever began spreading over Thom’s throat and chest. The doctor didn’t say anything as he administered another injection of opium, but Georgiana didn’t need the grim-faced man to tell her how little hope was left. Those small red dots marked the beginning of the end.
Thom would leave again. He wouldn’t come back. Not because she’d told him to go, but because he’d made her a widow.
But that was not how this would end. She had accounts to settle with her husband before he left, so Thom could not go like this.
Georgiana would simply not allow it. And in recent years, she had become very good at getting her way.
The lamps flickered throughout the night, the flames dancing in the draft from the window. Accompanied by the roar of the ocean, Georgiana bathed his nude body in ice water until her fingers shriveled and ached. In the morning, the doctor pumped Thom full of opium again and helped her replenish the chunks of ice piled around his motionless form. She resumed bathing his skin, her frozen hands stiff and her mood too heavy to lift.
Exhaustion finally claimed her in the middle of the second night. She fell asleep in an armchair next to Thom’s bedside and woke at dawn with a crooked neck. Her husband lay still, with only a sheet over his hips for modesty. The gray light through the window paled his skin, washing away the flush of the fever. The ice surrounding his big body had melted almost to nothing.
The dour Doctor Rasmussen stood at the vanity, snapping his black case shut. He wore his scarf and gloves, and the brim of his hat shadowed his humorless features. From outside, Georgiana heard the chattering engine of his steamcart.
She jolted upright, her back and neck protesting. “You are already leaving? But we must add more ice.”
In a tone as somber as his expression, the doctor replied, “There is no need for more, Mrs. Thomas.”
No need . . . ? Fear yanked Georgiana to her feet. Her gaze shot to Thom’s pale, still form.
The doctor continued, “The rash receded during the night. I’ve administered another dose so that your husband continues to rest, but he should not need another.”
Relief descended in a bone-dissolving wave, but Georgiana didn’t trust it until she flattened her palm against Thom’s chest. Still too warm, but not burning. His heart beat in deep, even thuds. The angry rash and the swelling in his throat had faded.
She glanced at the fresh bandage wrapped around his abdomen. “And the wound?”
“The nanoagents have sealed the skin. I removed the stitches. As long as he does not reopen it, he should be out of danger.” The doctor paused. Though he only seemed to have one attitude—grim—Georgiana detected a hint of apology from him. “You will likely have a visit from the magistrate today.”
Because Thom had been shot, and the physician was required to report such wounds. Well, he didn’t need to be sorry for that. “I understand your duty, sir. But you might tell him to come tomorrow, after my husband has woken. I have no answers for his inquiry.”
Now surprise put a faint twist in Rasmussen’s lips. But he only nodded and wished her a good day, and had already quit the room when Georgiana realized that the doctor assumed she had shot Thom.
Which was ridiculous. Not that Thom hadn’t given her reason to shoot him, because he had. But if Georgiana had wanted to murder him, she wouldn’t have missed his heart, and she certainly wouldn’t have called on a physician to heal him. Georgiana would have buried his body in the steamcoach shed, where her digging wouldn’t be observed—though there was slim chance that someone would happen by her isolated home at the same moment she needed to conceal a body, it was better not to risk discovery.
Not that she had often pondered his murder—or anyone else’s. But planning for unexpected events was just common sense.
She hadn’t planned well for this, however. She didn’t know who might have shot him, either. On the seas, attacks could come from any direction, but salvagers like Thom weren’t usually targets for pirates or thieves. Perhaps it had been a personal matter . . . but Georgiana would not let her mind dwell on that, any more than she dwelt on how he’d obtained his new prosthetics.
Whatever the answers, they had nothing to do with her.
Georgiana set about clearing away the ice. Meltwater soaked the bed. The day maid arrived at eight o’clock full of gossip from town, of an aristocrat’s airship that had flown into Skagen’s harbor and of twin babies that had been born. Aware that Thom’s condition would soon be more fodder for wagging tongues, Georgiana only listened with half an ear while they wrestled a mattress down the stairs. On the bed, the sodden mattress was too heavy to drag off the frame. They made a pallet on the floor and, together, she and Marta transferred Thom onto dry sheets. He didn’t lie so quietly now, turning his head against the pillow and restlessly shifting his legs, as if swimming through rough dreams.
Her secretary came shortly afterward, bearing a stack of cargo receipts and inventories. The following hours were spent catching up on two days of neglected work. After lunch, Georgiana sent him back to her offices in town with the assurance that she would be in the next morning.
Perhaps with Thom in tow. She didn’t know what the terms of their separation would be, but she’d make him a fair offer for his part of her shipping business. Though to her mind, any offer would be more than fair. His involvement in her venture had begun and ended four years ago, and only comprised an envelope containing a bit of money. All of the risks and the work had been her own.
Tired, she returned to the armchair in the bedchamber. She’d barely closed her eyes when Marta came in carrying Thom’s clothing, a frown on her softly lined face.
“I patched up the holes, ma’am, but the shirt and gansey are still showing the bloodstain. Would you like me to give them another wash?”
“There’s no need. Clean will do well enough.”
Marta nodded and turned toward the wardrobe before abruptly turning back. Her fingers dipped into her apron pocket. “Before I forget and make a thief of myself—this fell out of Captain Thom’s coat.”