Chasing the Heiress (5 page)

He raised one hand and pulled off her bonnet, allowing her curls to fall freely around her face, and he caressed her hair, twisting it between his fingers, and pulling her head closer to his lips. She knew she should stop the kiss. He was influenced by the effects of fever and laudanum. Without it, she told herself, he would not be so bold.

She touched his chest to push herself away from him, and he wrapped his hand around her hand, holding it to his chest firmly. But when she pushed once more, he released her with a groan.

“Ah, what sweet kisses! You truly are my angel, Lucia.”

“You, sir, are quite drugged.”

She slipped off the bed and moved to the chair. She felt his forehead, still hot. She would wait a while. If his fever rose higher, she would wash his face with cold water to bring it down.

For now, she would watch. His eyes were closed, but as she took her hand away from his forehead, he opened his eyes and caught her hand once more.

“No, it's you, Lucy.”

His hand, with hers still clasped in it, fell to his side. And he slept.

* * *

He was caught in dreams, and they were the stuff of madness. Blood and the flash of cannons and men dying around him, as he slashed with his sword the monsters that came at him from the dark. He was back in the room in Brussels, waiting for the woman who had been his lover. He knew now that she had betrayed them all; the information she'd sold had sent hundreds of men to their deaths. She believed she could seduce him once more. Her gown was red, and he thought of Mary Queen of Scots at her execution.

She kissed him. “Not a Judas-kiss,
ma chère
, I'm here to save you.” And his body responded to her kisses. He tilted her head back, kissed her once more as he had the last time they had met. She lay a set of papers before him, “These,
ma chère
, will ruin your family, especially your brother. His woman is a traitor.
N'est-ce pas?
” It was a different sort of game from before. In the dream, she walked to him confidently, her body visible under the red chemise, brushed his chest with her hands, kissed his neck, pushed him back onto the bed, and he wanted her, despite everything she had done. He still loved her. He kissed her again, passionately, let her feel his arousal, aroused her, brought her to pleasure. Then, as she lay sated in his arms, sleeping, he lifted the pillow.

The scene shifted. He wandered the hell that was Waterloo, demons following him on every side. The battle was over, but the dead looked at him with accusing eyes. He couldn't escape the dreams, but he could feel the hands of his angel, cool on his body, and hear her voice singing him the way back, songs from his childhood, lullabies he hadn't heard since his own infancy. Then the dreams started to make a place for her. She was with his men, when he ordered his men to retreat, and when he searched for Benjamin, she held his hand.

* * *

The fever wasn't abating, and he was too, too hot. She bathed his face and chest with cool water, infused with lavender to help him sleep and thistle for the fever.

Sometimes he was clearly in his childhood, playing with other boys she assumed were his brothers, but most often he was back in the war, calling his men back from some engagement. “Retreat, retreat,” the words repeated on his lips. At one point, he wept over the loss of his men and, at another, called out for someone named Benjamin.

She understood such dreams. And she sat beside him, washing his face, wishing the water could wash away the dreams as well.

In the camps she'd never had the luxury to wait with one man. She'd always had to leave them to their dreams and demons, but with Colin, she could remain. And he seemed to know she was with him. She could do for him what she had never been able to do for the others: hold his hand, whisper reassuring psalms, sing songs from her childhood. If he died, he would not die alone. But she willed him to live, imagined she could pour her own life into him through the palms of her hands as she held his hand or washed his chest.

He was a beautiful man, all lean muscle, but with scars as one would expect from a soldier. She tried to imagine how he had suffered each one. The diagonal line across his chest was easy, the point of a sword coming too close. He had been lucky; it wasn't a deep cut. And it had healed well. The stab wound at his shoulder had been more severe, and she wondered if it pained him even now.

* * *

She knew time passed because it was light, then it was dark, then it was light again. Mark or Andrew would bring fresh, cool water, and she would bathe Colin until the water was no longer cool; then she would ring the bell, and they would bring her another bowl.

They brought her a tray with bread and cheese and soup, and on the second day, though he was still feverish, he was less delirious, and she was able to feed him, spoonful by spoonful, some of Alice's hearty soup.

She changed his dressings, pleased that his wounds weren't red or oozing. She pressed her hand to them; they were only a little warm. She hoped it meant he was improving, but she continued bathing him with the lavender and thistle water, and rubbing Nell's healing salve into the wound.

But he was still lost in his dreams, mumbling and crying out, sometimes in pain. And she would sing to him again.

In the mid-morning of the second day, a tap drew Lucy's attention to the door to the adjoining dressing room. When Lucy opened it, she found Nell, looking weary and worn.

She bent her head toward Lucy's and spoke softly in her ear. “The mother died.”

“Alice feared she would.” Lucy rested her hand comfortingly on Nell's upper arm.

Nell put her own hand over Lucy's for a moment. “It was the illness,” Nell said, using the midwife's term for labor. “It brought on apoplexy, then her heart failed. She would 'ave died, shot or not.” Nell straightened and paused, looking past Lucy at her patient. “If he lives, he might want to know that.”

If he lives
. The words clutched at Lucy's chest. “I will make sure he knows. His fever has not broken yet.”

Nell crossed to the bed and touched Colin's forehead with the back of her hand. Then she looked at the collection of materials Lucy had gathered. A bottle of laudanum sat on the table next to Nell's basket filled with jars of various remedies. Seeing Lucy's manuscript book, she opened it, finding pages of recipes for salves, poultices, and other antidotes.

“These are good ones,” she offered approvingly, her finger tracing the various ingredients. “Though I'm not sure you could get some of the ingredients for these two anywhere near here.”

“The book was my mother's, and I have added remedies since her death.” Lucy watched Nell turn the pages, stop and read, then move on to another page. “I helped with the wounded in the wars.”

“I thought you were a lady running away from her family.”

Lucy looked up, startled, and saw Nell waiting for her reaction.

“Ah, yes, I thought so, love.” Nell closed Lucy's book, but held it. “But never you worry. I will keep your secret. Anyone so happy to wash dishes has no need to return to what place she come from.”

“How did you know?” Stunned, Lucy sat back down in the chair beside Colin's bed.

“First off, you don't talk like a serving gel. You try, but you miss. And my boys have told me about your nursing, and this”—she pointed to the recipe book—”shows you know the herbs almost as well as any midwife.” Nell paused, placing her hand on Lucy's shoulder. “And then there were the men in the yard yesterday.”

“Men?” She forced herself to stay seated. She had not seen them; she had not even thought to be watchful. She had been too caught up in saving Colin.

“Disreputable lot. I mistrusted the look of 'em,” Nell continued. “Shifty.”

“What did they want?” Lucy tried to keep any hint of panic from her voice.

“To know if we had seen a flighty young miss, running away from the man her guardian chose for her to marry. Said she was a bit empty-headed and could not be trusted out on her own.”

“What did you tell them?” Lucy's breath caught in her chest.

“Well, I dinna lie. I said I had not seen such a miss.” Nell patted Lucy's shoulder. “You will be safe here as long as you wish.”

“I need to get farther away. My cousin, he would destroy your trade if he thought you had helped me knowingly, perhaps even unknowingly. But I dare not take the coach.”

“No matter, Lucy. We could find a hay wain if you would like. Or mayhap the gentleman can carry you away when he has recovered.” Nell handed her the recipe book and walked past her to the door. “I have greater faith now that he will.”

“Nell,” Lucy called out. ‘The story the men told you. It is not true.”

“They never are.”

* * *

In the evening of the third day, she fell asleep in her chair. When she awoke, something in the room had changed. He was quiet. She felt his head, cool to the touch.

She almost wept, but she was too tired to move. He would live.

She placed one hand on his chest, and he covered it with his own.

“Have you been here the entire time?” His eyes were still closed.

“I didn't wish to leave you.” She brushed the tips of her fingers down the side of his face and down his jaw.

“I had dreams.” A look of pain and sorrow crossed his face.

“I know,” she consoled, brushing the hair at the side of his face with her fingers. “But they were just dreams.”

“Not all, not all.” His eyes opened, still that depthless blue, and met hers, catching her breath. “Were you singing to me?”

“It seemed to soothe you,” she confessed, suddenly shy.

“Don't leave.” He moved his hand to his side, taking hers with him.

He was asleep again. He fell in and out of consciousness, but it was a healthy drifting, not the fevered one from before. She began to think she might retire to her room to bathe and sleep, but she didn't want him to be alone. She drifted into sleep as well, still holding his hand.

Chapter Four

Colin was dreaming, a sweet dream from his infancy. Judith, his elder sister, carried him on her hip through the hay meadow on their father's lands. The day was bright, and the path to the pond well beaten down. In the near distance, he could see the pond and the ducks. Once more, he felt his childhood joy at the birds, black and blue and brown. Clutched in one hand, he held the stale end of a loaf of bread to feed them.

With his other hand, he played with the golden tresses that fell heavy along Judith's back. He'd wrapped the soft hair between his fingers, twisting and turning it, tracing its length with his thumb over and over. Then it all began to fade: the ducks, the pond, Judith. He tried to will himself back to sleep. But the dream was lost.

In the stable yard below, the yells of the groomsmen announced the approach of a coach. And he was awake. Nothing left of the dream but the soothing sensation of hair curled against his fingers. Strange. He flexed his fingers. More silken curls.

He opened one eye, then the other. Lucy had fallen asleep while watching over him, still sitting in the chair, but leaning forward to rest her head on her folded arms at the edge of his bed. Her hair—a rich black—curled in waves around her face, escaped from her mob bonnet. His fingers were entwined in one of her wayward curls. He withdrew them unwillingly. It was unusual for him to find such comfort with a woman. Passion, yes. Amusement, certainly. But comfort, no. She was a rare one, this scullery maid—kind, witty, honest. She reminded him of the man he had been once—before war and death and duty had made him wary.

He smiled at the memory of their playful banter, then just as quickly groaned. In the light of day—even with a headache as large as Scotland—he knew he had behaved poorly. A servant clearly hiding in the shadows, and he'd insisted on a kiss. Demanded one, in fact, before he would allow his wound to be dressed. What choice could she have but to comply? And then, when she'd offered a chaste kiss, he'd turned it into something heady and seductive and . . . marvelous.

What had he been thinking? Not of duty or of mission. Certainly not of danger.

The reason, he acknowledged, was simple: loss of blood, laudanum, too much of a fine whiskey, and a woman who slipped past his defenses.

He would have to set it right.
Officer to officer's daughter.
He cringed at the memory of his words. Without them, he could pass everything off as a drunken flirtation, leave her a hefty bit of coin, an affectionate buss on the cheek, and a teasing promise to travel this way again.

But those words had changed the field, forged a bond between them, the same sort of obligation he'd felt when dying men had pressed letters into his hand or whispered messages for their loved ones. He couldn't leave her hiding in the kitchen, vulnerable to rape or misuse. But he couldn't take her with them, not with his obligation to the Crown. And he couldn't promise her he'd return afterward. Who knew the lengths Marietta's enemies would pursue or whether he would survive their next attempt?

The pounding in his head worsened with each twist of reasoning. He couldn't think it through: how to reconcile his old obligations and this new one. How did an officer of honor and principle retract the inherent promise? He didn't, couldn't, wouldn't. And that was the rub. To acknowledge his words required him to honor them.

He could think of only one solution, and it was the coward's path. He could pretend to remember nothing, not their easy conversation nor the arc of attraction between them. Deceit and distance. He knew them well already, but he wished there were another way. He covered his eyes with one hand and groaned again.

“Are you hurting?” Her voice, sultry from sleep, was filled with concern. A cool hand touched his forehead, then withdrew.

“Fletcher.” His voice sounded gruff, even to his own ears, and he left his hand over his face, not wanting to see the surprise in her wide dark eyes. “I must speak with Fletcher.”

“He's been waiting for you to wake.” Her voice was gentle, filled with understanding. “I'll send him to you. If you need anything, there's a bell on the bedside table. Alice should be preparing dinner soon, and I'll bring you a tray when it's ready.”

He heard her skirts brush softly against the floor, and he wanted to call her back, even as he let her go. The door opened, and he heard Fletcher's heavy footfalls. He lowered his hand to see Fletcher standing at the foot of his bed.

“Ah, my boy. I feared we had lost you this time. If it weren't for Miss Lucy, you'd be dead and buried.” Fletcher nodded his head back toward the closed door. “She simply refused to let you die. Nell says the girl's got the gift of healing in her hands.”

“How long?” Colin attempted to push himself up, but a stab of pain stopped him. Fletcher moved to his side, bracing Colin's back and arranging the pillows behind him.

“Five days, if you count today. It's well past noon. And Miss Lucy never left your side. If I were twenty years younger . . .” Fletcher offered with open admiration.

“Should I tell your
wife
you have a tendre for a
scullery maid
?” Colin colored his words with highborn disdain.

Fletcher searched Colin's face intently, then shrugged. “Your brother should be here at any time. I sent for him the morning after we arrived. Two riders, one to the estate, the other to London.”

Colin grimaced. “He won't have received either message. My brother's visiting Lady Wilmot at her country house.”

“I'll send a rider to Lady Wilmot's straightway.” Fletcher set his hand on the door latch. “It's good you'll be alive to meet His Grace. For days, I've searched for just the right words to tell him you were dead. And I didn't like none of 'em.”

“What of the others?” Colin called him back. “Marietta? The babe? Bobby?”

“Bobby's shoulder was out of joint, but it's mending nicely.” At the table, Fletcher picked up the whiskey and a deep glass. “The babe is a boy. Lungs as big as a moose's and twice as loud. I'm surprised you haven't heard him in your dreams. As for her ladyship . . .”

Colin's stomach clenched as Fletcher poured three fingers of whiskey and held it out. Lifting it to his lips, Colin took a long gulp. “Go on.”

Fletcher rubbed a spot on the floor with his shoe. “We buried her yesterday in the churchyard.”

Colin leaned back, empty of all emotion. He knew what losing lives in a mission felt like. By the time his older brother Aidan had been called home, Colin was an able leader already commanding his own men. But he could still see Marietta, a book of fashion plates resting on her belly, planning her fall dresses, or hear her laughter as he read to her from the
Lady's Magazine
she had brought. He was glad not to have seen her in death.

“Do you wish to see the boy?”

“Not now.” Colin closed his eyes. “I need to think.”

“The wet nurse has declared she won't travel alone with three strange men, no matter how much money you offer. So, Nell suggested the scullery maid as a companion.”

Colin was suddenly alert. The perfect solution was suspiciously convenient. He regarded Fletcher carefully, watching for his reaction. “And of course Lucy agrees.”

Fletcher opened his mouth to speak, then shut it again.

“Speak your mind, man.”

“
Lucy
hasn't left your side, boy. Hasn't slept, except in that chair. I doubt she even knows what day it is.” Fletcher drew a long breath. “I've known you for better than twenty years. I've fought, starved, bled, and mourned with you, and there's no man I've trusted with my life more than you. I followed you—your men followed you—because you never let us forget that despite the darkness of the war, we could always find a reason to have faith. That for every man or woman who cheated or lied, there were a dozen others who would lend a hand when there was need.”

Fletcher stopped abruptly, waiting for Colin to respond. After several seconds of silence, he continued. “But you've let the last months leech all faith out of you. Not just in others but in yourself. And it's made a poorer man of you. Perhaps it's time to remember who you used to be, and become that man again.”

The silence grew between them. Colin wanted to object to his old friend's words, but knew they were all too true. Suspicion hadn't been natural to him. It had been a convenient way to stay alive when he'd discovered Octavia's betrayals. But he had no idea how to change or—worse yet—if he even wanted to. Keeping one's distance had its advantages. If you didn't love, you couldn't grieve.

Fletcher rubbed his jaw with his hand and sighed. “Only one door into this building, and I have the key.” He patted his pocket. “Bobby and me, we sit with the babe and watch the carriage yard. There's been no trouble, and no questions.”

“Where are my pistols?”

Fletcher pulled the case from under the end of the bed and set it beside Colin. “Gun's clean. Padding and powder are fresh.” By the time Colin had opened the box, Fletcher was gone, the door pulled shut behind him.

For the next hour, Colin considered Fletcher's criticisms. He had no answers, but he did know one thing. Marietta's death—and the wet nurse's refusal—had changed his options, giving him a way to honor both his promise to the Home Office and his implicit one to Lucy.

Colin was still considering his next steps when Fletcher's voice called, “Dinner,” through the door. Fletcher held open the door for Lucy to enter carrying a tray, then withdrew, leaving Colin and Lucy alone.

“I thought gruel might be easy on your stomach. But if you wish for something else, the kitchen is quiet. We've no other quests, and the last stage left an hour ago.”

“Gruel will be fine.” He looked at her, her dark eyes filled with kindness, and he knew that honesty—or a form of it—would be best. “Fletcher tells me I owe you my life.”

“It wasn't your time to die.” She placed the tray at the foot of the bed, lay a piece of linen across his chest, then set the tray in his lap. She moved efficiently, but with grace.

“I recall little after my bath, but before that . . . well, I remember enough to know I should apologize. I was hopelessly ill-mannered.”

“There's no need. Sickrooms, hospitals, are worlds unto themselves. Just as you can't know who will be brave on the battlefield, you can never predict how a person will respond to pain, fear, or weakness. Most men, in fact, later regret the things they say in a sickroom.”

“I regret being like most men.”

She laughed, a rich, hearty sound. He lifted the spoon, and she stepped away, closer to the door. She clearly intended to escape when he began to eat.

“Sit and keep me company. If the kitchen is quiet, there's no reason you can't wait for the tray.”

She pulled the chair at his bedside back toward the wall before sitting reluctantly.

“I promise not to bite. Besides, if I were to try, you would be back in the kitchen before I could untangle myself from the bedclothes.” As he lifted the spoon, he watched her face. “Ah, a smile. I have amused you.”

“It's a shame James Gillray is dead. He could have made quite a satirical cartoon of it.” Her hands were folded primly, but her voice was teasing.

“Tell me more. It will entertain me while I eat.”

“Let's see.” She rubbed the lobe of her ear pensively. “‘Aristocratic Manners Undressed.' A half-dressed young lord chases a scullery maid down a hall, his bedclothes trailing behind, tripping him. Gillray captures him in mid-fall, arm outstretched toward the fleeing maid. An old woman in a sleeping cap peeks out of an adjacent room to ogle the lord's bare chest.”

The gruel warmed his stomach. “But what of the maid? Gillray shows her in full stride, lifting her skirts to reveal two finely turned legs, and dripping soap-suds from her arms.”

“Only the reader can see her legs.” She shook her head in mock dismay, crossing her ankles out of view. “The young lord's behind her, sliding on the soap-suds.”

“True.” He grinned. “But look here.” He pretended to hold out an engraved print, pointing at an imaginary spot with his spoon. “The suds trail down his chest, and there's a bit of soap on his nose. Perhaps our maid is more complicit than we thought. Look at the expression on his face. I don't think he expected the maid to bolt.”

“He is only surprised because he's a lord.” She held up her hands, palms facing him, as if refusing to take the imaginary print. “He expected compliance, not rejection.”

“And the soap-suds?” Colin lifted the bowl and drank the rest of the broth, watching her all the while.

“He accosted her, and she pushed him away.” She turned her nose up slightly to convey conviction.

“Ah, I see.” He leaned back into his pillow, and she removed the tray to the bedside table. “But I think your defense of our sweet maid misses one essential point.”

“And that is?”

“Soap-suds. Why are there suds if she isn't in the kitchen? He must have been in the bath—and for her to have the suds on her arms, she must have been . . . assisting him.”

Lucy shook her head. “I will have to take this up with the ghost of Mr. Gillray—he clearly has misunderstood the maid's predicament when faced with the attentions of a handsome lord.” She removed the linen and straightened his bedcovers efficiently.

“Is he handsome?” Colin straightened in interest. Did she see herself in the role of the sudsy maid pursued by the young lord?

“Who?” She lifted the tray to leave.

“The young lord who chases our scullery maid.”