Angel In My Bed (8 page)

“Spare me your boorishness, David. Surely you have other woman to torment.” She swept past him.

He caught her arm and pulled her around. “None to whom I'm married.”

Color tinged her cheeks. He noticed that about her. For all of her courage when facing down brigands in the night, she behaved like a virgin with him. Or maybe he was the one behaving like a virgin. How long had it been since he'd been with a woman?

He lifted her hand into the light. The band on her finger flashed gold. “You're still wearing my ring. Why?”

She tried and failed to snatch her hand away. “You should know the answer to that.”

He didn't give a damn if she was pretending to be a widow; he wanted to know why she still wore
his
ring. “No, I don't.”

His fingers went to her chin and traced her mouth. He felt the softness of her lips against the pads of his fingertips. She still felt perfect to him.

He moved closer, sank his other hand into her hair and tilted her face, but whatever he'd been about to say died when he heard her whisper his name. It fell against his lips in an intoxicating blur, and his ice-cold world cracked with the promise of warmth. He'd never had any control around her. No restraint.

He should have kept his hands off her, but he knew from experience the feat was impossible. He closed his mouth over hers, parted her lips, and, sinking all ten fingers into her dampened hair, lost himself completely in the kiss.

He savored. He tasted.

His hands gently framed her face. With a half sob, she stepped into his arms.

Groaning deep in his chest, he felt the kiss deepen; then felt nothing else but the blood rushing through his veins. Heat flooded his body, filled his loins, and he backed her up until she hit the dresser. His breathing coming more rapidly, his grip tightened. Logic whipped at his lust. This was a bad idea on so many bloody levels, he didn't know where to start, or how to stop. Or if he wanted to stop ever.

Hunger spiraled to edge out his control. Outside the storm cocooned them. Inside it raged silently. It raged past barriers and memories. Past emotions that crumbled into tiny shards and fell to his feet—until he realized that he had pulled away slightly, but not so far he couldn't taste her on his lips or breathe the air that she pulled into her lungs. He could feel her full breasts against his chest, feel the hard bite of her nails against his shoulders.

“When was the last time you had a lover?” he asked.

When she didn't reply, he looked into the violet of her eyes. The light that bathed her was golden and warm, beckoning and promising. “When?”

“You.” Her eyes searched his. “You were the last, David.”

He stared at her hard. Her lips were still wet from his kiss. “I don't understand…”

She was more passionate than any woman he'd ever known. Once, long ago, men of every country had fallen all over themselves for her attentions, and he was sure she had used that to her advantage when robbing them blind. “You can steal a fortune and kill a man?” he asked, “but adultery is out of your realm of sins?”

With renewed anger, she shoved hard against him. “I did not kill your partner. He was in our bedroom waiting for you that day when I walked in and found him hiding,” she added
on a whisper. “He had already been shot. I only know that the papers he had on him were arrest warrants with your signature, David. So do not preach your ethic to me.”

His expression set, he remembered that morning as if it were yesterday. He had walked into the room to find his partner dead, and a gun in Meg's hand pointed directly at his heart. Even now, he couldn't believe that she'd actually pulled the trigger. Or maybe he could. “You are not innocent of everything, Meg.”

“Don't you think I know that?” She pushed past him.

David turned just as the door slammed in his face and brought him up short. Next to this chamber, another door shut hard.

Rubbing one palm across his bristly jaw, he looked around the cozy little room and mentally groaned at the erection pressing hard against his trousers. A wooden train sat on the floor next to a stuffed purple cow and a rocking horse, the innocence of his surroundings suddenly making him feel all too depraved.

“You're an idiot, David,” he muttered, softly addressing the rafters, the demons, and all the ugly ghosts in his soul. “A complete and bloody idiot.”

 

Victoria didn't awaken until noon.

In disbelief, she threw off the covers and, unmindful of the cold floor, washed and cleaned her teeth. She dragged a brush through her hair and pinned it in a chignon, then dressed and checked Nathanial's room. The bed was perfectly made as if no one had violated the sanctity of her son's chambers. As if David had never been there at all. As if he had never kissed her, and she had dreamed up the entire past week.

If only Providence were so kind, she thought, feeling rest
less and edgy, the cause of her frustration clearly defined in her mind as she realized how hopelessly banal she had already become. Her room next to this one, she'd listened all night to David's movements, as she imagined him attempting to find comfort on a mattress too short for him.

What had she been thinking to allow him to kiss her?

She shut the door and hurried downstairs in time to hear the tall clock on the stairway bong twelve times. Checking on Sir Henry, she found him asleep, before wading through the familiar smells of baking bread and mulled cider coming from the kitchen.

“Good afternoon, mum.” Esma Shelby turned from the stove as Victoria walked to the cupboard and removed a ceramic mug. Wisps of damp mustard-colored hair curled around Esma's face. “Sleep has brought the apples back to your cheeks.”

Victoria grabbed a mitt and lifted the tin coffeepot from the stove. Steam emerged from the spout as she poured. “You shouldn't have allowed me to sleep so long, Mrs. Shelby.”

“What is one to do in weather like this? You need rest. His Lordship said so.”

Annoyed that David thought he had any authority here, Victoria wrapped her hands around the cup and held it to her nose. “How long ago did…my cousin leave?”

“His Lordship was up at the crack of dawn.” Esma stirred a wooden spoon in a pot of pumpkin soup. “Spoke to that young man you hired, mounted that black of his and left. Don't rightly know where he went but he said he'd be back for supper.”

“Did he?” Victoria leveled a look at the housekeeper. “Just like that? He invited himself?”

Esma's brows lifted. “Seeing that he is your family, he probably assumed he was welcomed here.”

Victoria buried a reply in her cup. David could charm the fangs from a viper. She was disappointed how easily her entire family had fallen for him. “Just be cautious. He is a stranger regardless of his relationship to me. You should not just naturally give him your trust. After all, I haven't seen him in years.”

“He came to your aid, didn't he?” her housekeeper challenged.

Victoria refused to comment, and Esma took her silence as agreement. “He be a fine-looking man, mum,” she said on a sigh that belied her sweet, grandmotherly façade. “A gentleman he is, too. Helped carry in the coal for the stove and thanked me proper for the porridge he ate. Bethany has taken after him, smitten child that she is.” Esma chuckled. “Seems like something about him is familiar though…”

A log burning in the hearth collapsed in a shower of tiny sparks and Victoria startled.

“Good heavens, child.” Esma set down the spoon and propped both hands on her ample hips. “You're as jumpy as Zeus. That tom has been hiding beneath Sir Henry's bed all morning. Probably heard the hounds baying earlier.”

“You heard hounds?”

“Near dawn.” Esma checked the fire beneath the blackened pot. “Pity the poor animal that caught their scent.”

Victoria leaned toward the window and looked up at the churning sky with a frown. “Where is Bethany?”

Esma told her Bethany was in the stables tending to the mare that Stillings's men had injured last month. They had not padlocked the stalls last night because Victoria had not felt it necessary to do so during the storm, but she was never sure when the stables might be visited at some point in the
night. The hounds usually came out when the smugglers were about.

“Forty years ago, the Munro name carried weight.” Esma dropped a dollop of bacon fat in an iron skillet. “No one would have dared steal a horse for such nefarious purposes,” her housekeeper said as if there was ever a good excuse for stealing. She cracked two eggs in the sizzling fat. “It's come to a point where decent folk aren't safe. We need someone who will care for these lands and its tenants as much as you do, mum, and that man isn't Nellis Munro.” She sniffed, delivering a plate of eggs to Victoria.

Unfortunately, it wasn't David, either.

Yet, despite the chaos and upset he caused in her life, his presence made her feel safer. Shaking her head, as she finished her breakfast and set the plate in the wash basin, she only knew that the contradiction of her emotions made a mockery of logic.

Outside, the wind continued to blow. Victoria moved to the window. The drive had turned into a muddy stream that would require hours of refilling the ruts with dirt. “I should go to the churchyard and check on Mr. Doyle. He has those chickens he coddles like pets.”

“Bethany was up there yesterday, mum. Ye shouldn't worry so.”

Victoria did worry. The weather looked none the better and the temperature had dropped below freezing since yesterday. “Are you positive Bethany brought him victuals while I was gone?”

“I packed the basket myself,” Esma replied. “Gave him our boysenberry jam we still need to deliver to our other tenants.”

Victoria had not forgotten the crates of jam she'd packed
the night Sheriff Stillings had come here. Turning away from the window and folding her arms, she leaned against the countertop. Her gaze fell on the wicker case sitting beside the breakfront.

“That basket?” Victoria pointed.

Esma turned and her hand flew to her mouth. “I don't understand…”

Victoria remembered that Bethany had found David at the cemetery yesterday.

“Where ye be goin', mum?” Esma asked when Victoria walked into the mudroom to retrieve David's cloak drying on the wall. In lieu of her own coat that she had lost, she'd borrowed it from his quarters yesterday before returning here.

“Someone needs to check on Mr. Doyle,” she said and settled a bonnet on her head. “I'll speak to Bethany when I return.”

“She does her best, mum.”

“She's going to have to do better.” Victoria flung David's heavy cloak over her shoulders.

She wore woolen stockings beneath her warm gown and should remain protected from the cold for at least the walk up to Mr. Doyle's cottage. “I'll cut through the woods and be back before Sir Henry awakens from his nap.”

Besides, she wanted to look at the cemetery while she was up there. As Victoria tightened the strings on her half boots, Esma stood in the doorway between the mudroom and the kitchen. Her ruddy face held a hint of worry. The same worry she'd held when Victoria had gone to her last night and requested that her son go into town when the weather cleared and drop off a post to Nathanial. Nathan would be safest with Bethany's cousins for now. She would deal with her emotions when it came to her son later.

“Don't worry, Esma.” Victoria fastened the cloak. “If Sir Henry awakens, make sure you heat water on the stove for him to soak his foot. Don't feed him until he does.”

Outside, the wind nearly snatched the cloak from her person. She dipped beneath the trellis, hoping Mr. Rockwell wouldn't see her leaving, preferring him to stay with her family. Victoria never went anywhere without the derringer, and today was no different. She could take care of herself. Her family could not.

The shortcut through the woods took less than fifteen minutes. Mr. Doyle was a lonely man who liked boysenberry jam, had chickens for pets, and fed the pigeons that roosted in the bell tower of the burned-out church. He had been the groundskeeper for the old church for decades. He'd been old to her when she first arrived at Rose Briar. He was still old. Last year his wife of forty years had passed away, and Victoria had been making regular visits to him ever since. He had no other family.

With winter setting in earlier this year, she needed to see that Mr. Doyle had fuel enough to heat his cottage. As with the other tenants remaining on Munro land for whom she was responsible, Mr. Doyle had fallen under her jurisdiction since Sir Henry's illness.

Sleet or snow was not far off, she realized, pulling the cloak's hood over her bonnet to shield her from the wind. Carrying the basket, she felt like Little Red Riding Hood as she came out of the woods onto the field near a dilapidated farm shed, a remnant from the farming glory days where hay was stored after harvesting. A fluffy red squirrel poked its head out of a mound of wet leaves. It saw her and skittered up a tree.

The cottage lay fifty yards behind the rectory. She saw no smoke coming from the chimney. Uneasy, Victoria ap
proached the cottage. She knocked on the door, before edging it open and sticking her head inside the gloomy interior.

“Mr. Doyle?”

No answer came. Fearing what she might find, she entered the small cluttered front room. She checked the bedroom where an unmade bed lay among disorder. She walked out the back door. The chicken coop had been destroyed. Feathers lay everywhere. Those damnable hounds had been here this morning.

Forcing herself to remain calm, Victoria scanned the church and called Mr. Doyle's name twice. A bolt of lightning flashed over the treetops followed by a roll of thunder. Tenting her hand over her eyes, she wished now that she'd not come up here alone.

D
avid reined in his horse at the top of the hill overlooking the cottage just as sleet started to pelt his shoulders. A stately black carriage sat at the bottom of the drive, and two footmen huddled behind the boot, attempting to stay out of the brisk wintry wind.

Scanning the yard, David didn't see Rockwell and, with a quiet oath, nudged his horse down the drive. He rode into the warmer interior of the barn, slowing as Mr. Shelby hurried down the row of stalls to greet him.

Shelby took the bridle. “You've returned just in time. Nellis Munro arrived ten minutes ago.”

David swung to the ground. “Cool the horse off.” He patted the horse's rump. “We've been riding hard, hoping to beat the weather.”

“Is that a valise behind the saddle?” Shelby asked.

“Leave it,” David said, raising his coat collar against the
chill as he walked to the entrance. “I won't be staying tonight. I'm moving up to the manor house.”

He sprinted across the yard, nodded to the two uniformed footmen, then strolled up the stairs into the mudroom. Inside, as he stomped his boots, he could hear raised voices coming from the kitchen. Without removing his greatcoat, he dipped through the doorway and stopped.

A low fire burned in the hearth. The smell of fresh-baked bread floated in the air. Sir Henry sat at the table, Bethany beside him. Mrs. Shelby stood to one side of Sir Henry with a pot in her hand, pouring tea. The table was set for dinner, but the man lording over the pair didn't seem interested in joining the family. David looked at everyone present, but he didn't see Meg.

“…I have been patient, Uncle.” Nellis paused in his peroration to nail Sir Henry with a glare. “As patient as a man can be under the circumstances. The least she owes me is a little of her time for all the worry she has put me through. Bloody hell”—he slapped his gloves over his palm—“I was unaware that someone of the countess's distinction had even let the Sprague House until my servant informed me this morning.”

“We have not conspired to keep you in the dark about anything,” Sir Henry said.

“You will forgive me my insistence to see Victoria then, will you not? You are all my responsibility. If she needs medical assistance, my own physician will look after her.”

Removing his gloves, David stepped from the doorway. “She is not your responsibility.”

Nellis whipped around, saw David, and whatever dressing-down he'd been prepared to administer died in a cough. “Excuse me?”

“There”—Sir Henry waggled a spoon in David's
direction—“you want to talk to someone about your unfortunate circumstances? There's the man with whom to speak.”

David unbuttoned his coat and approached. “Have I missed something of import?”

Nellis perused David with a mixture of fury and disbelief. “You are the one who purchased Rose Briar over a game of cards?”

Looking over Nellis's shoulder at Sir Henry, he said, “I believe that would be me.”

“And, who pray tell, do you think you are?”

“Baron Donally of Chadwick,” Bethany volunteered as David stopped at the end of the table, inserting himself between Nellis and Meg's family. “Victoria's cousin.”

“Cousin?” Nellis scoffed. “She doesn't have any bloody family but us.”

“I assure you, I am her closest family.”

Wearing a dark suit and cloak, Nellis was a tall man with graying temples and brown hair to match the mutton chop whiskers that framed his jaw. He still carried his hat and gloves in one hand. Nellis's eyes narrowed perceptively. “Have we met?”

“Not unless you've traveled in Africa,” Bethany said.

“Africa?” Nellis swung on the pair sitting at the table. “This is bloody mad. How could you sell to a stranger, Uncle? For hardly more than the taxes, no less.”

“I don't recall your offering to purchase Rose Briar, Nellis,” Sir Henry dipped his bread in a bowl of pumpkin soup. “As a matter of fact, the only thing I do rightly recall is Victoria having to defend herself from you every time you decide to grace us with your esteemed presence. If you want to blame anyone for my decision, blame yourself.”

“Victoria should be grateful I offered for her at all. Next
time, I won't bother behaving like a gentleman.” His gaze landed on David with practiced intimidation, but something in his eyes must have warned Nellis to shut his mouth while he still had his tongue. “Your purchase isn't legal, my lord,” Nellis said, his voice modulated several degrees.

“Everything is legal, Mr. Munro.” No longer worried about the dark tenor of his own voice, David withdrew an ivory packet from his pocket. “The deed was recorded this morning. If you continue to fight me, it might look as if you're using the powers of the bench for illegal acquisition of private property. Rose Briar is now mine and, unlike your uncle, I have the means to fight you.”

“Are you accusing me of an indiscretion with my own family?”

“If I did, I might force you to call me out.” David recognized Nellis's type. He'd seen men like him enough in Ireland. Men who used their powers to gain title to land. “Aye,” he said quietly. “I know the justice system well enough.”

With exaggerated casualness, Nellis reapplied his gloves. “Give Lady Munro my regards, Sir Henry. You may also tell her I am a patient man. For you won't live forever. From the looks of your health, I doubt you will even last out the year.”

“How could you say that?” Bethany cried.

“Get out!” Sir Henry toppled the bowl of soup, spewing hot liquid down his trousers.

David took a protective step toward Sir Henry. “You've been told to leave, Nellis.”

“And you, Chadwick.” Nellis settled his hat on his head. “You'll have to have more than will and money to work that land around Rose Briar. Your tenants have left in droves. They won't return to work your fields. Fear does that to a soul.”

Nellis slammed out the back door. Bethany sniffled. A moment later, he heard the rattle of Nellis's carriage wheels up the drive.

“Do either of you want to tell me what that was about?” David asked.

Sir Henry leaned on his palms against the tabletop. His hands shook, and he had difficulty wiping the soup from his lap. “Maybe I should have warned you,” he admitted.

Sir Henry could hardly stand, and David walked around the table and braced his shoulder beneath his arm. “Aye,” he muttered. “I can see why you forgot,” he agreed none too kindly. “I'm taking you back to your room.” He looked at Esma kneeling on the floor wiping up the spilled soup. “Bring more soup and tea, Mrs. Shelby.”

“Lady Munro told me to have him soak his foot in salts.” Esma sat back on her heels and wrung her hands. “But he's not at all cooperative, my lord.”

Once in Sir Henry's room David settled him into a chair and, after helping the elder remove his trousers, eased a woolen sock from his swollen left foot. The start of an ulcer tortured his large toe. “How long has this foot been like this?” He braced his arm across his thigh and regarded Sir Henry with a frown.

“Long enough to know what unhealed ulcers can do to feet.” He rubbed his temple. “I've tried to do what I can so she won't worry. She has worries enough with the children and trying to keep a roof over our heads. I couldn't let her see this.”

“Lady Munro is correct. You should be soaking in salts. I've seen injuries like this heal and sometimes I haven't. But you have to take care of the infection.”

Sir Henry's eyes grew speculative. “You're a doctor?”

David knew enough about practical medicine from his former job in Ireland to qualify as a physician in most parts of the world. He also knew that what plagued Sir Henry would pass the point of a cure in a matter of weeks if he did not work diligently to fix the problem. “I've worked around enough people for the last decade to learn how to set a splint and birth a baby,” he told Sir Henry.

Esma and Bethany arrived with a pot of hot water and salts. “Will he be all right?” Bethany sidled beside her grandfather.

David's gaze moved from the old man fussing at Esma about the water temperature to the low ceiling above him, wondering if Meg was ill in her room not to have heard the commotion. He didn't want to feel responsible for these people in any way.

David stood. “Mrs. Shelby? See that he soaks the foot.”

He returned to the kitchen to wash his hands. Leaning both palms on the countertop, he stared out the window.

“Thank you.” Bethany had followed him. She wore yellow, the same color as the bright curtains that draped the windows. “For what you did for us—”

“I didn't do anything, Miss Munro.”

“But you did. Not just for Sir Henry, but for standing against Nellis. I fear it will not go well for you. You don't want to make him an enemy. But I guess it's too late for that.”

He plucked a towel hanging from a wooden peg and dried his hands, looking down at the younger girl. “What happened to the tenants on this land?” he asked.

“Most have left to find work,” she said, studying the toe of her slipper. “With the river and the channel a short distance away, this area has become a haven for smugglers. If Tommy Stillings hasn't put the fear of death in our souls, then the
hounds running loose over the countryside have. The tenants remaining do so at their own peril.”

Forcing down a spark of anger, David reminded himself that these people were strangers. When he left, he would see none of them again. “Yet you're still here,” he said.

“For the most part, Sheriff Stillings leaves us alone,” Bethany said. “Victoria saved his life once, and, out of some sense of honor, he has not treated us the same as he has others. But she'll stand up to him one too many times, I fear.”

David remembered the night he'd first come to this village, and the fact that Sheriff Stillings had come here with the earring. “The excise officers know nothing about this?”

“Oh, sometimes soldiers and the excise officers come. The smuggling stops. Nellis does nothing at all.” Bethany looked away. “I fear it is very possible that you made a poor investment with your purchase of Rose Briar.”

“Do you think?”

He walked to the window and edged aside the yellow curtain. Even as he watched, the last of the light fell away from the sky, leaving sleet sheeting against the glass. “I heard the hounds this morning,” he said.

Esma snorted in disgust. Carrying a pan of water, she walked past him and dumped it in the sink. “Yes, they were running about. That's why Lady Munro left this afternoon to check on Mr. Doyle.” She wiped her hands on her apron. “He's the groundskeeper at the church. She should have been back hours ago. We did not tell Nellis—”

“Lady Munro is gone?” Moving away from the window, he looked between Mrs. Shelby and Bethany. “Why didn't someone tell me this sooner?”

“Mr. Rockwell left to find her just before Nellis arrived.”

David forced himself not to run as he pulled his gloves out of his pocket, but he was already walking out of the kitchen; then sprinting across the backyard toward the stable.

With Colonel Faraday loose, he cursed Meg's foolishness. Then there was also part of him that feared she had fled.

The old part of him that knew the old part of her as he knew his own soul. Victoria Munro might be close to sainthood in Sir Henry's eyes, but Meg Faraday could look down the sight of a gun and kill a man. It was only a matter of time before she ran again. He just didn't want to believe it could be this soon.

 

“I've a mind to marry ye, mistress,” Mr. Doyle's voice rasped over Victoria's cheek.

Easing him onto the bed, Victoria smiled, if only to acknowledge she'd heard him. He still suffered from hypothermia. She had found him in the burned-out rectory hiding beneath the desk, clutching a chicken for dear life and shivering beneath a heavy woolen blanket. “In a few years I may consider your offer.” She adjusted the pillows behind his back. “Mr. Rockwell has started a fire in the front room. I'll fix tea. But I want you to stay warm beneath those blankets. You've suffered exposure.”

Thin hands grasped hers. “She's been gone a year, my lady.”

“I know.” Victoria tucked his hands inside hers.

Spidery purplish veins marred his cheeks and nose, and he squinted up at her, his left eye coated with an opaque film. He had been blind in that eye for five years. “I remember when she had hair the color of yours,” he said, half asleep.

“You miss your wife. Is that why you were at the church?”

Victoria knew he spent a lot of time in the burned-out
structure. Sometimes she would find him sitting on the floor in front of the crumbling pulpit.

“Ye tell Sir Henry that Doyle says he best be findin' ye a husband soon. 'Tis a shame to see sturdy stock go to waste.”

Victoria sat back on the bed and gave Mr. Doyle a stern look. “Since you're so spry, maybe I should send you to Widow Gibson's place to spend the winter.”

“You wouldn't send me away, would ye, my lady?”

Victoria had to send him somewhere for his own safety. Mrs. Gibson was the former Rose Briar cook. Last year she'd moved in with her son, who still managed to farm a spot of land on the estate. “She can cook a good meal, and it's safer for you. She could use help around the farm. You'll have a place to keep your chickens.”

“Then ye be knowing the truth of it.” Thoughtfully rubbing his chin, he peered at her through his one good eye. “It isn't safe these days.” He lowered his voice. “Ol' Doyle can tell ye a thing or two about what I seen some nights that would stiffen the hairs on your neck, mum. There be ghosts in the belfry. Not even the hounds went in there last night.”

Victoria bent over the nightstand and dimmed the lamp. She would have to go over to the church and find out what had frightened Mr. Doyle. Looking out the window, toward the church, she suspected the ghostly specters were lantern-carrying humans and part of Stillings's group of smugglers.