Cheryl Holt (4 page)

During his tempestuous interval as a libertine in London, before he’d joined the army, he’d wooed and seduced and debauched, but in all his philandering, he’d never run across a female who was so complacent with her body, her nudity. It was thrilling to view her, and he couldn’t look away. Like the worst, most pathetic voyeur, he watched, cataloging her every move.

She retrieved a bar of soap, and proceeded to wash. Raising her hands, she lathered them, then stroked the bubbles downward, under her arms, round and round her breasts, her stomach, her thighs. She scrubbed between her legs, the bar passing over and over her sheath, then she spun about, showing him her delectable backside, the cleft of her dimpled ass.

Feet braced, bum pushed out, she was bent over, open, splayed wide, revealing every risqué inch of her privates. He’d never witnessed such a carnal sight, and he pictured himself dallying with her, advancing on her from behind, seizing her flanks and entering her with a languid thrust.

She dipped into the pond and rinsed herself, then she clambered out, her skin white against the thick foliage. Sexy, alluring, she scrambled onto the grass and picked up a towel, sensuously caressing herself with it. Arms up, breasts jutting out, she dried her shoulders, bosom, belly, legs, the
towel descending in enticing circles, then she swathed it around herself. The fabric fell to her knees, and she secured it by tucking a corner at her cleavage. The wrap made her appear wanton and untamed, like a native savage.

His strength gave out, and he flopped onto his pillow, his destroyed torso sinking into the mattress, and he reached down, his fingers at his crotch. A withered stump, his cock lay on his leg, limp and useless as a noodle. Nothing. No blood pounding. No flesh swelling. Not so much as a pulsing vein.

How could he evince no reaction? How could the lusty display leave him unaffected? From the night at age fifteen when he’d swivved a tavern wench at the Bristol harvest festival, he’d been a randy, robust fellow. His partners raved over his size, his prowess, his stamina, and ability to satisfy.

Where had his manly aptitude gone? Why couldn’t he feel anything? How could he gawk at such a beauty and be indifferent? Masculine instinct, of its own accord, ought to stir some response, no matter how tepid.

Fatigue set in, and he drifted away, finding it easier to slumber than to deal with reality. He had no answers to the questions that plagued him, could make no sense of the odd failings of a body he no longer recognized. It was simpler to drift, to disregard and neglect.

Sometime later, a noise woke him, and she was standing over him, clad in a thin robe. The belt was loosely cinched at the waist, the lapels baring her to her navel, the globes of her breasts teasing him from behind the material.

She smelled like roses, and her hair was still damp, though she’d brushed it. The tresses curled around her hips.

On espying her, he experienced such a wave of peace and tranquillity that he speculated as to whether the serene, snug place was heaven. Perhaps he’d finally died, as he’d been hoping.

“Are you an angel?” he asked.

“No.” She chuckled.

“Are you sure?”

“Very.”

He was desperate to know for certain, and he slipped a hand inside her robe. Her skin was warm and smooth, and he cupped her breast and petted the nipple.

His crude, disrespectful touching didn’t seem to bother her. She tolerated the naughty gesture, staring him down as if he was a nuisance, as if she’d expected nothing more, and he was furious that she noted none of the physical attributes—the blue eyes, the muscled anatomy—over which his lovers had always gushed. Calmly, she nabbed his roaming extremity, and deposited it on his stomach, and she was so casual about it, he might have supposed that strange men fondling her was a regular occurrence.

She grabbed a knitted throw off the end of the bed, and tucked it around him, muttering, “Lord, you stink! We’ll bathe you tomorrow, before we send you home.”

“I don’t want to bathe,” he complained. As if he’d permit her to see him in the altogether!

“It will make you feel better.”

“I don’t want to feel
better
. I wish to be left alone.”

“Your wish is granted, Your Majesty.” She strolled out.

“What’s your name?” he bellowed, but she kept on. He repeated the query, and when she didn’t reply, his rage escalated. “Where am I? Who brought me here?”

Why didn’t she stop? How dare she ignore him! Didn’t she realize who he was? Didn’t she recognize his family? With the snap of his fingers, the slash of a pen, he could ruin her!

Incensed, defenseless, he clasped his pillow and flung it after her. It crashed into the dresser and knocked a figurine to the floor, and the clatter had her stomping back in.

“I am Mrs. Smythe,” she proclaimed. “Your sister, Lady Eleanor, has abandoned you at my
Healing Spa and Bathing
Emporium for Women
. It is near to Bath and many hours’ ride from Bristol Manor. This is
my
business, and
my
residence, and you are not welcome. I intend that you will be on your way to Bristol as soon as a carriage can be arranged.” She snatched up the figurine and repositioned it on the dresser, then she marched toward him. “Now, do be silent. I have a tedious schedule tomorrow, and I need my rest.”

All tenderness absent, she snagged the pillow and stuffed it under his head. “If you toss it again, you’ll sleep without it.”

She flounced out, grumbling as she went. “Impossible, blue-blooded, arrogant, pampered . . .”

The epithets trailed off, and he listened as she strode up the stairs, as she trekked to the room above him and climbed into bed.

Embarrassed and contrite, he exhaled and peered out the window, studying the stars.

So . . . Eleanor had delivered him. To a
women’s
establishment, operated by a fussy, authoritarian, nudity-flaunting witch. If he hadn’t felt so miserable, he might have laughed.

What had Eleanor been thinking? That he could be restored at some . . . some bathhouse? That a rude, cheeky commoner was the answer to his prayers?

He tried to remember earlier in the day, but due to his over-imbibing, he had scant recollection of anything past dawn. She’d accomplished his kidnapping, but how? Charles must have abetted her. Had she convinced him? Or had she commanded his assistance?

Well, the cantankerous Mrs. Smythe had promised to evict him, and if she didn’t, he’d contact Charles to fetch him. He wasn’t about to remain with his persnickety jailer.

Uncomfortable, aching, sweaty, and parched, he craved a stout brandy, a splash of laudanum, and he fell into a fitful doze. When he awakened, it was morning. His joints were throbbing, his hands shaking, his mouth dry as a desert. He
was much too sober, when he couldn’t bear to be coherent. He’d rather dawdle in his self-imposed void where nothing signified.

Glancing around, he searched for a bell he could ring to summon a servant, but there was none to be had.

Outside, down by the pool, Mrs. Smythe was aiding a frail, elderly matron in a wheeled chair. Various peculiar images floated through his mind—of his viewing her in the nude, of his massaging her breast—and he couldn’t decide if the memories were genuine or fantasy.

Whichever they were, they had him unsettled, jittery, and yearning for something he couldn’t define. He didn’t want to be lucid! Didn’t want to be brooding over Mrs. Smythe and what might or might not have transpired between them. Most of all, he didn’t want her attending to someone else, and he grew illogically irate.

Mrs. Smythe was correct: He was spoiled, querulous, and downright despicable. He hadn’t always been thus, but after events in Spain, which had transformed him into a different person, he couldn’t determine how to act. The gods had played a cruel joke, raising him with everything—good looks, charm, notoriety—then swiping it all away. As they’d proven, he wasn’t strong, he couldn’t carry the burdens they’d forced him to assume.

He was being exceedingly cross and juvenile, but he couldn’t abide that she was neglecting him, and he banged on the windowsill and shouted at her.

“Mrs. Smythe! Come here!”

She froze and whirled around, as her patient panicked at hearing his male voice. Toppling her chair, she leapt into the water, her unflattering swimming costume billowing out behind.

“Was that a man?” she inquired of Mrs. Smythe. “Is there a man inside?”

“Don’t be silly,” Mrs. Smythe soothed. “I wouldn’t have a
man
about. You know that. Would you excuse me for a minute?” An employee took over the therapeutic session with the invalid, then, her own fury evident, Mrs. Smythe stalked to the house, and he waited, as a door slammed, as she rushed in his direction.

“Are you insane,” she snarled as she strutted in, “scaring that poor woman as you did? Have you forsaken all decency and civility? Or are you simply an unconscionable boor by nature?”

“I needed you.”

“Well, so does Mrs. Goodman. She’s dying. You’re not.” If she stuck her snooty nose up any farther it would have rubbed on the ceiling. “At the moment, her affliction takes precedence over your imperious whining.”

She’d told him, hadn’t she? Did she hate all men, or just himself? As they were scarcely acquainted, he couldn’t fathom what he might have done to offend. Perhaps he’d insulted her when he’d been intoxicated. Not that he cared. Eleanor had transported him to the blasted facility against his will, and Mrs. Smythe would rue the day she’d agreed to board him.

“I require a stiff whiskey—bring the entire bottle—and a hefty dose of a soporific. Whatever you have available is fine.”

“For what do you need a narcotic?”

“I’m in pain.”

“Pain promotes healing.”

“Balderdash. Go get them for me,” he pronounced. “And I’m ready for breakfast. Three eggs. With ham. Thickly sliced and fried.”

As if he hadn’t spoken, she said, “I advised your sister that this was exactly the reason I wouldn’t treat you.”

She’d refused Eleanor?

The idea nettled, making him eager to stay solely to annoy her. He was famous. Infamous. The whole country was groveling at his feet. What was the matter with her?

“You decline to help me? Me? Captain Stephen Chamberlin? Decorated hero of the Crown?”

“I have a thriving business,” she stated. “For
women
. Mrs. Goodman’s reaction was typical. There’s no place for you.”

“You will
create
a place.”

“No.”

“Yes!”

“Aren’t you a bloody piece of work?” she chided, shocking him with her bold cursing. “You aristocrats believe you can do whatever you please, to whomever you please. You and your sister are positive I will exhaust myself, merely because of who you are. Well, you can think again!”

She started to leave, and he worried she might never return. “I need a bell, so that I may signal you.”

“If I gave you a bell, you’d be jangling it constantly, and then, I’d have to kill you. I’m not inclined to commit murder. Not even yours.” She tromped to the door. “I’ll be back with your breakfast in a few minutes, Your Royal Assness.”

He relaxed, wearied by their argument, but titillated, too. In his world, as the third son of the Earl of Bristol, he was plagued by lackeys, by hangers-on and sycophants. People jumped to do his bidding, to pamper and coddle, and in his current condition, their hovering left him feeling as if he couldn’t breathe.

It was refreshing to have her sassing him, to debate and match wits. She wasn’t in awe, wasn’t concerned that he was an exalted Chamberlin son, didn’t seem to be aware that he was the champion of Salamanca and many other battles. How exhilarating to interact with someone who didn’t cast that carnage into his face every two seconds!

She was coming, and he lay very still, memorizing her gait. Carrying a tray, she entered and approached, balancing it as she pulled up a chair.

“Can you sit?” She showed no lingering animosity over their quarrel.

“Yes.”

“Would you like to?”

He nodded, and she set the tray aside and arranged the pillows, then she gripped him under the arms and dragged him up. Her strength, compared to his weakness, made him ashamed.

“You’re skinny as a rail,” she mentioned. “No wonder your sister brought you to me.”

He blushed, detesting that she would comment on his physique. Once, he’d cut a dashing figure. He’d been firm and fit, but no longer. Injuries had shriveled his anatomy till he resembled a dried-up old crone, rather than a vibrant, robust rogue.

“Are you a nurse?”

“Of sorts.”

“You heal people?”

“They heal themselves, with God’s help. I don’t have much to do with it.”

A novel notion, and it sparked a glimmer of optimism he’d not felt in ages. “Could you cure me?”

“Probably. If you wanted to be cured.”

Another interesting concept. “You don’t even know what’s wrong with me.”

“I don’t need to know.” Shrugging, she took two small glasses off the tray, holding them out.

“What’s this?”

“Hair of the dog.”

He gulped the amber one, which he assumed to be brandy, and it was. Then he swilled the other, shuddering at the bitter tang, but his headache and trembling eased instantly.

“Laudanum?”

“Yes.”

“It’s not nearly enough.”

“You need to wean yourself.”

“I have no desire to taper off.”

“That’s certainly your choice, but while you’re here, you shan’t receive larger doses.” She lifted the napkin off the plate. Except that it wasn’t a plate. It was a bowl. Of oats. A pitcher of cream. A crock of berries. And tea.

He loathed tea. He abhorred oats. He needed a manly meal. “I ordered eggs and ham.”

“So you did.”

“Do you ever listen to anything others say to you?”

“Not when they’re being foolish.”

“What’s
foolish
about a hearty repast?”

“You’re incapacitated and trying to recuperate. You must adjust your diet.”

“What the hell do you know about nourishment?”

“Obviously, more than you”—which was true, but he deplored her snippy, superior attitude—“and watch your language.”