Devotion (12 page)

She forced her gaze back to the duke, finding the diversion did nothing to help her rattled senses. Steam rose in a cloud around the dragon tub. The duke's flesh had turned rosy, his hair and beard beaded with moisture.

How natural he looked, as if he were finding a delightful respite in the deep tub of hot water. Had it not been for his eyes staring off into space . .
.

She wrung her hands, paced partially around the tub, trying to focus on anything other than that there was a naked man in a
tub
large enough for two whom it was her responsibility to bathe. A naked stranger—no innocent, kindhearted God-fearing young man like her brother . . . but a man with
body
hair . . . not only on his face but
on
his chest and arms, both of which were growing glossy with steam and
sweat . . . a
man who was nearly old enough to be her
father . . . a
man who had hurled one of his companions out a window.

"Dear Lord in
heaven . . .
if
You
will only see me through this I promise to . . . never entertain an uncharitable thought about my lather again. I realize I've vowed as much before, but I mean it this time. After all, I'm only doing this in order to help my mother escape the
bast
—" She bit her lip and muttered, "Blazes. Surely
You
wouldn't challenge one with so charitable a motive in
mind . . . ?"

She swept up two ornate crystal bottles of salts from a sterling silver tray, ran her thumb nervously over the swirling S, and approached the tub. Refusing to allow her gaze to drift toward the water, she flipped open the hinged lids and dumped the entirety of the two containers into the bath.

A waft of violet-scented steam mushroomed over the tub.

She took a deep breath.

Her fingers deftly rolled up her blouse sleeves, just to her forearms—further would verge on impropriety—it was enough that she was plunging her hands into water wherein lay a naked stranger! Slowly going to her knees beside the tub, gaze fixed on her charge's immobile
features,
she eased a cloth into the water then wrung it out.

Yet, she did nothing but stare at his face that seemed more bestial than human, lost as it was within that dark mane of hair that curled and waved from the bite of humidity coiling around him. She felt involuntarily captured by curiosity, as drawn to his inhumanness as she was repelled.

Salterdon's brow was broad, his eyebrows jetty and heavy, framing deep-set eyes the color of cold ash. His nose, high cheekbones, and mouth were all firm and strong, the latter being grim, having long since lost the ability or desire to smile.

"Hello," she said softly, watching those eyes that registered nothing. "Are you there, Your Grace? Can you hear me?" Guardedly, she swept the wet cloth over his brow—swiftly, then jerked back her hand—then again, more slowly across his cheeks, touched it lightly to his cracked gray lips.

"I'm called Maria, Your Grace. I've come here to help you. Can you hear me?" she asked softly and urgently. "Are you alive yet? Would you give me some sign? Some hint that you're here?
A blink of an eye, a twitch of your lips?"

Nothing.

Sinking back on her heels, her arms hooked over the tub ledge, she regarded his still features, until the water grew tepid and the flush of heat drained from her master's flesh and he became marble-like again—less human and more frightening.

"Daft girl, what's come over me?" she said aloud as she set about scrubbing his arms that were long and heavy. "I've never been one to jump at her own
shadow,
yet, here I am on my knees mentally praying and outwardly shaking, and for what? Treat even a wild animal humanely and it will eventually comply.
'Tis no animal here; only a man."

Water ran from the cloth, down over his broad chest. Her hand looked like a child's against it, she mused, and the realization occurred to her that he had once been a powerful man, and, according to Gertrude, appealing to the ladies.

Laughing to herself, she glanced away, then back. Appealing to the ladies? Why, she couldn't guess. Reflected in that personage was no hint of grandeur or manner. She suspected the ladies of his class appreciated an aristocratic mien: debonair, handsome enough to make even the most fickle maiden swoon in appreciation—like her brother Paul, who had captured the fancy of every eligible young woman in the village.

His Grace, the Duke of Salterdon's bearing was frightfully imposing, unlike Paul's. But then, Paul had been no stranger. She had watched him grow to manhood. Had caught glimpses of his male body throughout her lifetime, therefore nothing about him had seemed foreign or frightening . . . unlike John Rees, the only man she had ever truly felt a certain affection that could, remotely, be deemed as love. Good, kind, constant John . . . had she agreed to marry him she would not be in this predicament now, both mesmerized and repelled by this man who was the very antithesis of what she had always deemed acceptable in a human being, much less a man.

Water dripping from her hands, she moved away from the tub and perched on the edge of a chair near the hearth, finding the heat did little to warm the chill from the room. Her body shivered.

Why could she not take her eyes from him?

Little of His Grace was revealed to her now but his profile, still in repose as he stared off into his private universe. A wave of long damp hair trailed over the back of the tub and lay limply in the still air.

Gertrude bustled into the room. "Have
ya
done, miss? Shall I have the lads come fetch him from the tub now?"

Her gaze captured by the singular curl spilling over the tub ledge, Maria nodded. "Yes.
Or
rather . . .
no.
His
hair . . .
we should wash it?"

"Would
ya
like me to see to it, love? Yer
lookin
' a wee bit pale
yerself
." Gertrude rolled up her sleeves, and with arms as stout as a milkmaid's, she proceeded to grab a pail of water, a handful of soap flakes, and made busy with scrubbing her master's head, while

Maria
remained on the lip of the chair, her fingers twisted into the damp washcloth that had, by now, painted a great wet splotch on the front of her skirt.

"It ain't as if the help wanted to ignore him," Gertrude explained as foam worked up between her fingers. "He just ain't always
obligin
' to our administering."

"His Grace has a right to be angry." Maria watched a thread of white bubbles spill onto the duke's bare shoulder. She looked away, toward the window, noting the sun had disappeared again behind gray clouds. Snow was imminent.

"Aye, but he
don't
have to take it out on the rest of us. Anyhow . . ." Gertrude heaved up a pail of cold water and poured it over his head. "I don't reckon it matters now, poor sod. It's obvious that he's left us in spirit if not in body."

Their meal was delivered in that moment. For His Grace, there was a bowl of cold porridge, for Maria a plate of buttered scones and honey as well as porridge.

Frowning at the sleepy-eyed boy servant, a lad no older than
herself
, Maria declared, "But this won't do.
Cold porridge for His Grace?
I think not, sir. Take it back—"

"He won't eat it anyway," Gertrude declared as she attempted to wrap a fleecy towel around the duke's head.

"Nor would I," Maria retorted with a pique of anger. "Bring him poached eggs and ham.
And a bowl of hot porridge, if you please.
Heap it with almonds, if you have them, and brown sugar to fortify his strength.

Mayhap you all forget that he is
still
your master, and
thereore
deserving of your respect and loyalty. Mayhap you forget that he was once a man—nay, is
still
a man, not an animal, no matter how fierce he looks or behaves."

"Aye, miss," the boy
said,
his countenance full of discomfiture. Only when he had hustled out of the chamber, the tray of unsatisfactory food clattering in his hands, did she turn to discover Gertrude staring at her, die servant's eyes swimming behind
tears.
She nestled her master's head against her ample breast and stroked his wet hair. Her chin trembled.

"Ashamed I am," Gertrude announced with a catch in her voice. "We've buried him already and him still
breathin
'."

"And we'll have no more of
that
sort of talk either," Maria told her sternly, and shook one finger at her. "How would you feel, trapped in a body and unable to speak, but hearing all that is said about you, and all that is spoken is of impending death?"

Gertrude gasped. "
Lud
, do
ya
think he can hear us, lass?"

"Because the will or energy to speak has left him doesn't necessarily mean his ability to hear has fled him as well. Nay, Gertrude, man must endure everything that God sends. Perhaps he will stagger under God's burdens awhile, but he who believes in His causes will not be crushed. No burden ever crushes the human soul but the weight of sin and corruption itself. I . . . don't know the sort of man His Grace was, and is. Only he can know the sort of good or evil that wages war in his heart, dear Gertrude. The battle waged there is between him and the angels. Can he hear us? How can any of us know? Know only that the blessed things are the small charities of life, which throw us out of ourselves, our cares, and struggles, and draw us tenderly back within the circle of human interest. In short, dear Gertrude, do unto others, I always say, and regret will remain a stranger."

His Grace was sat in the wheeled chair before the window. With the help of the servants, and in compliance with Maria's directives, he had been dressed in some of his finest clothes: a soft white linen shirt and a white silk stock, splendid nankeen breeches and black boots. The clothes, however, hung on his frame, driving home the realization to Maria that, most assuredly, the duke had once been a most magnificent specimen.

Still, this most dapper wardrobe was a stark contrast to the savage-like personage. Clean and dry, his dark hair was a riot of cascading waves and curls that framed his face in a rich halo and spilled several inches beyond his shoulders. The untrimmed beard hid all aspects of his lower face.

Having drawn a chair up beside him, and placing herself comfortably into it, Maria attempted to entice his consciousness with the poached eggs and fried ham.