Devotion (20 page)

"Where is he?" Maria asked, bringing the servants' heads around in surprise. "His Grace, where is he?" she said.

"Lord Basingstoke thought His Grace could do with a bit of fresh air," Gertrude replied. "I believe he's wheeled him to the stable house. Enjoys that, His Grace does,
watchin
' from the veranda as his horses are worked."

"Then he's . . . aware?"

"Aye."
Gertrude nodded. "Unsociable as always but at least he ain't
hurlin
' and
hellin
' us. Run along, love.
Ya
might enjoy the beasts yerself."

"Aye, that I will," she replied with an excited giggle.

Upon leaving the manse, Maria found her way down one meandering paved-stone walkway after another. Here and there were natural and man-made pools and ponds, both dotted with arc-necked swans that glided effortlessly over the glassy water. There were ivy- grown stone walls and occasional strands of bramble that crowded the footpaths. Here and there steep small slopes crowned with brown grass rose up to block her view,
then
dissipated into flower beds of pale crocuses' shoots that were bending toward shafts of intruding sunlight.

The entire area felt mystical, making her feel like a giddy child. If Paul were here, he might even tease her about fairies hiding beneath eyebrights and anemones. Oh, but he did love to tease her!

At last, she discovered her charge sitting where his brother had deposited him—on a tiny veranda that, at first, appeared to be little more than a green plateau surrounded by fans of brown-tipped ferns. The plateau, however, upon closer inspection, became a lichen- covered stone floor attached to a charming little cottage near a cluster of vastly sprawling stone stables.

For a moment, the image gave her pause. Her heart fluttered in her chest.

Where was the normal severity of his features? How smooth was his brow! How soft were his lips, which appeared to be almost smiling.

Nay.
Impossible.
'Twas only the dance of sunlight around his head and shoulders that made him appear to look so at ease and almost . . . happy.
'Twas only the chill of the wind that made him flush, and look like a man on the verge of laughing aloud in pleasure.

Yet, there she stood, unable to move, irrevocably mesmerized by the play of light and shadow on his features. How beautiful and almost childishly innocent he looked in the sun, the wind caressing his chilled face and flirting with his flowing hair. His lap blanket lay in a heap by his feet. The muffler Gertrude had wrapped around his neck and shoulders dangled off the back of his chair and fluttered in the occasional brisk wind.

"Miss Ashton."

She jumped and turned. Basingstoke poised in the shady tunnel of elm limbs, his coat collar turned up around his nape.

"Good morning." He smiled. "I had gone looking for you. I thought you might enjoy a tour of the stables with my brother and me."

Before she could respond, he caught her arm and urged her along. "I assume you've been thoroughly educated about my brother's passion for Arabian horses."

"Somewhat, sir."

"Exotic creatures, Miss Ashton, as you'll soon discover. My own father held a fascination for them.

Traveled all the way to Arabia to attempt to purchase several.
It was on our voyage home that our ship . . ." He took a long breath and slowly released it. "Watch your step.
Careful.
Seems the path has fallen to disrepair since my brother's become housebound. Never mind about the ship. That doesn't matter any longer.
Best not to dwell on it.
We were talking about horses. Arabians, Miss Ashton. My wife, Miracle, owned a dozen or more when I met her—"

"Miracle?"
She stepped through a frail veil of down hanging strands of brown ivy, paused only long enough to turn her face toward the sunlight,
then
continued on at Basingstoke's side.

"Yes, Miracle," he said.

"How delightfully unusual, my lord."

"She
is delightfully unusual, Miss Ashton. As were her cache of horses. Soon after our marriage, she gifted my brother with several: a stallion called Noblesse; a mare named
NapPerl
,
and a colt by her stallion Napitov that my brother has since named
NapPoleone
. I vowed these horses have—or had—changed my brother's life. He spent far less time at the gaming tables than he did aback Noblesse."

"I have often said, my lord, that a man who is kind to horses is a good man, not only of heart, but of soul
. '
Tis said, sir, that gypsy gold does not chink and glitter. It gleams in the sun and neighs in the dark."

"Saying of the
Claddagh
Gypsies of Galway, I believe," he said with a flash of a smile.

She laughed gaily and skipped ahead, uplifted by the clean rinsed morning and brisk air that made her flush with energy and vibrate with renewed enthusiasm over her task ahead. Dear lord, how long since she had felt so light and carefree?

Reaching the veranda, she declared in a bright, clear voice that might have roused the heaviest daydreamer, "Good morning, Your Grace," yet he made no noticeable start.

She moved up beside him, keeping a good distance between them, and regarded his sun- and wind-kissed profile as he stared out over the oblong arena where a groom exercised a high-prancing mahogany-bay horse. How lean was His Grace's clean-shaven face, and stoic. Mayhap she had earlier imagined the pleasure on his features. Certainly, there was little about him now that hinted of serenity.

"Good morning," she repeated more firmly. "Isn't it a grand morning, Your Grace?"

No response.

She gathered his lap blanket, wadded it in her hands, and rolled it over and over before cautiously bending to replace it over his legs. "Don't you look handsome and distinguished this morning, Your
Grace.
What fine leather breeches and—"

He snatched the blanket from her hand and flung it to the stone floor.
All without looking at her, without uttering a sound.

Heart quickening, breath momentarily catching in her throat, which was yet throbbing from the previous fiasco, Maria tottered uncertainly on her tiptoes, glancing with caution and fear, first at Basingstoke, who regarded his brother with mild irritation, then at those hands, hard as anvils, that had almost murdered her last evening.

Again, she retrieved the blanket. "The air is chilly, Your Grace. If you could but see your cheeks, how the cold has given them bright color, and your lips are slightly blue-—I would not have you falling ill with pneumonia, sir." She spread the woolen blanket over his legs again, tucked the ends beneath his thighs,
then
cautiously reached for the muffler.

He grabbed her wrist. Only then did he look up at her with his hard gray eyes, his clean-shaven jaw working with anger and belligerence. Only then did she realize how near his face was to her own, indecently so, it seemed. His warm breath brushed her cheek and mouth. Those ashen-colored eyes were tinged with flakes of gold that she might never have noticed before.

"Sir," she declared in a dry voice. "You're hurting my arm."

Still, his fingers bit into her tender wrist another eternal moment, and she wondered if she would be forced to plead help from his brother.

At last, little by little, his grip eased, until she withdrew her hand and held it to her breast, rubbing away the fierce ache in it with her other. She would not cry, would not acknowledge her own sense of anger and frustration over his continued outrageous behavior. She noticed, then, the discarded cart of food dishes placed to one side.

In an attempt to alleviate the tense moment, she declared in a light tone, "I see you refused your
breakfast.
But surely Your Grace is hungry. Let me see, what has Cook brought you?"

She whisked aside the silver plate domes to reveal cooling kidney pie and mushrooms, partridge legs, sausages, eggs
à
la George, grilled tomatoes and fresh fruit.
"A veritable feast, sir.
Certainly there's something here to your liking. I'll prepare you a plate with a bit of everything—there's nothing like a beautiful chill morning to rouse the appetite."

Managing a smile, she put the tray over his lap and stepped back, anxiously waiting.

He glared at her.

"Eat," she told him, her smile thinning as he neither moved nor spoke. "Mayhap you need help," she offered more softly, and with a deep breath, glanced around for a chair, which she pulled before him and sat down. With fork and knife, she cut his sausage and eggs and sliced the sugared berries into bite-size pieces. Upon heaping the fork with food, she poised it at his mouth.

Nothing.

"Just a small bit, sir. I'm certain you'll find it delicious—"

He turned his face away.

Determinedly, she followed his mouth with the fork. "You must eat. A man of your stature cannot survive on air—"

He turned the other way.

"If not for yourself, then think of your grandmother and your brother and—"

Again, he snatched her arm, causing egg and sausage to scatter over her lap and feet. His grip anchored her while his free hand extracted the fork from hers in a jerky fashion that seemed more mechanical than human. Then he released her.

Fiercely, his countenance creased with concentration and intense emotion, he struggled to manipulate the utensil over the food. Again and again he attempted it, to no avail. In a fit of exasperation and anger, he shoved the tray of food from his lap. It crashed at Maria's feet.

Basingstoke made a move toward her. She threw up her hand to stop him.

She didn't move at first,
then
she left her chair, shook off the egg that clung determinedly to her ankle and stepped over the shattered pottery, retrieved another plate from the serving cart and piled it high with food again.

"'Tis obvious, Your Grace, that you wish to eat, and you wish to feed yourself
. '
Tis understandable, considering you're obviously a man of considerable pride, that you would become frustrated at your current inability to manage on your own. However, there is such a thing as cutting one's nose off to spite one's face. I beseech you . . . allow me to help you."

He stared at her.

She stared at him.

Finally, he opened his mouth, and she promptly fed him his breakfast.

In the distance, encouraged by the proficient groom, the stallion Noblesse trotted above level, hooves flashing,
haunches
and shoulders rippling, each breath the stud blew from its extended nostrils forming a vaporous stream in the cold morning air. Salterdon watched the magnificent Arabian through narrowed eyes, recalling those brisk mornings when he, himself, had mounted Noblesse, and the two of them had ridden down Thorn Rose's wooded bridle paths. More often than not, he had been companioned by a beautiful woman, resplendent in trailing habits and hats with veils and feathers. At some point, he would seduce her from her pony and make love to her under the skies and trees.

God, he wanted to sleep.
Wanted to drift away.
Wanted to forget that he could no longer manage the spirited horse, or the spirited woman.
He was a goddamn invalid.
A goddamn eunuch.
He couldn't string two words
together,
much less make a woman scream with desire and passion.

But she—this new stranger, invader, troublesome little gnat of a girl, simply would not leave him alone. She was there when he tried so fiercely to wrap himself up again in the solitude of his mind—that fairy's voice would come to him, drifting through his foggy thoughts, and like some pied piper lure him out of the comforting quicksand darkness.