Healing Grace (24 page)

The sunlight filtering through the windows was blinding. The best Constance could do to block it out was bury her head more deeply into the pillow. She didn’t want to move an inch, because every single part of her body ached, not to mention the pounding in her skull. But she didn’t have much choice unless she wanted to wet the bed.

It took another minute to realize she couldn’t get up. This time though, it wasn’t due to her plethora of ailments. It was because something heavy had fallen on her and was draped across the small of her back. Because she was on her stomach, it wasn’t easy to see, but she twisted her head and opened her eyes. Out of her mouth came a screech so loud it echoed off the walls.

There was a hand—a man’s hand—lying limply on the coverlet!

A second look showed her the hand wasn’t severed from the arm. Rather the arm was what felt like a tree branch lying on top of her.

She was craning her neck, trying to get a better look when something soft and wet poked her in the eye.
Rex
. Apparently her shriek had roused the dog, though it hadn’t fazed the man lying in her bed. Further inspection of the hand and arm weren’t necessary. There was no mistaking those long fingers with their deeply bedded, manicured nails, or the light layer of dark hair that splattered the tree branch…
er
… forearm.

Who else could it be but Etienne?

And he was snoring. The slow inhale and exhale of his breath droned on.

Constance’s next issue was figuring out how to extricate herself. She opted for a slow wiggle-like sidle, one that brought her, little by little, closer to the edge of the mattress and out from under his arm.

While so engaged, though she didn’t make a sound, she was sure the movement would wake him, especially when his hand plopped off her back and landed with a thump on the bedspread. A second later, she made a much louder thump as her hands and knees hit the floor. From there, she scrambled up, tripping over the hem of her nightgown in the process, and skittered through the door.

It didn’t take long to do what she needed to do. She let Rex outside so he could take care of business too, then headed to the privacy of the kitchen to draw water to fill a basin, where soap and washcloths were at hand. The first thing she did was remove the bandages from her shoulders and elbows. They weren’t necessary any longer since the scrapes were well scabbed over. Then she got to it, ridding her skin of what felt like layers upon layers of dried sweat.

A lingering soak in the tub would have been better, but doing that with Etienne in her house wasn’t such a grand idea. With her luck he’d awaken as soon as she was immersed, and he’d insist upon staying with her. Not because he was a lecher when it came to her body—which he was—but because he would believe she’d pass out and drown.

It didn’t occur to her until she slipped back into her nightgown, that she didn’t remember putting it on the night before. The last thing she remembered was Etienne drawing the covers over her. At the time she’d been naked. She couldn’t remember him having his way with her either, but he must have, because that’s what husbands did to their wives.

Except that Etienne wasn’t her husband. And, oddly, her pain didn’t come from that kind of battering. In fact, that part of her was about the only place on her body that wasn’t sore. But trying to figure out what exactly Etienne had done to her only made her headache worse. Trying to solve the nightgown dilemma was almost as bad, so she decided her best course would be to simply go back to bed. The next time she awakened, hopefully she would feel less horrible, and then, if she wanted to think, she could think.

She rounded the corner to the bedroom with Rex on her heels and stopped short. Her head was so fuzzy, she’d forgotten Etienne was in her bed, and by the sound of it, still in snore-filled slumber.

This was one of those times she wanted to kick herself for failing to invest in a spare bed. Now she had another debacle that would require deliberation from an incapable brain. She could go to the sitting room and stretch out on the settee, but it wasn’t nearly long enough, and being cramped didn’t bode well for suffering muscles. She could stretch out on the floor, but the hard surface would be just as uncomfortable. She could wake Etienne and tell him to get out. After all, it was
her
bed. Of course this plan had as much chance of success as Rex becoming the first dog to speak fluent French.

That left one option—share the bed. Truly Etienne’s tree branch arm hadn’t been uncomfortable. In fact, she’d kind of liked the pressure of it, and he’d been keeping her warm from the chilly morning breeze. To get into the same position, however, she would have to do so without disturbing him, and the only way to do that would be in the exact reverse order of the way she’d wiggled out.

The logistics of such a feat were not the easiest. First she had to get on her hands and knees by the bed. Then she had to sneak an arm under the covers and lift his hand. Next up was her leg, knee first. It was quite a stretch. But it worked, and with her leg holding his hand up, she could finagle her torso under the blanket.

She was half-on, half-off the mattress, trying to push up off the floor with her one remaining foot, when out of the blue Etienne said, “Constance?”

The sound scared her so badly, she tumbled right out and landed with a yelp on the hard floor. She had to shove her hair out of the way to look up, and when she did, Etienne’s face was there, peering down at her from over the edge of the bed.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“I’m trying to get in bed.”

“
Uhh
… Constance,” he murmured, and his lip curled. “Most people sit on the bed first, and then lay down. It’s much easier that way.”

Oh, but he was an infuriating creature! “If you must know, I was trying to get in without waking you up. I was trying to be considerate.”

“I was already awake.”

“Your eyes were closed.”

“No, they weren’t,” he said.

“Yes, they were.”

“No, they weren’t.”

“You were snoring!”

“I don’t snore,” he said.

Constance’s head was pounding too badly to argue, and this was ridiculous. “Can I please get back in bed? I just want to lie down.”

“Why didn’t you say so?”

“I did say so,” she mumbled, but he didn’t seem to hear.

He smiled as he drew the blankets back, giving her a stellar view of his chest and stomach, and that… that scar. The only clothing on him was his white under-britches.

She was still peeking, wide-eyed, when his fingers flitted in front of her face.

“Take my hand,
chérie
. I’ll help you up.”

Although she didn’t want to, her fingers slid into his open palm. And she discovered, even from the odd angle, he could make her float. Again, it wasn’t because he had unusual powers. This time it was her vertiginous head.

In the next heartbeat, she was on her side, facing him, arms limply crisscrossed, eyes closed. The blankets were drawn over her so silkily, they tickled.

“Sleep,
chérie
,” he murmured. “You’ll feel better soon.”

But then, she felt him spring off the other side of the bed. Her eyes flew open and remained glued to rippling muscles as he strolled through the room, drawing curtains to block out the worst of the sunlight. The last view she had was of his back, and…
er
… derriere, as he headed for the door.

“Where are you going?” she asked before she could stop herself.

“To make us something to eat,” he said. “If you recall, we skipped dinner last night. I don’t know about you, but I’m famished.”

* * *

“Wake up,
chérie
.”

Constance groaned. She was too comfortable to get up, especially knowing that any movement, no matter how miniscule, would catapult her out of the temporary painless contentment she’d found.

“It’s time to eat,” Etienne said.

“I don’t want to eat,” she mumbled.

“Yes, you do. You’ll feel like a whole new you when you have something in your stomach. Trust me. Besides, you can’t sleep the entire day away. It’s mid-afternoon. Come on. Sit up.”

He was wrong. She would have welcomed the opportunity to sleep the day away. Nevertheless, she did sit up, but only because she knew he wouldn’t stop pestering if she didn’t.

The first thing she noticed—after his bossy smile, that is—was that he’d put on a shirt. Why he’d bothered, however, she didn’t know, since he’d left the buttons undone. The thing was hanging open, showing off…
er
… plenty.

The second thing was that he was still in his under-britches, and that made the whole shirt donning even more ridiculous. If it was indeed mid-afternoon, then he’d been strutting around her house in his underwear—and open shirt—all day!

The third was that the tray he’d brought was laden with enough food to feed the entire Grace household, children, servants, pets, even the horses. There was no way Constance could fit even a tenth of it into her.

“Shall we start with fruit? Strawberries? Raspberries? Cherries? I picked them myself.” He grinned widely.

Constance had strawberry plants in her garden, and the wild raspberry bushes on one side of her house were plentiful. She would have been touched by his efforts. She might have even been endeared by his proud, little-boy smile. Except that the only cherry trees she knew of lined the road in front of the schoolhouse. That meant not only had he been outside in her backyard, but he’d gone to the schoolhouse. He’d stood on the road, where anyone could see him. He’d probably even waved to passersby, calling out, “Howdy! Pleasant day to you folks!”

She only wondered if those people were as mortified as she was. No one needed to tell her Etienne had done all his fruit picking without pants.

In the end, Constance ate all three fruits. She had cornbread, oatmeal, two hard-boiled eggs, potatoes, ham, and then Etienne forced her to follow up the whole gamut with a slice of apple pie. Just when she thought she would burst if she took another bite, he said, “How ’bout something to wash it all down? I didn’t forget drinks. Just couldn’t fit everything on the tray.”

Constance closed her eyes while he was out of the room. She didn’t open them until she felt the mattress dip at her hip. One look at the tall glass in his hand and she burst out, “Oh, no! No more medicine!”

“But I brewed it myself. It’s good. I added extra sugar for you.”

“Absolutely not,” was her vehement response. He’d probably turned her quaint little kitchen into a whiskey distillery. She could only imagine the disaster she’d find when finally she ventured forth.

“You wound me to the quick,” he said, putting a hand over his heart…
er
…
bare
chest. “I worked really hard to get it right. Never had to make a batch by myself before. I have a whole pitcher full still in the kitchen.”

“No.”

“Please.”

“No.”

“Take the glass or I’ll drop it,” he said.

“You wouldn’t dare.”

His eyes flashed. “It would be a shame to ruin that pretty bedspread. And your nightie will get stained, too.”

“Fine.” Constance took the glass. “But just so we’re clear. I’m not drinking the whole thing, and I’m not getting drunk again. I’ll take one sip. That’s all.”

“Okay,” he said, grinning. “Try it. Tell me what you think.”

In anticipation of the horrid taste, Constance squeezed her eyes shut, and with her free hand, pinched her nose. She did take a sip, albeit not a big one. At least in that regard, she’d learned her lesson. In the next heartbeat, the dark clear liquid sprayed from her lips, splattering everything, including Etienne’s shirt and torso.

She opened her eyes and glared. “That’s not whiskey!”

“Nope.” Between his insolent guffaws, he said, “Nothing like sweet tea! Like I said, brewed it myself. Drink up,
chérie
.”

What a rascal he was! Constance could have thumped him, not that she’d ever hit anyone before. Of course it hadn’t dawned on her that whiskey took several days to ferment, or that she wouldn’t have all the ingredients on hand. Not that she knew what those were. She had no idea how whiskey was made. Even so, she found her lips quirking. Seconds later, she couldn’t contain her own laughter.

Eventually though, they were both sober again. Etienne’s eyes furrowed as he reached up to brush a strand of hair from her face and tuck it behind her ear. She had the feeling he wanted to say something, something poignant, but whatever it was, he didn’t. Instead he got up abruptly, grabbed the tray and left the room.

Constance did feel better. Many of her muscles were still sore, her elbows smarted every time she moved her arms, and her head was still a little fuzzy, but at least it didn’t ache. And Etienne had been right about eating. Her stomach wasn’t gnawing at her from the inside any longer. She was well enough to pay attention to Rex. She was still petting and talking to the sweet dog when Etienne returned.