Jo Beverley (32 page)

His teeth were chattering.

At the back door, she inserted the key, fumbling, probably because her hands were as icy as his. Then she turned the lock, opened the door, and dragged him in.

As she closed the door behind them, he slumped against a wall. “Thank God.” Then he said, “It's as cold inside as out!”

“Of course. There's been no fire here for days.” She turned and pressed herself to him, rubbing his arms. “Have you
never
been in an unwarmed house?”

“I don't think so. Warm me, Meg?”

He didn't intend it to be flirtatious, but she turned coy and flustered. Lord knew, the last thing on his mind at the moment was sex. And that was a first, too.

Perhaps she realized it. She shook her head, probably at herself. “Come on then.” She pulled him down a corridor to the front hall of the house, then upstairs.

He couldn't imagine that it would be warmer on the upper floors, but he followed, rubbing himself and astonished by how very cold it could be inside a building. The only improvement was escape from the wind.

She went into a bedroom and stripped an eiderdown off the bed. “Here.”

He snatched it and wrapped it around his shoulders. Not instant warmth, but better. Better. She dragged a woolen blanket off the bed, and huddled into it herself, then went to the next room where she repeated the process.

Now they each had a fluffy eiderdown and a blanket, and he was beginning to think he might be human again in time. A few feathers escaped and fluttered to the floor. These coverings were old and worn, but never had anything seemed more precious.

“Better?” she asked anxiously.

“Much. But my breath's still puffing in here.”

“Let's go to the kitchen and see if the wood's still there. With a fire we can even boil water.”

As he followed her, he said, “Brandy would help.”

She paused to cast him a look.

He sighed. He supposed it was too much to expect.

In the kitchen she went straight to a box near the old-fashioned stove. “Yes. There's wood still here. The tinderbox should be in that drawer, there.”

He found it. “I'll do this.” He prayed he was able. He had struck a light for himself a time or two. He'd never built a fire. He checked that there was tinder in the box, pondering the fact that he'd only ever used a tinderbox as a boy in play. Fire was something he took for granted.

Like everything else.

He watched Meg competently layer twigs and pieces of almost shredded wood with larger sticks. No logs here, brought in from the estate. In fact, no proper firewood. Ends of planks, broken branches, even a piece of a chair leg.

Scavenger's wood.

He hadn't realized just what straits she and her family had been in. He'd had no idea what poverty truly meant. Perhaps he still didn't, but he was learning.

She glanced over at him. “Time to start a light.”

It suddenly seemed the most important feat possible, to be able to create fire. He knelt by the grate and flicked flint against steel, clumsy because of the cold, and because of wretched inexperience.

Sparks flew, but feebly, and the tinder wouldn't catch.

“Perhaps I should do away with my servants and learn to cope for myself.”

“They'd hate that.”

He smiled at her. “True.”

Determined to prove he could do something useful, he flicked harder and harder. At last, a spark caught and the tinder flared. Hastily, before it could burn out, he put the flame to her smallest pieces of wood and watched with delight as the fire caught.

It was good, dry wood, and the flame crackled through, bringing light and heat. Not significant heat yet, but it warmed and brightened his heart. He leaned forward and kissed her firmly on her parted lips.

She accepted it as it was meant, smiling brilliantly at their improved circumstances.

They both stayed there, feeding wood to the fire, holding out hands to the fledgling warmth as heat danced on their cheeks. Eventually, he rose, bringing her to her feet with him, sensual thoughts stirring. Oh yes, he was recovering fast.

She, however, pulled away. “I think we left some
vegetables. Why don't you check the larder over there? We only threw out the things that would rot. It seemed wrong to waste food.”

He wondered wryly about just how much food was wasted in his household every day. He also noted that she had not pulled away from him in coyness, but simply because she had her mind on practical matters.

Sensible Meg.

Silly Meg.

He rather thought they'd have to spend the night here. If so, he had plans. What better way to keep warm?

Obediently, however, he hunted through the larder, keen on the idea of food of any sort. Soon he was aware again of the extent of their poverty. Perhaps they'd had plenty of milk, butter, fruit, and other such perishable food, but he doubted it. All he came up with was a small sack of dried peas, an inch of oats in the bottom of a crock, and some bunches of dry green-gray plants that were doubtless herbs. A box contained some salt, and a shaker some pepper. In a screw of blue paper, he found a small nugget of sugar.

As he put the sorry collection on the plain wooden table, he wondered if this had really been all that stood between a family of five and starvation.

He looked up to see her watching him, looking rather stiff. “We bought food day by day.”

“Of course.” With the few coins she had. He remembered the twins' enthusiasm for food. He'd known they were getting treats, and had been delighted to provide them, but he'd not understood.

Not at all.

“No vegetables?” he said, noting her empty hands.

“I'm afraid not. I was hoping to make soup. . . .” She went to feed the dying fire a few more pieces of wood. “The wood won't last for long. What are we to do?”

So the wood wouldn't have lasted them long when she'd left for their wedding. And she'd almost turned back in the church.

Why?

Surely she must have been desperate enough to accept almost any aid.

Though his monsters were dead, he had to wonder
what a woman in these dire straits would do to save herself and her loved ones. However, he no longer minded, even if she had been the dragon's tool.

He understood.

And he trusted her now.

He even smiled. If that was the way of it, it would be quite a pleasant twist on the duchess's plan, to take her scheme and make a good marriage out of it.

“Do?” he said. “I think we might as well stay here for the night. With any luck, by morning Owain will have sorted everything out.”

“And if he hasn't?”

“Cross each bridge as we come to it.”

She came over to the table and poked at his collection. “I could cook the peas, but they'll take hours to soften, and they won't make exciting eating. There's always porridge, but that takes time, too—”

“We need to go to bed.”

Her eyes flicked up, startled. Wary.

“Think, Meg. In a bed together, with lots of covers, we can stay warm until morning. We can talk there as well as here, and decide what's best to do.”

“Talk?”

The table divided them. “Or other things. If you want.”

“I don't.”

“Don't you?”

Her steady gaze flickered away, brightening his hopes. “We should keep our minds on the problems.”

“All night?”

“Or sleep.” She looked back at him, but it was no longer steady, and in the dying light of the fire, he thought he saw a blush.

“I won't do more than you want, Meg.” How to persuade her to want it? “Look at it another way. If we can't think of anything else, we may have to surrender you to the law. This might be our last chance for a while.”

She bit her lip.

“I'm sorry if that frightens you, but it's the truth. I'm used to thinking myself a pretty omnipotent fellow, but
I can't perform miracles. I will, however, keep you from the noose.”

She put her hand to her throat, and he went quickly to hold her. “Stop it, silly.”

“But I was there!” She clutched him to her. “It could be made to look bad. I saw that when the duchess was questioning me. My story sounds so strange!”

“You're still the Countess of Saxonhurst. That means a lot.”

She looked up at that, chin firm. “It shouldn't. Justice should be fair for Meg Gillingham as well.”

“One battle at a time. Bed?”

After a moment, she said, “Very well.” But at the door, she stopped dead. He thought she was balking, but she turned and ran back to the big Dutch sideboard, set with plates and dishes.

She pulled over a chair and stood on it, reaching up to the very top, letting her covers fall away. He hurried over. “What is it? Don't fall.”

She seized a big, earthenware pot and clutched it to her. He steadied the chair as she clambered down.

“I just remembered!” she declared, eyes bright.

He gathered her eiderdown, and put it around her shoulders again. “What? More magic?”

She didn't take offense. “Almost as good!” She raised the lid and taking out a cloth-wrapped bundle, she peeled back the cloth to reveal a brown lump.

“What is it?” he asked, extremely dubiously.

“It's Christmas pudding, of course! My mother made one in the summer, so we had a little bit of traditional Christmas. And since we wouldn't have a Twelfth Night cake, I saved this for then. It's not Twelfth Night, but I think our need is greater than tradition.” She broke off a piece and popped it in his mouth.

He accepted it warily. Christmas pudding always came hot and soaked in flaming brandy. This was cold, solid, and had an unpleasant fatty film to it. But a moment later, the sweetness of raisins burst in his hungry mouth, and he could cheerfully have grabbed it all.

She broke a small piece for herself, but paused. “You're supposed to make a wish.”

“I thought that was when stirring the pudding.”

“Do you still do that? Stir the pudding?”

“Of course. Cook makes it, then we all tramp through the kitchen in order of rank to give it a stir and make our wish.”

“And what did you wish for this year?”

“I don't remember. This was back in August. A good pudding has to stand.”

“True.”

He saw her sadness at memories and wanted to gather her into his arms, but instinct said this wasn't the moment. “Do you remember your wish.”

“I wasn't here. I was at the Ramillys'.”

“But your family makes a wish when eating it, too? What was that?”

“I only had one wish then. A wish for help.”

“For me.”

She smiled and looked down. “I didn't even know to dream of you then.”

He took the piece of the pudding and put it to her lips. “What are you wishing for now?”

“We're not supposed to tell.” But after a moment, she said, “I'm going to wish that when this nightmare is over, I'll be the countess you deserve.” She took the piece of pudding.

“You're already more than I deserve.”

She laughed and shook her head, then put a piece to his lips. “So, what is your wish?”

He chewed and swallowed. “That you come and enjoy pudding in bed with me.”

And she blushed, showing she knew the other meaning of pudding. His magical, perfect wife.

Meg clutched her blanket and eiderdown around her, feeling like a ship on the waves again, with a gale building. She didn't know what to say. Something swirled in her that longed for what he offered. “It would be warmer in bed,” she offered as a halfway step.

“True.”

She led the way back upstairs on weakening legs, aware, aware of him following, and not only by the flickering light of the candle he carried.

She'd never been in such a tangle of emotions in her life. Fear of the law lay in her like cold stone, and his
confidence only chipped at the surface of it. Though she and her family had always been respectable and law-abiding, she knew that the legal system could be a monster.

Wrapped around that fear was guilt. He still didn't realize that this was all her fault. He was cold and hungry because of her use of the
sheelagh.
Sir Arthur was probably dead from the same cause.

Could she honestly let him make love to her in ignorance?

A silly problem, but still there, was a feeling that a marriage should not be consummated in an abandoned house with everything so perilously unsettled around them.

It felt illicit.

Forbidden.

When she thought about which bed to use, she considered briefly her parents' big bed. But that was unthinkable. It would have to be the smaller one she and Laura had shared. In her mind, however, that bed was as virginal as an altar, and despite their marriage vows, she felt as if she was contemplating a terrible sin.

And she was contemplating it. Over all her fear, anxiety, and guilt ran a feverish hum that she recognized as desire.

She paused at her bedroom door, facing the wood. “I did say that I wouldn't, as long as you weren't reconciled with your grandmother.”