Lois Greiman (6 page)

Near the middle of the bed, Lambkin wobbled to her feet and stumbled off her master’s nether parts. Keelan blinked, trying to find his
bearings in the roiling mists of unreality. The last dream had seemed more real than this. And far more pleasant. Or had it been a dream a’tall?

“Careful, luv. Careful.”

He cut his gaze to the left. Charity stood on the other side of his mattress, but she wasn’t gazing at him with lust-filled eyes and kiss-swollen lips. Neither was she naked. Instead, she was wearing the simple auburn gown from his dreams. Confused, he glanced down, but he couldn’t be certain whether he was naked or not, for his lower regions were covered with blankets.

So there was a God, but he had a damned strange sense of humor.

“Where am I?” His voice was nothing more than a croak.

Charity shifted her worried eyes toward the ghoul and back. “You are at Crevan House with me and Lord Chetfield. Don’t you remember?”

Memories rushed at him like winged bats. Torture, lies, pain. Yes, he remembered. But the dream had seemed so real.

He tried to prop himself on his elbows but it hurt like hell, and she still wasn’t naked, so there seemed little point to the effort. He eased back onto the mattress, head swimming miserably,
and let his eyes fall closed.

“How long have I been unawares?” It felt as if the words were dragged from his throat with a garden rake.

“Through a day and a night,” she murmured.

“Our Charity was quite concerned for your well-being,” Chetfield said.

He felt like death come to visit, and yet he had no wish to hear worry in her sweet voice, little matter how he felt.

“You were talking in your sleep,” Chetfield added, but his voice seemed to come from a great distance, and Keelan’s attention had slipped away.

It was not the girl’s fault that he was—His thoughts slammed to a halt as the old man’s words came home to him. “I did na mean what I said!” he rasped.

The room went silent. The wolf-eyed ghoul was watching him from close proximity. “And what is it exactly that you didn’t mean, Mr. MacLeod?”

Keelan glanced at Charity and back. She looked tense, and still fully dressed. Maybe that was best. “I was but dreaming,” he croaked.

The old man’s expression was unchanged. Keelan forced himself to relax. He was, after all, still alive.

“Here then,” said the girl, and settled carefully onto his mattress. Her position brought back flaming memories of the vivid dreams just past, pumping up his heart rate, hardening his desire. Still, she was modestly clothed. He informed his erection, but it remained stubbornly engorged. “You must be drier than cinders, you poor thing.”

Aye, his throat hurt. But what didn’t? She was holding a goblet, he realized, and suddenly felt rather giddy at the sight of it.

“You will have to sit up to drink,” she said.

His ability to do so seemed unlikely…rather tantamount to flying.

“Perhaps we could ask Bear and Frankie to assist again,” Chetfield suggested.

“Nay,” Keelan rasped, grasping the bedsheet in a white-knuckled hand, and yanking himself upright. Every inch of him gasped in protest. His head bobbled back in silent agony, but he gritted his teeth against the pain and held on to consciousness with a fierce grip.

“Are you all right?” she murmured. There was worry in her tender tone. Worry that he was loath to cause, but fook it all, he wasn’t all right. He was going to pass out. Again.

“Angel?”

“I’m foine,” he lied. “Just give me…” He
concentrated on breathing, on living. He was damned good at living, had proved that if nothing else a thousand times over. “A moment.”

She touched her hand to his brow. “I am so sorry, luv. Where does it hurt?”

Keelan stared at her through pain-narrowed eyes, but despite his good sense he could not hold back the dreams. Erotic memories rolled in like darkling clouds—sweet unfettered Charity, kissing his brow, his chest, his…He jerked his gaze past her to Chetfield, who stood watching with unbending attention.

“Nowhere,” he rasped.

“But surely—”

“I be well. Completely healed.” His tone was scratchy. “’Tis a bleeding miracle.”

She looked at him as if he were daft. Which might very well have been the case. He was daft and starving and very possibly naked. He’d always hoped he’d die naked, but there had been other stipulations. Such as not sharing the room with a ghoulish lord who wanted to tear the very life from his chest.

“Drink this,” Charity said, and put the goblet to his lips. Keelan didn’t try to resist. Instead he sucked in the watered wine, then sputtered, gasping and choking.

She drew the glass away. “You must take it
slow.”

He nodded, still seeing her as she’d been in his dreams. Taking a deep breath, he chanced another long sip.

She watched him, lips slightly parted, then: “I long to take you inside of me,” she said.

W
ine sputtered down Keelan’s windpipe.

He coughed, hacked, and yanked his streaming gaze to the ghoul. But Chetfield’s mismatched features remained calm.

Charity waited, looking worried until the sputtering subsided. “Are you well now?”

Keelan tried to clear his throat, coughed again, glanced at the soft-lipped ghoul, then back at the girl. “What say ye?” he croaked.

“I but asked if you were well—”

“Afore that.”

She blinked, thinking, then: “I said, I long to get some food inside of you.”

He dropped his head back against the pillows, feeling old even beyond his irrational years. Old and beaten and hopeless.

“Mr. Angel?”

He rolled his eyes toward her. Still fully dressed. “Aye?”

“You must eat if you are ever to get me on my back.”

He snapped his head toward her. “What?” he croaked.

She jerked away a half an inch. “You have to eat,” she said, “to get your strength back.”

Keelan speared Chetfield with a frantic gaze. The other’s eyes gleamed like a wary wolf’s. Did he know? Did he realize what Keelan was thinking, dreaming? Or was it more diabolical than that? Perhaps the two of them were in league. Perhaps sweet Charity truly was spouting the lewd propositions he imagined and they were but watching his reactions and chortling at him behind his back. Or…perhaps he was going mad.

He nodded dismally at the thought.

“You can eat?” she asked.

He turned his gaze to the girl’s. Good God, he was tired, exhausted really. He felt himself drift into oblivion.

“I need you,” she whispered.

He jerked awake. But Chetfield still wasn’t trying to kill him. Which probably meant he was hallucinating again. Father God, he couldn’t take
much more of this. He dropped his head back, hoping to find the dreams again.

“Mr. MacLeod.” Chetfield’s voice was smooth, almost soothing. “I fear the maid is correct. You must eat soon or you will be of no use to me.”

Keelan opened his eyes, caught the baron’s gaze. They seemed to be alone in this broken span of time.

Chetfield smiled. “Might you be able to guess what I do with those who do not please me?”

“I be starving,” he intoned, and Chetfield laughed just as the girl reentered the room. Once again she held a tray in her hands. Once again something steamed from a bowl. Or was it all still a dream?

“Did I hear him right?” she murmured.

Chetfield nodded sagaciously. “Our young friend appears to be rather famished.”

She settled back onto the bed, setting the tray beside Keelan’s hip. A ceramic bowl was filled with a thin soup that curled tentative tendrils of fragrance toward his nostrils. Keelan felt his battered system twitch lethargically to life. True, some areas had previously shown interest when Charity entered the room. But he was quite certain those parts would react long after they put him in his grave. In fact, he had some evidence to support that theory.

“Oxtail soup,” she said, and lifted a spoon toward his mouth. Fatigue lay like a millstone upon his shoulders. Nevertheless, he shifted his gaze to the ghoul and opened his mouth.

Charity spooned in the broth, and with it, his indolent system jerked to life. The bread she offered tasted like ambrosia. He finished the bowl, ate the bread from her fingers, and watched her lively face as she smiled and set the spoon back on the tray.

“Very good, Mr. Angel. Very good.”

“Yes,” added the old man. Keelan had almost forgotten his existence. What a pity he must remember. “I’m certain you’ll be up and doing what you do in no time at all.” He turned toward the girl. “Shall we leave him sleep now, my dear?”

She nodded and touched Keelan’s hand. Feelings spurred quietly through him. “Sleep now, luv. And if you’ve a need, I shall come.”

He did have needs, he thought, but before he could figure out exactly what they were, sleep took him in its hard grasp.

Dreams came again. Not pleasant now, but harsh and old, still raw after a hundred plus years—his mother’s pleading eyes, the taste of death on his tongue, and the knowledge…the unending certainty of his own cowardice.

“Mr. Angel.” An apple-bright face stared down at him. “Mr. Angel,” Charity said, “you’re scaring your lamb.”

He glanced down. Lambkin stood, knobby-kneed and befuddled beside him, dark ears drooping.

Ragged memories stormed through him, leaving a bitter aftertaste. “What did I say?” His voice was a harsh croak.

“I couldn’t understand a word of it,” she said, and handed him Lambkin’s bottle. He turned it toward the little ewe, who took it without hesitation, bobbling her tail at the first taste. “But you seemed terrible distraught.”

Distraught
. He almost laughed at the word.

“Are you feeling any better?”

He took inventory. His left foot hardly hurt a’tall. “Aye, lass,” he said, and searched hopelessly for some hope, but the ancient dreams made him melancholy. “I be fit as a milch maid.”

“You know what it is you need?”

He took a stab in the dark. “A pint o’ whisky?”

“To return to your master’s house, to sleep in your own bed.”

He didn’t answer. The dream was still close, hovering like a dark wraith, ready to devour him, for he knew the truth, had known it all along—his mother’s potion was not meant to
make him brave. It would only make him safe.

“Mr. Angel…” Charity said.

He drew his mind back from his grim thoughts and gave her a weak smile. “Something tells me yer lord might take it amiss if I tried to leave without his permission,” he said.

“Lord Chetfield?” Her satiny brows rose. “Naw. He wouldn’t be bothered a’tall. He only wants what’s best for you. Besides…” She shrugged a bonny shoulder, eyes wide and bright. “He’s not here today.”

“What’s that?” Keelan asked, perking up.

“The master,” she said. “He had errands to see to in the village. Took Frankie and some of the others with him.”

His mind was spinning suddenly, giving him hope, reason. “Where’s Roland?”

“With the master.”

“And Beast?”

Her brows knit together, then: “You mean Bear?” she asked, and picked up Lambkin, who had just sucked the bottle dry.

“Aye.”

“I believe he’s in the barn,” she said, and opened the window, bending double to deposit the little creature on the ground. “But truth be told, ’tis more likely he’s having hisself a nap.”

Keelan shifted his gaze toward the door, con
sidering chances, options. Aye, he was hurting, but he wasn’t dead. Not yet at any rate. “Tell me, lass, does your master spend most of his year here at Crevan House?”

“Aye. Ever since I’ve been here leastways. So there’s no reason you can’t leave now and come back later to—”

“And afore that?”

She scowled a little, but brightened quickly and shrugged a pretty shoulder. “I don’t rightly know. He only come here after his father was killed.”

Keelan’s scalp tingled. “The old master was killed?”

She nodded, watching him. “Robbed, I’m told. And beat. ’Twas a terrible thing. Cook says you couldn’t even recognize his face.”

“Did they catch the murderer?”

“I wouldn’t be knowing for certain.” She canted her bonny head. “Why do you ask?”

Gritting his teeth, he forced himself to a sitting position. “Yer master has been…” His head spun like a child’s toy. He put his hand to it, trying to hold it in place. His brow was tight with grime and inflammation. “He’s been verra good to me. I would but ken more aboot him. He thinks a good deal of ye, lass,” he said, watching her face from the corner of his eye.
“He must have told ye something of himself.”

She was frowning. “You don’t look so good, luv.”

He felt his face with tentative fingers. His left eye had opened a bit, but he could see little through the tender slit. “I’m certain ye’re wrong, lass. I’ve heard from those who know that I be a bonny lad,” he said, and tried a grin.

She gave him a stricken glance. “Maybe a good warm soaking is what you’re needing before you leave. Cook has some herbs what will help ease the pain.”

“Aye well…” He prodded the bruise on his forehead. It hurt like a son of a witch. And he should know. “That and a keg o’ ale might well do the trick.”

“There’s a lovely tub in the next room.” She paused, watching him. “Bear could carry you if you like.”

He shot his gaze sideways, waiting for her to grin, but her expression remained absolutely earnest. “Naked, I suppose,” he said.

Her blush started at her ears this time. “Well…” She glanced at the mattress. “If that’s what you prefer.”

He didn’t bother to stifle his laughter, though it hurt like hell. “Thank ye kindly, lass, but me own tastes dunna run toward slavering beasties.
But if
ye
wished to assist with me bath, I am sure it would do me naught but good.”

Her eyes opened wide. Her sweet lips parted. She was already shaking her head.

“Nay. Of course na,” he corrected quickly. “I dunna ken what I be thinking. Certain I am that I can make me own way…” He lifted his arm in an attempt to sweep the blankets aside and gasped in pain.

“There now. Leave off.” She was hovering over him in an instant, her hands tender on his exposed shoulder. “Ye mustn’t break open your…Oh! Your poor back. It’s all a-tatter…” Her voice trembled a little. “Scraped to bits it be.” Her face was mere inches from his, her hand like trembling velvet against his shoulder. “With pieces of rocks and such…Mr. Angel, maybe Crevan House is simply ill luck for you.”

Or maybe Chetfield was a murderous lecher and his henchmen bastards of the first water. “Ill luck?”

“Perhaps you should leave,” she whispered, “before you’re hurt again, only worse.”

He felt himself pale. Did she know more than she admitted? Should he leave now while he could? But nay, this one thing he would see through to the end. “Na to worry, lass, I’m certain me luck’s taken a turn for the better.”

She was watching him closely. “So you still don’t remember what happened?”

He shook his head. It hurt.

“Well ain’t that a whistle?” she murmured, then brightened. “But mayhap ’tis best you don’t recall. The bad, it’ll find you in its own time. No need to go looking for it, as me mum was fond a saying.”

“I suspect ye’re right, lass.”

She nodded, her small face solemn and set. “I shall help you with your bath.”

He watched her from close proximity. She was as soft as a sigh. As pretty as a comforting angel. “There’s something I must tell ye, lass.” Angelic enough to make him wish to admit his sins, both real and imagined.

She leaned in, eyes wide, breath held. “What’s that?” Angelic enough to make him want to confess all. Almost.

“I most usually bathe in the nude,” he said.

She drew back abruptly, and he chuckled. “Have ye any notion how bonny ye are when ye blush, lass?”

She raised her wide amber gaze to his. “Maybe it would be best to wait for help.”

“Ye’re probably right,” he admitted, and shifting slightly, groaned at the effects.

“There now. You must be careful,” she said,
then, thinking hard, added, “You stay still. I’ll fetch the water.”

“I’ve na wish for ye to go to all that trouble for the likes of me,” he lied, but she was already hurrying away.

He smiled to himself, and in a matter of minutes she was back, directing a young man who scurried after her, a bucket in each hand. Pimples plagued his cheeks. He darted a glance toward Charity and away, blushing furiously.

So, Keelan thought, he wasn’t the only one who imagined her naked.

Footsteps rustled in the hallway, and then a woman waddled in. “So you finally wake.” Her voice was all but a roar. Keelan drew back at the barrage on his senses and blinked his one good eye. She was the fattest person he had seen in all his considerable years, with not one chin but three. The apron wrapped about her middle barely tied at her spine and her feet were invisible beneath the hem of her mammoth skirt. “Land sakes, but he’s an ugly beggar, ain’t he?”

“Cook,” Charity hissed. “Please.”

“Well it don’t matter none. Ain’t like I’m a songbird myself, aye? But I was once. Skinny as our Cherry here. And just as pretty.” She shook her head. Body parts jiggled and continued to do so long after she turned to wander toward the
adjoining room. “Suitors come from far away as Lincolnshire just for a glimpse of me.” Keelan could hear water splash into a receptacle. In a moment she was back, handing the boy her buckets, then shooing him out ahead of her. He gave Charity another glance and ducked into the hallway. “Randy as a bunch of wild hounds they were. Handsome ones. Ugly ones. Rich ones.” She turned, wiping her hands on an apron the size of a wheat field. “I was once courted by a lord. Had a face that looked like a tattie gone bad, but he was a baron just the same. Would you believe that?”

Keelan opened his mouth.

“Had a manor house big as a castle.” She propped her meaty knuckles on what might have been her hips and stared at him. “What you need is to steep in a good basil bath with maybe a bit of borage. Cherry honey, you help him to his feet. I’ll fetch my things,” she said and was gone, leaving them to stare at each other in unblinking stupefaction.

Charity cleared her throat. She wasn’t as brazen as the girl who had appeared in his so real dreams, but she was every bit as bonny. Her lips were like summer magic, and though a thousand aches plagued him, he couldn’t help but wonder if they would feel as soft as they had during his
feverish fantasies. “Here we go then,” she said and reaching for the blankets, pulled them aside as he watched her bright face.

She stared for an instant, and then her eyes widened and her mouth opened in soundless horror.

Joseph and Mary! Were his wounds so very grievous? Was he missing a leg? He glanced down, but too late. The blankets had already been whipped back into place.

“On our feet yet, are we?” roared Cook. Coming round the corner, she took one look at Charity’s face and stopped. “What happened?” Water sloshed onto the floor.

“His…He’s…”

“What?”

“He’s…” The girl’s face was as bright as an Edinburgh rose, and suddenly Keelan realized the problem. “He’s in his altogether,” she hissed.