Myriah Fire (6 page)

There was a knock at the door, and a young, freckle-faced urchin appeared with a tray. “I brung your vittles,” said the wide-eyed boy as he placed the tray on a nearby table. “Fletcher—well … he said … young master took sick and you be tending him.”

“Thank you,” Myriah said, dismissing the curious boy with a gentle but firm look.

She
swallowed
the tea and devoured the buns in a trice, all too aware that some of her aches were due to hunger.

Boredom set in quickly, and she moved toward the long, diamond-paned window overlooking the estate grounds. The estate was obviously suffering from neglect. The lawns were overgrown, the flowerbeds needed weeding, bushes sadly wanted pruning, and the stables were in dismal need of paint. It would appear the Wimbornes had fallen upon hard times.

Surely this had once been an elegant home, for the furniture was exquisite, though the material could stand a good cleaning.

A sound from the bed made her look around, and she discovered her patient had tossed off his covers. She hurriedly soaked some cloth and began pressing it to his head, bringing up the blanket to cover his exposed chest.

For the next two hours he tossed, fretted, and called for ‘Kit.’ It was all she could do to keep him from tearing off the bandages. At last Tabson came in.

“I’ve put your bag in the room you took last night, m’lady—thought ye might be needing it.”

“Oh, Tab, thank you—I do. But would you stay here with him awhile? He is burning up, and I want to go to the kitchen and prepare a tisane to ease the fever.”

“Yes, m’lady.”

She went downstairs and cautiously made her way to the kitchen. Once there she found a pleasant, round-faced woman scurrying about with pots and pans and giving orders to her sons.

“Excuse me?” Myriah called attention to herself.

The woman was startled into a gasp, but then simply nodded a silent greeting and waited, obviously uncertain what to make of the young woman before her.

“I am so sorry to interrupt your work. I am Miss …” Myriah hesitated to give away her identity and came up with, “Miss White. I … I was on my way to
my
family in Dover when we lost our way. I remembered that my cousin’s home was nearby, and so we stopped here for a night’s shelter.

“Apparently Cousin William”—she hurriedly adopted him—“has a fever, and so my groom and I will remain until he is feeling more the thing. I do hope you will not be put out too unduly by our sudden descent upon you.”

Cook appeared to like Myriah’s manners, for she smiled readily and replied she was happy her master had someone to look after him.

Myriah then asked to be given the herbs she needed for the tisane. It didn’t take long to stir and prepare the brew, and soon Myriah was back in Wimborne’s bedchamber.

Tabby held him up while Myriah attempted to get the potion into him. This accomplished, Tab was dismissed, and Myriah continued applying a cloth soaked in rosewater to his head. He continued to toss for a few moments, rambling incoherent words, and then he drifted off.

A light lunch was sent up to Myriah, and Fletcher attempted to relieve her, but she would have none of it. For some odd reason she felt
she
had to care for her ‘new charge’.

At length his sleep seemed more relaxed, and then suddenly she saw him open his eyes. She was beside him instantly. He scanned her face and smiled feebly as his memory returned, and then his lids closed and he seemed to sleep again.

For an hour Myriah watched the changes of expressions flit over his face while he slept. She was fairly certain he was out of the woods and that the fever had broken when all at once he began to start tossing again and fretfully calling for Kit.

Who the devil was Kit, she wondered as she soothed his agitation. His forehead was on fire, and Myriah had a sudden urge to cry. He couldn’t die, she couldn’t let him die, but he had lost so much blood! Again she wiped away the sweat from his face, neck, and chest. She cooled his forehead with rosewater, and she prayed.

When he seemed to relax and began sleeping peacefully, Myriah wrung her hands, hoping this was a good sign as she sank down on her chair. Weary with physical discomfort and mental stress, she closed her eyes, laid her head back, and tried to compose her faculties.

“I may be in Hell, but I have changed my mind—
you
are an angel!” Wimborne croaked out, startling her forward.

“Mr. Wimborne!” Myriah exclaimed, going to take his hand. “Oh, oh, you do look better—not well, but ever so much better.”

“Thanks to you.” He grinned boyishly at her.

She smiled and squeezed his hand. “Oh, no. Thanks to your good man, Fletcher. He has a wondrous skill with a knife. But you lie still now … I shall be back in a moment. What you need now is some gruel.”

“No,” said the man, horrified.

“Well, not perhaps right away. First I will bring you some tea and toast,” she said, taking pity and hurrying out of the room.

Some time later, having plied her
patient
with buttered toast and tea, Myriah watched him fall off to sleep, feeling extraordinarily pleased with herself. She had herself only dozed for a few minutes when a knocking at the open door roused her and she found Fletcher in its frame ready to relieve her.

She smiled and dragged herself to her bedchamber, threw off her clothes, and sank naked beneath the satin coverlets, where she fell quickly off to sleep.

Dreams plagued her peace. They were muddled, lost in time, sending images to taunt and harass her. Sir Roland was there; he grabbed her and held her, and all she wanted to do was run …

* * *

Kit Wimborne, sixth Viscount of Wimborne Towers, had arrived at his home well after dinner to find it shrouded in darkness. He unsaddled his horse himself in the courtyard rather than wake his elderly groom and set the horse into the pasture. He was tired from the day’s work and thinking about the future.

He shrugged off his greatcoat and hung it on the wall rack just inside the kitchen entrance before he poured himself a shot of whisky and downed it.

Lantern in hand, he moved upstairs to his bedchamber. He was surprised that the drapes in his room had been pulled tight but was too tired to contemplate the mystery. He set the lit lantern on a side table and shrugged out of his clothes. He then picked up the lantern and made his way to his bed, setting the lantern on the nightstand. However, there he stopped short.

Someone with long, flaming ringlets of hair was lying face down, covered only to her waist—in his bed!

His first thought made him grin. His puppy of a brother had no doubt brought her home with him, but why would the rascal send her off to his bedchamber?

Drape mystery solved, and another one to contemplate … in a bit, but first …?

He sat beside the woman just as she rolled over. He got a full view of her face and a slight view of her full and luscious breasts.

Damn! He gently
and deftly pulled away the thick, fiery tresses from their owner’s face and shoulders to have a better look at her face.

The object of these ministrations sighed contentedly as he sucked in air and felt a moment’s enchantment. She was ravishing, and he released a soft whistle.

He pulled a rueful grin as he thought his brother had certainly won himself a worthy piece of muslin—worthy a full grown and experienced man … such as himself.

His decision to have a better and more detailed look at the creature lying unsuspectingly in his bed was a natural occurrence, given the circumstances, believing as he did that she had been paid for her night’s services.

Again, his hands worked dexterously as he removed the quilted covering from the beauty’s tantalizing form. His eyes wandered slowly and appreciatively over her lush curves and her tantalizing nipples. Then she moaned and turned once more onto her stomach and gave him a view of her exquisite back.

She shivered suddenly, and his lordship sought to remove her discomfort by covering her—with his own naked body. He put his arm across her and leaned over her lithe form, a sudden spark reviving his blood and chasing away all thought of sleep.

“Now what to do with you, sweet,” he murmured. Grinning, he thought,
One shouldn’t infringe on one’s brother’s property—but really, Billy, why the devil did you put her in
my
bed?
This question repeated itself, and still grinning, his lordship decided the only thing to do in such a situation was to wake her—
his
way!

His fingers moved sensuously as they stroked her soft, bare arms. He shifted position so he was stretched right up against her silky, naked body, and his hard dick began to dance and play …

He nibbled at her delicate ears and placed a warm kiss on her throat. She groaned pleasurably. The sound stimulated him, and one masculine calf straddled her outstretched legs as he leaned over her and took her mouth with his.

* * *

Myriah felt the sweet pressure, and her dream took on a new force, one that sent a fire bolt racing through her veins. Her arms went around the virile, muscular body, the source of her dream’s acute burning.
Dreaming … she had to be dreaming—how else would she be holding a rock-hard, muscular body in her arms?

All at once Myriah was awake. Unable to speak in spite of the fact that her lips were now quite free, she lay staring in utter disbelief at the stranger she was still holding in her arms. She lay for a moment in quiet astonishment, trying to collect her thoughts as she stared at the stranger’s face.

He was smiling provocatively, and she noted the ruggedness of his features. Somehow, they seemed familiar. But he was a stranger nonetheless—and he was in her bed, taking advantage of her.

This notion was followed by the next, that being it was no doubt time to drop her arms and pull out of range, which she did speedily, wondering all the while how the deuce this situation had come to pass.

Her blue-green eyes glittered angrily as she sought words; a scream seeded itself in her throat and surely would have been emitted had not the stranger had the foresight to put his powerful hand over her parting lips.

This quite naturally did little to inspire trust, and yet his friendly grin seemed to suggest he meant no harm. “Hush there, sweetings … I don’t mean to take any more than you are willing to give,” said the handsome man above her.

Outrage surged through Myriah, and she managed to work the skin between his thumb and forefinger into her dainty mouth, whereupon she latched her teeth onto her target and bit down hard. This produced the required result: he jumped away. With an oath, he was out of the bed and standing in all his glory—and that glory was still at full mast.

Myriah could not help but stare. It was the first time she had ever actually seen a man’s cock. She and her friends had often discussed and giggled about sex and the naked stone statues they had secretly glanced at, but this … this, she found momentarily diverting.

His lordship was not diverted or self-conscious about his state of undress. As he sucked his wounded finger, he stared hard at her, noting that she seemed transfixed on his privates.

The gasp that had been stuck in her throat finally escaped. The words of outrage got mingled with fear, and she jumped up to a sitting position. Pulling the covers around herself, she pointed towards the door as she blubbered, “How dare you! Get out of my room!”

His voice was low, husky, and full with a sensually lined amusement. “Well, little bird, for one thing … this is
my room.
And for another, although I should be throwing
you
out, I think I’ll keep you in spite of your offense to my person.”

“Keep me? Keep me!” Myriah couldn’t understand what was happening and who this could possibly be.

“Aye then, my brother no doubt brought you home with him, but since he has set you up in my bed, I suppose he means to share.”

“Your brother … share …?” Myriah put up her chin. “For your information, I brought your brother home, and he was in a very bad way—wounded, in fact—and my groom, your Fletcher, and I have been tending to him!”