Patrica Rice (19 page)

* * * *

Peter suppressed a groan at the pounding in his head when he tried to move. He couldn't remember ever drinking enough port to give him a head like this one. There had been a time in Antigua when he had entered into a little altercation with a sailor twice his size. . . .

He tried to find his hand to raise it to his head to see if it could be moved by other means. The motion stirred thin sheets and a cotton blanket that had no place in his memory. Worst of all, it brought about the realization that he was wearing a shirt with arms longer than his. Had he shrunk overnight?

Not daring to contemplate that possibility or the alternative that there was a man somewhere nearby who was bigger than he, Peter located his hand in the billowing sleeve. He carried it to his aching head and pushed his empty skull sideways to determine if there might be some indication as to where he might be.

Once he discovered that he had his eyelids squeezed closed, he recovered from the shock of total darkness and pried them open. The first sight of his new abode included a flickering candle and a slender maid curled in the corner of an overlarge chair.

That wasn't so terrible a sight. Relaxing, Peter closed his eyes again to relieve the pain and let the scene play along his eyelids. His mind's eye found a maid's prim white cap, a glimpse of soft brown hair, and an almost painfully thin face innocent with sleep. Raised as he had been, he was familiar with households that believed their servants could live on bones and gruel. It irked him that he was in the hands of such mean-spirited people, but he was in no condition to reprimand them.

Succumbing to the pain, he blotted out any image at all and returned to the realms of sleep.

* * * *

The room seemed noticeably warmer, and Peter struggled against the blankets before coming awake enough to remember his surroundings. Perspiration formed on his brow as he fought for a breath, then opened his eyes to the still night air. This time he didn't need candlelight to see the slim white figure hovering over him.

Odd, but he had thought his keeper wore brown. He closed his eyes and opened them again, but the pale figure remained, leaning over him with some concern. Delicate moonlight tresses streamed over her shoulder with the movement, and Peter felt a shock of recognition.

The image in the portrait. His head pounded and his breathing was strangely weak, but he managed to search the lovely features he had memorized from the painting. The dancing eyes lit with laughter at his perusal, and she moved away, her thin gown flowing enticingly around her as she stepped from reach and almost out of his range of vision.

He tried to speak, but his voice was a hoarse rasp, and she was gone before he could get the words out.

When next he woke, it was to the tender ministrations of the little maid. A cool cloth cleansed his fevered brow, and Peter sighed his appreciation. She gasped and nearly whipped him with the wet cloth at the sound, but when he opened his eyes, she had composed herself again.

"Good morning. Would you care for a cup of broth?"

He rather thought being pitched into a snowbank might be more enjoyable, but the croak that came out didn't deny or confirm her question. Frustrated, he glared at her, and she solemnly looked back.

"Hodges has gone to find a physician. I don't doubt that you'll have a most virulent cold from your experience. I don't know how long you lay in the hedgerow before we found you, but you were quite thoroughly chilled. I think a little broth will do you good."

As his body began to register the demands of the wine he had drunk with his last meal, Peter could only nod in hopes that she would quickly leave in search of the promised soup. She gave him a suspicious frown, then bustled out, leaving him blessedly alone to search for the chamber pot.

By the time she returned, Peter's head felt as if it would fall from his shoulders, and the raggedness of his breathing warned that her dire predictions had come true, but his lower regions were vastly relieved. He struggled with the lengths of shirtsleeves covering his hands and wondered at the size of the monster that must once have inhabited this garment, but he managed to find a reclining position that kept his head relatively intact. When the maid returned, he even attempted a smile.

She didn't smile back but efficiently made a place for herself at the side of the bed and held a spoon of broth to his lips. "You must drink this all down. When Uncle Quincy had the pleurisy, the physician said he must have lots of liquids. And the meat juices will strengthen you."

Peter made a face as she inserted the spoon when he opened his mouth to protest. Since he could produce few sounds other than grunts and groans and croaks, he surrendered the battle and allowed the admittedly tasty broth to go down.

"You must tell us if there is someone we might notify of your accident. I would not have anyone worrying about your whereabouts."

As Peter shook his head to indicate there was no one, he felt a momentary return of depression. He could have died out there on that road, and there would have been no one to care. All that grand wealth he had accumulated would disappear into the pockets of some lawyer or government official in vain attempts to locate his heirs. It made one feel exceedingly small.

Instead, he concentrated on the determined young woman forcing liquids down his throat. Her accent bothered him until he began putting two and two together. Although her accent had the polish of his, her clothes were too drab and out of fashion to belong to a lady of quality. Yet they were of good cloth, and her hands bore none of the signs of physical labor.

A kitchen or upstairs maid would have work-roughened hands, and even in the best of houses she would not wear clothes of this fashion or speak in polished accents. But a lady's maid wearing the cast-offs of her mistress and with no chore more difficult than laundering her employer's linens could very well bear these qualities.

Satisfied he had solved the mystery, Peter reached to squeeze the maid's hand when she set the bowl aside. She looked shocked at first, then offered a brief, haunting smile as she smoothed a cool hand over his fevered brow.

"You're quite welcome, sir. Now you must get some sleep until the doctor arrives. He might have some medicine to ease the aching in your head."

Well, so much for his attempt at seduction. Closing his eyes and insanely smiling to himself, Peter followed her instructions.

When next he woke, it was to the shadows of twilight and the sight of a giant monster stalking the little maid. With a throat-wrenching cry, Peter swung back the blankets and tried to leap to the rescue, only to discover he hadn't the strength to stand. Grabbing the bed for support before he could collapse into a humiliating heap on the floor, Peter watched through bleary eyes as the little maid gave a cry of concern and ran to his side, while the monster merely glared at him.

He had at least diverted the creature's attention, Peter thought grimly as he allowed the slender woman to boss him back into bed while the giant lingered in the shadows, forcing obedience with his presence. Perhaps he would be flung back into the hedgerow if he refused the maid's orders. This certainly was an unusual household, but he was in no position to complain.

"Whatever made you leap up like that?" More shaken than she would admit by the stranger's sudden transformation from bed-ridden patient to large man in a thin nightshirt, Cecily fussed over the covers and ignored Hodges' glowering visage behind her. "Are you hallucinating? I understand people with high fevers suffer from deliriums. Would you like a cool cloth for your brow?''

The stranger grimaced as if in pain when Cecily touched her fingers to his forehead. He really was quite warm. She had the oddest notion that he had meant to come to her rescue when he leapt from the bed. She really had been alone too long with her books if she could think such a thing, she mused ruefully. A tentative smile crept across her lips as his eyes opened and she finally saw that they were gray.

"Ask him what made the carriage crash." Hodges remained in the shadows, but his voice was deep and husky and penetrated the gloom with the sound of thunder.

Their patient turned his head to follow this sound, then attempted to rise to a sitting position. He shook his head in denial when Cecily tried to help him, and frowning, Hodges stepped forward and lifted the man's shoulders and shoved pillows behind him.

The stranger didn't look properly appreciative, but after sipping from a cup of water Cecily offered him, he attempted some reply. "Spooked," was the only croak that came out.

That one word seemed to explain everything to this odd pair Peter noted as they exchanged glances over his head. He thought he heard the monster whisper "the lady," but the maid shook her head in warning.

"That is only superstition, Hodges. A rabbit no doubt ran across the road. You said the horses were high-strung expensive animals."

Peter watched in amazement as the giant's expression turned mulish, but he did no more than step back beneath the young maid's rebuke. The man called Hodges could have picked her up and swung her through the air without any effort, yet he seemed to regard the slender young woman with respect. The lady had to be powerful indeed if her maid could command that much authority.

"He's here 'cause of the lady, there ain't no doubt in my mind," was all the giant manservant said in reply before retreating toward the door.

The maid ignored this parting retort and reached for the cloth in the wash basin. Peter meant to halt her, but the feel of the cool cloth against his brow was better than he had expected, and he closed his eyes and relaxed beneath her gentle hands.

"Name?" he croaked, straining his sore throat to do so.

He opened his eyes in time to see the shy smile in hers.

"Cecily," she replied. "And yours?"

"Denning." There, it was out, his ignominious ancestry. He didn't suppose there was a Denning anywhere in the history of British bluebloods. Stripped of his clothes, he couldn't even pretend to be what he was not. The maid would in all likelihood report his commonness to her ladyship and he would be out on his ear by morning.

Instead, she merely reapplied the cold cloth and in that solemn owl-like way of hers—although he thought he saw the dance of laughter behind her blue eyes— and asked, "Denning who? Or is it which Denning? Ought I to know the name?''

Incredible. Peter relaxed and tentatively stretched his long legs beneath the covers. It just might be possible that he would live to see the day again. "Peter," he supplied with alacrity.

"Very good, Mr. Denning. Are you certain there is no one you might wish to notify of your mishap? Surely someone is expecting you?"

He knew better than to shake his head in reply this time. With increasing ease, he replied, "No one."

"Well, I'd best not make you talk too much. Hodges says the physician was out, but he has left a message for him to call. I don't like him very much," she whispered conspiratorially, as if fearful the manservant would hear her. "He's always wanting to apply leeches, loathsome creatures." She shivered and made a face. "But I wouldn't want you to be dreadfully ill because we didn't do everything to help you."

Peter caught her slender wrist and forced her to meet his eyes. "No leeches!"

The worried expression settling between her eyes instantly cleared, replaced by a reassuring look of agreement. "I'll not let him bring them into the house."

Satisfied, Peter drank the cup of broth she handed him and fell asleep before he could discover more about this odd establishment.

When he woke next, it was the middle of the night.

The candle on the stand had guttered out, and he could discern little but the stream of moonlight corning in through the uncovered windows. The cursed clouds must finally have cleared away, he decided as he tried to determine what had made him wake.

It was then that he saw the movement, the elusive shimmer of silver followed by the scent of roses that he remembered from the previous night. Eagerly, Peter turned toward the movement, and she appeared before him, even more beautiful than he recalled.

She was tall and slender, with a winsome smile that made a man want to fall at her feet. Her hair was caught in smooth ropes and held by strings of pearls tonight, and he wished she had left it flowing as before. He wanted to reach for her, but he was quite certain this was the lady of the house, and he had no right to offend her.

"Hello," he managed to whisper, then cursed himself for such an uninspired greeting.

She nodded pleasantly, then glanced at the slight figure sleeping in the chair beside the bed. Peter turned and noted the young maid then, and he smiled fondly at the thin face so innocent in sleep. There was nothing of the owl to her now. She was almost pretty in repose without that solemn look of concern imprinted upon her brow.

He turned his gaze back to the lady, and she smiled approvingly. Then, tugging at his bedcovers to smooth them, she stole around the end of the bed and disappeared into the shadows behind Cecily where the door was located.

Oddly disappointed that she did not speak, Peter again glanced at the maid, and feeling unexpectedly tender at her constant watchfulness, he relaxed and slipped back toward sleep.

* * * *

"Hodges, you are making entirely too much out of nothing." Garbed today in a gray wool with just a touch of black banding to frame her pale face, Cecily took the breakfast tray from the servant's hands and placed it on the bedside stand.

"It was the lady what spooked them horses and brought him here, and you can't say nothing to make me feel different." Stubbornly, Hodges remained where he was. "He's the one what will save the house. Just see if he ain't. The lady wouldn't fail us."

"Oh, Hodges." Cecily pushed a straying strand of hair back from her face, revealing the lines of worry upon her brow. "The painting is gone. There is nothing else we can do. It was our last hope, and even if I didn't want to sell it, I would have. It's too late now. I think fate is telling us that this is the end. I'll have to go to see the estate agent when the roads clear."