Rescuing Mr. Gracey (32 page)

She suppressed a smile by biting her lip, but her imagination easily conjured a black-haired, blue-eyed pirate with tossed hair and scraped knees.

“One day, my ship failed to hold my weight. I fell ten feet and crashed to the bottom, breaking my arm.” His finger touched the scar at his eyebrow. “My sword traitorously stabbed me on the way down. A few inches lower, and I’d have lost my eye.”

Mary gasped. “I see you were reckless even as a boy.”

He laughed, the sound carefree and youthful. “Aye, well, all these years later, the same tree crashed a limb on my head and forced me to lie under its inadequate shelter for the night.” He paused until Mary turned her attention to him. “I remember thinking the tree had turned traitor on me. However, my injuries and illness brought you here, and thus I am eternally grateful for the second injury caused by the old tree.”

She swallowed as heat fanned her face. Shifting her gaze, she said, “So ’tis the tree I must blame for disrupting my week and frightening your mother.”

He chuckled. “Aye, but don’t be too hard on my old friend. My adventures with the tree were self-defense. I was surrounded by sisters, all older than I.” He closed his eyes and sighed. “Lord, how they nagged and protected and spoiled me, really.” His gaze floated over Mary’s face as if memorizing each facet. “And taught me how different a woman’s heart is from a man’s.”

Refusing to comment, Mary concentrated on the abundance of trimmed lawns and flowers neatly bordering the walk.

“My father worried I received too much sisterly attention,” he continued. “To balance my educational experiences, he set standards for excellence in all aspects of my upbringing. I must perform the best, be educated in the best schools, work the field in the summer, the mill in the fall, attend the best balls, and, of course, meet the most powerful people—no slacking—tough, ruthless, smooth, suave, hard… A Gracey.” He laughed. “’Tis no wonder I am so conflicted.”

A little crack began somewhere in her heart, the chasm widening with each sliver of history shared. How she had hungered for this information three weeks ago. The insight about the demands on his life and the need to escape that pressure explained some of his behavior—the dance, plowing her father’s field, even attending to a laundress.

The wave of sympathy grew and invaded her indifference. Folding her arms against the weakening emotions, Mary feared to know any more. “Perhaps ’tis why you so easily wander into worlds where you do not belong, Mr. Gracey,” she quipped.

His jaw tightened, yet his voice remained calm. “When will you call me Alec again?”

She hardly recognized the sharp, unwavering voice that snapped back. “I’ll not be softened by your sad tale, Mr. Gracey. You never considered the damage left in your wake. You did not consider the feminine heart that you shattered. You destroyed all trust, and I will not allow affection to return.”

Unexpectedly, warm fingers curled around her cold hand, and his voice bled pain. “I could not help myself, you know.” His thumb made slow, tingling circles near her wrist, shattering her defenses. “The Irish lass who lived but a mile from my home bewitched me. The more time I spent in her company, the more I had to spend—like a siren song, ever calling me.”

Mary pressed her lips together. She must not let herself fall into his trap. “No relationship may be built upon lies. We were never meant to be.”

His thumb stilled; his fingers tightened. A deep, aggravated rumble arose from his throat. “I do not regret even one moment with you, Mary,” he said in a hoarse whisper. “And I cherish each second, including this one, no matter how your harsh words try to steal them away.”

The intensity of his confession, like a weapon opening a deep wound, made her cry out. “It can never be,” she whispered. “I must return home by the end of the week.”

“End of the week?” She heard him choke. “You think I may endure your departure that soon?”

The pain in his voice shredded her will. She pulled her hand from his grasp, deliberately putting distance between them. “The danger to your health has passed. I must be about our harvest.”

His whisper, urgent, insistent, pierced her barrier. “That which devastated me is still very present.” He closed his eyes as if exhausted from the thought. His face paled. “I will not…cannot abide talk of you leaving me yet.” Suddenly, as if panic contracted his lungs, Alec broke into a seizure of violent coughing.

Mary rushed to pour lemonade. As she bent over him, he leaned into her, and she helped him sip the liquid.

“Alec. Are you on the balcony?” called a deep male voice from his bedroom.

Eyes wide with panic, she froze as she watched Alec’s jaw clench, his eyes hardened. “Aye, Father.”

Mary stumbled back, sloshing lemonade in her effort to straighten. A wildfire of heat spread over her face as she set the glass down and desperately mopped a large wet spot from her gown. Dreaded freckles popped like poppy seeds on cake, she was sure.

Alexander Gracey Sr., a broad-shouldered duplicate of the son, strode with easy grace through the French doors. Aside from his graying sideburns, the resemblance made her shiver.

“Hello, Miss Frances. I hoped to catch ya here.” Gracey’s gaze briefly touched her splotched gown, then focused on his son. Placing a hand upon Alec’s shoulder, he smiled tenderly. “How is our patient this beautiful morn?”

She stiffened, inhaled. “I believe he improves a great deal, sir.” Mary stuffed her hands into her dress pockets. Without Isabella’s buffer, Gracey terrified her. What if she slid into the native accent or did something to give away the secret? “I will leave you to your visit.”

“No, Mary…Miss Frances. Stay, please,” Alec said, his hand extended. He shifted uncomfortably. “Miss Frances was going to read to me, Father.”

He laughed. “Clearly, that is much more important.” The elder folded his arms across his chest and continued to study his son with a satisfied smile. “I’ve just returned from a trip, and we do have a need to chat, son.”

“Not now,” Alec gruffly replied.

Gracey’s eyes narrowed, then swerved to Mary. “I see.” Pausing, he let his hands fall. “Miss Frances, are ya aware that Alec here is likely the next member of Parliament for the county?” The older man smiled proudly. “A good catch for any woman, I should say.”

Alec nearly snarled. “We will not talk of this now. Much has changed since last week.” Mary had never seen Alec so aggressive. If he were not so weakened from his illness, she believed he would have physically forced his father from his room.

Squinting, Gracey wavered from shock to confusion. He clearly did not understand his son’s annoyance. Mary observed as the two men locked intense gazes and conversed in an unknown, antagonistic, albeit silent, language. “The earl will be here tomorrow,” the elder finally said.

Mary jumped back and knocked into the table. She gasped as the pitcher teetered precariously. Sweat slicked her hands, causing the glass pitcher to slosh all the more. After somehow managing to save the crystal pitcher from crashing to the floor, Mary swiped her hands over her dress, then folded them tightly.

Gracey had to have noticed her nervous reaction to his announcement. Everything she feared—hunger, unemployment, imprisonment, and evictions—flooded her thoughts like sewer rats on a rainy day.

Lord Robert Jocelyn, Earl of Roden, enemy to any Catholic native, would be visiting here, tonight. Mary could not stay in the same house that entertained the earl.

Alec anxiously elevated himself to a higher sitting position as if prepared to defend her. “Postpone the meeting. I am not well enough.” A hard, stubborn gaze shifted from Mary and confronted his father. “Am I, Miss Frances?”

Gracey looked at her. She tried to swallow, her mouth as dry as an old leaf. “I…well…likely not, sir,” she whispered.

The older man scowled, gaze piercing her, questioning and withering her courage. She tossed her attention toward her feet, undone by the intense challenge.

Alec rescued her before she melted into the floor. “Please excuse us, Father. I grow weary, and Miss Frances waits to read to me.”

“Well,” she heard Gracey reply, “me wife will never forgive me if I push Alec too hard. If Miss Frances says you’re not well enough, ’twill be so. The earl must wait a few days.”

“Thank you for the consideration, Father. When recovered sufficiently, I will have Daniel notify you.”

Mary peeked up in time to see Gracey bob his head. “Will you join me for luncheon, Miss Frances?”

“She has agreed to take her supper here,” Alec barked.

Caught between these forces, Mary started to tremble.

Gracey gave her a brief smile, then nodded again. “Well then. I’ll be up to check on you tonight, son.” He walked just inside the room, but then turned back. “I thank the Lord for your recovery, Alec, as well as the healing gift provided by Miss Frances and shared with our family.” One meaningful pause later, he added, “You need have no fear, Miss Frances, for I do not easily forget a debt owed.”

The moment she heard the door click, Mary collapsed into her chair and buried her head in her hands. “I cannot stay longer.” Her shoulders vibrated with released tension. “Your father persecutes my people, and, truth be told, my own father leads a group that rebels against your people.”

“Mary. Please don’t let our differences destroy this time together.”

“It already has…” Mary whispered.

His finger touched her chin; his thumb stroked her cheek. “Promise me a few weeks. I will protect you with my life.”

Mary rose and braced her arms against the railing. Her soul ached. Logic demanded that she leave this room, pack her two dresses, her simple comb, and her little medicines, and leave. Just leave. But her heart begged her to stay, embrace the seconds left with the handsome prince. “If I am to stay a few days, no more, you must not talk of a future.”

She heard, rather than saw, him shift. “Aye. Anything.”

“Shall I read, then?” She sat once more and lifted the book on the table.

Alec looked away, as if sensing he must tread softly. “Aye. Let us read, then.”

Not five minutes later, he slept. With all signs of worry and stress gone, she let herself, for the first time since she’d arrived here, memorize every inch of his handsome face. The way the sun blushed his cheeks to a healthy glow, the slackness of lips that tasted warm and sweet, the scar above his brow, the fallen lock of black hair that restlessly curled over his forehead.

Mary glanced up and viewed all that lay below. Two days, perhaps three, and then she would be safe once more, hidden from him inside her own village, never to know this kind of love again.

~ 29 ~

“Wherever that ye be…”

“Aye, mark me words, the boy’s smitten, he is.” Alexander Gracey wiped his mouth with the napkin before continuing. “The memory of the washerwoman’s fadin’ faster than a leprechaun in the mist.”

Isabella smiled, her eyebrows arched. “Do you think so, Alexander?”

“Aye, and ya must take the credit, Isabella. How clever to bring a beautiful woman to distract him. That’s not to say he doesn’t have strange inclinations still, like when he got agitated over my mention of the earl. But compared to the moody boy from before, I think we almost have our son back, Isabella.”

“So, you like our Miss Frances?”

Gracey beamed. “Aye. she’s a fair lass, noble, educated. I like her very well.” He leaned close to his wife, confiding his next thought. “All’s well that ends well, I always say.”

“You do always say that, Alexander.” Isabella placed her finger to her lips. “I hear him coming. Don’t voice your thoughts, or ’twill persuade him otherwise.”

Isabella watched as Alec entered the dining hall, looking well-groomed with tan doeskin breeches and a white shirt opened at the collar. His striking dark looks, accented by bright blue eyes and a lean, muscular frame, exuded robust health. So very different from when he clung to life by a prayer.

Alec gulped down a large orange juice and hurriedly ate several pieces of bacon. “Good morn’, Father, Mother. Has Miss Frances been to breakfast?”

“Good morn to ya, son.” Gracey winked at his wife before answering. “Miss Frances ate earlier.”

Tearing off a slab of warm bread, Alec nodded distractedly. “Dennis, tell the stable to prepare Bell and Ringo for a morning ride,” he said to the footman. “Miss Frances and I will be going for a short ride. She’ll ride Bell. Also, ask Cook to make up a basket for our luncheon.”

“Son, ’tis too soon for outdoor activity,” Isabella said. “I worry you press your returning strength.”

Alec turned and gave her one of his teasing smiles. “I wish to show her the springs. She has a fondness for swimming, and today is a beautiful warm day.”

“Yes, but your cough…”

“Leave the boy alone, Isabella. I understand, son. Miss Frances will see to your well-being.”

Alec gave his mother a quick, reassuring hug. “Believe me, I am quite well. However, Mother, if you would assist by finding some kind of bathing clothes for her…” He placed a long finger upon his lips and whispered, “’Tis a secret, so no telling.”

He locked eyes with his mother, trying to convey his desperate need to be with Mary—to show her everything, to share all, to treasure each moment—until the advantage ended.