Читать книгу Compromised Miss - Anne O'Brien - Страница 9

At Lydyard’s Pride, the Gadies manhandled the man, with some rich cursing to accompany their efforts, into one of the many uninhabited bedchambers. Dusty, cold as a room in an unused house must be, at least it was furnished with a bed, chair and nightstand. Kindling was laid ready in the grate.

Harriette followed in their wake, wrapped around as she always was by a sense of belonging when she set foot in this house. Empty, shut up for the most part it might be, but Lydyard’s Pride was hers and the walls closed around her like the embrace of a lover. She felt her breathing slow, her pulse level. She was safe in this vast mausoleum, left to her by her Aunt Dorcas, because Lydyard’s Pride had always been passed from generation to generation of Lydyards through the female line. Harriette would have lived here if Wallace would only permit it, but Wallace thundered about her lack of years, her unmarried state, her need for a chaperone, whenever she raised the subject, insisting that she live under his authority at Whitescar Hall. How could she consider living alone and unprotected in this vast pile of a house that had had no money spent on its upkeep at any time in the past century. It would fall down around her ears and then where would she be? And since Harriette lacked the financial independence to defy her brother, Lydyard’s Pride was shut up and gathered dust under the eye of an elderly Lydyard retainer and two girls from the village. Its only use was to signal to the Free Traders from the lofty vantage point of the Tower Room.

But this was no time for wallowing in self-pity. Harriette turned her mind to the uninvited guest as the two men deposited their burden on the bed.

‘Gabriel—light the fire, then go below and send Wiggins up with hot water and cloths. Linen for bandages. And a bottle of brandy. Not a word of this, mind, outside this house.’ She rubbed her palms down her sides and approached the bed. ‘Let’s get him out of these sodden clothes, George.’ She turned back the collar of the ruined coat and began to ease it from the injured shoulder.

‘I’ll do it, Cap’n. It’s not seemly, Miss Harriette,’ George reprimanded.

Harriette smiled through her impatience. Despite her smuggler’s garb, she had suddenly in George Gadie’s mind been transformed from Captain to lady of the house. ‘Not seemly? He’s probably dying, and will surely do so if we leave him as he is.’

‘It’s not seemly for you to strip a man to his skin, Miss Harriette!’

‘I know the form of a man.’ Harriette continued to struggle to pull off the garment, noting in passing the fine cloth, its superb cut. ‘I’ve seen your spindle shanks often enough when you’ve been soaked to the skin and stripped off on the beach.’

Which raised a guffaw from Gabriel as he left the room.

‘Dare say. Not the same. This’n’s young and comely!’ Nevertheless George began to pull off the man’s boots. ‘Don’t blame me, Miss, when your brother hears and kicks up a fuss.’

‘I won’t. And with luck, Sir Wallace won’t hear.’

Whilst George attended to the boots, Harriette struggled to ease the tight-fitting coat from her guest’s shoulders. Best to do it as fast as possible whilst he was still unconscious. Exasperated, she pulled a knife from her belt and began to use it against the seams—it was ruined anyway. The shirt, of the finest linen as she had suspected despite the muck and blood that soiled it, gave her no trouble. She had already used his once-elegant cravat as an impromptu padding. Her lips curved in contempt as they had on board Lydyard’s Ghost. Payment for state secrets must be high.

‘Miss Harriette, I think you should leave.’

‘Just do it, George.’

With a click of tongue against teeth, George stripped off the man’s breeches, undergarments and hose.

Well, now! Harriette was not ignorant of a degree of male nakedness. On board the cutter, when sailors stripped off their shirts to haul and pull on rope and sails, she had watched without embarrassment the play of smooth, welldefined muscle as arms and backs took the strain, when thighs had braced, sinews taut, against the drag of wind and wave. As a member of the crew, it was an occurrence that no longer disturbed her. A man was a creature of blood and bone and muscle, much like a horse, superbly crafted to carry out a task against the elements.

She had seen a half-naked man before. But nothing like this man, fully naked. Harriette found herself locked in a moment of splendid appreciation.

His fine skin was smooth, unweathered, his physique magnificent, lean and rangy. Broad shoulders, superbly muscled under the skin, informed her unequivocally that the condition of his body mattered to him. Perhaps he fenced, she thought. Or sparred at Gentleman Jackson’s saloon. Arms sleekly powerful, from using the reins if he was wealthy enough to own his own curricle or phaeton. She could imagine him looping the leathers, controlling and steadying the power of a pair of blood horses. He might be rich, but he was not idle, sinking beneath rolls of fat as did some of her brother’s associates, who spent their lives doing little but eating, drinking and hunting.

Harriette’s eyes lingered, moved on to the flat planes of hard flesh as his chest narrowed to a slim waist, a light smattering of silky dark hair arrowing towards a firm belly. Narrow hips, strong thighs, his powerful masculinity obvious, strong and impressively formed even though unaroused. She felt heat rise in her cheeks and her mouth dry, shocked by her very physical reaction to this man, whom she ought to despise—until George flung a sheet over the man’s lower limbs with a frown, a curse and a muttered comment on what was right and not right for well-brought-up young women to see.

Still Harriette stood and simply looked, drawn by a force beyond her control. If she ever visualised the sort of man she would wish to marry, this man would take centre stage in her dreams. And here he was under her hands, within her power. Unfortunately unconscious. Perhaps just as well, she decided, blinking and ordering her wayward thoughts back into line as Wiggins delivered the requested items. She was hardly at her society best in fisherman’s smock, boots and breeches, to capture a wealthy and handsome man as a husband. To capture any husband. So far in her twenty-three years she had proved a dismal failure.

Not that she would want this one, of course, with dubious morals and treacherous intent.

Consigning George to wash the mud and sand from his abused body, Harriette applied herself to his injuries. Any remaining bleeding was sluggish, and on cursory examination, the wounds looked far worse then they actually were. A hard blow to the head had broken the skin, hard enough to cause the confusion and the lack of consciousness, but she did not think there would be permanent damage. A crust of dried blood had already formed. Bruising spread over one shoulder, dark and ugly, as if he had been beaten with a club. A thin blade had split his cheek, not deep, not dangerous, and would heal well enough—although it might leave a scar. Most worrying was a bullet wound in his upper left arm—thank God, not his shoulder or chest—but the bullet had passed through the flesh, so no need to cause more damage by digging it out, which George would have had to do with more enthusiasm than skill since there was no doctor in Old Wincomlee. With luck, it too would heal well if cleaned and bound up.

Harriette set to work with water and cloth and gentle hands to cleanse and bind, wrapping his arm tight, applying a compress to his shoulder. Only when she was satisfied that she had done all she could did she allow herself to perch on the side of the bed and investigate his face.

He was handsome, a face that could lodge in a woman’s mind, in her private longings. A striking male beauty. Blessed with a fine straight nose, straight brows, a lean face to match his body with fine planes and sharply elegant cheekbones. His lips, now soft and relaxed, were masterfully carved. Harriette could imagine them curving in a smile, or firm with temper. Softly she drew her fingertip across and along, a mere breath of touch. They were cold and unresponsive.

What would it be like to press her own lips to his? To warm them into life, to feel them heat and respond…? She had no idea.

Harriette Lydyard had never been kissed.

As if aware of her regard, and causing Harriette to snatch her hand away, his eyelids fluttered, then slitted open, a shine of green, yet blurred as they had been in the cutter. A murmur, a slur of words.

‘Where is she? You promised…Had an agreement…’

Harriette leaned forwards to listen, smoothing her palm over his forehead, down his uninjured cheek.

‘…you must let her go…let her come with me…’

So he had lost someone, a woman it seemed. Harriette allowed herself another soft caress as a keen regret settled in her heart. Searching for her was important enough to cause him anxiety. What would it be like to have this man search for her, raging at her loss? Her cheeks flushed, her heart fluttered a little. What would it be like to be prized enough by so desirable a man that he must seek you out, even to the point of wounding, even near death. What would it be like to feel those arms close around her and hold her body against his…?

How foolish! How shocking! What would Wallace say if he could read her entirely unseemly thoughts? Harriette snatched her hands away and pushed herself to her feet. A silly girl’s dreaming. She would end up wed to one of Wallace’s drinking, hunting, entirely unattractive cronies if he had his way. No future in wishing and sighing over a handsome man as if she were a child barely out of the schoolroom. And where would she possibly meet such a one as he? She was hardly likely to persuade Wallace to give her a Season in London. Or even Brighton.

‘Where is she? You promised…I can’t leave her!’

Against her will, lured by the undoubted anguish, Harriette was drawn back again to push the tangled hair from his face.

‘Hush now. I’ll care for you.’ So racked and troubled. But who wouldn’t be with a dent in his skull and a bullet through his arm? Yet a strange tenderness was stirred.

‘I’m afraid for her….’

‘There’s no need to fear.’ Empty words, but she must reassure him.

‘Help me…’With a deep sigh, almost a groan, he lapsed into silence again, dark lashes heavy against his pale skin.

‘I will. Sleep now…’ She closed her hand around his and felt an instant response, weak, in truth, but a curl of his fingers around her own as if in ownership, as if an unbreakable bond existed between them.

Harriette’s heart bounded heavily within her chest. Her breathing shuddered. In that one moment all she could desire was to stay beside him and comfort him, soothe his pain.

You love him! The words whispered in her ears, lodging in her mind. You have fallen in love with him!

‘No, I have not! Of course I have not!’ she remarked aloud, thrusting her hands behind her back like a small child caught out in some misdemeanour. As if she might reach out to touch him again because every instinct insisted that she do so, flesh against flesh. ‘How could I possibly have done anything so ridiculous!’ But her breath was short, as if she had just climbed the path to Lydyard’s Pride, her skin heated, the blood singing through her veins to make her aware of every inch of her body.

‘What’s that, Miss Harriette? Regret bringing him back here already?’ George Gadie came to stand at her side. ‘He’ll live, I reckon.’

‘And that’s the best we can do for now,’ Harriette remarked, furious with herself, but working hard to keep her voice calm, unconcerned. She drew her tongue over dry lips and prayed for a cold dose of common sense to cool her blood. ‘We’ll leave him to see if he recovers. One of the maids—Jenny—can sit by him.’

‘Then I’ll be back tomorrow, Cap’n, if you don’t want me now.’

‘You’ve done more than enough for me today.’ She touched his arm in thanks. ‘Go and let your wife know you’re safe. It was a good night’s run.’

‘Aye, it was. Hope he doesn’t cause you more trouble than he’s worth. Should’ve passed him over to the Silver Boat, as Mr Alexander said.’

Harriette angled a glance. ‘Would you have left Gabriel there under Sam Babbercombe’s care, if he was wounded?’ A grunt was all the reply she got as George opened the door for the maid, but she sensed his agreement. ‘Come for me if he wakes, or takes a turn for the worse,’ Harriette instructed Jenny, who settled herself on the only chair with a basket of stitching to keep watch. ‘I expect he’ll sleep through the rest of the night and much of the day.’

As Harriette walked slowly down the staircase, her thoughts remaining fixed on the man who astonishingly had the power to light a flame in her blood, she came upon Meggie climbing ponderously towards her, a deep wicker basket on each arm.

‘Well, Miss Harriette. Now what?’ She puffed out a breath, cheeks red with exertion.

Harriette beckoned. ‘Come with me and I’ll tell you.’ Retracing her steps to the first floor, she opened the door of the bedchamber she used when she could escape from Wallace and his overbearing wife, Augusta, and spend a night there. For furnishings and cleanliness it was little better than the one she had just left, but familiar with its lack of comfort she paid that no heed, walking immediately across the room to one of the windows, for the windows of the chamber looked out across the bay, offering a spectacular sweep of coastline.

Meggie, broad and stout, no nonsense snapping in her bright eyes, ignored the view as she deposited her burdens on the bed. Companion and servant to Miss Harriette Lydyard for more years than she cared to add up, and well used to her mistress’s eccentric lifestyle if not totally accepting of it, she did not mince her words. ‘What’re you doing this time, miss? Mr Alexander did not say.’

Harriette’s lips twitched wryly, knowing that her trust in Meggie could be absolute. ‘I think I’m bringing a spy back from the dead.’

‘A spy, is it? Do you think you should?’ Meggie did not appear altogether shocked.

‘No, but I can’t leave him to die, can I?’ The gleam of rich colour catching her eye, Harriette left the window and the view to dig into one of the baskets. ‘His clothes are ruined. He’ll need this until we can make other arrangements.’ She unfolded a dressing gown in stunning red-and-gold satin, dragons chasing their tails, with heavy gold frogging on breast and cuffs.

‘And he’ll have to be at death’s door to agree to wear it!’

Harriette chuckled. ‘Sir Wallace sees himself as the epitome of high fashion.’ She swirled the gown around her own shoulders and struck a stance remarkably similar to that of her pompous brother. ‘As for the occupant of my one furnished bedchamber, he’ll have no choice, however tasteless it might be.’ She looked up, eyes pinning her maid. ‘What did my brother say? Or did you manage to leave without his knowledge?’

‘More like what her ladyship said. Sir Wallace was gone on business to Lewes.’ Meggie stood, frowning, with her hands on her broad hips. ‘Lady Augusta had a fist-full of dissatisfaction, as you can imagine.’

Harriette grimaced, a little pain in her heart as she imagined the downward turn of Gussie’s mouth. Harriette had learned, almost, to live with the constant displeasure. ‘I’d hoped Zan would be more discreet. Does Lady Augusta know I was on a run?’

‘Of course she does. Can’t keep it a secret, can you, when every man in the Old Wincomlee knows the identity of Captain Harry? At least they all have the good sense and loyalty to keep their mouths shut so the Preventives’ll never hear the truth from them. And Sir Wallace’ll never help the Preventives, even if he is a JP. He knows where his next barrel of fine brandy comes from! But as soon as he returns, he’ll be up here before you know it, demanding to know what you’re about. And why you’ve not returned to Whitescar Hall, to don a pretty dress and play the genteel young lady of taste and refinement.’

‘Because I would die of the tedium of it all if I did! If Wallace’s taken himself off to Lewes, let’s pray God he stays there overnight, and I’ll be undisturbed here for a while longer.’ Harriette’s eyes lit with mischief as she refused to let her spirits sink into her boots. ‘Even better, I’ll send a message that I’ve caught a chill—or a fever from France. That’ll keep them away. Wallace fears ill health like the plague, and Augusta won’t come here without him.’ She stretched her arms above her head, loosening tight muscles, then ran her fingers through her windblown and knotted hair. ‘I might even manage a week’s freedom. Wallace won’t come to see how I am if he thinks I’ll spread some noxious disease in his path—and foreign at that! An enemy disease!’

Meggie snorted a laugh, then quickly became serious. ‘But Lady Augusta’s not far from the truth, Miss Harriette. You should be wed. Not that I can think of any of your acquaintance worthy of you.’ She rapidly changed the subject with skill born of long practice as Harriette rounded on her, the light of battle in her eyes, in her face. ‘I’ve brought you some clothes, so that when Sir Wallace does arrive to blister your ears, he won’t be able to take exception to your appearance.’ She scowled at the salt-and-sand-encrusted smugglers’ garb, the scuffed boots. ‘What he would say at this moment, the Devil only knows….’

A tap came at the door. Jenny entered, curtsied and ignored her mistress’s unconventional attire. ‘The gentleman’s awake, Miss Harriette. I thought you would wish to know.’

‘Is he now? A stronger constitution than I thought. Then I’ll come.’

‘Not like that you won’t, Miss Harriette.’ Meggie grasped her wrist without ceremony as she would have followed the maid. ‘What would he think?’

‘I don’t care what he thinks.’ Or perhaps she did. She might have little care for her appearance in general, and none when engaged on a run, but would she really want this unknown gentleman to see and judge her in her present dishevelled and scruffy state? Would she want him to look at her, eyes widening in disgust of her unseemly attire? Sir Wallace’s disapproval meant nothing to her. But her captive spy…Shame tinted her cheeks a glorious pink at the thought that he would see and condemn her as being unredeemably outré. Still, if she were clad as a smuggler…‘Besides,’ she spoke her thoughts aloud, testing the idea, ‘our guest might speak more openly if…’

‘If what?’

‘Well, he won’t confess his devious crimes to a woman, will he? On the other hand, to a man…’Twisting it up with a careless hand, she stuffed her hair back under her cap, pulled it well down. ‘He might speak to a smuggler, mightn’t he? Two reprobates together. The smuggler and the spy, Meggie. Now there’s an unholy alliance, wouldn’t you say? Not much to choose between us, many would think. Behold, Harry Lydyard.’ She struck a pose again, the lawless smuggler in boots and breeches.

‘One day, all that will get you into trouble, my girl!’

‘But think how exciting it makes life, Meggie!’ Perhaps she was unaware of it, but a shadow crossed her face. A little melancholy, a little regretful. ‘Why would I want to be wife to one of Sir Wallace’s sad associates when I can sail Lydyard’s Ghost on a lively sea?’

Lucius Hallaston became aware first of a grinding headache, as if a band of iron were being tightened around his skull. And if that were not bad enough, his shoulder throbbed, as when he had once taken a heavy fall from his horse sufficient to crack his collarbone. At the same time his left arm screamed with a fierce burning pain. Was there any place in his body that did not hurt?

He struggled, trying to sit up, abandoning the attempt as his wits scattered. It was almost too much trouble to chase after them and reassemble them into some sort of order as the pain beat with the insistency of a military drum behind his eyes. Memory came back in patches, with disconcertingly looming gaps. Lucius shook his head as if to shake them into a recognisable pattern and wished he had not.

He opened his eyes cautiously. A gloomy room, dusty bed hangings, few meagre furnishings. The linen sheets that covered him were worn and smelt of must and mildew, although were clean enough. Where in heaven’s name was he? It was no inn that he recognised. A young girl, a servant from her clothing, sat beside the bed, head bent over a needle. Mending more sheets, he thought inconsequentially.

‘Where am I?’ he managed to croak through a throat as dry as a desert.

‘You’re awake, sir.’ The girl looked up, rose to her feet.

‘Yes.’ His voice sounded rusty to his ears. ‘Will you tell me…?’

But then she left him, so that he almost wondered if he had imagined her, and the darkness claimed him once more. When awareness returned, it was to a different voice. Feminine yet cool and calm, instructing him to open his mouth and drink. An arm was behind his head, lifting him, and the rim of a cup pressed against his lips. It was cold and refreshing, a sharp tang of lemons, balm to his dry throat. And from somewhere came the soothing drift of lavender. He tried to thank the girl, the maid, for surely it was she—or was it? The voice was different—but it was all too difficult to work out truth from imagination.

He gave up and slept again.

Gradually, when consciousness returned, so did his memories. He remembered being in a boat. Remembered being set upon in the little French port. Port St Martin, that was it. Remembered failing in his task, outwitted and outmanoeuvred by that villain Jean-Jacques Noir. He felt anger rise within him, and shame that he should have been so tricked, but he had not expected such underhand treachery. Obviously he had been too naïve. He thought he might have been shot. Certainly he remembered pain, then blackness….

He did not know who had rescued him. One moment, he was being attacked and beaten on the quay, the next he was in the bottom of a small boat with water lapping against his cheek and a queasy swell. He remembered demanding to be taken back to France, and then nothing.

So where was he now?

A movement by the door as it opened. He risked moving his head and could barely repress a groan at the leaping pain. A young man approached in the sea-faring gear of boots and wide breeches, a heavy tunic, all worn and saltstained. He took the seat vacated by the maid and leaned forward, arms on thighs.

Lucius found himself being appraised by a pair of cool eyes, as pale grey as to be almost silver.

‘You are awake.’

‘Yes. Where am I?’ He would try again.

‘Old Wincomlee, a fishing village in Sussex. You’ll not know it but it’s a mere handful of miles from Brighton. This is my home. Lydyard’s Pride.’ Stern, unsmiling but with a surprisingly educated accent and turn of phrase, the young man had at least given him some information, if his pounding brain could retain it.

‘Who are you?’ he managed, frowning furiously.

‘My name is Harry Lydyard.’

‘You brought me back. From France.’

‘Yes. You were hurt.’

‘So I owe you my life.’

‘Perhaps you do. You bled all over my boat.’ A tight smile curled the lips but then he grew solemn again, his voice taking on a hard edge. ‘What were you doing in Port St Martin? Why were you set on?’

‘I…’ He sought for words in explanation—did he not owe his rescuer some sort of reasonable explanation?—but realising that he could not find the right words to say. Those that rushed into his mind, he must not say! Something deep and unpleasant in his gut prompted him towards fear and suspicion. Who to trust? It was becoming more and more difficult to know who to trust as time passed.

‘You were delirious when we brought you back here. From what you said you were looking for someone. A woman, I think…’

He shook his head, winced, groaned.

‘I see you’re reluctant to tell me the truth, so I must draw my own conclusions.’ Even sterner, the pale eyes piercing, pinning him to the bed in icy contempt. The tone of voice was a condemnation in itself.

‘A matter of business, let us say.’ The best he could do.

‘A business that left you half-dead with a bullet in your arm, a crack on the head and your pockets empty?’ Heavy cynicism lay strangely on the young face that swam before him.

‘So it seems.’ From the mists, he suddenly recalled the barrels and casks in the boat, the bales. ‘Were you engaged in the Free Trade? Are you a smuggler?’

The tone remained biting. ‘Yes. I am.’

‘You’re very young to be a smuggler,’ he commented, though why that should seem important to him he could not say.

‘But not too young to do it well. I am an excellent smuggler.’ The young man stood and advanced to the bed, leaned over to examine the wounds, fingers firm and searching, yet gentle enough, against his hair, his arm, but Lucius got the distinct impression that there was not much compassion in the solicitude, rather a hard practicality. ‘You’ll live.’ The blunt statement confirmed it. ‘The bullet went through your arm. A bang on the head—hence the headache. You were lucky. You’ve lost blood, but you’re strong enough. Another day and you’ll be on your feet again.’

Except that Lucius felt as weak as a kitten, and found himself sliding into sleep, unable to pull back, unable to keep his eyelids from closing. Not that he wouldn’t be sorry to block out the disparaging stare of the self-confessed smuggler. ‘I’m sorry. My mind seems to disobey my demands. Sorry to be a trouble to you…’ He fretted at his unaccustomed weakness, sensing some urgency that he could not grasp, his fingers pulling at the sheet. ‘I must get up now. I’ll be missed if I don’t…’

‘You can’t.’

‘I can’t stay here…’

‘You must for a little while. Sleep now. You’ll be stronger when you wake.’

And because he really had no choice, Lucius Hallaston did as the smuggler ordered.

Harriette continued to sit beside him. Her reactions to this man confused her. He wouldn’t answer her questions and she did not think it was because he could not recall anything of the previous night. Some mystery surrounded him. No doubt he was a spy after all and she should condemn him for it, yet she had seen fear in his face—but perhaps that was just the fear of any man who was set upon, his life threatened by a pistol shot. And there had definitely been that deep anxiety, for a woman. He had not denied it, had he? She leaned back, arms crossed, scowling at the sleeping figure, unable to disentangle her emotions. Was he not hurt and in trouble, his wits still scattered? Did he not demand her compassion, her understanding?

On the other hand, what did it matter that she knew not whether to damn him or care for him? What did it matter that he might sell his soul, or at least England’s security, for thirty pieces of silver? His treachery was entirely irrelevant because once he was recovered he would be on his way to whatever nefarious practice demanded his attention, and she would never see him again.

Yet still, accepting that, Harriette allowed herself a little time of sheer self-indulgence, of self-deception, for that was surely what it was, and allowed her deepest instincts to surface again. His voice, deep and smooth as honey, was as pleasant on the ear as his features were to her eye. For a little while at least she could pretend that he was hers and this was their home where the world could not encroach. Where she could live as she chose. She would walk on the cliffs, this man holding her hand, telling her how beautiful she was, how his heart beat for her, whilst she could tell him that her heart had fallen into his hands, as softly as a ripe plum. At night he would hold her in his arms, unfolding for her all the delights that could exist between a man and a woman. Rousing her with hands and mouth, with the slide of his naked flesh against hers…No harm in imagining the possessive touch of his fingers as they linked with hers, as they curled into her hair, holding her captive so that his mouth could take hers. No harm in considering the breathless, heated pleasure of that body, stripped and powerful, pinning her to the sheets, taking her, making her his.

Enough! Harriette’s smile became contemptuous. It was all an illusion, a figment of her sad imagination. He would approve of her being a smuggler quite as little as she would accept that he was a spy! Yet for a moment, still clutching at her ridiculous dreams, Harriette leaned over him and touched the sculpted sinews and tendons of his unbound arm, encircling his wrist where his pulse beat against her fingers, turning his hand, shivering when once again his fingers instinctively curled around hers and held on. Whatever he was, whoever he was, she was glad he was safe.

‘Sleep now,’ she whispered. ‘I will care for you. No need to fear.’

She still did not even know his name.

It was a long night. The man slept but restlessly. When his breathing became ragged, Harriette dosed him with some nameless and evil-tasting concoction of Meggie’s, thinking it at least as good as anything Sam Babbercombe would do. Then, since she hadn’t the heart to summon Jenny back, she took it upon herself to sit and watch over him through the dark hours. So she sat and let the hours pass. Stood, stretched, looked out of the window at the changing shape of clouds over the waxing moon. Tried to read by the flickering light of the two candles and gave it up. Simply sat and watched the pain and confusion shift over his face, praying more fervently than she had for years that this was simply a fever that would pass.

At some point after midnight, his restlessness became more intense, hands clawing to grip the sheet as he fell under the control of some dream, head thrashing from side to side. Perspiration beaded his brow, the expanse of his chest. Although his eyes opened, the bright gaze was blurred and unseeing.

‘Softly.’ She stood to make use of a damp cloth soaked in lavender, afraid his restlessness would start the bleeding again. ‘You’re safe. You’re in no danger.’

As if responding to her voice, he grasped her wrist urgently. Surprising her with its power. His voice was harsh, his question stark with fear.

‘Marie-Claude. Are you Marie-Claude?’

‘No. I am not.’

‘Marie-Claude…Where is she?’

‘She’s safe.’ It was an obvious answer in the face of his despair.

‘I can’t find her…’ His grip tightened.

‘You will. Rest now. She’ll come to you….’

He lay quietly. Harriette thought for a moment that he had accepted her assurance, but then his movements became edgy as if still caught up in a web of anxieties.

‘But she’s lost,’ he whispered, eyes opening blindly. ‘I don’t know where she is and I can’t find her.’

Harriette was moved by a desire to give him some respite from whatever tracked and haunted him in his dark mind as she enclosed his hand between both of hers. If she could anchor him to the present, it might stave off the monsters in his dreams. ‘Hush. You need to sleep. I’ll keep the nightmares at bay.’

It seemed that he focused on her in the end. But to no great satisfaction.

‘No one can do that for me. No one can stop them.’Then he slid down the slope into unconsciousness again. His hand fell away.

Disturbed, Harriette bathed his face in cool water, his chest where sweat had pooled in the dip of his collarbones. Who was Marie-Claude? His wife? She did not think so since he did not seem to know her. Not, therefore, his lover, either? French, from her name. Had she some connection with his presence in France at Port St Martin?

There were no answers, only questions.

He seemed calmer, his sleep deeper. Harriette contemplated leaving him, but dared not, so she was committed to spending the night. The upright chair proving far too uncomfortable for sleep, she leaned her arms and head on the folded quilts at the foot of the bed and dozed, confident she would wake if he did. No one need know that she stayed the night with him. Her lips twisted wryly. Certainly not her imaginary lover who knew nothing of her dreams and who now was dead to the world.

When Lucius awoke it was daybreak, when she had doused the candles and was watching the sun, the faintest sliver of red-gold on the horizon. Harriette found herself held by a direct stare, keen and searching, and of a striking grey-green. The earlier confusion was gone and now the eyes that held hers were awake, aware. In their supreme confidence Harriette detected the recovery of a formidable will. Here was a man used to authority, to having no one question his wishes, wearing the habit of command like a glove, despite his unorthodox lack of clothing. She could not look away from his regard, but forced herself to keep her expression carefully controlled in defiance of the unfortunate tremor in her heart. At least she had had the presence of mind to stuff her long-suffering hair back under her stocking-cap with the coming of the day. She really could not face an explanation of her sex and unchaperoned presence in his bedchamber.

‘Good morning.’ She broke the little tension.

‘I feel better,’ he replied.

‘Does your head ache still?’

‘Not so much. My shoulder hurts like the Devil.’

‘It’s badly bruised. Are you hungry?’

‘Yes.’ He sounded surprised.

‘I’ll send Jenny with some soup.’

He rubbed a hand slowly over his chin, grimacing at the roughness, casting a glance down at his torso that the sheet did not cover. ‘Will you arrange for some clothes for me?’

‘Yes. You won’t like them. Not much haut ton to be found in Old Wincomlee, and your own garments were too badly damaged, I think, to be of further use to you.’

‘I’m relieved to be alive to wear them at all.’

A surprising note of dry humour. Harriette steadied her gaze. So far their exchange had been ridiculously innocuous, as if meeting in a polite withdrawing room. If she did not take the matter in hand, if she succumbed to cowardice, she would bid him good day and wave him from her door, as if he were not in possession of a bullet wound and an unsavoury reputation. She took a breath and stirred the mud in the bottom of the pool. ‘Are you a spy?’

The humour was quickly gone. ‘No. I am not a spy.’ There was no hesitation, but then he would be unlikely to tell the truth, even if he was. ‘Why did you think I was?’

‘Marcel—the French smuggler who brought you to my cutter—said you were associated with an individual called Jean-Jacques Noir.’

A quick frown between his brows, a thinning of lips. She saw immediately that he recognised the name. ‘I know him. But I am no spy.’

‘Marcel says he is a man of vicious character.’

‘Yes. I believe he is.’

She was getting nowhere. ‘Who is Marie-Claude?’ He certainly recognised that name. His eyes snapped to hers. ‘I don’t know.’

A lie. He had looked dangerously uneasy, but nothing to be gained in pressing him if he would not say. It was, after all, none of her concern. ‘Very well. I don’t believe you, but can’t force you to tell, except by torture!’ She walked to the door, then paused, looking back. ‘Will you tell me this, then—what is your name?’

‘Lucius Hallaston.’

It meant nothing to her. She gave a brief nod and would have left him, aware of nothing but a deep disappointment that the man who seemed for some inexplicable reason to have such a claim on her was entirely disreputable. This man who had awoken her inexperienced heart and her emotions, who had reminded her painfully of what was lacking in her loveless life, had feet of clay. The disillusion settled like a heavy stone below her heart.

On her way to the door she stopped beside him, to press her fingers against the hard flesh of his shoulder. Yes, it was cool, the fever gone. But not in her own blood. Even so slight a touch sent heat racing through her blood. This is simply physical desire! Harriette felt her face flush with shame.

‘Do you have family who will miss you?’ she demanded, curtly, to cover her embarrassment.

‘A brother in London. I won’t be missed for a little time. You, I think I remember, are Harry Lydyard.’

‘Yes.’ She repressed a little laugh of wry mirth. ‘I am Harry Lydyard.’

He still thought of her as a man. It didn’t matter. He was devious, deceitful and well on the road to recovery. She would send George to deal with his needs and there was no need for her to see him again. Within twenty-four hours he would be gone from her life.

And good riddance! But her heart trembled as if at a great loss.