Читать книгу Miss Amelia's Mistletoe Marquess - Jenni Fletcher - Страница 12

Millie jolted upright with a gasp, her heart hammering against her ribcage at the sound of a shout, followed by glass shattering downstairs. In another instant, she was out of bed and on to the landing, so disorientated that she was halfway down the stairs before she remembered that she was only wearing her shift and petticoat and her situation was shocking enough without her running around in her underwear. But she still had to hurry. If Mr Whitlock was in some kind of trouble, under attack by the sound of it, then she had to help him as he’d helped her!

Quickly, she returned to her room and fumbled around on the back of the bedroom door for the dressing gown she’d noticed there earlier and then ran down the stairs as fast as the moonlight streaming in through a pane of glass above the front door would safely allow. The parlour door was closed, but there were still noises coming from within. Not shouts any more, but angry, expletive-laden grunts and muttering. She looked around for a weapon, her gaze settling on an umbrella in one corner. It wasn’t much, but it was better than nothing, enough to give someone a painful jab in the ribs if necessary.

She hoped it wouldn’t have to be necessary.

Gritting her teeth, she steeled her nerve, put on what she hoped was a suitably frightening expression, grabbed the door handle and burst in.

‘What the—?’ Mr Whitlock spun around at once. He was crouching down by the fireplace, picking up pieces of glass as she lunged forward, brandishing the umbrella like a sword in front of her.

‘Oh!’ She looked around the room in surprise. Everything was just the same as it had been when she’d gone to bed. There were no signs of a struggle, no broken windows and, apparently, no one else there.

‘Millie?’ He stood up, his expression almost comically confused.

‘I thought you were in trouble. There was a shout.’

‘Ah.’ He deposited several shards of glass into the coal scuttle and then brushed his hands together. ‘I’m sorry for disturbing you. It appears I flung an arm out in my sleep and knocked the bottle over.’

‘Oh.’ She lowered her arm, belatedly realising that she was still brandishing the umbrella. Now she thought about it, there was a distinct aroma of plums and alcohol in the air. ‘The port?’

‘I’m afraid so.’

‘Can I help?’

‘It’s not important. I’ll deal with the rest in the morning.’ He dropped down into his armchair and pressed a hand to his forehead. ‘You can go back to bed.’

Millie stood where she was. In all honesty, she was feeling slightly ridiculous, but he seemed…different. When he’d first opened his front door he’d looked positively thunderous, his nostrils flaring so wildly that she’d almost turned on her heel and run away into the snow, but now he seemed to have gone to the other extreme. With the candles all extinguished the only light came from the fire, but his features looked unnaturally pale and drawn, as if all the energy had been drained out of him, too. No matter what the impropriety, her conscience wouldn’t let her leave him like that.

‘Are you feeling unwell?’ She put the umbrella aside and advanced a few steps into the room.

‘No.’ He gave an indistinguishable sigh.

‘Was it a nightmare?’

This time he moved his hand away from his face to look at her. ‘I suppose so. Although that suggests something imagined, doesn’t it? This was a memory.’

‘You have bad memories?’ She crouched down on her heels in the same spot she had earlier.

‘One or two.’ His lip curled, though there was no merriment behind it. ‘But I won’t disturb you again, I promise.’

‘Because you don’t intend going back to sleep?’ She tipped her head to one side, seeing the answer in his eyes. They were a bright and piercing blue, the very first thing she’d noticed about him on the doorstep, but now they looked haunted. ‘I doubt I’ll be able to for a while either. It’s hard to calm down after a shock, especially when you’ve been fighting imaginary assailants with umbrellas.’

He looked faintly amused, the barest hint of a smile softening the harsh lines of his face. ‘I do appreciate your coming to rescue me. Nothing scares intruders away like an umbrella, I understand.’

‘Ah, but I was simply creating a diversion. I intended for you to do the rest. Unless you were indisposed, of course, in which case I would have hurled the umbrella at whoever it was and gone for the poker instead. I had it all planned out.’

‘Evidently.’ He actually chuckled.

‘Would you like to talk about it?’

‘About what?’ A shutter seemed to slam down over his eyes, turning the blue into shards of silver, as wintery cold as the snow outside.

‘Whatever it is you were dreaming about. My younger sister used to have nightmares after our father died. We shared a bed so I always knew, but talking about it soothed her.’

‘What happened to your father?’ The shutters lifted slightly, though he didn’t answer her question.

‘Typhoid. There was an epidemic in London ten years ago and he was one of the victims. Lottie was only twelve and it wasn’t easy for her to witness.’

‘Or for you, I should imagine. I doubt you were much older.’

‘No. I was fifteen, but I had to be strong for her and my brother and mother.’ She winced at the memory of that dark time. ‘My parents were devoted to each other, you see. They ran a charitable institution, but after he died, my mother couldn’t bear to face the world for a while. Someone had to be practical and keep things going.’

‘I’m sorry.’ His gaze seemed very intense all of a sudden. ‘For all of you.’

‘Thank you.’

She rocked back on her heels as they lapsed into a pensive silence, without so much as the crackle of a log in the fireplace to relieve the atmosphere of tension. Maybe she ought to go back to bed, after all, Millie thought. If he didn’t want to talk, then she didn’t want to push him, although for some reason she didn’t want to leave so soon either. Despite the tension she felt strangely comfortable with him.

‘What did you say to your sister after her nightmares?’ he asked finally, his voice softer than before. ‘How did you make her feel better?’

‘I’d tell her that the pain would ease in time, that Father wouldn’t have wanted us to be sad and that we had to take care of each other the way he would have wanted us to. But mostly I just let her talk.’

‘And that helped?’

‘It seemed to.’

He nodded and stared down at the floor as if he were considering something, his brows contracted into a straight, hard line. ‘What do you know about the military campaign in Afghanistan?’

She blinked, taken aback by the change of subject. ‘Only what I’ve read in the newspapers. It sounded awful.’

‘It was.’ He looked up again, the muscles in his jaw and neck clenched tight. ‘I was sent there two years ago as a captain in the Army of the Indus, twenty-one thousand men sent to play “the Great Game”, as Melbourne and the rest of our politicians called it. It wasn’t a game for us. That was the real nightmare. Things happened that I wish I’d never seen, things done by both sides, but I was one of the lucky ones. I was sent back to India after a year. I wasn’t in the Khyber Pass.’

‘Oh.’ She lifted a hand to her mouth, horrified by the mere mention of it. ‘That was terrible. Just one survivor.’

‘Out of thousands of soldiers.’ He nodded grimly. ‘Our generals were over-confident and didn’t understand the terrain. They delayed the retreat for far too long, until winter. The whole campaign was a disaster. There were skirmishes on our march back to India, too. My unit was attacked several times.’

‘Were you injured?’ For some reason the thought made her breath catch.

‘Not badly, but…almost.’ A muscle in his jaw seemed to spasm. ‘I had a friend who saved me from a knife in the stomach. Unfortunately it got him in the shoulder instead.’

‘Did he recover?’

‘We carried him back to India on a stretcher, hoping he’d somehow pull through, but…’ He dropped his gaze to the floor again. ‘I sat by his bedside for four days, telling him he’d been a damned fool to save me and doing whatever I could to repay the favour, but it wasn’t enough. All I could do was watch him die.’

‘I’m sorry.’ She didn’t know what else to say.

‘So am I.’

‘I’m sure he was glad to have a friend by his side.’

‘I don’t think he was aware of much by the end.’ He ran a hand over his brow. ‘He was thirty years old with a fiancée waiting at home and his whole life ahead of him. I was going to be the best man at his wedding. It was all such a waste.’

‘Yes.’ She couldn’t argue with that. ‘What was his name?’

‘Towse, Captain Edward Towse.’ He grimaced as he reached for the bottle of port that wasn’t there. ‘He was like a brother to me and I…’

‘You blame yourself?’ She finished as his voice broke.

‘Yes.’

‘It was his choice to save you.’

‘But he shouldn’t have taken the risk. I didn’t ask him to.’ The look in his eyes was stark. ‘He gave up his life for mine. That’s not an easy thing to live with.’

‘No, I don’t suppose it is.’ She shook her head sympathetically. ‘Is that what you dream about?’

He nodded. ‘Not every night, but often. I watch the whole scene in my head, only slowed down. I see the glint of the blade heading towards me, I see my own sword come up and then I see Edward push me aside. Then I can’t see anything because his back is in the way and then…then I see him fall. Over and over again, like I’m trapped in those few minutes. It’s as though my mind thinks if I watch it enough times then I’ll be able to change things somehow, to stop it all from happening, but I can’t. Nothing ever changes. Not the result or the guilt. Some nights I’m afraid to go to sleep.’ He gave a ragged laugh and shook his head. ‘A grown man, afraid of his own dreams.’

‘They’re not dreams.’ She repeated his earlier words. ‘They’re memories.’

‘Ah.’

‘Is that why you left the army?’

‘Part of the reason, but I was needed back in England, too.’ He shifted forward, bracing his arms over his knees. ‘A few days after Edward’s funeral, I got word that my cousin had taken a bad fall from his horse. By the time I returned to England, he was dead.’

‘How dreadful. Were you very close?’

‘Not so much in recent years, but as boys we were inseparable. We grew up together, you see, but after university our lives went in different directions. Magnus married and had children and I joined the army. I wish I’d made more of an effort to stay close to him.’ He stared down at the purple-stained hearth and made a face. ‘Now you see why I drink. Guilt is a terrible thing, Just Millie, but you’re quite right.’

‘What do you mean?’ She drew her brows together. ‘I didn’t say anything.’

‘Ah, but you thought it and you’re right. Edward sacrificed himself to save me and all I do to repay the favour is wallow in self-pity and alcohol. It’s downright ungrateful.’

‘I don’t recall thinking any of that.’ She stiffened, offended by the implication. ‘Everyone grieves in their own way.’

‘But I suspect that you wouldn’t behave like this. I ought to be practical like you were, don’t you think?’

‘I still have emotions, Mr Whitlock. Just because I threw myself into work when my father died doesn’t mean I didn’t love or mourn him. A person can be practical and still feel.’

‘Forgive me—’ he reached forward suddenly and caught one of her hands ‘—I didn’t mean to suggest otherwise. It takes strength and courage not to let your emotions get the better of you, to carry on with life even when you’re in pain. Sometimes I’m afraid that I’ll never be able to move past what happened, that I’ll never find peace or joy again.’ His gaze burned into hers. ‘You have fortitude, Just Millie. I admire and envy you for that. On top of which, you’re an excellent listener. Your sister is very lucky to have you.’

‘Thank you.’ She looked down at their joined hands. Hers looked so small and weak inside his, yet he said he envied her strength. ‘And things will get better for you, I’m sure of it. Even the memories will fade eventually. You’ll find peace and joy again.’

‘Will I? Why do I deserve those things when he’s gone?’

‘Because everyone deserves those things. And you will because wounds scar over.’ She strove to sound reassuring. ‘You were wounded that day you lost your friend, just like I was when I lost my father. They might not have been injuries anyone could see, but they were still real. Some wounds might be mortal, but the rest heal and scar over in time. You might not be the same person you were before, but you’ll be able to move on some day.’

‘Move on…’ he repeated the words, his fingers tightening imperceptibly over hers. ‘I’m almost afraid you’re a part of some dream, too, Just Millie, only a good one this time. Are you sure you’re real and not a figment of my imagination?’

‘I think so.’ She nodded, though she had to admit she was feeling somewhat light-headed. Probably because her pulse was accelerating to a positively alarming rate. She tried drawing in a breath to slow it down, but the room seemed unusually lacking in air. It made her feel as if she were panting instead.

Desperately, she shifted her gaze away from their hands and then instantly regretted it. His shoulders were broad and muscular and the neck of his shirt was open, revealing the strong column of his throat as well as the top of his chest and a dusting of pale golden hair beneath. Her gaze continued downwards, as if drawn of its own volition, certainly against her own better judgement. He must have woken up in a sweat because his shirt was stuck to his skin in places, making the stomach muscles beneath as visible as if he were naked.

She ran her tongue nervously over lips that felt bone dry all of a sudden. Their close proximity was utterly inappropriate, even more so than her being there was already, but his hand was still holding hers, his fingers warm and strong, and she felt an almost irresistible impulse to stroke the inside of his palm with her thumb.

‘I’m very real—’ she cleared her throat instead ‘—but I don’t deserve your admiration. Sometimes I feel trapped, too, not in the past, but in the present. I don’t compare my situation to yours, of course, but there are days when I want to scream at the very top of my lungs. If I hadn’t found your house this evening, I might actually have done it, just to see how it feels.’

‘Go ahead.’

She looked up in alarm. ‘I’m not going to scream, Mr Whitlock.’

‘Why not? It’s the perfect opportunity. There aren’t any other houses within hearing distance, just a lot of trees. You might frighten a few badgers and squirrels, but we can live with that.’

‘I still can’t scream.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because I don’t do things like that. It’s not who I am. Once maybe, but not any more.’

‘Then who are you, Just Millie?’

‘Who am I?’ The very question made her feel reckless. ‘I’m Miss Amelia Fairclough, teacher of sewing and housekeeping at the Fairclough Foundation. I’m practical, virtuous and self-sacrificing.’ She drew her fingers away from his to tick the qualities off one by one. ‘Which I know because everyone tells me so.’

His lips twitched as he lifted an eyebrow quizzically. ‘Aren’t they supposed to be positive qualities?’

‘They are, but put all together like that they just sound so utterly boring.’

‘Surely people don’t tell you that?’

‘Not to my face, but it’s implied. Self-sacrificing, as if I don’t have a self!’ She dug her nails into her palms in frustration. ‘It’s not that I’m unhappy, at least not exactly. My work is very rewarding and it pleases me to know that I’m doing something useful and helping others, but I want to be more than just practical and virtuous! I used to be, only those things have become habits and now everyone expects them of me. I feel so…’

‘Trapped?’

‘Exactly! And boring. I feel as if I’ve become someone I didn’t want to be, someone I’m not even sure that I like. My sister and brother are both far more interesting than I am.’

‘Are you the eldest?’

‘Only by half an hour. Silas is my twin.’ She drew in a deep breath and then sighed it out again. ‘It sounds ridiculous, but I was trying to be different and rebellious tonight and look what happened! I got lost in a snowstorm and ruined your evening.’

‘You haven’t ruined anything. I’m glad to have met you, Just Millie.’

‘You are?’

‘Extremely.’ He sounded surprisingly genuine. ‘You’ve made me feel better.’

‘I’m glad.’ She peered up at him. ‘Although in that case I probably shouldn’t tell you the most boring thing of all.’

‘But now I’m curious.’ There was a hint of a smile in his voice. ‘Tell me.’

‘All right…’ She sighed again. ‘It’s that at this precise moment, what I’d like more than anything else in the world is a cup of tea.’ She screwed her mouth up apologetically. ‘That’s not something an exciting woman would say, is it?’

‘I don’t know. It sounds like a quite genius idea to me.’ He pushed himself out of his chair, started towards the door and then stopped, turning around to bob down beside her. ‘For what it’s worth I don’t think you’re boring at all. In fact, I think you might be the most intriguing woman I’ve ever met.’ His gaze dropped. ‘And my dressing gown suits you, by the way.’

‘Oh!’ She pressed a hand to the throat of the peacock-green-and-blue garment self-consciously. It swamped her slender shoulders and trailed several inches along the floor, looking more like a ceremonial robe than a housecoat, but it was soft and surprisingly comfortable, so much so that she’d forgotten she was wearing it. She even liked its musky smell. ‘I was rushing to get downstairs, but I didn’t want to do it in my unmentionables and this was the first thing that came to hand.’

‘Well, that’s certainly a relief. We wouldn’t want any unmentionables on display.’ His gaze drifted to her mouth and then back to her eyes, his own glowing with some indefinable emotion. Only it brought the word smouldering to mind. ‘Now wait here and I’ll see what I can find in the kitchen.’

Millie waited until the parlour door had closed before swallowing hard. His face had been so close to hers that for the space of a few unsteady heartbeats she’d thought that he was going to embrace her. To kiss her. The idea ought to have been shocking, but it wasn’t. On the contrary, it had been quite decidedly tempting.

She pressed her hands to her furiously blushing cheeks, feeling as if his gaze itself had scorched her. Ironically after her evening’s adventure in the snow, now the whole room felt too hot. She stood up and moved away from the fire, trying to distract herself from the fact that she’d just poured her heart and soul out to a man she’d only just met. It was outrageous! Though on the other hand, it had felt good to talk to someone about her feelings for once, and it wasn’t as if she’d done anything very wrong. She’d only told the truth and it was an unusual night, after all, a break from her real life of virtue and self-sacrifice, a snow-covered secret that no one else ever needed to know about.

And he’d called her intriguing. That was the best secret of all.