Читать книгу The Louise Allen Collection - Louise Allen - Страница 12

Decima managed two hours of sleep before sounds from the adjoining bedroom dragged her back to consciousness. She had expected it, leaving the interconnecting door wide open so she could hear Pru, but even so it seemed a bottomless pit that she had to haul herself out of before her eyes opened.

‘I’m coming!’ But Pru was not calling to her, simply talking loudly in her fever. Her forehead was burning hot as she tossed and turned, moaning and coughing. Decima worried that the fact she did not wake herself up meant her fever was very serious, but she had nothing to judge it against.

All she could do was sit by the bed, sponging Pru’s burning face with cold water and talking soothingly to her. She vaguely recalled hearing that it was serious if the patient was not sweating, but as the memory contained nothing about how one could induce this, it left her anxious but no further forward.

Trying to support Pru’s head in an attempt to get her to drink was fruitless, but eventually Decima hit on the idea of dipping a clean handkerchief in the water, then trickling it between the maid’s parched lips. That seemed to help; Pru even sucked feebly at the moisture and, after several redippings, became quieter and calmer.

Out on the landing Decima could hear the sound of soft footsteps and the murmur of voices. His lordship was up and occupied with Bates. She hoped that did not mean the poor man was in too much pain, but it was reassuring to know that others were awake in the cold, still house.

She sat gazing into the fire, suddenly struck by how very lucky she was that Adam Grantham was the sort of man he was. An out-and-out rake, bent on seduction or worse, was one danger, of course, but she had never been in any real fear of that since the first moment she’d met those steady grey eyes with their intelligence and humour.

But she could never have hoped for a gentleman—a nobleman—who coped with unclouded good humour with housekeeping and sick nursing, or who could so cheerfully disregard his own comfort and convenience. Charlton might, if absolutely desperate, light a fire or scavenge in the larder for a snack for himself, but as for him happily consuming a makeshift meal or washing up afterwards, that was beyond her powers of imagination.

When the clock struck three the water was almost gone and the fire burned very low. Outside the door, all seemed quiet again. Decima stretched stiffly, went to make up the fire, then picked up the water jug. Best to refill it now while Pru was relatively quiet.

Opposite, Bates’s door was open, the branch of candles within throwing strong bars of light across the shadowy passageway. She peeped in, but the groom was lying quietly, flat on his back, eyes closed. Of Adam there was no sign. Decima tiptoed to the landing and froze at the sound of approaching footsteps, then Adam appeared from what she was beginning to think of as the Privy Corridor, carrying an object discreetly shrouded in a towel.

He smiled at the sight of her, his teeth white in the half-light. ‘Good morning, Decima.’ She averted her gaze from the disguised chamberpot, instead taking in the full glory of the quite splendid brocade dressing gown Adam was wearing. It must be Oriental silk, she realised; dramatic black dragons writhed across a background of scarlet, jets of gold issuing from their mouths. It was luxurious, exotic and masculine in the extreme.

‘How magnificent!’

‘Why, thank you, Miss Ross.’ Adam’s smile was quite blatantly flirtatious.

‘I meant your dressing gown,’ Decima retorted repressively, managing not to stare at his bare feet. Why the sight of a man’s bare feet should be quite so disturbing she could not imagine. And in any case, they’d be very cold and in bed that would be—She caught herself in this utterly improper thought and dropped her eyes, only to realise with horror that she had not stopped to put on her dressing gown and the only thing between her and the viscount’s interested gaze was a thin nightgown.

‘How magnificent,’ he echoed, his voice an appreciative purr. ‘You know, under normal circumstances the bedroom corridors of a country house at night would be busy with the guests swapping rooms on some amorous errand or another and here we are, each laden with an article of domestic chinaware, with nothing on our minds but sickroom nursing.’

From the glint in his eyes his mind was on almost anything but the sickroom. Decima felt her colour rising and realised in horror that her nipples were peaking under the thin cotton. It must be the cold, nothing else would make them react like that, but she was sure Adam had noticed.

‘I must get some more water,’ she squeaked, scuttling downstairs with more haste than dignity.

‘Could you put the kettle on?’ he called as she reached the hall. ‘I’ll come down for it in a minute.’

‘All right,’ she called back.

She filled her jug, dealt with the kettle, and stood for a moment, bathing in the heat from the range. Her nipples were still showing no sign of calming down, however warm she got. It was baffling.

Upstairs there was, thankfully, no sign of Adam. She pulled on her dressing gown, although it felt poor protection, for it was a thin cotton garment she had selected specifically to take up as little room as possible in her valise.

Pru sucked thirstily at the freshly wetted handkerchief and this time cooperated when Decima pressed a cup to her lips. Encouraged, she stirred a little of the headache powder into the water, then, when Pru would take no more, settled down to soothe her brow with lavender water.

Behind her the door opened and, before she could turn, the soft, heavy mass of a silk brocade dressing gown settled gently around her shoulders.

‘What…?’

‘Shh.’ It was Adam, leaning over to set a cup of tea on the bedside table. ‘I have two, use this one. Look, if you just slip your arms into the sleeves, I am sure we can roll them up.’

He showed every sign of helping her do it, so Decima got to her feet and shrugged on the garment, its heavy amber silk decorated in a dizzying pattern of orchids and lilies in ivory, gold and browns. ‘It is lovely,’ she breathed. The robe pooled around her feet and her hands vanished into the deep sleeves.

‘Let me.’ Adam’s hands were reassuringly brisk as he folded back the sleeves until her hands appeared again. ‘There. Now, if we just do up the sash…Where has that vanished to?’ And then things were not so reassuring after all. His hands went round her waist, searching for the dangling sash ends, and Decima was suddenly close against his chest, silk-covered breasts brushing against him in a manner that sent quivers of awareness through her body. And this time she was left in no doubt at all what was making her nipples hard.

‘I’ll do it!’ She snatched the ends from his hands and fumbled them into a bow. ‘Thank you!’ Beside her Pru stirred uneasily and Decima turned to her, thankful for the excuse. Adam was suddenly too close, too big, too warm and far too male, and she wanted to be left alone to come to terms with all the disturbing new reactions her body was producing in response to him.

She soothed the invalid’s forehead with lavender water, glancing back over her shoulder with an uneasy smile that she hoped combined gratitude with dismissal. ‘I should not have been talking,’ she whispered, ‘I think it disturbs her.’

Adam merely smiled, a glint in his grey eyes that told her he knew that it was not Pru who was disturbed by his presence. Decima looked away and after a moment the door shut softly behind him.

‘Oh dear, Pru,’ she murmured, settling down again by the bedside. ‘This experiencing life is all very well, but I wish I knew what I was going to feel next. And what to do about it.’ She snuggled into the soft warmth of the dressing gown, took Pru’s hot, dry hand in hers and closed her eyes.

As the clock struck six Adam blinked and straightened up in the chair, wincing as his cramped muscles protested. Bates had finally succumbed to exhaustion and a quantity of brandy guaranteed to give him a headache that would take his mind off his broken leg in the morning. Now he was fast asleep, the air resounding with his snores.

Adam groped for the candle and made his way to the still-glowing fire to rekindle it, then reached for the cup of tea that had gone cold and gulped it down with a baleful glare at the clock. Was it worth going back to his own bed and snatching another hour’s sleep?

There were four horses to tend to, logs and coal to bring in, fires to make up and food to be found on top of whatever assistance Bates was going to need. He wrestled with unfamiliar priorities and decided on fuel first, then stables. And at some point during the morning, he promised himself, a hot bath. A deep hot bath. With fine milled soap. And the back brush. And a pile of Turkey towels that had been warming in front of the fire.

And who, he asked himself, through a jaw-cracking yawn, is going to lug up the cans of water, find the towels, empty the bathwater…? How much was he paying his staff? Not enough, obviously, if his experiences of domestic duties so far were anything to go by. And Mrs Chitty deserved a salary at least equivalent to that of a circuit-court judge.

He stretched, warming himself up with the thought of that imagined bath and Decima scrubbing his back, rasping the bristles across his shoulders in a mass of foam, running her—Stop it. He was certainly awake now. What was the matter with him? Adam grinned ruefully. It was no mystery what ailed him, only why, when it was but a few days since he had left the bed of his delightful and highly skilled mistress, that he should be lusting after a leggy spinster.

He padded across the landing and applied an ear to the door panels. Silence. He eased the door open and found Decima sleeping uncomfortably in the chair, her upper body slumped onto the bed beside Pru. He edged round and laid the back of his hand on the maid’s forehead. It was warm but damp, and she was sleeping heavily with none of the restlessness of the night. The fever had broken.

He stood for a long moment, staring down at Decima, surprised by the sudden wave of protectiveness that swept over him in place of the erotic thoughts that had been occupying his mind. She should have looked ridiculous, cramped and hunched, her face pressed against the counterpane, one tendril of hair straggling across her face where it blew slightly with every breath, her face shiny with sleep. Instead she looked adorable.

Cautiously, he bent and straightened her up, then scooped her into his arms and walked through to her bedchamber. The bedclothes were turned back from when she had got up to Pru and he laid Decima down into the dent her body had left. He straightened the dressing gown over her legs, eased off her kid slippers and drew the bedclothes back over her body. She did not stir.

Adam found that he was breathing as though he had carried her for a mile uphill and that he was uncomfortably hard. Damn it! One did not trifle with virgins, one did not take advantage of gentlewomen seeking sanctuary under your roof and one certainly did not stand there in a lady’s bedchamber, recalling with intense erotic detail the sensation of her long, strong legs flexing and balancing on your thighs as you rode with her through the snow. Not if one hoped for any relief at all from mental and physical torment.

It wasn’t even as though she had the slightest idea about flirtation, he thought. She had been taken utterly unaware when their impromptu waltz almost ended in a kiss and on the landing during the night she had been adorably, and very innocently, flustered by his teasing.

What on earth was wrong with the men she had met? Why wasn’t she married? It was obvious that she had this ridiculous self-consciousness about her height, but why? He had never come across a woman as tall as she, but society was full of tall gentlemen who would be as entranced as he was by her grace and beauty and original charm.

Brooding, Adam pulled himself away from her bedside and went to make up the fire, placing pieces of wood as delicately as though he were playing spillikins. No money, perhaps? A complete lack of dowry would be an impediment to the most handsome woman, but her style of dress, the quality of her hired coach and the presence of two postilions rebutted that theory.

With a lingering glance at the figure in the bed, Adam went to make up the other fires, then washed with haste in the cold water in his bedroom, dressed and went downstairs to face the waiting chores.

Decima woke slowly, more than a little inclined to snuggle back down into the warmth of the soft bed, into the caress of the wonderful silk sheets. Silk sheets? Her eyes opened with a snap. No, not silk sheets, her feet were tangled in the weighty luxury of an Oriental dressing gown.

‘How on earth did I get back to bed?’ Decima sat up and regarded the room in the clear, chilly morning light. The blankets were tucked in, which she could never have managed for herself, her slippers were neatly together in front of the fire and the fire itself was crackling cheerfully behind the screen. ‘Oh, heavens. He put me to bed.’

Decima gulped and threw back the covers. She was still decently tied up in the dressing gown, its skirts and those of her night rail gathered modestly around her calves. But that was not reassuring; Decima’s imagination produced a vivid mental picture of Adam’s tall figure bending over the bed, smoothing the clothing down, his fingers brushing against her ankles.

That strange, hot, molten feeling inside her came back. She felt restless. Tense. Surely she couldn’t be coming down with Pru’s fever?

Lord! Pru. She should not be idling in bed, wrestling with an utterly inappropriate and unmaidenly attraction to Adam Grantham, she should be nursing her poor maid. Decima scrambled out of bed and hurried to check on her.

‘Pru? Are you awake?’

‘Mmm? Miss Dessy? Ooh, my head.’ Anxiously Decima touched her forehead, deeply relieved to find it hot but damp. The confused expression of the night before had gone.

‘Lie still, Pru, you’ve got a nasty fever. Would you like a cup of tea?’

‘Yes, please, Miss Dessy.’ She struggled to sit and Decima helped her up against the pillows. ‘But you shouldn’t be waiting on me, where’s the maid?’

‘There are no staff here, Pru. Here, let me put this shawl around your shoulders. We’re snowed in with Lord Weston and his groom, who has broken his leg.’ Pru blinked in surprise, but seemed to be understanding what she was being told. ‘I’ll find you some breakfast and then you can have a nice wash and a fresh nightgown.’

Downstairs there was no sign of Adam, but a glance across the yard showed the stable door open and a wheelbarrow full of soiled straw steamed in the cold air. Inside, the range was glowing and beside the door was a stack of damp logs.

Twenty minutes later she climbed the stairs with a tray, pleased with her efforts. She had found milk, still fresh-tasting thanks to the cold, and had warmed it on the fire, adding torn-up bread, sugar and a little cinnamon. Surely Pru’s poor throat could manage that?

Pru spooned it down eagerly and drank the tea, as well. Decima began to feel quite encouraged, but, after a slow trip along the landing to the water closet, the maid suddenly seemed to fail again, and Decima had to virtually lift her into bed. She was asleep before she could finish tucking her in.

It was only to be expected, she told herself, and the more sleep she got the better; a wash could wait. Bates was still snoring away, so she went back to her room, pulled on her heavy shoes, wrapped a thick shawl around her shoulders and ran downstairs. Time to face his lordship again.

Adam dragged a shirtsleeve over his sweating brow and started grooming the second carriage horse. He had mucked out the four stalls, fed and watered the animals and was now working his way along the line, grooming and checking for any injury sustained in the journey through the snow. Bates would have checked yesterday evening, but a strain might have made itself felt overnight.

His greatcoat hung on a bridle peg with the coat he’d discarded after five minutes and the waistcoat he’d stripped off after that. The hard physical work felt good. In the crisp air the heat and the honest smell of the horses were invigorating and the practical tasks kept his mind off concerns about what to do with an unchaperoned lady he wanted to take to his bed, and the singular lack of anyone to cook for them.

The door creaked behind him and a welcome pungent smell wreathed around his nostrils. ‘Coffee?’ Decima enquired, coming in to set a sturdy earthenware mug on the edge of the manger. ‘I have left it black, with sugar, but I can bring some more if that is not right.’

Adam ducked under the horse’s neck to reach the mug, realising as he did so that he was avoiding looking at Decima or getting too close to her. ‘Just right, thank you. Good morning. Did you sleep well?’

‘Yes, I did. Thank you for putting me to bed.’ No beating about the bush then! She sounded quite composed, if a trifle cool.

‘You looked uncomfortable. I thought you would sleep better and your maid seemed quiet.’

‘She managed some bread and milk this morning, although she is as weak as a kitten.’ Decima’s voice seemed to be coming from further away. Adam ducked back under the grey’s neck and found her gone. ‘Good morning, beautiful! Yes, you are a handsome fellow now I can see you properly. And how did you know I’ve got sugar in my pocket, might I ask?’

She was in Fox’s stall. With a muffled oath Adam followed her, expecting to find her cornered by the stallion’s snapping teeth. Instead she was feeding him titbits with one hand and scratching him gently behind one ear with the other. The great horse had an expression of sleepy contentment, although at Adam’s arrival he rolled an eye in his direction.

‘You might well look bashful, you old fraud,’ Adam scolded. ‘He has the most shocking reputation for biting, but just look at him,’ he added to Decima.

‘That’s enough,’ she said firmly, dusting off her palms. ‘You’ll get fat. He is a pussy cat really, it just needs confidence. He does not bite you, I imagine.’

‘No.’ Adam regarded her warily. She was wearing a plain brown dress with a large wool shawl wrapped over her shoulders, then crossed to tie behind her waist. Her hair was pulled back by a ribbon into a long tail down her back and her hands were ungloved. Her nose was pink with the cold, tendrils of hair were escaping to curl around her cheeks and Adam thought she looked utterly enchanting. Why? Her dress was utilitarian, her coiffure non-existent, she wasn’t jewelled or powdered or perfumed. In fact, with smudges of tiredness under her eyes and Fox’s affectionate slobber on her sleeve, she looked completely unladylike. And original. And beddable.

‘What is wrong?’ She was regarding him with anxious eyes. ‘You are frowning so.’

‘I am sorry. Fox has slobbered all over your sleeve.’ Adam gulped hot coffee. ‘Don’t stay out here, you will get cold.’

‘Not if I do some work.’ She reached up, took the dandy brush and curry comb off the beam above the manger and slapped Fox on the shoulder. ‘Get over now.’

‘You cannot groom my horses!’

‘Why ever not? Papa always insisted I groomed mine at least once a week, otherwise you do not know all about them, however good your grooms are. I still do it.’ She was passing the brush over Fox’s neck in long, hard sweeps, dragging it across the teeth of the curry comb after each stroke. Adam watched, mesmerised. She was strong; those were no mere pats with the brush, but good firm strokes, massaging the skin and muscles beneath it. With her height she had all the reach she needed, except to brush Fox’s poll, and there she simply grabbed his forelock and pulled until the big horse obediently lowered his head for her.

Strong, confident, tall—she should have seemed unfeminine, but instead Adam thought her like some goddess, or an Amazon, magnificently female with her long limbs and her mane of hair.

‘His legs are cool.’ She looked up from her bent position, running her hands down Fox’s legs. ‘He doesn’t seem to have strained anything yesterday.’

‘Good.’ Adam did not seem to be able to find anything else to say. All the words that occurred to him were either banal or would get his face slapped. Instead, he leaned on the half-door and watched.

‘Have you finished the others? Only I want my breakfast.’ It was not a complaint, he realised, just a cheerful observation. Decima would quite obviously work away until the horses were looked after, however hungry she was.

‘No, a horse and a half left to go.’ He strode back to finish the grey and found the hoof pick, praying that by some miracle Mrs Chitty would appear out of the snowdrifts before he found something else about Decima to attract him.

‘I will race you,’ she called. ‘What is your other hunter called?’

‘Ajax.’

‘First one to Ajax’s tail gets the egg, then.’

‘Which egg?’

‘The one and only hen’s egg left in the larder!’

Laughing, Adam pressed on. They met at the door into Ajax’s stall, Decima diving in first to seize the brushes so he was forced to rummage for those in the stall next door.

‘Cheat,’ he grumbled. ‘Look, you’ve left me with all of his mane.’

‘I will do his face.’ She sounded breathless now, half with effort, half with laughter at this ridiculous race. ‘Loser gets the tail.’

‘Where’s the leather?’

‘What leather?’ For a moment he was deceived, but only for a moment. He was getting to know Decima.

‘The one you are hiding.’ He ducked right under the hunter’s belly, surprising her so that she jumped back with a squeak, but not before he saw the yellow chamois leather flick behind her. ‘Come on, you’ve finished with it.’

‘Find your own.’ She was laughing at him, her generous mouth wide to show even white teeth.

‘No, you’ve got what I want,’ and he lunged for it.

Decima found herself pressed against Ajax’s shoulder, the solid bulk of the horse unyielding at her back. Adam was right in front of her, a laughing challenge in his eyes. ‘Come on, hand it over.’

His shirt was open at the neck, showing a tantalising glimpse of dark hair, the sleeves were rolled up, exposing strong forearms with elegantly long muscles, his hands were raised in mock menace and he was smiling with absolute confidence that she would yield. His body heat seemed to wash over her, bringing the startlingly arousing scent of fresh sweat, hot man and leather.

Decima thought wildly that she had never seen anything more male in her life, and that included the stallion in the next stall. Suddenly she knew she could not deal with this; she was out of her depth, playing with forces she did not understand, and whatever happened next she was about to make an utter fool of herself.

‘Here.’ She thrust the leather into his hands and slid down, under the horse and up the other side where, thank God, it seemed possible to breathe. ‘You win. I’ll go and cook breakfast.’ Her exit from the stables was, she was certain, anything but dignified.