Читать книгу An Impetuous Abduction - Patricia Rowell Frances - Страница 9

Chapter Two

When the sun had sunk completely and the lavender twilight had faded to black dark, Hades stopped in the shadow of a small wood and dismounted. He untied the thongs from her leg and helped her slide off her mare. Her legs wobbled from the long ride, and he steadied her with his good hand and led her to a boulder where she could sit.

“We will stay here and rest the horses until the moon rises. It is too dark to continue safely. Are you hungry?”

For a moment Phona’s pride forbade her to answer. However, second thought made her realize that she could not allow herself to become weak with hunger. Now that he brought it to her attention, she felt starved.

And she had another problem.

She would have to speak. “Yes, I am, but I also need to…” She stopped in midsentence, the heat of a blush suffusing her cheeks, and gestured with her bound hands and her head toward the bushes.

“Ah.” Lord Hades gazed at her consideringly. “Of course.” He came to where she rested on the rock and knelt on one knee in front of her. He looked so intently into her eyes that Phona’s face got even hotter. She studied her hands.

The man put a finger under her chin and lifted it until he could see her face in the faint starlight. “Do not mistake this for an opportunity to escape, Miss Hathersage. If I am forced to, I will keep watch on you every second. Do you understand?”

Phona pondered that declaration for a moment. She turned her head away from his scrutiny. “Sir, you are no gentleman!”

She thought she heard a wry amusement in his voice. “I believe we have already established that.” The humor faded. “Miss Hathersage, I would give you all the privacy you need, if I could be sure that you will not try to hide or run away. You will not succeed, but I fear that if you try, you will get lost or injured. This is not safe county.”

Every fiber of Phona’s being longed to make the attempt, but her aggravatingly practical nature told her that the man was absolutely correct. And absolutely serious. He would watch her while she… Intolerable! Reluctantly, she nodded.

“Do you give me your word?” He continued to study her eyes.

Phona sighed and nodded again. “Very well. Word of a Hathersage. I will not use this as an occasion to escape.”

Hades considered for a moment, then he nodded in turn. He obviously had not missed the qualification. But the assurance sufficed for now. With a few deft motions he untied her wrists. “Don’t go far.”

Little danger of that! The short trip into the dark bushes proved quite enough to make flight far less tempting. Mysterious small creatures rustled in the leaves, and she could imagine spiders as large as her hand dangling from the tree limbs.

She stumbled over every rock. Definitely not the time to try to lose Hades and make her way home. As soon as she could, she scurried back to where she had left him with the horses.

She found him rummaging in a saddlebag. He indicated with a motion that she should again sit and then followed her, carrying objects unrecognizable in the dim light. He made himself comfortable beside her and began to unwrap something from the folds of a white napkin. Phona’s mouth started watering at the smell of a meat pasty.

Hades broke off a generous chunk and handed it to her, placing the remainder on the rock between them. “Plain fare for a lady, but sustaining enough.”

“Thank you.” She took a hearty bite and chewed appreciatively.

He broke a bite from his portion and popped it into his mouth, watching her from the corner of his eye. When he had swallowed, he took a swig from a jug which he had placed on his other side.

Phona eyed it enviously. The day and the pasty had left her very dry. He had almost set the bottle down again when he turned suddenly to glance at her. “Are you thirsty? I have only ale, and I doubt that young ladies care much for it.”

“I have never drank any.” She considered the jug. “But I am exceedingly thirsty.”

“I doubt you will find it to your liking, but you are welcome to have some.” He paused thoughtfully. “Just don’t have too much. It will go straight to your head if you have never drank it.” He handed her the bottle.

Phona sipped cautiously—and made a terrible face.

The man laughed. “As I thought.”

“Don’t be so hasty.” She reached for the bottle as he took another swallow and set it aside. “I am quite parched.” She managed a larger drink this time.

He grinned, his strong teeth glinting in the dark beard. “Pluck to the backbone.”

Phona did not know how to answer that. She was not feeling very plucky. She ate her pie silently, occasionally sipping from the jug. The ale was not as strong as wine, but Mama only allowed Phona a tiny taste of any form of spirits. Soon she could feel a pleasant warmth steal through her limbs.

She reached for the bottle again, but Hades moved it away. “I think not. We still have a long ride ahead of us, and I don’t want you incapacitated.” He glanced at the sky. “The moon is coming up, but so are the clouds. We must hurry.”

He repacked the remains of the meal and disappeared into the bushes while Phona strolled about the clearing to stretch her muscles. And clear her head. The ale had, in fact, made her a bit dizzy. As well as bone-weary.

But for a strong application of resolution, Phona would have wept. The thought of more riding was almost more than she could bear, but apparently she had no choice. Therefore, bear it she would. And without showing any weakness to the rogue.

He was gone longer than she had expected, but made no explanation when he returned. She suspected he had scouted their back trail for pursuit. Evidently, he had found none.

Another disappointment.

He approached her and touched her cheek lightly. Phona jerked back, but he simply declared, “You are getting cold.” Untying a roll from his saddle, he shook out a cloak and put it around her shoulders. He helped her to mount, and this time she did her part. If she became too much of a problem, he might leave her here, or even… Phona did not want to remain here alone.

Not alive, and certainly not dead.

Leo glanced back at the girl as they climbed the bank onto the old trail. She had uttered not a word, but he could see her swaying in the saddle. Her little mare looked no better. He felt very thoroughly the cad she had called him. A marauder, returning to port with his prize in tow.

And quite a prize she was. Beautifully made. Impressive mettle. He found the task of making himself forget the feel of her warm, soft body struggling against his to be more than he could manage. As was trying to forget that he had her completely under his control. To remember that he was a gentleman. Leo did not feel like a gentleman.

Leo did not want to be a gentleman.

He sighed as a large drop of rain splashed on his forehead. The rest of the ride could only get worse. The wind whipped his cloak around the lady’s small body, all but pulling her off her horse. Another drop followed the first, and suddenly the rain swept over them.

Hastily dismounting, Leo hurried back to his hostage. When he lifted his arms, she all but fell into them. “Come, we still must travel a bit farther. You will ride with me.”

She stumbled, and Leo slipped an arm around her. She was shivering, her teeth chattering. If he didn’t get her to shelter soon, she would be ill.

He made the mare fast to a lead rope, and with his help the girl managed to get herself onto the front of his saddle. Leo swung himself up behind her and flung the cloak over both of them. Cradling her against his chest, he tucked the cloak in well and pulled a fold of it over her head and face.

Leo tugged the brim of his hat low against the wind and rain and kneed his black into motion. The mare resisted for a moment and then, resignedly, followed. Thank God for his own stalwart mount, rawboned and homely, but strong as the capstan for which he was named.

Alone Leo might have made the ride back to his haven in half the time with naught more than moderate weariness, but the business with the girl had taken its toll—not the physical struggles with her so much as the sense of responsibility, the worry over her future.

And his, come to think of it. Even for him—nay, especially for him—absconding with a nobleman’s daughter might have severe consequences if he were found out.

He guided his small cavalcade onto a track almost too faint to be seen. They wound their way up along the side of a steep, heavily wooded gorge. The stream at the bottom roared along noisily, full and fresh and joyous with the rain.

Leo himself might wish for a little less of it. The water trickled down the back of his neck and blew into his eye. Small branches swiped at his face and dumped their burden of droplets into his beard. At least the downpour would erase all sign of their passing.

Coming to a spot where the stream joined another, Leo urged his mount across the rising water and onto the point of land between them. The black put up a token protest, but splashed through and plodded upward along the trail, head held low. In the shelter of his body’s heat, the girl had ceased shivering and seemed to be sleeping. Thank God for that.

Leo always felt a thrill as the stone walls rose out of the trees and rocks and dark. Tonight he also felt exceedingly thankful. They rode into the courtyard through the arch in the wall and across into the stable. At the sound of the horseshoes clopping across the cobbles, the girl roused and sat straighter.

She gazed about her, craning her neck to look up into the oak-beamed rafters high above them. A horse whickered a soft, sleepy greeting. “Where are we?”

“In my stable.” Leo pulled the cape free and swung down to the hay-strewn floor.

“I can see that,” she snapped at him and tried to slide off the tall black and stand. Her knees failed to hold her, and she wound up in a heap in the straw. She swallowed a startled cry and, clinging to the stirrup, struggled bravely back to her feet.

The attempt again proved unsuccessful. Leo caught her as her legs threatened another collapse and eased her onto a box of tack. He quickly realized that would not answer, either. She began to list slowly to starboard, her eyelids fluttering closed. He grasped her shoulders once again and was trying to decide how to proceed when a welcome voice spoke at the stable door.

“See to the lass. I’ll tend the horses.”

Leo gathered the girl into his arms, careful not to touch her with the hook, and carried her into his house.

No one had slept in the chamber in perhaps a hundred years, but when Leo had decided to use the place, they had cleaned it along with the rest of the ancient lodge and furnished it with new bedding.

The rotted bed curtains and other draperies they had burned, saving one fine, ancient tapestry which had defied the damp and dust. Other than that, only a low chest, a screen and a pair of heavy carved chairs remained to soften the stone walls.

Making the long climb up the stairs, Leo laid the girl on the tall bed. He next set about kindling a fire in the big fireplace, fumbling in the dark for the flint. Thank goodness they had already brought up wood against an emergency.

When the fire at last took hold, he walked back to the bed and gazed again at his guest, stroking his beard thoughtfully. Apparently asleep or unconscious, she was shaking again. No wonder in that; the room was little warmer than the rain-drenched night. Somehow he must get her out of her wet clothes.

That promised to be a harrowing experience.

Leo winced. Just cradling her in his arms had wakened feelings best left sleeping. Feelings that had been sleeping far too long. How could he…? Perhaps he could rouse her enough to accomplish the task herself.

Please, God.

The last thing he wanted was to be accused again of impropriety with a helpless young female. One allegation of savagery had been quite enough. Leo could easily imagine the fine uproar this one would make if she woke without her riding dress. Shuddering, he turned to go and find something dry for her to use in its stead.

As he closed the door, Leo took the precaution of twisting the key in the outside lock. He was fairly certain that she was too done up to try to escape, but he had not forgotten her earlier ploy of playing dead. No, he could not assume his clever miss was incapacitated. And she had given no pledge which applied to this location.

Leo went to his own bedchamber, down the curving flight of stone steps to the next level of the old house. Rummaging in his sea chest, he extracted a linen nightshirt and, after a moment’s thought, a silk dressing gown richly embroidered in Arabian motifs. Either would swallow her whole.

He quickly blanked out the images of the young woman upstairs clad in either garment—the linen transparent across her high young breasts, the silk clinging to her neat curves, the robe falling open to reveal shapely legs.

Damnation! The job ahead of him would be difficult enough without his fancies intruding. How long had it been since he had held a woman close? And this woman…

Leo smiled. He admired her spunk. She was too young, too small, too inexperienced to be required to deal with this situation, and yet she coped with courage and resolution.

And he, maimed as he was, had no business even thinking about her lovely, fresh body. To her he would surely seem a monster. More important, she was in his care. He owed her protection and safety—even from himself.

Phona did her best to wake to the voice in her ear and the hand shaking her shoulder. “Miss Hathersage. Miss Hathersage, can you hear me?” She shoved at the hand, tried to turn away. The voice and the hand persisted. “You must get out of your wet clothing. Come now. Sit up.”

An arm lifted her, but the darkness around her refused to dissipate. Still, something pulled her relentlessly upward. Now a pounding started in her head. She mumbled, “G’away,” but neither the voice nor the hand nor the pounding obeyed.

She thought she heard a heavy sigh. Someone began to fumble with the buttons of her habit. Lily? Her maid? It wasn’t Lily’s voice. It was a man’s…

A man! Her buttons! She clutched the hand and pushed.

Another sigh. “Miss Hathersage, please. Can you unfasten your own dress? You must take it off. The rain has soaked it.”

She nodded, and the hand moved away. Try as she might, her eyes would not open. Never mind. Blindly, she grappled with the buttons, but she could not prevail.

Her fingers refused her commands. Now her head throbbed with every heartbeat and fire shot through her bones. Someone groaned. Herself? It sounded like her.

“Let me help you.” The voice sounded again. “Do not be afraid. I will only help you.”

The hot skin of Phona’s breasts cooled as her habit parted and the air found her damp shift. Then a hand rolled her from one side to the other, peeling away the wet riding dress.

“Can you remove your shift? It must come off, too.”

Phona tried to nod, but her head hurt too much. She tugged at the ties of the shift. They came undone, but she could go no further. Her hands fell helplessly beside her, defeated by the ache.

She heard a soft whisper. “God help me.” And then her shift was yanked roughly over her head.

Something soft and warm and dry immediately settled over her, and she was allowed to lie back against a pillow. The thunder in her head and the lightning bolts slicing through her bones eased just a bit. A smooth sheet and a warm cover were pulled over her body and tucked under her chin. She grasped them as firmly as she was able.

“Poor child. I shan’t touch you.” The owner of the voice drew the pins out of her hair and spread it across the pillow, running his fingers through the damp, tangled curls. “Not even a hat to protect your head. Such ill treatment for a courageous lady. I’m sorry.”

Phona drifted away again into darkness, trying to remember who he was and why he was sorry.

The scream tore itself out of Phona’s throat, rattling the shutters and setting the drums to throbbing in her head again. A skeleton leaned over her. Pale sunken cheeks, hollow eyes, a hairless head.

Bony hands reached for her.

She shrieked again and tried to roll, clawing her way across the bed. Running footsteps pounded into the room. The Pirate. Hades! He said his name was Lord Hades. Oh, God! Oh, God! Hades and a skeleton. The fire in her flesh. The flicker of a blaze leaping against the wall. The smell of smoke.

She was dead! She was dead and in Hell. Could she not feel the torturous flames punishing her body? Did she not see the fleshless shade?

Lord Hades had brought her to the underworld.

Why had she been sent to Hell? She had tried to be good. She treated everyone kindly. She always obeyed Papa, and she tried to obey Mama. But it was so hard.

Phona always disappointed Mama. She could not attract a husband. She always threw out a spot at just the wrong time. Her hair was too curly, too gingery, her dress too rumpled.

But were these mortal sins? God created her hair. It wasn’t her fault! It wasn’t fair. And it was too much. Far too much.

The wail escaped her in spite of her burning throat. “I want to go home!”

A papery voice responded. “Nay, now, lass. There’s naught to fear.”

The mattress sank as someone sat beside her and stroked her hair back from her face. A familiar voice. “What happened?”

“Like I told ye, me lord, this phiz o’ mine scares women and little children.”

“Not that much. Miss Hathersage…?”

Sobs choked their way out through her parched lips. “I don’t want to be dead. I want to be alive again. I want to go home.”

“Now, now, you are not dead.”

“I am. I know I am.” Phona gazed up into one bright blue eye. “You said you were Lord Hades. I should have known. You brought me to Hell. The Pirate killed me, and you brought me here. There is a skeleton!”

A cold, dry hand rested on her forehead, and the raspy voice said, “Fever dreams, me lord.”

“Yes, she is burning with fever.” A different hand, larger, warmer, cupped her cheek. “You are not dead, my dear, and I am not truly god of the Underworld. While this is my home, and I have brought you here, it is not Hell.”

“I tried to be good. I did try.” The sobs kept coming. Phona lay helpless as tears dripped into her hair. “Why must I suffer forever?”

Strong arms lifted her and cradled her against a hard, shirtless chest. Crisp hair tickled her nose, and she heard Hades’ voice. “Come now, it will not be forever. The fever will go away. You are good and brave.”

“I don’t…” A sob. “I don’t feel brave.”

“Nay, as I know well, it is very hard to be brave when you are so ill, when nothing is as it seems.” The big, warm hand pressed her head against the tickly hair. “Where do you hurt?”

“Everywhere. My head, my arms…” She coughed and croaked, “My throat.”

“I feared this might happen.” Lord Hades spoke to the Skeleton. “She has taken a chill.”

“Aye, a hard ride for a lass. We best be gettin’ some broth down her, and the tea, lest it get worse. She’ll rest easier.”

“Can you stop crying, little one? Can you take some soup?” Hades let her rest against the pillow again. Only now, several pillows held her in a sitting position.

Phona relaxed into their embrace and struggled to make sense of things. The Skeleton was holding a bowl and spoon out to Lord Hades. If she were not in hell, where had the Skeleton come from? If the Pirate was not Lord Hades, who was he?

She tried to take in a deep breath and stop crying, but coughing choked her. A large handkerchief wiped her eyes and nose. She tried again, and finally hiccuped into silence.

Hades extended a spoonful of broth. Phona drew back. “If I eat anything, I can never go home.”

“What is she on about now?” the Skeleton inquired.

“It is an old story.” Hades sighed. “I’ll tell you later.” He put the spoon back in the bowl. “Come, Miss Hathersage. You must have sustenance. You are not in the Underworld. You have my word.”

“On your honor?” In a fleeting moment of clarity Phona glimpsed the irony of charging either Lord Hades or a pirate with his honor.

“Word of a…” He hesitated for a heartbeat. “Upon my family’s honor.”

He refilled the spoon, and after a moment Phona accepted a sip. If she was doomed, then she was doomed. She could do nothing to change it. The soup slid warmly down her throat, stinging for a moment. The second mouthful went easier, and after a third a welcome sort of warmth spread through her body, easing some of the fiery ache.

Her eyes began to close, but the two voices exhorted her to wait, to finish her broth. But Phona could not keep the darkness at bay. The bowl disappeared and a cup of bitter tea took its place. She managed to get down several swallows before trying to push it away.

“No, Miss Hathersage. You must drink all of this. It will help you.” She heard the firm voice through a fog, but opened her mouth again, thankful when he took away the nasty draught.

The Skeleton’s voice asked, “The laudanum, do ye think?”

“Aye. It will help her pain.”

Another pungent smell assaulted her nostrils, but this time Phona obediently opened her lips. Now perhaps they would leave her alone. Even as the extra pillows were removed, she was drifting away. And she did not care if she never returned.

Tired as he was, Leo could not bring himself to leave her. He had done this to her. Certainly it had been a better choice than allowing the others to kill her. Unfathomably better than killing her himself.

Better even than allowing to be destroyed all he had spent months setting in motion. Yet, the decision was his, and he bore the responsibility for it. He could only pray that her illness would not finish her after all.

Leo built up the fire, but the room seemed too cool for him to sit bare-chested, and he was loathe to leave the girl long enough to fetch a shirt. He lay beside her, atop the bedclothes, and tugged a corner of the quilt over himself, rolling until he was well wrapped in it.

It seemed unlikely that she would even know that he lay near her, but still Leo moved as close to the far edge of the bed as the arrangement allowed, fearing that he might frighten her further should she unexpectedly wake.

She appeared to be lost in unconsciousness, tossing about and moaning now and again. Several times she started up, wild-eyed, her cry breaking the silence. Each time Leo placed a soothing hand on her shoulder and settled her back onto the pillows.

Each time he was uncomfortably aware of the heat radiating from her. Of the smoothness of her skin, the softness of her hair, the sparks of light from the fire caught in its waves.

What a surprising contradiction she was. So courageous and desirable in her womanhood. So vulnerable and childlike in her fever-induced pain and terror of Hell. Leo smiled into the dark. Little had he known how far his Persephone would take that jest.

He pitied both her pain and her fear. Leo knew what it was to lie in helpless agony, prey to delirious images, terrified, not only of the enemies in one’s dreams, but of the helplessness. The fear that gangrene and the surgeon would take the rest of his arm. Too weak to resist.

A hand plagued him with phantom tortures, yet was no longer his to command. Was no longer there at all. The image of it as it disappeared in a spray of blood and grapeshot. Hell.

She had the right of that.

Just as the light of sunrise began to creep through the shutters, his patient flung the bedclothes off. Leo reached for them to protect her once more, but realized that she was sweating. A hand to her forehead confirmed that, while she still felt too warm, her excessive fever had broken.

It would no doubt increase again later in the day, but Leo gave thanks for any sign of improvement. If they could prevent the lady developing an inflammation of the lungs, they might pull her through.

Leo had been almost two days without real sleep. Now that she slept more deeply, he would have gone to his own bed, save that he feared she would be frightened if she awoke alone.

And he feared even more that the sight of his bare stump would cause her further distress. Last night, when he had heard her scream at the sight of Aelfred, he had just removed his shirt and the straps which secured the hook to his body. He had raced up the stairs without a thought for his repulsive deformity.

Now, in the light of day…

Aelfred solved this dilemma by slipping stealthily into the room and handing Leo a shirt. “How fares the lass?”

“A little better, I think. She is sweating.”

“Aye, a good sign. Ye’ll find coffee and porridge in the kitchen and a bath drawn by your fire. I’ll sit with her until she wakes. Mayhap in the light I won’t scare the bejabbers out of her.” His thin lips quirked. “Or mayhap the light’ll be worse.”

Leo clappedAelfred on the shoulder. “Come now, man. Her fever caused that alarm, as well you know. I must sleep now. Thank you.” He paused by the bed a moment, gently touching the girl’s cheek. “She feels cooler now.”

She looked so vulnerable lying there that he could not leave her uncovered. He tucked the quilt around her and finally brought himself to take his leave.

Phona drifted to the surface of consciousness from an unfathomable depth. She wanted to open her eyes, but the growing light hurt, even if she squeezed her lids tightly. Eventually, they adjusted a bit, and she risked a peek.

The light came from a window. A window in a strange room. Rain beat upon the glass of the casement in an uneven tattoo. She closed her eyes again and tried to think.

Rain. She remembered rain. And riding. And riding and riding. A man—a pirate? And a skeleton? Surely she had been dreaming. But where was she? Phona squinted again through aching eyelids. She still lay in the strange bed in the strange room.

Between her and the window someone sat in a chair. She could not make out his features against the glare, but he was working on something in his hands. She tried to raise herself on her elbow. The person in the chair glanced up and rose.

A tall, lean man walked to the bed and looked down at her. “Morning, miss.” He held up a restraining hand. “Now don’t ye go raising another screech. I ain’t much to look at, but I ain’t no skelyton nor no boggart, neither.”

No, he could not be called a skeleton, but the skin stretched so tightly over the bones of his face that he appeared cadaverous at best. Above his deep-set eyes rose a shining, bald dome of a head, and his lips seemed but a slit in his narrow face. Phona gazed up at him. Was this the bony apparition of her dream?

The alleged apparition announced, “I’m called Aelfred. I keep things in order here.” Before she could ask where here was, he continued. “I reckon ye be needing some porridge and tea. Won’t be a minute.” The man disappeared through the door. Phona heard the unmistakable sound of a key turning in the lock.

He had locked her in!

A moment of panic swept over her. She couldn’t stay here locked in! She flung back the bedclothes and tried to put her legs over the edge of the high bed, struggling to sit. This attempt was met by a wave of dizziness, and she fell back on the pillow with a thump. Dear God, she was weak as a newborn filly!

When her head quit spinning, Phona glanced down at her body. She was wearing a… Yes. A man’s nightshirt enveloped her from shoulders far past her feet, one made of soft, translucent linen. She could see the details of her person right through it. Good grief!

She yanked on the covers. It proved all she could do to deal with the voluminous garment, but she prevailed at last. Exhausted, she lay back, motionless. Dealing with the locking in would have to wait.

After a few minutes she felt able to look around again. She had seen a pirate. He had chased her. Caught her. Forced her to come with him. Now Phona remembered riding on the saddle before him, wrapped in his cloak and his strong arms.

Was this his lair? It certainly looked like a pirates’ lair, the furnishings very old, the walls of rough stones, a huge fireplace.

At the sound of footsteps, she quickly pulled the quilt up to her chin. Aelfred opened the door and came in carrying a tray. He set it on a low chest beside the bed. Lifting her to a sitting position, he stacked the extra pillows behind her and proceeded to spread a large napkin under her chin.

He offered her a bite of porridge. She tried to take the spoon from him, but her arms felt too heavy to bear the weight. She almost knocked it to the bed.

“Oh, I’m sorry.” Tears pricked behind her eyelids.

“No matter, miss. Ye passed a hard night. Little wonder ye feel a mite feeble this morning.” He gave her several more spoonfuls and then picked up a teacup. “Here ye go. This will put ye right.”

She wrinkled her face at the bitterness. The taste recalled something else. Someone sitting on the bed last night. Offering her the bitter cup. “Who else was here last night?”

“Just his—my master.”

“The Pirate?”

“Pirate? Nay… Well, mayhap, in a manner o’ speaking.”

Oh, Lord! He really was a pirate!