Anita Mills (7 page)

“You’ll do no such thing!”

“Ellen, even if you are determined to freeze, you’ve no right to take me with you.” Without waiting for her consent, he picked her up and lifted her to the window. “Bend over and I’ll boost you through.”

It was an effort, but they finally managed to get her inside with a considerable loss of dignity on her part. As she trailed her wet and utterly revealing gown through the box, she reflected momentarily that by now he must surely think her the veriest trollop. Thus far, he had seen her legs, had his hands on her buttocks, and had felt her breasts pressed against his back. If he made an improper advance after this, she could scarcely blame him. But then she caught sight of her face in a glass and had to be reassured: absolutely no one, not even a thoroughly dissolute rake, could be attracted to the dripping hag she saw. She opened the door to let him in.

“What a pretty pair we are, Ellen.” He grinned as he entered. Thoroughly soaked himself, his shirt was transparent over his chest, his pantaloons were bagging with excess water, and his fine boots were thoroughly caked with mud. Water ran in rivulets from spiked ringlets that fell forward over his forehead. In short, the usually immaculate Marquess of Trent presented a picture that would have stunned his acquaintances.

“Aye.” She grinned back. “Two drowned rats if ever there were any. But you are shaking with the chill, sir, and so am I. See if you can start a fire and I will look for something dry to wear.”

She found the box to contain three small bedchambers, a kitchen with attached pantry, and an open area that passed for a combination sitting-drawing room. She could hear Alex puttering around in the latter as she rummaged shamelessly through drawers and wardrobes. She could find a supply of men’s shirts and small clothes belonging to men of smaller stature than Trent. By the looks of it, the box belonged to a man who had some sons.

“I have lit a fire, my dear,” Trent called from the other room. “Are you finding anything of use?” She looked up as his voice grew nearer and found him leaning against the doorjamb. “By the looks of it, I shall fare better than you.”

“There’s nothing else.”

“Then you’d best take a blanket and wrap up while I dry your clothes. I’ll hang them closest to the heat.” He walked closer and selected the largest shirt and leather breeches to be had. “Hmmm—’twould seem the owner took his smalls with him.”

Her face turned red and she looked away. He caught her expression and pointed out reasonably, “I did not mean to offend you, but surely you must have seen the laundry of your male relatives hanging on the line.” Walking back to the door, he added, “Get out of those wet things and pass them through to me. You can use the blanket for warmth and modesty.”

“I cannot run around with naught but a coverlet, sir,” she blurted out.

He fixed her with a wry look. “I don’t see why. You will be better covered than you are now. I have an excellent notion of your form through that wet gown. And if I am to continue being your self-appointed rescuer, I expect you to stay healthy.” He went out, tossing back over his shoulder, “And if you do not hand out the wet things in two minutes, I shall come back for them.”

Hastily, Ellen pulled a heavy woolen blanket from the bed and examined it for bugs and spiders. Finding none, she peeled off her wet gown, her petticoat, and her pantalettes. Pulling the blanket tightly about her, she cracked the door and extended the. gown and petticoats out. He took them and draped them over a bench pulled up to the fire.

“You might as well give me the rest, Ellen. I’ve a fair notion of what is missing, since I have seen about every item of female apparel at one time or another.” He came back to stand just outside. “And if you mean to wear them under the blanket, it won’t do. You must get dry.”

She opened the door wider, swallowed in embarrassment, and clasped the coverlet closer as she edged into the room. “I will hang out my own, sir,” she told him with her chin held high.

Only her bare feet and her face and one hand were visible, and yet she felt utterly exposed. He faced her wearing a clean shirt and a pair of breeches that were too tight for comfort. With a jolt, she realized he must be embarrassed also.

“That should do, Ellen. Now, come warm yourself by the fire before your teeth chatter out of your head.”

“You cannot be very warm, either.”

“I am like solid ice,” he admitted. “I don’t suppose you found a comb or hairbrush in there, did you? We could both use one.”

“On the chest.” She edged closer to the warmth and found a bench. Stretching her toes to the fire, she did not think she would ever be comfortably warm again. She closed here eyes in exhaustion and leaned forward to huddle in the blanket.

“Ouch!” She felt a tug as her wet hair was lifted outside the coverlet and a clumsy attempt was made to drag a comb through it. “I can comb my own,” she muttered ungraciously as she ducked away.

“That I should like very much to see.” He grinned, unrepentant. “Most women of my acquaintance raise their arms to do their hair. To do that, you would have to let go of your wrap.”

She turned around and found that he had combed his own hair until it lay ridiculously flat against his head, and she guessed he was like her brother, Julian, and did not appreciate the thick curls. She extended three fingers while maintaining a precarious grip on her cover. “Hand it to me and I shall go back and do my own.”

“Have it your way.” He shrugged. But as she retreated into one of the bedchambers, he added impulsively, “You have beautiful hair, Miss Marling.”

“Nonsense, my lord,” she called back. “And now is not the time to begin giving me Spanish coin, for I have no illusions about my looks. And I have not forgotten what you said when you found we were on our way to York.”

“Well, I was wrong,” he yelled through the door. “And I have revised my opinion. You are not nearly so thin as I thought. I think you would draw attention if you were properly gowned.”

Squeezing the water out of her hair and pulling the comb through the dark tangles, she began to worry that he was trying to set her up for a flirtation that could only cause her grief. Admittedly, she found him exciting and attractive, but she was not foolish enough to think that anything could ever come of even the slightest flirtation. Men like Trent probably simply flirted with what they saw at the time, and certainly they did not really give an Ellen Marling a second look if anyone else were available. And even if he were serious, which he could not be, there was still the matter of Basil Brockhaven. Finally satisfied that she had done what she could with the hair, she pulled up her blanket and sought the fire.

They sat quietly for a time, savoring the warmth from the hearth. He appeared to be brooding about something—probably the loss of his coach and coachman, she decided—and she left him alone to his thoughts. Abruptly, he drew back and looked at her.

“I don’t suppose you can cook, can you?”

“Of course not.” She smiled as his face fell. “I have the accomplishments of a lady of quality: I do watercolors, play the pianoforte well, embroider with a fair hand, and sing on key.”

“And set broken bones. You cannot say
that
is a lady’s accomplishment my dear.”

“Well, when I was younger, I wished to be a doctor rather than a lady,” she admitted. “I have never wanted to be a cook.”

“A pity. We are like to starve before Dobbs gets here, then.” He rose and went into the small kitchen in search of something that would require little preparation. After an examination of the pantry, he returned in disgust. “Nothing but pork jelly, bags of flour, salt, and the like.”

“Pork jelly? Ugh!”

“My sentiments exactly, though it is a restorative jelly, whatever that is.” He grinned down at her. “But if we are not discovered before the morrow, we may find that pork jelly has more appeal than we expected.”

“Not for me.”

“Then why don’t you see if you can find anything? Surely you must have watched your cook make a muffin or something—even I did that.”

“Then you be the cook.”

He shook his head decisively. “No. ’Twas at least twenty years ago and I am sure my memory has failed me after so many years.” He caught her look of skepticism and hastened to add, “Dash it, my memory is good, but not that good. However, I would be happy to assist you.”

Reluctantly, she padded back into the bedchamber and got out one of the boy’s shirts, pulled it over her head, and rolled up the sleeves. Then she pulled off a bedsheet, folded it in half and wrapped herself a long skirt, knotting the ends tightly at her waist. It was a trifle confining she admitted to herself as she hobbled into the other room, but it was a definite improvement over a blanket that wanted to slip off one arm or the other.

“Fetching, my dear. Does this mean you are ready to give it a try?”

“If you get the stomachache, do not be blaming me. I want it understood at the outset that I have not claimed to know what I am doing.”

“Agreed.”

He ducked outside with a bucket and found the well. Returning with the half-filled container, he set it on the table. “Thought you might need water,” he explained. “And there are a couple of chickens out there if you need them.”

“If you can kill one and clean it, I will try boiling it,” she decided.

“I?” He raised an eyebrow. “In my home, ’tis the cook who does that.”

“Yes … Well, I am not one of your ordinary cooks, my lord. I do not kill or clean chickens.”

“I see. You are one of the temperamental ones. I suppose I shall have to attend to the matter.” He left for a moment and returned with his pistol. She watched in fascination as he loaded the ball and checked it over. “I hope the powder’s not too wet.”

“What are you doing with that?”

“To kill the little beast.”

“My lord, you do not shoot a chicken—you wring its neck!”

“Aha! You do know about it.”

“Only enough to know that you pick the thing up by its head and twirl it around until the poor creature’s neck is broken. And then you remove its head and pull out its insides. After that, I think you boil it to loosen the feathers and then pluck it. And when all’s done, you can cook it.”

“Sound’s like a good program to me. I shall bow to your superior knowledge on the subject. I shall be happy to watch.”

“I just resigned, my lord.”

“All right,” he capitulated, “but you will have to find me another set of clothes. I’ll be damned if I am going to sit around in dead chicken feathers. And you had better get the water going, too. If we are to revert to the primitive roles of our ancestors, this hunter expects a cook.”

Somehow, he managed to kill and clean a rangy rooster and she managed to cook it. As the aroma of boiling broth floated through the cottage, Ellen had an inspiration. “Alex,” she confronted him, “were there any hens out there?”

“I am not killing another chicken today.”

“Of course not. I did not expect you to. But if there are hens, there might be eggs.”

“And I suppose you expect me to look,” he sighed. “No doubt this cook does not venture out in the rain, either.”

He was gone only a few minutes and returned with several eggs, which he deposited on the table in front of her. “There were more for breakfast, but right now I am most concerned about dinner. What are you serving up?”

“I shall try to make dumplings, but I have no great expectations of success.”

By the time they sat down to eat, either would have been hard put to complain about anything. As it was, the dumplings were considerably on the heavy side and the chicken was quite tough.

Lord Trent gnawed off a piece and masticated it thoroughly before commenting, “Not bad, my dear. While it is not what we are used to, it is certainly not a total failure either.” He watched her chew one of her doughy dumplings determinedly and added consolingly, “At least the flavor is good.”

“Umm—well, no doubt we shall be considerably thinner if Mr. Dobbs does not reach us soon.” She wiped her hands on a cloth she had commandeered for a napkin. “But for a couple of gently bred persons, I expect we have done fairly well.”

After the meager supper, he went to explore the recesses of the tiny hunting box while she cleared the table and washed the dishes. Left alone finally to her thoughts, she listened to the steady beat of rain on the roof and her spirits lowered. Poor Mr. Emmett—left alone, his body lying by the roadside in the cold. And if it had not been for her reckless flight from Brockhaven’s embrace, he would still be alive and warm somewhere in London. She brushed a tear that brimmed onto her cheek.

“What’s this?” Trent came up behind her and reached to take the towel she was using on the dishes from her. “Ellen, you have come too far to feel sorry for yourself now.”

“I—I was thinking of Mr. Emmett,” she told him quietly.

“Oh. Aye.” He sighed. “Emmett was a good man. I’ll seek out his sister when I return to London and give her his pension.” He hesitated a moment and then turned her around into his arms. “Poor Ellen,” he murmured softly as he enveloped her. “Do not worry over what was not your fault. It was an accident caused by the weather and it could have happened anywhere.”

“Even you said I was bad luck,” she sniffed, and then stiffened to push him away, “and this is most improper.”

“Here I offer you what I offer no one—the opportunity to cry on me—and you think of propriety.” She looked up and saw him smiling ruefully. “Aye, Ellie, and I would offer something else I’ve offered no other female: I would stand your friend!”

She could feel the solidness of his body and the strength of the arms that held her, and she could not deny the attraction she felt to him. Resolutely, she stepped back and managed a tremulous smile of her own. “Thank you, my lord,” she managed. “I—I must be blue-deviled from the rain or something, but I will be all right.”

“You have been through more in two days than any gently bred female ought to have happen to her in a lifetime, my dear, so I shouldn’t wonder if you are in poor spirits.” He pushed her toward the table where they’d eaten. “Here—you need a diversion, Ellen, and I have found some cards. What say you to a few games of faro?”