Anita Mills (9 page)

“I suppose I deserved that,” Jessica admitted. “But ’tis more than that.” She turned away, twisting her hands, then blurted out, “You cannot go home, Kit.”

“I can and I will.”

“There’s no money.” She looked up, aware that she had her cousin’s attention now, and plunged ahead in explanation. “ ’Tis the Funds—there have been reverses—I suppose ’tis the aftermath of the war. In any event, our man of affairs has advised Mama that the losses have been dreadful, and there’s almost nothing left.”

“But—but Papa left—”

“I know. So you see, you cannot go back, Kitty. One of us must take Charles, for he is very rich, and ’tis foolish to hope that it can be I.”

For a brief time, the room seemed to spin around Kitty as the meaning of Jessica’s words sank in. There was no money, she was saying. There was no return to America, unless she went as a beggar to her father’s partners. Kitty exhaled heavily.

“I would beg in the street before I should stoop so low as to take Charles Trevor for his money, Jess.”

“But can you not pretend? I mean, can you not agree to wed him? Later, if something happens, you may cry off. Besides, ’twill make Mama forget the loss of her carriage,” she coaxed.

“If what happens?”

“I don’t know!” Jessica’s eyes filled with tears and her chin quivered. “I j-just know I shall not survive, Kit! Maybe you can persuade Haverhill—maybe something will come of that! But if you do not accept Charles now, Mama will make me see my husband—and I cannot! And then I shall never see Charles again!”

“Peagoose! You’ll have to see Haverhill! Tell him you’ve found another, Jess,” Kitty responded. “He does not seem to be such a terrible fellow to me.”

“Well, he is! Kitty, if you can but delay—if you can but let Mama think—otherwise she will not allow Charles to run tame here anymore!”

“Can I not just take the offer under advisement?”

“No, but you can cry off later,” Jess persisted, sensing that Kitty wavered. “And I can tell you with a certainty that Charles Trevor will not treat you as Haverhill treated me. Even if you were wed to him, he would not.”

“Just what did Haverhill do?” Kitty asked curiously.

“He got me alone, and he—he slobbered on me! Then he—well, he was so disguised that he fainted, but Papa would not listen to me. He said that since Haverhill—since he had—torn my dress—that I—oh, ’tis too awful to tell!” And, as though to give credence to the horror, Jessica dissolved again into tears.

“All right—all right.” Clenching her teeth to stifle her exasperation, Kitty gritted out, “I will agree to pretend to affection for Sturbridge, Jess, but you will have to agree to see Haverhill. We shall take Sturbridge with us, and I can assure you that amatory pursuits are beyond your evil baron’s abilities at the moment.”

“I could not.”

“Then I cannot allow Aunt Bella to believe an arrangement exists between Charles Trevor and myself. ’Twill be bad enough when word reaches Lady Sturbridge, I assure you. You can believe that she will discover me to be spotted,” Kitty muttered dryly. “And then she will allow as how spots are quite fetching—so very savage, you know. For every criticism, she is careful to couch it as though the fault is not mine, as though she balances it with tolerance, which she does not.”

“You will stay in the room with me?”

“With a pistol at full load, if you wish it.”

“And you will have Charles there also?”

“Yes.”

“All right.”

Kitty forced a tired smile. “Now that we are decided, I think I shall change my gown. I should very much rather not wear Haverhill’s blood any longer, thank you.” She reached for the door. “Wear something sensible yourself, for we shall have to share one seat between us. Charles has brought his tilbury.”

“But what if Haverhill decides he wishes to live with me?” Jess asked in a small voice behind her.

“Then I suggest you make yourself as plain as possible. Though quite frankly, he is in no case to offer violence to anyone just now.”

“But Charles—”

“Charles is
my
betrothed now,” Kitty reminded her grimly. “And so long as he is, I refuse to let either of you make me into an object of sympathy, do you hear?”

“Yes.”

“And the first time that I discover that I am pitied, I shall throw him over. Do you understand me?”

Jessica swallowed and nodded.

W
AITING FOR
K
ITTY
G
ORDON’S
return seemed like an eternity to Jack. He lay upon the bare bed, shivering, and he knew not whether it was from the cold or his wound. But for whatever reason, he knew he felt about as bad as he’d ever felt, with the exception of the time they’d wanted to take his leg. Finally, to pass the time and take his mind from the ache in his shoulder, he relived what he could remember of Miss Gordon.

The girl had pluck, he’d give her that. Spirit and beauty—it was rare to find both in the same compact package. And compact she was, barely reaching to his shoulder. Fine-boned, delicate, tiny almost. With nerve. He closed his eyes and tried to bring her face into focus. There was a pertness to it that made her more pretty than beautiful, he decided, a certain rosiness that warmed it, keeping her from being another cool, insipid blond. He tried to decide whether her hair reminded him of gold or wheat as he recalled the spun softness of it beneath his chin. It was gold, he guessed. And those eyes. Three-quarters of the Englishmen he knew had blue eyes, but none so lively as hers.

It was the liveliness about her that drew him. The daring. And the unselfishness. Why had she done it, dared to abduct him? For someone else, for the one she called Jess. Jessica Merriman, a girl his cousin must have wronged terribly. For a moment, he was puzzled, then he shifted his aching body against the lumpy mattress and told himself that it would no doubt be revealed, that he would see this Merriman female and judge for himself.

He forced his mind again to Kitty Gordon, remembering how she’d tried to stop the bleeding with her small body, remembering how, despite his pain, she’d given him thoughts that ought to damn him. Even now, as he recalled the smell of his blood, he could also smell the scent she’d used on her hair.

Four and twenty and unwed—it seemed in truth an impossibility. But she would not long remain so, he was certain of that. Despite the protestations, despite her impatience with her family’s matchmaking plans, there was no question that there existed between her and Sturbridge an ease of manners. And once again, he felt a twinge of jealousy. Sturbridge would not know what to do with a female like Kitty Gordon, he feared, and more likely than not the viscount would spend a lifetime trying to make her into an English lady. And that would be a shame.

He heard the wheels of a vehicle roll up, breaking into his reverie. And then he heard her voice, complaining, “I know not why Jess will not face him, and I think it positively poor-spirited of her, if you would have my opinion of it. To have changed her mind after I agreed to this passes all bounds,” she added peevishly.

“The remembering would be too terrible,” Sturbridge answered.

“Fiddle. When I was quite a small child, my papa told me that the best way to drive terrors from the mind was to face them. I had nightmares then, after Mama died, you know,” she confided artlessly. “But he was right. Instead of cowering on my bed, I forced myself to get up and look under it. And every time the dreams frightened me, I lit my candle and showed myself that there was nothing to fear. Eventually, they ceased.”

“Alas, but not every female is possessed of your common sense, my dear.”

“No, I suppose not.” She sighed. “But I do wish that Jess could be brought to at least face Haverhill, you know. She might discover he is but an ogre in her mind.”

“She has sensibility.”

“A surfeit of it,” Kitty agreed dryly. “One could wish she were not such a watering pot sometimes.”

Jack could hear them enter the outer room, and then she appeared in the doorway. Her arms were laden with what appeared to be folded linen.

“Well, you are still alive, at least,” she observed, moving closer. “How do you feel?”

“Like the very devil, but ’twill pass.”

“Well, I have brought sheets and a blanket, my lord, that we may make you more comfortable. And Charles will go up to the house to find a nightshirt for you. Unfortunately, I did not think to bring one of Rollo’s.”

“I should rather have clothes, I think.”

“As you are not able to be about, the nightshirt will suit you better.”

“I dislike managing females, Miss Gordon,” he managed through teeth gritted against the pain.

“Do you now? Then you will have to get well so that you can manage yourself, won’t you? Charles will aid you to rise while I make up your bed, and then we shall see you are fed. I have brought bread and cheese and cold beef.”

“I am more thirsty than hungry.”

“And there is a jug of cider,” she added, “though I am not at all certain ’tis quite the thing for you. But at least ’tis not spirits.”

“I need a shave.”

“Now that will have to wait. Believe me, but you cannot wish me to do that, my lord, for I should most probably cut your throat. Accidentally, of course.”

“Of course.”

“And Sturbridge would probably like nothing more than to put a razor to your neck.
That
would not be an accident.” She stood over him, surveying him. “You look positively awful, you know. A shaving is probably the last thing you actually need.”

“Plain-spoken female, I’ll give you that. I’d thought you’d abandoned me,” he muttered.

“Well, there was a brangle, you see, else I’d have been back sooner,” she admitted, sitting on the edge of the bed. “Has the bleeding ceased, do you think?”

She gingerly lifted the blood-stiffened shirt to peer at the bandage beneath. “It does not seep, and for that we must be thankful.”

“What did you tell them—your family, I mean?” he asked curiously.

“The truth. And by the time I had to explain the carriage, it appeared to be the least of my mistakes. You were saved from Aunt Bella by the broken wheel, by the by. But Jess was in hysterics at the thought of facing you again, so I suppose ’tis as well we did not go there. ’Twill take her a day or so to gain her courage, I expect.”

“Miss Gordon—”

“Kitty, you ought to let me do that,” Sturbridge said, coming into the room. “ ’Tis not seemly.”

“I was but making certain the bleeding had stopped.” She looked up at the viscount. “Do you think you ought to get him the nightshirt first? I could see he is fed while you are gone. And then we can put the sheets on the bed.”

“If you think I mean to leave you alone again with a man of his stamp, Kitty, you are mistaken. I have not forgotten Jessica,” he added meaningfully.

“Does he look as though he is able to pounce on me? If he should even consider such a thing, I have but to strike him a blow on his shoulder, and I should imagine the pain would drive lechery from his mind, don’t you think?”

“Still—”

“Can you not see he is freezing? How will it look if Baron Haverhill succumbs to a raging fever while he is here? Your mama would have a fit of vapors such as we have never before seen,” she reminded him severely.

“Well, ’tis not that far to the house, I suppose.”

“No, ’tis not.” She rose and put another log on the waning fire, poking it to settle it into the bed of live coals, then walked to where Sturbridge had placed the hamper on the floor. “I’ll get his food, and when you return, we can do the rest.”

He wavered. Turning to Jack, he warned him, “If you so much as think to offer her violence, I shall run you through.”

“Thus far, all the violence has been hers,” Jack retorted.

“Very well, Kitty, but I shall be back forthwith. And before we return to Rose Farm, I should like to apprise Mama of our betrothal. ’Twill give her more time to get used to the notion.”

“Surely you will not need me for that—I mean—”

“Nonsense. Mama will wish to see you, I am sure.”

After he left, Kitty dragged the heavy hamper closer to the bed. Retrieving a large napkin from within, she spread it out beside Jack, then proceeded to lay half a loaf of bread, a chunk of cheese, and some sliced beef upon it. “Do you take your cider with your meal or after it?” she asked, pouring him a cup.

“With.” Lying on his side, he reached for the bread, then shook his head. “Would you be so kind as to tear that for me? Deuced awkward one-handed, you know. And perhaps you could roll the meat inside that I could hold it better? Sorry. Helpless as a babe, I guess.”

“I don’t mind.” She did as he asked and handed it to him.

He bit off a piece and chewed it. Swallowing, he reached for the cup. “Betrothed, eh?”

“Yes. ’Tis the price of yesterday’s mistake.”

“Dashed decent fellow—Sturbridge, I mean.”

“Yes—yes, he is.”

He drank deeply, then handed her back the cup. “Strange he should choose you. Surprises me.” -“I do not believe I wish to pursue that notion to its logical conclusion, sir,” she retorted stiffly.

“Don’t fly up into the boughs, Miss Gordon—meant you don’t seem the sort of female as he’d want.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Seems to be a protective fellow, ever ready to defend your honor, you know, and—”

“If you say I have none, I shall run you through myself, you wretch.”

“Not at all—mistake my meaning.” He tried to sit up, but could not, and it was as though the world spun around him. Instead, he pushed the food away and lay back weakly. “Can defend yourself.”

“Is that all you mean to eat?”

“Too tired.”

“You cannot mend if you do not eat.” She leaned over and broke off a small piece of the cheese. “Here.”

He let her put it into his mouth and chewed dutifully. Swallowing, he shook his head. “No more.” For a moment, his eyes closed, then reopened. “Weak as a babe, too.”

“At least drink the cider.”

“Must be that you are small.”

“What?”

“Makes him think you ought to be protected.”

“My lord, if you do not eat and drink at least a little, I shall wash my hands of you,” she told him severely. Tearing off a piece of bread, she thrust it in his mouth. “You must get well, you know, for otherwise I shall not know what to do with you.”

“A trifle late to worry now, isn’t it?” Nonetheless, he took the bite.

As he chewed, she continued to tear more bits of bread. “If I have to, I’ll feed you myself.”

He swallowed and gestured for the cup. She balanced it in one hand and tried to support his head with the other. But he weighed too much, and the result was that his head slid into her lap. Considering all else that had occurred between them, Kitty forbore fighting him. Telling herself that he was in fact unable to sit alone, she proceeded to feed him bits of bread and cheese, stopping occasionally to give him a sip of cider.

His rumpled, unruly hair seemed an even darker red against the blue muslin skirt of her day gown. Looking down, she had to resist the urge to smooth it, and she found herself wondering how Jess could have maintained such a distaste for him. He was, Kitty thought, possessed of arresting good looks. Resolutely, she continued to feed him, telling herself she’d do the same for anyone.

It was thus that Sturbridge found them. “Kitty! Whatever—?”

She colored guiltily. “He’s too weak to eat unaided, Charles. Every time I manage to sit him up, he slides down, so ’tis simply easier this way,” he answered, trying to sound reasonable. “But now that you are here, you can feed him, if you prefer.”

“He’s had enough,” he retorted curtly.

“Do you think so?” She eased the baron’s head off her knee and rose to straighten the skirt of the fashionable day gown. “I daresay you are right, for I have gotten most of the cheese and the bread down him.”

Jack sighed. “And I was beginning to feel like a rajah in the arms of his handmaiden.” He caught her wrathful eye. “Or was that a Viking in the arms of his Valkyrie?”

“If you do not mind your tongue, ’twill be a sinner in the hands of an angry God,” she countered.

“I brought the nightshirt, and if you will leave the room, I shall get him into it.”

“In a pig’s eye,” Jack muttered, struggling up again. “Dress myself.”

“Thought you said he couldn’t sit.”

The room moved crazily around the baron, and he felt like a child’s top at the point of the string’s release. He weaved unsteadily, passing a hand over his face as though he could clear the cobwebs before his eyes, then he sank down again. “Cannot.”

“Does he feel warm to the touch to you?” Kitty wondered anxiously.

“Don’t care if he does. Dash it, but you forget what he did to Jessica!”

“Like to see her,” Jack mumbled, groaning. “Mistake.”

“Mistake? Mistake!” The viscount’s voice rose incredulously. “You have ruined a young female’s life, and you count it naught but a mistake? I’ll be damned if I’ll dress you, sir!”

“If you do not, I shall have to, Charles, and I should very much rather not,” Kitty protested.

“Acquit me—never molested a female in my life—none that was unwilling, anyway.”

“Are you saying Jessica succumbed readily to your advances, sir?” Sturbridge demanded wrathfully. “I’ll not believe it!”

“No—I’m saying ’twasn’t I. Miss Gordon’s mistake—”

“What sort of mistake?” Kitty demanded. “Are you Haverhill or not?”

“Yes, but—”

“Don’t listen to him, Kitty! Ten to one, he’s trying to turn you up sweet, just as he tried with Jessica!”

“I am not sixteen, Charles.”

“And you have not been before the world, my dear. Sad to say, but you are more than a trifle green when it comes to experience with gentlemen. And Haverhill is certainly less than a gentleman even.”

“Then I suggest you produce Jessica Merriman,” Jack cut in wearily. “Let her tell you.”

“She’s too afraid of you to come.” Kitty folded the napkin, taking care to keep the crumbs out of the bed. “But as she has need of your goodwill, I daresay she will have to get over it.” Walking to deposit the cloth in the hamper, she looked up at the viscount. “If I must face your mama also today, I’d not have you tarry. Speak up when he is decent.” Half turning back to Haverhill, she added, “You ought to feel better to get out of those clothes, after all, and certainly clean sheets will improve the situation. Then we shall decide how we are to manage caring for you, though I expect Charles will have to come back for the night.”