His Saving Grace (10 page)

A cold cloth was placed on the back of his neck, and he had to admit that as much as he hated to be touched in the throes of a headache, the cold cloth did help a bit.

He dozed. Sleep was his friend in times like this, but falling asleep was always difficult.

What seemed like hours later, he fell into a deeper sleep.

When he awoke, the sun was shining through the cracks of the draperies. His headache had abated, leaving him to deal with the aftermath, which was not pleasant, either. He had the remnants of a headache, though nothing compared to what he’d felt during the night. His mouth was dry, and his body felt as if it had been trampled by a horse. And he was ravenously hungry.

He attempted to turn his head and was pleased that his vision followed with it. A form was slumped in a chair pulled up to the side of the bed. He blinked, tried to focus better, and discovered that Grace was sprawled in the chair, still dressed in her night robe, fast asleep. Her yellow hair was unbound and lying loose around her shoulders. Her mouth was open, and he could hear puffs of air escaping.

When he had imagined Grace’s voice in the night, it might not have been his imagination at all. Had she been the one holding the chamber pot for him? Had she put the cold compresses on the back of his neck?

He closed his eyes in mortification. He hoped to hell not. Where was Tarik, and why had he let her in when he’d been given strict instructions not to?

When Michael opened his eyes, she was awake and looking at him.

“Where is Tarik?” His voice was rough, and his throat hurt from being so violently sick.

“He’s getting breakfast. It was a long night for him.”

“It looks like it was a long night for you, too.”

She sat up and gathered her hair to pull it over her shoulder. He always loved to watch her comb her hair. It had maintained the same color, a pale yellow the color of butter. He recalled that it was soft to the touch and smelled of the rose water she loved to bathe in. Now he could not smell rose water other than in his memories, and he didn’t feel worthy to touch her hair.

“I was happy to do it,” she said.

He grunted, too exhausted for words and not yet possessing the energy to engage in a discussion of why he didn’t want her here. “You can go now,” he said. “I’ll be fine.”

Her eyes clouded and her expression shut down. He’d hurt her. In the back of his mind, he felt bad for doing so, but he was so angry at Tarik and so embarrassed by what she had seen that he couldn’t let himself care. Did the woman not understand? To be seen this way was humiliating.

“You’re dismissing me?” she asked.

He closed his eyes as if he’d not heard the hurt in her words and to keep from looking at the despair in her eyes. He was an ass. He didn’t need her to tell him so.

He heard her rise from the chair and make her way to the door. He heard the door open, and then he felt her searching gaze on him. It took all of his self-control to keep his eyes closed, not to tell her to sit with him while he recovered from one of the worst nights he’d had in a long while.

When Grace reached her room, she dressed without thought, pulling on an old gown and tying her hair back in a simple tail so it was out of her face.

She made her way to the kitchen to find Tarik sipping tea from a cup too small for his large hands.

“Why do you stay with him?” she asked, taking a seat opposite him. “You have nothing to gain from staying here. You can return to Russia, to your life there.” She was finished with niceties, tired of tiptoeing around the topic. Michael’s behavior was despicable. Why would someone like Tarik stay with a man as bitter as Michael?

Tarik carefully put his cup down, as if afraid to shatter it. “I have nothing to return to in Russia.”

“So you stay with a man like Michael? Nursing him when you could be with someone much more appreciative?”

Tarik pushed his cup to the side, rested his elbows on the table, and looked her in the eye. “I had a wife and two children. A girl named Nadya and a boy named Stepan. They were my life. Living on the steppes is a harsh existence, and as a Cossack warrior I was called to fight in many battles. My family had to learn to live without a lot of the time.

“There was a group of us warriors called to fight in a minor skirmish for the Russians. We always left a few warriors behind to guard the women and children, but this one time they were not enough. A band of Russian soldiers found our people. The soldiers had been drinking. It was cold. They wanted warmth and they wanted women. When they were finished ravishing the women and young girls, they torched the camp and the people in it.”

Horrified, Grace touched Tarik’s hand. Such atrocities were foreign to her. Such cruelty was not something she had ever experienced, and she had no words for him.

“When I found my family’s charred bodies, I was filled with rage. I vowed never again to have anything to do with the Russians. I am still a Cossack warrior, but I refuse to fight for them. However, leaving is difficult. When we were called to fight in the Crimea, I found my chance to leave. My plan was to slip into Turkey during the battle and disappear. Maybe into a Turkish Cossack camp.” He shrugged. “I had no definite plans. Then the English made the ill-fated decision to attack, and I could do nothing but watch the slaughter.”

She winced at the word “slaughter” in reference to the battle that almost took Michael’s life. The reports from London had not been as harsh; they apparently watered down the truth of the war.

“His lordship is a brave man. I saw him step in front of a young soldier. A moment later, a Russian ran them over with his horse. His lordship was trampled by the horse’s hooves.”

Grace closed her eyes, imagining Michael’s lifeless body under the hooves of a horse. “And the young soldier?” she whispered.

“His lordship’s body protected him. He walked away. The English retreated. I watched for a bit and thought I saw his lordship move. To my surprise I found him alive so I took him to my camp.”

Grace squeezed Tarik’s hand, grateful beyond words to this stranger who had saved Michael’s life. “Thank you, Tarik.”

He quirked an eyebrow at her. “I was not without my own reasons, my lady. I had a captain of the English army in my possession. I knew that if I were caught, I would be killed. But I also knew that if I could save him and bring him back to England, then I could begin a new life.”

Once again Grace was taken aback by the brutal honesty of this warrior. And yet it was a refreshing honesty. “We will do whatever you need. Help you in any way we can.”

Tarik slipped his hand from beneath hers and took up his teacup to sip from it. “I am happy here. I have grown fond of his lordship, and I find that I like serving him. I have food. I have a roof over my head. And he is not so bad to work for.”

Grace sat back. “He is angry with me for nursing him last night. I daresay he is angry with you as well. I’m sorry for that.”

He shrugged again. “So be it.”

An English servant would have been terrified of angering his lord in such a way. A true servant would expect some sort of punishment, maybe even a sacking, but Tarik didn’t seem to care and didn’t appear at all frightened.

“You have experienced his anger before?”

“My lady, he was nothing but angry for the first few months after his injury. He is still angry, but he is learning to control it. Though it is nothing new to me, I can see that it bothers you.”

“He never used to be this way. He was always quick to smile and laugh. Anger came slowly to him, but that isn’t the case anymore.”

“I like hearing how he used to be, because I know only the man he is now.”

“He’s different, Tarik.” Those words held such a wealth of meaning that her voice quivered with the impact of it.

“Yes. He is different, but it is not a bad difference. You were expecting your husband to return to you the same as before, but war is not like that. Even if his head had not been injured, he would be a changed man. War does such things.”

She knew that, of course. She’d heard stories of others returning from war. There were dozens of charities devoted to soldiers who had lost limbs and been grievously injured. And then there were those who didn’t return at all. She’d heard the tales, and she’d felt grief for those families. “You have a way of putting things in perspective, Tarik.”

“I’ve lived a long life in my short years.”

“He will still be angry at the both of us.”

“I daresay it won’t be the last time.”

That afternoon Grace found Michael at her dainty writing desk, his large frame scrunched into the chair. There was a look of intense concentration about him as he gripped the pen tightly in his hand. Balls of paper were scattered about his feet and on the desk.

They had spoken little that morning. Grace had worked on her spring seedlings in the conservatory, then had answered correspondence while Michael had puttered about. She noticed that he wasn’t able to settle down easily. He was up and down, sitting for short moments, then wandering around the house before opening a book and closing it. He was outside, inside, talking to Ida, looking for George, then back inside to find the book he’d misplaced. It was exhausting just watching him. And it was surprising to see him actually sitting down and concentrating on something.

“What are you writing?” She stopped to put a hand on his shoulder and look down at the paper he was staring at.

His fingertips were covered in ink. It appeared he had been at it for quite some time. “I am writing a letter to Mr. Roberts, asking him to bring the ledgers around so I can go over them. I don’t want to wait until Nigel moves out, and I need to be prepared when I meet with Roberts.”

Roberts was the steward for the manor. He was young but had been with the family for a few years. Michael had chosen Roberts a little while before he’d been called away to the Crimea.

Michael turned the paper toward her. “Does this sound all right?”

Grace picked up the correspondence and began to read. Her fingers turned cold, and it took great effort not to let her horror show as she tried to decipher the writing on the page. Michael had always been a wonderful letter writer. She had boxes full of his letters from when they were courting and the times he had gone off to his military duties. All were elegantly penned, the words flowing and beautiful. She’d joked that he could have been a celebrated poet or novelist, and he’d always scoffed at her.

What was written on this paper were not words. Well, some of them were, but most of the words were misspelled and out of order.

She swallowed, unsure how to react. He was looking at her closely, almost desperately, and she had no idea what to say. He couldn’t possibly send this letter. Roberts would have no idea what it meant.

“There are a few misspellings,” she said slowly. She put the paper back on the desk and looked around. Spying an upright chair in the corner, she dragged it over to the desk, sat down, and pointed to the salutation. “You’ve spelled Roberts’s name wrong. It’s O-B, not A-B.”

Michael cursed under his breath, grabbed a fresh sheet of paper, and wrote the name again. He was beginning to pen the rest of the letter, but Grace put her hand on his arm to stop him.

“There are other misspellings.”

Painstakingly, one word at a time, she took Michael through the entire letter. Mercifully, it was short and to the point. He knew what he wanted to say, but translating that to paper was nearly beyond him. Grace tried valiantly, and for the most part, she succeeded in keeping the tremor from her voice and the tears from showing.

Before her was a little boy just learning his letters, concentrating so hard and so determined to get it right. His mouth was a slash and his eyes were flat, but he worked hard, and over an hour later, he had a letter that he could proudly send. One that Roberts would understand.

Grace was exhausted from trying to help and from keeping her emotions in check.

Michael signed the letter, folded it, and sealed it. Then threw the pen across the room.

She was so astounded at the outburst that she jumped and stared at the pen as it landed on the carpet, splattering ink. Michael surged off the chair, tipping it backward into the wall behind him. He rubbed his head, muttering to himself.

All sorts of platitudes leaped to Grace’s tongue, from “It will be all right” to “It will take time” to “You did well.” She bit her tongue to keep from saying them, because even to her ears, they were nothing but words with no meaning. For all they knew, time had already done the damage, and it wouldn’t be all right.

“We can hire a secretary to take care of your correspond
ence,” she said, opting for a practical solution. “You need one anyway, now that you’re the earl.”

He laughed. “I can’t even write a damned note. A simple note, Grace. It’s beyond me. It looked perfect to me. I couldn’t see the mistakes even after you pointed them out.
Damnation
.”

She felt so badly for him. He used to be such a proud, independent man. The pride was still there but battered and bruised. He desperately clung to it, but the independence was missing, and that had to be unbearable to a soldier such as himself.

“I can contact William’s former secretary. If he’s already employed, he can surely recommend someone.” She didn’t know what else to say. The fact that the jumble of words had looked right to him was alarming.

He rubbed his head.

“Are you in pain?” she asked.

“I’m always in pain.” He dropped his hand. “Hire the bloody secretary.” And he walked out of the room.

In his room, Michael took the ball of paper out of his pocket and smoothed it out on the bureau. He read over the letter. He could name each individual letter and could even read the entire correspond
ence. At least the correspondence he’d wanted to write. But apparently, what he wanted to write and what he had written were two different things.

Tarik entered with a stack of clean shirts. Michael thrust the letter out to him. “Read this.”

Tarik put the shirts down, took the letter, and began to silently read.

“Out loud. Read it out loud.”

Tarik looked up at him with a solemn expression. “I can’t. These aren’t words.”

Michael cursed in Russian, took the paper from Tarik, and tore it into tiny pieces. He left the room and headed outside, where he took a path that wandered through the thick stand of trees that constituted Blackbourne land, toward Blackbourne Lake.

It was spring, the birds were chirping, and the trees beginning to sprout tiny leaves. There would be a scent to the air, a freshness that winter lacked. He couldn’t smell it, but he could remember it. He could remember a lot of things, like the time he proposed to Grace—on a day much like this one and a path very similar to this one.

He was so nervous that his hands were sweating. He didn’t want to touch her for fear she would notice, even through his gloves. He sneaked a look over his shoulder, but her maid was far behind, dawdling and looking at the flowers. No doubt giving them time alone.

He’d already spoken to her father, who had given his permission and a promise to keep quiet until Michael asked her himself. All was in order except his rampant nervousness.