The Ground She Walks Upon (20 page)

"Malachi is my friend. If you were something other than the devil himself, you would know what it is like to lose one's friend."

She leashed her fury well, and he was sorely disappointed. He wanted to see her lose control. He wouldn't have even minded if she had tried to slap him because he would have enjoyed the tussle. Better yet, he would have won.

She looked up from the fire, giving him that steady, composed gaze he knew she had learned in the English boarding school. For the first time ever, he regretted having sent her away.

"If you would excuse me, I'd like to be alone now," she said.

He cursed himself for forgetting her fragile health. Suddenly the shadows beneath her eyes, her pale, drawn face, gave him a small stab of guilt. "Of course. You must not be feeling well."

"I'm feeling fine, Lord Trevallyan." She stared at him in a rather arch manner. " 'Tis just that I would like my privacy to pray that Malachi reaches his destination with God's speed. To pray for his soul and his safety."

Jealousy struck him like a hot poker. Before he could stop himself, he released a bitter laugh. "It's pitiful that you should pray for him. What? Has your literary soul taken with his rebellious impulses? How cliche, how stupid."

"Stop it." Her English facade finally began to crack beneath her Irish fire. "I won't take this. You're not my father, and you're not my lover. You cannot scorn me and tell me what to do. I won't listen to you."

"I'm not your father... but I would be your lover." He stared at her, shocked by the truth that had come from within. "Oh, yes," he whispered, his voice hushed by the revelation. "That I would be."

The sheer, unadulterated horror that crossed her features would have made him laugh had it not been for the fact that it bruised him sorely. Covering over his vulnerability, he sneered, "So, shall we all queue up? MacCumhal, Chesham, and now me? You could have us all, you know. Each in our own way." The words felt like bile on his tongue.

"I hate you." Tears of hurt glistened in her eyes. "No man has ever made me hate like I hate you."

He stared at her, wondering if he was pleased the
geis
would now never come true, or torn apart that this woman who was slowly winding him around her finger despised him as she despised no other on earth.

Ravenna slumped to the chair as soon as the door shut behind him. In tearful agony, she wondered how he could treat her so viciously one minute and so tenderly the next. As she sat hugging the arm of the chair, it crossed her mind that Trevallyan might be a lunatic. It was possible he was the product of decades of bad English breeding. But she knew if Niall Trevallyan was insane, he hid it well behind an intelligent, orderly, mature facade.

She closed her eyes, her injured head and pride draining her of energy. She did hate him. He made her feel like a whore. He made her feel loose and dirty and stupid. He'd done worse than even Malachi had done.

And yet...

And yet, he had spoken to her about Mary Wollstonecraft. He had rooms full of books that few in her world seemed to appreciate. She could talk to him when he wasn't being cruel, and she felt he listened—a strange and unique trait in a man. In some ways, Niall Trevallyan had many of the characteristics that she wanted in a man. His company offered not just the flattery of male desire, but a man to talk to, to read with, to walk with in the garden, holding hands. Were there no other men such as he? She recounted in her mind all the men she knew. When she got to the picture of the count and herself walking in the garden and talking about Mary Wollstonecraft, she suddenly choked on a giggle. The sad truth was there seemed to be no man out there for her. She wanted a hero; she dreamed her father had been a hero, she wrote about heroes, but where was the one for her?

Against her will she stared at the massive carved double doors where Trevallyan had exited.

M
orning tea
was carried into the private apartment at precisely eight o'clock the next morning. A small, gray-haired, sweet-faced Irishwoman whom Ravenna thought was named Katey brought it to her on a silver tray with hot crumpets wrapped in lacy white linens. Too officious for questions, Katey addressed Ravenna's bleary-eyed countenance with a pleasant "good morning," then briskly screened off the bed with the bedcurtains.

From behind the green damask walls, Ravenna heard the noise of a stream of heavy-footed servants bringing hot water up from the kitchen. Her nerves were set on edge by the screech of a copper bath dragged across bare stone and filled with bucket after leather bucket of boiling water. Unsure what was expected of her, she pulled the covers to her chin and waited for Katey to come fetch her. The desire to bathe was strong—she still wore the mud that she had fallen in so many nights ago—but her desire for privacy was stronger, and she was certainly not going to trot nude to the bath before what seemed to be a dozen servants.

Katey, in her exceedingly cheerful manner, solved the dilemma. She dismissed the lead-footed army, and when the last had begun the descent down the tower stairs, the maid drew back the bedcurtains, sprinkled French rose petals into the bathwater, and disappeared herself, leaving Ravenna astonished at the almost mechanical efficiency by which the household was run.

Of course, the servants would be
forced
to be exacting in order to meet Niall Trevallyan's arrogant expectations, she thought crossly. She stared at the tub for a long time, convincing herself that if she had the energy to make it to the tub, she had the energy to find her way home. Her head still hurt, but not nearly as acutely as it had the day before. But there was no solving the problem of clothes. She had none other than Trevallyan's batiste shirt. Even Trevallyan's dressing gown seemed to have disappeared with Katey.

With a weary sigh, she drew away the covers and climbed down from the bed's high mattress. She unbuttoned the shirt and trailed it on the ground behind her, dropping it before the tub, then she sank within the sweet warmth of the water. After pouring herself a cup of tea from the nearby table, she sighed again, this time for another reason entirely. For the first time in her life she was experiencing true luxury.

Dreamily, she sipped her tea and blew at the fragrant, rising steam of the tub water. The copper tub's contents heated and soothed her sore muscles. Soon, she thought she would either be fit enough to run home, or would fall asleep.

"Hullo, what have we here?"

She nearly leapt from the tub and plastered herself on the coffered ceiling. A man had entered the antechamber. She didn't dare turn to see him, but she knew he stood directly behind her and she recognized his voice instantly. It was Trevallyan's cousin, Lord Chesham.

"My fine cousin coaxes me to return to London, and yet here I find his reasons for staying behind... a young lass in the master's chambers... and who are you that Trevallyan has found you worthy of sharing his bed?" Chesham took two steps farther into the room. Ravenna crossed her arms over her chest and turned her head as far from him as she could. She wanted to cry out for him to be gone and spare her further shame and embarrassment, but her voice would not cooperate. Mortification choked her.

He chuckled and took another step. The sound left her uneasy. It made clear there were other issues suddenly at play besides her lack of modesty.

"Let me see your face, lass, and I'll bring you a pretty trifle from London. Would you like that? A pretty trifle for a pretty face. Come. Turn around and look at me."

A terrified sob caught in her throat. If she looked at him, he would never leave her alone. The situation damned her. He'd already jumped to all sorts of incorrect conclusions; if he discovered her true identity, he might be so jealous over what he believed to be the master's conquest over her that he could be capable of any kind of retaliation. Trevallyan should have never been so outrageously courteous as to allow her the use of his room. Chesham would now think she was the lord's mistress. And no matter how she might word her denials, she knew from Chesham's predatory tone he would never let her out of the bedroom before all his questions were answered.

"Come, tell me your name...."

He stood almost behind her. She shivered and wished she could curl into a ball and drown herself in the rose-scented bathwater. Anger fired within her, but she shunted it aside. The heart-pounding fear of his discovering her identity took all her attention. If she could not make him go away before she was forced to turn around, he might take advantage of her and no one would see fit to punish him. She was a naked, unmarried woman in the master's chambers. There would be no one to stand up in her defense.

"Please—" She shuddered as he placed his hand on her back.

"Turn around—"

"What the bloody hell are you doing in here?" another male voice boomed from the doorway. Ravenna grew weak with relief. It was Trevallyan's voice.

"I came here looking for you but found... this." Chesham paused. He removed his hand from her back, and she could hear him step away. She heard him whisper, "Who is she, Niall? She's got to be a servant from the looks of her dirty hair. Since when have you taken a liking for servants?"

"Get out, Chesham." Trevallyan's tone brooked little discussion. Every word was tight with barely leashed anger.

Footsteps went to the door, but before Chesham left, she heard him say, "When you're through with her, tell her she might perhaps find a place in my bed. I've never been privileged enough to have a go at your leavings."

"Get out!" Trevallyan growled. The doors were promptly shut behind him and she heard the fading sound of boots tap on the winding stone staircase.

Ravenna didn't move in the tub. She sat in it, frozen, holding her arms over her breasts in a pitiable attempt at modesty. She didn't know what she had expected in Chesham, but his crudeness had shocked her. Trevallyan had told her she would be nothing but a toy to him, and though Chesham hadn't known whom he was toying with, Ravenna saw miles into his character from this brief episode.

Her cheeks hot with anger, humiliation, and the struggle to keep herself from crying, she finally turned her head to look at Trevallyan. He stood grimly by the closed door, his arms folded across his chest, his gaze pinned on her own.

"Thank you," she whispered.

He smirked as if in apology. "Love and Chesham. It's not a pretty sight. I hope you finally see his offers for what they are."

"No one took his offers seriously but you, my lord."

She stared at him. He nodded as if absorbing this little bit of information. He seemed to be doing his damnedest not to look at her, but every few seconds she could see his eyes flicker downward toward the tub where her figure dissolved in blurry pink tones beneath the water. Her back was to him and her arms were crushed over her breasts, but even so, she had scant coverage. No matter how she tried to cover herself, her breasts spilled out the side, offering him a healthy look at her nudity. And by the light in his eyes, she could see he held a most manly appreciation for it.

To her relief, they heard the sound of a door opening in the dressing room. A servant bustled around, and though they couldn't see who it was, Ravenna thought that perhaps Katey had returned through the servants' stair.

Ravenna looked at Trevallyan expectantly; he gazed back, seemingly reluctant to go.

Katey began to hum loudly in the dressing room, banging drawers and opening wardrobes. Without another word, Trevallyan placed a book on the nearby table. He gave Ravenna such a strange, piercing look it seemed to stop her heart. Katey entered the bedroom with an armful of soaps and linen towels, and when Ravenna turned back to look at him again, he was gone.

"Here we are! A fresh bar of soap for your hair, and Himself's finest pig-bristle brush to brush it dry by the fire." Katey puttered to the tub, handing her soaps and rosewater. The servant was clearly oblivious to the master's quick exit and to the tensions that seemed to still linger in the room.

Ravenna lowered her arms and allowed Katey to assist with washing her hair. The servant poured warm water over her head and began to scrub with a pink cake of soap. The ministrations were just what Ravenna needed. She felt tense and soiled. A good hard scrubbing seemed to wash away both sensations.

When Ravenna was finally clean, Katey wrapped her in another of Trevallyan's dressing gowns and placed her by the restoked hearth. Then the servant ran the pig-bristle brush through her clean hair until each black strand was shiny and dry.

The bath and her "visitors" had so exhausted Ravenna, she actually looked forward to returning to Trevallyan's soft bed. She truly wished to go home, but the fight had been more than she could stand.

"There you are, miss," Katey said, standing back and looking at her work. "You look right as rain, but perhaps a little weary around the eyes. Let's get you back into bed. Here, we'll fetch you a good book to read." The servant walked with Ravenna to the bed and helped her up the little stool that assisted her onto the high mattress. "What will you read, miss?"

Ravenna looked across the bedroom into the antechamber. She remembered Trevallyan had placed a book on a table. "That one, over there." Ravenna pointed to it. "Will you read me the title?"

Katey walked to the book and picked it up. "I can't read rightly in English, miss. If it were Gaelic or the Church's tongue, Latin, perhaps... but there was only the hedge school for me and then only for a few years." Katey brought her the book. She plumped the pillows, then retreated from the chamber with the tea tray.

Ravenna fingered the embossed leather. She was speechless with surprise when she read the title:
A Vindication of the Rights of Woman.

She flipped through a couple of chapters, such as "The State of Degradation to Which Woman Is Reduced," and "Writers Who Have Rendered Women Objects of Pity," the subject about which she was most impassioned. The book was an original printing of the 1792 edition. She closed it and studied it in her hands, still unable to believe that Trevallyan even possessed a copy, much less that he had brought it to her.

To Ravenna,

"It would be well if they were only agreeable or rational companions."

Niall, eighth earl of Trevallyan

A sleepy smile crossed her face. As infuriating as the man was, she found herself looking forward to thanking him. Trevallyan had too many facets to his character to hate all of them at once. And there was no denying that he had wit. The exact kind of blackguard's wit that appealed to her own.

Ravenna was reluctant to admit to the disappointment she felt when she didn't see Trevallyan all the next morning. Noon came and went and led into a sleepy afternoon. By evening, her supper having been served by Katey in the antechamber, she sat in the lonely chair next to the hearth. All day Trevallyan had yet to show and now into the night. She had yet to thank him for the book. Ravenna fell asleep, her thoughts captivated by him.

Convinced that he would arrive in the morning, she asked Katey to dress her hair into something other than the wild tangle that fell freely down her back. Katey obliged, almost forced into sorcery in order to tame the coal-colored tresses into a respectable chignon. The maidservant even went so far as to pin small shamrocks to her handiwork, but as the hours ticked by, the effort was for naught. Trevallyan did not show.

Two days passed. The second evening, Katey arrived with Ravenna's clothing from the cottage, and Ravenna was told that she would finally be allowed to leave in the morning. Ravenna should have been ecstatic, but she was oddly disconsolate. He'd made no attempt to visit her, and now she even doubted that he would see her off in the morning. She didn't know why his disappearance bothered her. She didn't expect to be in his thoughts; in truth, she didn't expect him to act as anything other than the rude beast he was, but somehow, every time she looked down at her book, she couldn't stop herself from wondering what had kept him away.

"You didn't eat a morsel of your supper. Is your head still a-hurtin'?" Katey asked softly as she looked down at Ravenna's untouched tray.

Ravenna gazed at the kindly woman. Suddenly she realized how indebted she was to her. Katey had tended to her with all the care of a mother. Ravenna knew she wouldn't be feeling as well as she did were it not for Katey's constant attention.

"I'm not very hungry this evening." Ravenna pressed the servant's hand in a show of affection, "I've never quite thanked you for all the time you've given to me. It's just occurred to me that I may never see you again unless I pass you on the road going to market. I hope that you will always remember how grateful I am for your care."

"Why, 'twas nothing, miss. I'm always glad to help Lord Trevallyan where I can." Katey smiled and patted the hand atop her own. "Ever since me poor Eddie died of the drink, and he took in meself and the babe, there's nothing I wouldn't do for the master. When Himself told me about you lying up here, all hurt and dirty and wet, with no one to ease the sufferings of your poor head, I was quite glad to be able to lend a hand. Especially knowing who you are, miss, and all the need for secrecy."