The Headmistress of Rosemere (12 page)

He consented and positioned his arm so that the top of his forearm was facing her. “Really, Miss Creighton, there is no need—” But she paid him no heed. With long, slender fingers she rolled the linen fabric of his shirtsleeve, and he winced as she pulled the scorched fabric away from the wound. “My apologies,” she muttered, folding the fabric above his elbow and tucking it in place.

He should protest. The child needed tending. And yet, the young woman’s feathery light touch intoxicated him. Soothed him. His breathing slowed. His shoulders relaxed. He eased his back against the chair.

She pulled the candle even closer, and the heat from the nearness of the flame seemed to hurl fresh fire on the wounded skin. She dipped a piece of linen in water and looked up at him. “This might be unpleasant.”

Miss Creighton worked lightly, quickly, cleaning his arm, her manner as calm and cool as if she did this type of work daily. He fixed his gaze on the wall ahead of him, trying to think of anything else besides the discomfort . . . or the nearness of his nurse.

She carried the scent of smoke and snow, of mud and river water. She was so close he could feel the warmth of her breath on
his arm. He stole a quick glance at her, for she was but inches away as she bent over his arm, but her eyes were focused solely on her task.

She looked up only to reach for a jar of white ointment. She removed the cloth covering and dipped a fresh linen inside. “This is Mary’s liniment that she keeps on hand for burns. Linseed oil and lime water. ’Twill probably sting.”

William jerked his head up and breathed sharply through his nose as the ointment met the wound, careful not to mutter a word unfit for feminine company. The word
hurt
was an understatement, for surely a branding iron must be pressed against his skin.

Miss Creighton winced at his evident pain. “I fear this is not your week, Mr. Sterling.”

William wiped perspiration from his brow with his free arm and shifted. He managed a grunt through gritted teeth. “Oh?”

Satisfied that the ointment was properly applied, she pulled a strip of linen from the basket. “This is twice you have been in my kitchen during the dark of night with an injury.” She looked up, and for the first time since he’d arrived, she looked him directly in the eye.

William drew as deep a breath as his parched throat would allow. “Yes, I thought of that. Most people would be in a hurry to be rid of such a burden.”

But as quickly as she glanced up at him, her gaze returned to her work. “I would hardly call you a burden, Mr. Sterling. Anyone would do the same, for were you at fault for either? I’d say after your rescue of Emma tonight, you are quite a hero.”

He would have laughed had his lungs not been damaged from breathing the smoke. A hero? Him?

She smoothed the strip, her tone as calm and steady as if they were discussing business affairs. “I’ll wrap this around your arm. It will help keep it clean. I am afraid I am not skilled at this. I cannot recall ever having a burn like this here at Rosemere, not in recent
years, anyway. But I suppose there are enough people at Eastmore who know more of what they are doing to properly tend it.”

William stared at the top of her head as she bent over his arm, her hair damp and curling from the wild wind and sleet. Apparently she did not know of his recent change in circumstances, for he doubted anyone besides Martha might actually know what to do for such a burn. And why should Miss Creighton be aware of his situation? Her world began and ended with the school. Why should she pay heed to him?

She lifted his arm and held it in her free hand to begin to wrap the bandage around it. Warmth radiated from her, and her movements felt strong and sure. Her braid fell forward, grazing his folded sleeve and taking his mind where it probably had no business going.

“Can you tell me what happened with Emma?”

William tried to focus on her words, but between his pain and her nearness, his concentration, even on something as simple as a string of phrases, was blurry. He cleared his throat and focused his gaze over her shoulder at the wall. “Your boy came to alert us to the fire, and I took the path over Wainslow Peak. I heard her scream coming from the stable, so I went in and there she was.”

“Wait.” Miss Creighton held up a hand to stop him. “Emma was
inside
the stable?”

“Yes.” William felt like his words would get the child in trouble. “She was after the goat, I believe.”

Miss Creighton shook her head. “If I weren’t so grateful that she is alive, I would be furious. That child is fearless. I told her to stay away from the fire.”

William chose his words carefully. Yes, it was careless for her to be in the stable, but would he not do the same himself to rescue his horses? To rescue Slaten? Angus? Any one of the mares? “No, Miss Creighton. Brave.”

“Brave?” She huffed a laugh low under her breath and returned her attention to dressing his arm. “Please do not let Emma hear you say such things. I already struggle to keep her focused on her tasks. I do not need her rescuing all of the wayward animals of Darbury.”

He watched as her fingers made quick work of smoothing the linen strips. He didn’t realize he was staring at her face until her eyes flicked upward, her face close to his own. She nearly jumped back when their eyes met at such close proximity and dropped his arm against the table. Crimson flushed her pale cheeks, almost matching the rims of her eyes, reddened, no doubt, by the smoke’s effect. “I . . . I, uh, I mean, I did not mean to be so close.”

Her innocence fascinated him, distracting him from the pain. She wiped her hands on her robe and brushed long locks of loose hair from her face. “That should be good for a couple of hours, Mr. Sterling.”

She fastened the lid back on the ointment and rolled the linen strips with trembling fingers.

He was clearly having an effect on her.

Or was it presumptuous to think so?

But what he could not account for was how this quiet woman had such an effect on
him
.

He was used to flirtatious women, women who were interested in his funds. And at one point he had enjoyed their attentions. But Miss Creighton was of another sort . . . there was nothing flirtatious about her manner. In fact, her concern seemed genuine. She tended to him as one would to a friend, not as someone hoping to benefit.

Why was she being so kind? Did she feel obligated? Or was it merely in her character to do so?

For despite her benevolence toward him, William was uneasy, and he jerked as Rafertee’s men barreled through his mind. They
had attacked him on the moors, not far from this spot. Would they also attack his property, his tenants, to prove their point? He doubted Miss Creighton would be so kind if she knew that he could ultimately be the one to blame for the fire.

The idea quickly squelched the warmness he was beginning to feel from her. She was good. It was evident in her compassion. She was different from him, and that idea both fascinated him and frightened him. Miss Creighton was how he wished he could be, but it was too late for such ideas. For he saw something in her he wanted to protect, to shield from the outside world, but how could he do that if he himself was dangerous? Unpredictable? Impulsive? If she knew the real William Sterling, knew of his past and of the danger surrounding him, she would know better than to be so kind to a man like him.

Miss Creighton, with a sharp nod of satisfaction, stood up and stepped away. “I think you will be all right now.”

“And you?” he blurted out, standing up from the chair.

She whirled to look at him. “Pardon me?”

“And you?” he repeated, his boldness surprising even him. “Will you be all right?”

Their gazes locked and her lovely eyes narrowed, as if assessing his sincerity.

He needed to speak quickly, otherwise he’d think twice about speaking to her so openly. “It has been a trying night. You have been through an ordeal.”

He thought he noticed a tremor in her lip. “I’m fine.” She looked away.

But, as if entranced, he could not look away.

She was so proper. So controlled. Or at least her words were. But the expression in her eyes conveyed a message far deeper, far different.

What he would give to know her thoughts. Her
real
thoughts.

He noticed her hand as she returned the jar to the shelf. He reached out to warn her. “Be careful, you’re trembling.”

But his warning was too late. The jar tipped and fell. William lunged forward and caught it before the glass container smashed on the stone floor, but in doing so he brushed against her robe.

She jumped back, as if she were the one who had encountered a burn. She masked her discomfort behind a wary laugh. “How clumsy of me. My hands . . . I suppose it is the cold. Or, I mean, the fire. Or—” Her words stopped short. “I’m fine.”

He didn’t believe her. Not for a minute. She wasn’t fine. He held her gaze, not allowing her to look away. His stomach churned with an unfamiliar ache. For a story was hidden behind those red-rimmed eyes. Her chest rose and fell with shallow breaths. Her cheek twitched. The desire to comfort her, to protect her, welled up within him, reminiscent of feelings he thought long buried. He sensed the emotion radiating from her, and as strange as it seemed, he almost felt as if he could identify it. And at that moment he knew he’d not rest until he knew what it was.

He should keep his mouth shut. He was tired. Hurt. All the more reason why he should guard his tongue. He never had possessed the gift of saying exactly the right thing at the proper time, and in instances such as this, he had the unfortunate tendency to play the fool.

He looked down at the ointment jar, still in his hand. “Here.”

She eyed him before allowing him to place the jar on her outstretched palm.

She swiped the back of her other hand across her cheek, and by doing so spread black soot over her flushed skin.

“You, uh . . .” His throat felt dry. Too dry to speak. He lifted his hand, hesitated, and smoothed some of the soot from her cheek with his thumb.

But at his touch, she recoiled. Alarm brightened her tired eyes, and she sucked in a deep breath.

A sharp reprimand sliced through his mind. What had he been thinking to touch her? They were not at a soiree in London. She was a headmistress in a country school who had shown him kindness.

Miss Creighton grabbed a linen from the table, turned her back to him, and wiped her cheek.

The spell between them popped. Was gone.

She looked back at him. “It is almost dawn. You must be weary. Can I offer you a room upstairs?”

“Thank you, no,” he stammered, feigning to adjust the bandage around his arm. “My groom is outside waiting for me. I’ll be by soon to assess the damage and see if any part of the stable can be saved. If not, we’ll determine next steps.”

He reached for his coat. This time she did not offer to assist. He managed to slide his good arm through the coat and left his injured arm out of the sleeve.

“Take these with you.” She retrieved the ointment and extra bandages. “I am sure your housekeeper has what you will need, but you might as well have them. Mary can make more.”

He glanced—quickly—at her eyes, making a memory of her before looking away. For whatever had transpired between them he was certain had affected him in a way that he would not soon forget.

10

W
illiam showed himself out of Rosemere. In the courtyard, smoke still twirled in the wind, clouding the night air and blotting out the moon’s gray light. He stepped closer to the still-burning remnants and to Lewis and young Charlie. In front of them stood a goat.

William tilted his head and assessed the pudgy animal. “Delilah. We meet again.”

The goat returned the stare, and William knelt down and looked her in the eye. “You caused quite the trouble for your young mistress, not to mention me.”

The animal bleated a response before bolting away. Charlie shouted and took off after her.

William tapped an empty bucket with the toe of his boot, and it rolled across the path. With the heat of the fire, all the snow around the stable had melted, leaving everything a slushy mess. He looked at Lewis. “What are you doing?”

“Letting it burn out. Nothing here to save.” Lewis nudged a
piece of burning debris that had rolled away from the fire. “I moved the water wagon back by the gate. They’ve lost their carriage and their cart, but the animals are sound. The housekeeper said she believes they lost a chicken or two.” He nodded toward William’s arm. “You all right?”

“A little burn. It will be fine.”

“George told me what happened. How is the girl?”

“She is asleep.” William glanced up at the windows. They were all dark. The house was settling back down, its occupants returning to sleep. “She will recover, although I fear she breathed in much more smoke than is healthy for one so young.”

Lewis tossed a rope in his direction. “George went for the surgeon. He will know how to help her, certainly.”

William stared as if entranced at the mess of glowing beams and flickering flames. The surreal night was coming to an end. Soon the sun would climb into the broad expanse of the sky, shedding light on the full extent of the damage to the Rosemere stable.