The Offer (3 page)

He stacked his arms with blankets from the linen closet and layered them over her, then took himself downstairs to the kitchen to fetch logs for a fire. The indolent, rather negligent air for which he was known among his acquaintances fell away from him as if it had never existed.

He laid a huge fire in the fireplace and fanned the embers until flames roared up the blackened chimney. He glanced once again at his patient, saw that there was no change in her, and went to the stables to see to Tasha and to retrieve his leather valise.

He shaded his eyes from the driving snow as he walked the short distance between the house and the stable. It was nearly a full-blown blizzard. It struck him forcibly that the servants who cared for the hunting box wouldn't be showing their faces until the blizzard blew itself out. Who knew how long that could be.

As he walked into the stable, he was greeted with a low whinny from Tasha. She was eating hay from an overflowing bin. At least he wouldn't have to worry about her starving. He patted Tasha's glossy neck, picked up his bag, and made his way quickly back to the house.

He felt cheered at the cozy warmth of the bedchamber. As he unpacked his two changes of clothing and laid them carefully over a chair, it occurred to him
that he should put her in some sort of nightgown. He pulled the holland cover off a short, squat dresser and rifled through the drawers. They were filled with men's clothes, and all of them too small for him, he thought, as he lifted them out for inspection. Beneath some underthings, he found two old well-worn velvet dressing gowns.

He sat down beside her and again pressed his hands to her forehead and cheeks. Her skin was warm; her lips had lost that terrifying blue tinge. But she remained unconscious. He gently probed her head through the masses of auburn hair, but he could find no betraying lump. Gently, he eased the pile of blankets down below her breasts and pressed his cheek against her. Her breathing was labored and he heard a wet crackling sound. He tensed, remembering the same sound from Lucius's tortured lungs. She stirred, bringing her arms weakly over her breasts, and shivered violently. He quickly put her into one of the dressing gowns. He wrapped it twice around her and tied the belt. He put her into the other dressing gown as well. Why not? He sashed it at her waist, pulled the blankets back up to her chin again, and lightly slapped her cheeks. She'd been asleep long enough.

“Come on now, open your eyes for me. You can do it. Open your eyes.”

She mumbled, and turned her face away from him. “Don't try to get away from me. I'm more tenacious than a tick. Wake up.”

She moaned, deep in her throat.

“I wagered with my mare Tasha that you would have green eyes to go with that wicked red hair of yours. No, it's more a wicked auburn color, isn't it? No matter, it's still wicked. Come on, wake up, I want to collect my wager.”

Her hand fluttered, then stilled.

“It's time to face the world, you know. And me. I'm not such a bad fellow. I'm a good friend. Come on, wake up.” He remembered all too well the men whom the cold had kept from consciousness and drawn deeper away from life. He wouldn't stand for it. “Dammit, do as I tell you,” he shouted at her. “Bloody hell, wake up!”

He clasped her shoulders in his hands and shook her. She whimpered softly, and tried to bring her hands up to strike him away. But she didn't have the strength to move the five thick blankets.

“Open your eyes and look at me or it will go very badly for you.” He continued to shake her.

Sabrina heard his voice as if from a great distance and forced her eyes to open. She couldn't see clearly. She heard his voice again. He sounded angry with her. She blinked and her eyes cleared. A man was leaning over her. His hands were on her shoulders. She screamed, then whispered, “No, please no, Trevor, let me go. Let me go.”

Phillip stared down into large violet eyes, slanted slightly and fringed with thick lashes, a darker red than her hair. He saw the fear—no, it was closer to sheer terror—and said very slowly, lowering his face close to hers, “I'm not Trevor and I won't hurt you. This fellow is nowhere around. It's just me and you. I won't hurt you. Do you understand me?”

She blinked rapidly several times. The man's voice was unknown to her. She strained to clear her mind and her vision. “You're not Trevor,” she said slowly.

“No, I'm just me and not this Trevor. Don't be afraid of me. I'm here to help you.”

“Did God send you?”

He had to think about that. “Well, perhaps He did. I was lost and just happened to see you lying in the forest.”

“You don't look like a gift from God.”

“My father told me that God's gifts came in many shapes, that they can even appear in the strangest disguises. Don't spurn me just because I don't look like a pious Methodist.”

“Your hair is as black as a storm in the Irish Sea. I don't think Methodists have black hair. Come to think of it, I've never met any Methodists.”

“Maybe so, but I wouldn't scoff at sin, if I were you. I'm a sinner and I'm the one who saved you.”

He smiled down at her, knowing her wits were still scattered, but she was speaking and making some sense. He lightly touched his palm to her cheek. She was warm, but not too warm. She didn't flinch.

“If I were a man I'd want to look like you. Are you tall?”

“Nearly a giant.”

“Most any man is a giant compared to me. I stopped growing. I was very down in the mouth about it, but Grandfather said it didn't matter one little bit. He said I was perfect.”

“Perfection is usually tough to gain, but it's true, grandfathers are usually right.”

“Maybe, but he loves me. That covers a whole lot of things. Could you help me, please? The covers, they're so heavy. I feel like they're pushing me into the floor.” When he didn't move immediately, she began to push and struggle.

“No, hold still. I'll make it better.”

“It's just that I can't breathe.”

“I know, I'm hurrying.” But he knew that even if he pulled the blankets from over her chest, she still probably wouldn't be able to breathe easily. He compromised.

“Is that better?”

She shook her head and continued to struggle,
finally shoving down the other two blankets. Phillip caught up her hands in his own and held her tightly. “No, I've got to keep you warm. I'm sorry, but even without the blankets you won't be able to breathe all that easily. The trick is not to fight me or the pain. Take shallow breaths. Yes, that's right.” He remembered his long-ago words to Lucius and spoke them aloud, over and over. “Slow, shallow breaths. I'm going to make it better, I promise.”

“Yes, help me.” Her eyes were closed, her fists heavy at her sides.

He took himself once again to the linen closet, grabbed several towels, and set them near the grate. Some minutes later, he lifted the top towel gingerly, for it was nearly too hot to touch, and carried it to the bed.

As he pulled back the covers and opened the two dressing gowns to bare her chest, he said, “This will hurt you for just a moment, but it will let you breathe more easily.”

“Oh, God.” She gasped as he laid the hot towel over her breasts and tried to strike it away.

He held her hands and drew the dressing gowns and blankets back over her. She made no sound, but tears were trickling down her cheeks.

He wiped the tears away with his finger. Then he caught up her hands in his again. “I'm sorry, but it must be done. Things will be better soon, you'll see. Now, why don't you tell me your name?”

“Name,” she said, her voice faint and dulled with pain, “my name. You're trying to distract me. That's what you're doing, isn't it?”

“Certainly.”

“All right then, my name is Bree.”

“Brie is a French cheese that is particularly soft, even runny in the summer, and I've never cared for it. My mother adored it. I can't understand why the
French write music to it. You don't look at all French so why did your parents name you after a cheese?”

“No, no, Bree is my nickname. My real name is Sabrina.”

He smiled down at her, lightly touching his fingertips to her nose. “It suits you. What's your last name?”

Her eyes were on his face, searching. He saw fear in those incredible violet eyes of hers, and doubt that he wasn't another man to hurt her.

“Stop it. I'm not Trevor.”

“Perhaps. I pray you're not like him.”

“I'm not. You can trust me on this.” Her eyes were still wide on his face, but the fear was fading now, and the doubt as well. He grinned and patted her cheek. “My horse won the wager,” he said, and sighed. “You don't have boring green eyes like I'd thought you'd have with all that red hair. No, yours are a very nice violet. Actually I've never seen violet eyes before.”

“They're my grandmother's eyes. Her name was Camilla. My grandfather loved her very much. He never hurt her. You're the one with the green eyes and they're not at all boring. They look like wet moss.”

“Wet moss and French cheese. We're some combination.”

“The pain is less now. That's wonderful.”

“Ready for another towel?”

“No, please, wait a moment. It doesn't hurt so badly now.”

“My name is Phillip Mercerault.”

“You don't live around here.”

“No, I don't. Actually I was lost when I found you. Charles gave me damnable directions to his house, Moreland. That's where I was going.”

She knew who Charles was, that was as clear on her face as if she'd said it aloud. For whatever reason,
she wasn't going to tell him who she was. She was afraid to. Why?

Who cared for the moment? He loved a mystery, and he wagered she had as many secrets as a Renaissance nun.

“Have you ever heard of me?”

She shook her head.

“Well, no matter. I'm here now and I'm going to take care of you. Are you ready for another hot towel?”

She nodded, surprised that the pain in her chest had lessened, that the heat from the towel had seemed to seep deep within her.

She looked up at the face above her, a handsome young face with regular features. He couldn't be above twenty-six or twenty-seven. She found herself staring into his eyes, compelling eyes. Unfortunately he'd been on his way to Moreland. On the other hand, if he hadn't found her, she probably would have died there in Eppingham Forest.

“I'm going to get another hot towel now,” he said, but didn't move as she pulled one of her hands free and raised it to his face. He didn't stir. He felt her fingertip lightly touch his jaw, his cheek, his nose. “No,” she said, her voice slurred now, “you're not at all like Trevor, thank God.” What little strength she had failed her and her hand fell weakly to her side.

“No, Sabrina, I'm not.” He gathered her hands once again into his and looked down a moment at the tapering fingers. No calluses, not that he expected any. She was a young lady.

A shadow of pain crossed Sabrina's face and she turned her head away from him on the pillow, not wanting him to think her cowardly and weak. But she couldn't prevent the racking cough that made her body arch forward.

Phillip rose quickly and fetched another hot towel. She shuddered as he laid it over her breasts. He covered her again and rose to look for medicine, anything that would ease her pain. In a small room down the corridor, he found a cache of bandages, ointments, and laudanum, most things he would have expected to find in a hunting box. He measured a few drops of laudanum into a glass of water and walked back to Sabrina's bedchamber.

He slipped his arm beneath her head and brought her upright. “Here, Sabrina, this will help. Drink all of it. That's it.”

Although she sipped slowly, she choked and began to cough. He pulled her up against him and began lightly hitting her back. “Shush, it's all right. The water just went down the wrong pipe. That's it, breathe in light shallow breaths. No, don't fight me.”

He held her firmly until she regained her breath and again placed the glass to her lips. She managed to swallow the remainder of the laudanum between short, heaving breaths. Phillip gently eased her back down and she lay quietly, waiting for the pain to lessen.

Phillip stood over her, staring down, studying her. Oddly, he felt a strong tug of protectiveness toward her. She could be no more than eighteen years old, a young lady, and in all likelihood a virgin, for there was no wedding band on her left hand. He wondered who this bastard Trevor was, the man who had made her flee her home. He didn't have a doubt that this was what had happened.

He smoothed back a curling lock of auburn hair that had fallen over her brow. She seemed to have fallen asleep, her lashes dark against her white cheeks. She was really quite lovely, not that it made any difference to anything at all.

Phillip left the bedchamber door open so that he could hear her if she awakened, and walked downstairs to the kitchen. He remembered suddenly how he and his fellow officers had hunkered around campfires in the mountains in Spain, roasting birds and rabbits to survive. He had learned to make soup from the remains, had even watched his men bake flat bread in crude ovens they'd made from parts of guns and equipment. But damn, that was more than four years ago. Since that time, it had never occurred to him to wonder where his next meal would come from. He thought of the exquisite meals prepared by Cook at Dinwitty Manor, and nearly swooned. He made it a point to have very mundane fare in London to keep him skinny. He'd give Cook a raise when he returned to his country home.

He walked to a small, cold pantry just off the kitchen that he'd noticed earlier. He was pleased and relieved that the owner of this hunting box knew how to keep it stocked. A haunch of smoked ham, beautifully cured, hung from a hook in the ceiling; there was a bin of flour, sugar and salt, potatoes, onions, carrots, dried peas, and even a partially filled barrel of dried apples.

Phillip Edmund Mercerault, Viscount Derencourt, donned a large white apron and set himself to the task
of making soup. He sliced vegetables, cut up a slab of ham into small pieces, and tossed the lot into a pot with the dried peas. He gazed about him for water, realized that it wouldn't magically appear, and took himself outside to fill a large pot with snow. The well was probably a foot under snow. Some minutes later, he stood next to a newly built-up fire in the grate, gazing down at his pot of soup. “Lord be praised. You're not such a useless fellow after all,” he said aloud. He stripped off his apron, rinsed his hands, then strode back upstairs.

He walked quietly to the bedside and looked down at Sabrina. Her eyes were closed and her breathing so labored he didn't even have to bend over her to hear it. He gently touched his hand to her cheek and found her cool to the touch.

Sabrina felt fingers, featherlight, against her cheek and forced her eyes to open. She could make out a man's face above her and for an instant felt a stab of fear. Her memory righted itself and she whispered, “Phillip.”

“Yes, Sabrina. Don't worry. I'm here.” He kept his voice pitched low and calm. The last thing he wanted was to frighten her again.

For a moment she thought it strange that he should know her name. She remembered vague images of her flight from Monmouth Abbey, her mare going lame, and the bitter, unrelenting cold. And then that cold was inside her. “I'm so cold. Really, so cold, just like I was in the forest. But I'm not in the forest now. What's wrong?”

“No, nothing's wrong. You're safe with me, Sabrina. I want you to lie still. I'm going to make you warm.”

Phillip retrieved another towel from the grate, this one so very hot that he had to toss it several times
into the air so that she would be able to bear its heat. She hissed out her breath when he placed it over her.

“No, don't move. Don't fight it. Just let the warmth seep into you. It will if you let it. Just hold still, that's right.”

“I don't like this, Phillip, I really don't. It hurts worse than the cold.”

“It won't in just a moment, I promise.”

She didn't move. It was very difficult, but she didn't even blink. She felt the scalding heat begin to seep into her. It was amazing. His fingers touched her hair and she heard him say, “Try not to move your head, your hair is still damp.”

“It's better. I can't believe you were right. I feel warm to my bones.”

He tucked the blankets close to her chin. “Good. Now you need to sleep. You'll get better faster the more you sleep. I remember my mother telling me that after I nearly drowned. It worked for me. It will work for you. I'll be right here if you need me.” Her eyes were closed. She was already asleep.

Phillip walked to the long narrow windows and pulled back the draperies. He could see nothing save white snow swirling against the windowpanes. He couldn't help but smile. The fates and Charles's directions had certainly conspired to alter his life, at least for the present.

 

He was too old and too tired. Sometimes he just wanted to close his eyes and sleep, and never wake up. He hadn't deserved the long life he'd been granted, not after he'd let Camilla die. To lose her in childbirth, and all of it his own fault. He shouldn't have given in to her pleas for another chance to have a daughter. They'd been given only one son, and how she'd wanted a daughter. But he had given in to her
and she'd died, the boy child with her. No, he wouldn't think about Camilla just now. He hunched forward in his chair and stared at his elder granddaughter, Elizabeth. She was graceful, he'd give her that, and she would be pretty if it weren't for the discontent that dragged down the corners of her mouth, that leached out any sheen of contentment from her eyes.

Sabrina. She had come to tell him that Sabrina was dead? No, he wouldn't accept that, never.

She came to a halt in front of him, not too close, because she hated him. He knew it but it had taken him a very long time to figure out why. And then one day, he'd known. She hated his power, seeing herself as powerless. She hated his age, finding it repellent, frightening.

He could have told her it wasn't frightening at all. It was just a bloody bore. He'd told that to Sabrina and she'd lightly punched his arm, telling him not to be foolish, not to be bored because he had so many years in his dish because that was surely proof that God wanted him to remain here to watch over his lands and his people, to ensure their safety from the wicked that roamed the earth.

Wicked, he thought, and looked toward his nephew, Trevor. Aye, his nephew and heir, the future Earl of Monmouth, a pretty fellow who was always polite to him, any feelings he felt always held behind those veiled lying eyes of his.

He tried to keep the contempt from his voice as he forced himself back to Elizabeth. He forced himself to say the words aloud, but it was difficult, for to say them meant that they were true. He felt the gnawing of helplessness, felt nearly bowed to his knees with it. He swallowed, saying nothing for another moment, but Elizabeth held herself perfectly quiet, Trevor the
same. There was no news, he thought, and said, “It's been two days now, two days without a word, without a clue, without a sign of Sabrina. Have you brought me no news at all then? You know very well, Elizabeth, that she wouldn't leave her home without some powerful reason to motivate her.” He pulled a crumpled piece of paper from his dressing-gown pocket and waved it at Elizabeth, a granddaughter he'd tried to love, tried to shield, but she'd not wanted that from him. Fear clutched at him, making his belly twist and knot. “As for the letter she left me—it tells me nothing. Damnation, what does this mean? She writes that she can no longer remain here and must go to her aunt Barresford in London?” He thought of Sabrina's mare, her legs scratched from brambles, the left foreleg lame, returned yesterday to the Abbey, and felt his blood run cold. His blood had been cold now for two days. “No, don't you dare tell me again about her depressed spirits, whatever that means. I want the truth now, Elizabeth. I don't want any more of your lies.”

Elizabeth stood tall above the earl, almost wraithlike in her slenderness, and nervously shifted her weight to her other foot. What was she to say to this miserable old man who was the undisputed master, who didn't even allow her to sit in his presence? How she wanted him to suffer. He deserved to for the slights he'd given her since the day Sabrina had been born. But the tug of fear was still there. She felt what little color she normally had fade until she knew her face was as white as the wall behind her grandfather's chair. She didn't move, something she'd managed to master many years ago. She never fidgeted in front of him, never showed him how much she despised him for his disregard of her. She nearly smiled as she said, “I have no lies to tell, Grandfather. It was as I first
told you. Sabrina was quiet, withdrawn from me. I know nothing more today, truly.”

And Trevor, his too-pretty nephew with his grand manner, said, “Elizabeth doesn't wish to cause you more pain, sir.” As he spoke he gently squeezed one of her pale slender hands. “Come, my dear, we must not further dissemble. You cannot protect your little sister forever.”

Elizabeth's eyes widened at her husband's words. She felt the excitement coiled in him, the pleasure at delivering a death blow, but she was afraid, still afraid of this wretched old man who held the reins of power over her, and would hold them until he died. Sometimes she wondered if he'd come back even after he was dead, and he'd torment her and mock her and she'd whimper and want to give up. And he'd win, he'd always win.

It was her grandfather's words that decided her. Curse him to hell where he belonged. She shriveled as he said, his mouth twisted with dislike, “Well, girl, don't stand there like a stupid cow. Out with it. If you know something about Sabrina's leaving, I will hear it now, by God. And I'm tired of your supposed truths, Elizabeth, for they ring as hollow as a fool's wit.”

Her head went back, she returned the pressure of her husband's hand. She even made herself shrug. “I'm sorry, my lord, but it is as Trevor said. I am loath to cause you pain. But since you insist upon hearing the truth, then I will give it to you.” She felt power sing through her, making her strong, making her impervious, putting her in control, where she belonged. “If you must know, Sabrina was jealous of me. She wanted Trevor for herself.”

She stopped abruptly at the growl that came from deep in her grandfather's throat.

“My love,” Trevor said, “you must tell his lordship
the full of it. You can no longer protect your sister. As he says, she's been gone for two days. He is worried about her. Come, tell him the rest of the truth.” Elizabeth felt his fingers tighten their grip on her hand, felt the bones push together. She hated pain, had always feared it, and he knew it, knew it well from their wedding night when she'd pleaded and pleaded but he hadn't listened, just smiled at her and gloried in the pain he'd caused her. But now she held silent. Slowly, very slowly, she pulled her hand away. He let her go.

She drew a deep breath. “I haven't wanted you to know this, my lord, but Sabrina tried to throw herself at Trevor. Yes, she tried to seduce him, so that in his honor, had he taken hers, he would have been compromised in your eyes. Mayhap even compelled to leave his home and me.”

It was well said, she knew it. Her voice had rung out with sincerity, but the old man just stared at her, saying in that loud strident voice of his, “What utter nonsense, girl. Sabrina, seduce him? It is beyond ridiculous. She doesn't even like him. No, she didn't tell me that, but I knew. She tried to hide her dislike, but I knew. Why are you still lying to me?”

“I'm telling you the truth, Grandfather. Why would I lie to you? She's the one who ran away, not I. Indeed, I saw her, do you hear me? Yes, I saw her. She asked Trevor to accompany her to the portrait gallery, to see Grandmother Camilla's portrait. When they were alone, when she knew no servants were about, she tried to convince Trevor to make love to her.”

Elizabeth faltered, but Trevor continued smoothly, his eyes sincere, his voice compelling. “I told her, my lord, that although I held her in great esteem, I would not betray Elizabeth. I told her she was now my sister, nothing more, nothing less. She was angry, sir, and in
her anger she threatened to tell you that I had tried to make love to her. Elizabeth was there, sir, she saw everything. Neither of us would lie, sir. It is the truth, all of it.”

Elizabeth said, “It was then that I told her that I had witnessed everything. She must have realized she was ruined.”

Elizabeth watched the despicable old man look away from them. He stared down at his twisted fingers, then at the fire that roared in the fireplace, making the chamber so hot she had trouble breathing. The silence in the library was broken only by the occasional crackle of burning logs.

“So, you are asking me to believe that Sabrina fled her home with naught but a meaningless letter to me because of your noble rejection of her, Eversleigh?”

Trevor said calmly, regret brimming in his voice, “I would assume so, my lord. Perhaps she felt mortified at her behavior and dreaded the whole being told. My lord, she should have realized that as a gentleman I would not have let a word of what happened pass my lips. As for Elizabeth, I am quite certain that she has already forgiven her sister. Isn't that true, my love?”

His fingers tightened again on Elizabeth's hand and she said quickly, “Of course it is true. Trevor is right, Grandfather. Sabrina knows how much I love her. She knows that I've already forgiven her. After all, she is the spinster now, not I. That she wanted my place, my husband, well, that is something I have already set aside. My feelings of affection for her are deep.”

“Deep, you say? Aye, I believe every word that falls from your lips, Elizabeth. I always have, for you have been a granddaughter to point to with pride, to hold up as a model to all girls.”

She preened, and straightened her shoulders. The earl just looked at her, wondering how she could have
believed his words when they'd dripped with sarcasm, but she obviously had. He turned in his chair to gaze through the long French windows at the end of the library at the storm, still full in its fury. And Sabrina had not reached Borhamwood to take the stage to London. None of the fifty men out searching for her had found a trace of her. He felt a spasm of grief grip him, such as he had not felt since Camilla had died. Sabrina was so very like Camilla, her eyes as deep a violet, her auburn hair glorious, thick, and curling. And she was good-hearted, open, and loyal, just as Camilla had been. He smiled for a moment, for she was vain about her hair, saying it was the same color as Queen Titania's, in
A Midsummer Night's Dream.
Perhaps it was. He remembered when she was eleven years old and she'd become deathly ill with a fever. They'd had to cut all her glorious hair off. He'd told her that she had to get well to grow it back. If she left him, why then, she would see him in heaven all bald. Surely that was worth getting well again. She'd improved almost immediately. Thank the gods for that small bit of vanity.