Crossed in Love, page 2
Cecily sent the man an admonishing look. “Now, Hodges, we are not so desperate that we must resort to thievery. I’m certain the gentleman will be happy to reimburse us once he recovers.”
“Well, he’s not likely to be paying you for your time in fretting over him. I’ll linger a whit and you get some rest. I’ll come fetch you should he wake.”
Cecily smiled at that, and Hodges admired the increasingly infrequent sight. When she smiled, her thin little face lit up from within, and any fool could see that she was a beauty. But puddles of worry still lingered in her eyes, and the smile slipped away as quickly as it had appeared. He cursed the world in general as she once more became the brown little wren fussing over the blanket covers and wringing at the wash cloth.
“If rest were all it took, I would rival the Toast of the Season. I’ve had naught but rest for too long now. I’ll sleep a little here and wait for him to wake. You’ll have to rise first thing in the morning to see if the river is down enough to fetch the physician. So go on with you. I’ll be fine.”
Hodges gave the overtly masculine stranger a look of suspicion, then returned his glance to the young woman beside the bed. In the drab brown round gown with her hair pulled beneath a cap and held with pins, she looked like some frumpy old-maid servant. He growled at the thought, but he supposed she was safe enough. The blighter wasn’t likely to rise from that bed anytime soon.
Cecily breathed a sigh of relief as the manservant left, then settled back in the comfortable chair and studied the stranger once again before she closed her eyes. Living alone as she did, she was given to odd fantasies, but none was so odd as this. Even her imagination had never conjured up a handsome, wealthy stranger practically crashing into her doorstep. If only she had some fairy dust. . . .
Peter suppressed a groan at the hammer pounding his head when he tried to move. He couldn’t remember ever drinking enough port to give him a head like this one. There had been a time in Antigua when he had entered into a little altercation with a sailor twice his size. . . .
He tried to raise his hand to his head to see if it could be moved by other means. The motion stirred thin sheets and a cotton blanket that had no place in his memory. Worst of all, it brought about the realization that he was wearing a shirt with arms longer than his. Had he shrunk overnight?
Not daring to contemplate that possibility or the alternative that there was a man somewhere nearby who was bigger than he, Peter located his hand in the billowing sleeve. He carried it to his aching head and pushed his empty skull sideways to determine if there might be some indication as to where he might be.
Once he discovered that he had his eyelids squeezed closed, he recovered from the shock of total darkness and pried them open. The first sight of his new abode included a flickering candle and a slender maid curled in the corner of an overlarge chair.
That wasn’t so terrible a sight. Relaxing, Peter closed his eyes again to relieve the pain and let the scene play along his eyelids. His mind’s eye found a maid’s prim white cap, a glimpse of soft brown hair, and an almost painfully thin face innocent with sleep. Raised as he had been, he was familiar with households that believed their servants could live on bones and gruel. It irked him that he was in the hands of such mean-spirited people, but he was in no condition to reprimand them.
Succumbing to the pain, he returned to the realms of sleep.
Some time later, Peter woke again. The room seemed noticeably warmer, and he struggled against the blankets before coming awake enough to remember his surroundings. Perspiration formed on his brow as he fought for a breath, then opened his eyes to the still night air. This time he didn’t need candlelight to see the slim white figure hovering over him.
Odd, but he had thought his keeper wore brown. He closed his eyes and opened them again, but the pale figure remained, leaning over him with concern. Delicate moonlight tresses streamed over her shoulder with the movement, and Peter felt a shock of recognition.
The image in the portrait. His head pounded and his breathing was strangely weak, but he managed to search the lovely features he had memorized from the painting. The dancing eyes lit with laughter at his perusal, and she drifted away, her thin gown flowing around her as she stepped from reach and almost out of his range of vision.
He tried to speak, but his voice was a hoarse rasp, and she was gone before the words emerged.
When next he woke, it was to the tender ministrations of the little maid. A cool cloth cleansed his fevered brow, and Peter sighed his appreciation. At the sound, she gasped and nearly whipped him with the wet cloth, but when he opened his eyes, she had composed herself again.
“Good morning. Would you care for a cup of broth?”
He rather thought being pitched into a snowbank might be more enjoyable, but the croak that came out didn’t deny or confirm her question. Frustrated, he glared at her, and she solemnly looked back.
“Hodges has gone to find a physician. I don’t doubt that you’ll have a most virulent cold from your experience. I don’t know how long you lay in the hedgerow before we found you, but you were quite thoroughly chilled. I think a little broth will do you good.”
As his body began to register the demands of the wine he had drunk with his last meal, Peter could only nod in hopes that she would quickly leave in search of the promised soup. She gave him a suspicious frown, then bustled out, leaving him blessedly alone to search for the chamber pot.
By the time she returned, Peter’s head felt as if it would fall from his shoulders, and the raggedness of his breathing warned that her dire prediction had come true, but his lower regions were vastly relieved. He struggled with the lengths of shirtsleeves covering his hands and wondered at the size of the monster that must once have inhabited this garment. With effort, he found a reclining position that allowed his head to remain intact. When the maid returned, he even attempted a smile.
She didn’t smile back but efficiently made a place for herself at the side of the bed and held a spoon of broth to his lips. “You must drink this all down. When Uncle Quincy had the pleurisy, the physician said he must have lots of liquids. And the meat juices will strengthen you.”
Peter made a face, and she inserted the spoon when he opened his mouth to protest. Since he could produce few sounds other than grunts and groans and croaks, he surrendered the battle and allowed the admittedly tasty broth to go down.
“You must tell us if there is someone we might notify of your accident. I would not have anyone worrying about your whereabouts.”
As Peter shook his head to indicate there was no one, he felt a momentary return of depression. He could have died out there on that road, and there would have been no one to care. All that grand wealth he had accumulated would disappear into the pockets of some lawyer or government official in vain attempts to locate his heirs. It made one feel exceedingly small.
Instead, he concentrated on the determined young woman forcing liquids down his throat. Her accent bothered him until he began putting two and two together. Although her accent had the polish of his, her clothes were too drab and out of fashion to belong to a lady of quality. Yet they were of good cloth, and her hands bore none of the signs of physical labor.
A kitchen or upstairs maid would have work-roughened hands, and even in the best of houses she would not wear clothes of this fashion or speak in polished accents. But a lady’s maid wearing the cast-offs of her mistress and with no chore more difficult than laundering her employer’s linens could very well fit the bill.
Satisfied he had solved the mystery, Peter reached to squeeze the maid’s hand when she set the bowl aside. She looked shocked at first, then offered a brief, haunting smile as she smoothed a cool hand over his fevered brow.
“You’re quite welcome, sir. Now you must sleep until the doctor arrives. He might have some medicine to ease the aching in your head.”
Well, so much for his attempt at seduction. Closing his eyes and insanely smiling to himself, Peter followed her instructions.
When next he woke, it was to the shadows of twilight and the sight of a giant monster stalking the little maid. With a throat-wrenching cry, Peter swung back the blankets and tried to leap to the rescue, only to discover he hadn’t the strength to stand. Grabbing the bed for support before he could collapse into a humiliating heap on the floor, Peter watched through bleary eyes as the little maid gave a cry of concern and ran to his side, while the monster merely glared at him.
He had at least diverted the creature’s attention, Peter thought grimly as he allowed the slender woman to boss him back into bed while the giant lingered in the shadows, forcing obedience with his presence. Perhaps he would be flung back into the hedgerow if he refused the maid’s orders. This certainly was an unusual household, but he was in no position to complain.
“Whatever made you leap up like that?” More shaken than she would admit by the stranger’s sudden transformation from bed-ridden patient to large man in a thin nightshirt, Cecily fussed over the covers and ignored Hodges’ glowering visage. “Are you hallucinating? I understand people with high fevers suffer from deliriums. Would you like a cool cloth for your brow?’’
The stranger grimaced as if in pain when Cecily touched her fingers to his forehead. He really was quite warm. She had the oddest notion that he had meant to come to her rescue when he leapt from the bed. She really had been alone too long with her books if she could think such a thing, she mused ruefully. A tentative smile curved her lips as his eyes opened, and she finally saw that they were gray.
“Ask him what made the carriage crash.” Hodges remained in the shadows, but his voice was deep and husky and penetrated the gloom with the sound of thunder.
Their patient turned his head to follow this sound, then attempted to rise to a sitting position. He shook his head in denial when Cecily tried to help him. Frowning, Hodges stepped forward, lifted the man’s shoulders, and shoved pillows behind him.
The stranger didn’t look properly appreciative, but after sipping from a cup of water Cecily offered, he attempted some reply. “Spooked,” was all he could croak.
That one word seemed to explain everything to this odd pair, Peter noted as they exchanged glances over his head. He thought he heard the monster whisper “the lady,” but the maid shook her head in warning.
“That is only superstition, Hodges. A rabbit no doubt ran across the road. You said the horses were high-strung expensive animals.”
Peter watched in amazement as the giant’s expression turned mulish, but he did no more than step back at the young maid’s rebuke. The man called Hodges could have picked her up and swung her through the air without any effort, yet he seemed to regard the slender young woman with respect. The lady had to be powerful indeed if her maid could command that much authority.
“He’s here ‘cause of the lady, there ain’t no doubt in my mind,” was all the giant manservant said in reply before retreating toward the door.
The maid ignored this parting retort and dipped the cloth in the wash basin. Peter meant to halt her, but the feel of the cool cloth against his brow was better than he had expected, and he closed his eyes and relaxed beneath her gentle hands.
“Name?” he croaked, straining his sore throat to do so.
He opened his eyes in time to see the shy smile in hers.
“Cecily,” she replied. “And yours?”
“Denning.” There, it was out, his ignominious ancestry. He didn’t suppose there was a Denning anywhere in the history of British bluebloods. Stripped of his clothes, he couldn’t even pretend to be what he was not. The maid would in all likelihood report his commonness to her ladyship and he would be out on his ear by morning.
Instead, she merely reapplied the cold cloth and in that solemn owl-like way of hers—although he thought he saw the dance of laughter behind her blue eyes—and asked, “Denning who? Or is it which Denning? Ought I to know the name?’’
Incredible. Peter relaxed and stretched his long legs beneath the covers. It just might be possible that he would live to see the day again. “Peter.”
“Very good, Mr. Denning. Are you certain there is no one you might wish to notify of your mishap? Surely someone is expecting you?”
He knew better than to shake his head in reply this time. With increasing ease, he replied, “No one.”
“Well, I’d best not make you talk too much. Hodges says the physician was out, but he has left a message for him to call. I don’t like him very much,” she whispered conspiratorially, as if fearful the manservant would hear her. “He’s always wanting to apply leeches, loathsome creatures.” She shivered and made a face. “But I wouldn’t want you to be dreadfully ill because we didn’t do everything to help you.”
Peter caught her slender wrist and forced her to meet his eyes. “No leeches!”
The worried expression between her eyes instantly cleared, replaced by a reassuring look of agreement. “I’ll not let him bring them into the house.”
Satisfied, Peter drank the cup of broth and fell asleep before he could discover more about this odd establishment.
When he woke next, it was the middle of the night.
The candle on the stand had guttered out, and he could discern little but the stream of moonlight through the uncovered windows. The cursed clouds must finally have cleared away, he decided as he tried to determine what had made him wake.
It was then that he saw the movement, the elusive shimmer of silver followed by the scent of roses that he remembered from the previous night. Eagerly, Peter turned toward the movement, and she appeared before him, even more beautiful than he recalled.
She was tall and slender, with a winsome smile that made a man want to fall at her feet. Her hair was caught in smooth ropes and held by strings of pearls tonight, and he wished she had left it flowing as before. He wanted to reach for her, but he was quite certain this was the lady of the house, and he had no right to offend her.
“Hello,” he whispered, then cursed himself for such an uninspired greeting.
She nodded, then glanced at the slight figure sleeping in the chair beside the bed. Peter noted the young maid then, and he smiled at the thin face so innocent in sleep. There was nothing of the owl to her now. She was almost pretty in repose without that solemn look of concern imprinted upon her brow.
He turned back to the lady, and she smiled approvingly. Then, tugging at his bedcovers to smooth them, she stole around the end of the bed and disappeared into the shadows behind Cecily where the door was located.
Oddly disappointed that she did not speak, Peter again glanced at the maid, and feeling unexpectedly tender at her constant watchfulness, he relaxed and slipped back to sleep.
“Hodges, you are making entirely too much out of nothing.” Garbed today in a gray wool with just a touch of black banding to frame her pale face, Cecily took the breakfast tray from the servant’s hands and placed it on the bedside stand.
“It was the lady what spooked them horses and brought him here, and you can’t say nothing to make me feel different.” Stubbornly, Hodges remained where he was. “He’s the one what will save the house. Just see if he ain’t. The lady wouldn’t fail us.”
“Oh, Hodges.” Cecily pushed a straying strand of hair back from her face, revealing the lines of worry upon her brow. “The painting is gone. There is nothing else we can do. It was our last hope, and even if I didn’t want to sell it, I would have. It’s too late now. I think fate is telling us that this is the end. I’ll have to see the estate agent when the roads clear.”
“Chelseys have owned this house since it was built. The lady won’t let it go. You know that as well as I do. You go to that agent and we’re like to find the place in flames before you return.”
Having woken to the thunder of Hodges’ last words, Peter looked from one stubborn expression to the other and wondered if now was the time to intervene. His fever had receded enough to enable him to realize the giant was a man and not a monster, but he still seemed terrifyingly dangerous to the slip of a female who defied him so persistently.
“Where is the lady?” he threw into the breech before Cecily’s angry reply could leave her tongue.
Both stubborn faces turned toward him, and Peter nearly laughed at the conflicting emotions replacing their earlier anger.
“You saw her!” Hodges responded triumphantly.
“She’s not here,” Cecily answered at the same time.
The two glared at each other like brother and sister, and Peter had to pound his own pillows into an upright position.
“Who is she?” he asked again, as long as they were providing answers of a sort.
“Lady Honora,” Hodges answered defiantly.
“Well, she is here. I saw her last night.” Peter lifted a challenging brow to the young maid, who slapped the breakfast tray down before him.
“You couldn’t have. I was here all night and didn’t see a thing. Now eat and stop this nonsense.”
“You were sleeping,” Peter politely pointed out. But the coffee smelled too fragrant to resist, and his interest in this quite insane argument was waning. For all he knew, he was ensconced in a house full of Bedlamites. There was no need to starve while they argued.
“You were delirious.” Cecily’s curt tones ended the argument.
Peter couldn’t resist giving her a challenging look. “Am I so beneath the lady’s notice that she wouldn’t show curiosity in my appearance on her doorstep?”
That sent her into a fluster and Hodges almost grinned. “Lady Honora knows everything that goes on,” he said when it became apparent that Cecily wouldn’t deign to give a reply. “You be sure to tell her how good we took care of you the next time you see her.’’
Cecily threw him a black look and stalked out. Peter was sorry she had gone. Now that his head felt more its normal size and his throat worked again, he would have liked to spend more time talking with her. It had been a long time since he had enjoyed the company of a well-brought-up young woman, even if she were only a lady’s maid. The good Lord knew he had no reason to look askance at conversing with a lady’s maid.
