Jo Beverley - [Malloren] (22 page)

“This hamlet was new back in the days of Bad King John!” Diana complained as she picked her way to the listing signpost which had arms pointing up and down the road. “Ah-ha! Only one mile to Thirsk. We can pick up the Ripon road there and head home.”

Garforth steered the team in that direction, then halted and got down to poke worriedly at his wheels and axles while Diana hoisted Rosamunde back into the coach. Then Diana settled with a sigh of relief, taking off a high-heeled shoe to inspect her foot.

“I’m sorry,” Rosamunde said, not particularly surprised to find that her nausea was building. Perhaps, since she’d drunk so little of the potion, she could fight it off.

As the coach creaked into motion again, Diana eased her shoe back onto her foot and pulled her gold watch out of her pocket. “That took nearly an hour. We’re going to be late getting back home, especially as we’ll have to stop soon and rest the horses again.”

Was this the time to say she wasn’t going?

Then Rosamunde turned cunning. Any suggestion that she wanted to linger to watch over Brand might lead to a quarrel. The autocratic Countess of Arradale was quite capable of carrying her home by brute force, especially if she realized Rosamunde’s other plan—to let someone know where Brand was so he’d be taken care of.

However, she had a perfect, even honest, excuse not to leave the area. “I really don’t feel well.”

She must have looked the part, for after a quick glance, Diana didn’t put up a fight. Perhaps she, too, quailed at the thought of many more hours in the coach. “Very well, we’ll stop in Thirsk for the night. After all, we’re in disguise. No one will see any connection between us and Brand Malloren.”

Having achieved the first part of her plan, Rosamunde tried to make her crippled mind come up with a way to inform someone of Brand’s whereabouts. A cunning way that wouldn’t reveal her part in it.

She had to admit that it wouldn’t be easy.

Diana had opened her guide again, and was flicking through pages. “Thirsk. Thirsk. Thirsk. Let’s see…. The only coaching inn seems to be the Three Tuns.”

Oh dear.

Rosamunde had wanted Brand brought here because he’d said he had a party waiting for him and an appointment to keep. If there was only one decent hostelry, however, then his party could be waiting there.

She hadn’t told Diana any of this, but she wasn’t about to do so now or they’d push on to Ripon. With their clever disguises, she told herself, all would be well.

Diana called up to Garforth that they would stop at the Three Tuns, then turned to Rosamunde. “Now, all we need is a title for you.” With a twinkle of mischief, she said, “What about Lady Gillsett?”

“No!” Rosamunde almost shrieked it, and her head went wild. After a moment, she added, “We don’t want the slightest connection, remember? We need something ordinary. Unmemorable. Lady … Richardson.”

“Very well. Lady Richardson, wife of Sir John Richardson of Lincolnshire. So, why don’t we have any baggage … ?”

“Lost it.” Rosamunde closed her eyes and tried to plan, but her mind felt shredded by pain and guilt.

“A mislaid baggage coach!” Diana agreed with almost unbearable enthusiasm. “Yes. How clever.” Then she squeezed Rosamunde’s hand and said in a whisper, “Poor Rosa. Not long now. See, we’re entering the town.”

Rosamunde raised leaden eyelids. Indeed, the coach was winding its way along a narrow, bustling street. Oh mercy, could she bear it? The rattle of hooves and wheels, the clang of a blacksmith’s hammer, a wave of acrid-smelling roasting meat …

Nausea almost won; then, blessedly, they rattled into the large market square. It wasn’t market day, so it was empty and relatively peaceful. In moments, they halted before the noble portico of the tall, square inn.

Rosamunde shuddered with relief. A bed. Soon she could lie in a bed.

Servants swarmed out to attend the noble guests. Rosamunde let Diana handle everything, but she was impressed and amused by the way her cousin managed to sound exactly like the uppity maid of a minor gentlewoman. Diana’s tone became particularly sharp when the plump innkeeper insisted that though he could give the lady a private sitting room, he had absolutely no bedchambers for the night.

“
No room at the inn
,” Rosamunde thought, the large reception hall swaying sickly around her. She couldn’t possibly go any farther. Bracing herself against a solid white pillar at the base of dark stairs, she knew she couldn’t even climb back into the coach. Faint kitchen smells were turning her stomach. Voices buzzed—Diana’s sharp. The innkeeper’s oily. Another voice. Male. Soothing.

Settle it, she thought desperately. Take a private sitting room if that is all they have. She was going to be sick. She remembered Brand fighting it. He’d lost. She’d lose. She’d much rather lose the battle in private.

Then Diana touched her arm. “Milady?”

She sounded a little peculiar. Not her accent. Her tone. Or would anyone sound peculiar to Rosamunde at this moment? “There’s a gentleman here offering to carry you up to your bed, milady, if you will permit it.”

“Bed?”

“He’s given over his bedchamber to you, too.”

Rosamunde turned her head painfully and saw a tall, dark-haired man bowing. A veritable knight errant!

He was a handsome man, but that had nothing to do with his status as hero in her eyes. He had given her a room, and would carry her up the stairs.

“If you will permit me, Lady Richardson?”

Rosamunde eased away from the support of the pillar and let him lift her into his arms.

“Allow me to introduce myself,” he said as he began to climb the stairs. “My name is Rothgar.”

Chapter 14

E
yes closed, Rosamunde was fighting an internal battle. She really should warn the kind gentleman. “I fear I might be sick, sir.”

“If so, it will doubtless balance some of my many sins.”

A hint of humor, almost a touch of the familiar, had her opening her eyes a crack. No. He was no one she knew, and she’d remember him if they had ever met. To her exaggerated senses, he looked as Lucifer might in an ordinary, dark cloth suit. Devilishly beautiful….

“Are you a rake?” She’d never actually met a rake, but he fit her image of one and he’d mentioned many sins.

He angled her so they could enter a room. “In my own estimation, no.”

He paused while quiet-voiced people fussed around, probably turning back the bed, perhaps running a warming pan through it.

“Do we judge for ourselves whether we are sinners or not?” she asked. Mired in her own confusions and guilts, it seemed important.

“What better guide than our own conscience? Your bed is ready, Lady Richardson.” With a distinct hint of dark humor, he added, “And you must lie in it.”

Rosamunde could have laughed at that. He thought her suffering the results of drink, just as she’d misjudged Brand. Justice and retribution indeed.

Someone took off her shoes, and then he placed her carefully on the soft bed. He was very strong, and wonderfully gentle, but the sheer bliss of the bed wiped out everything else. “Thank you, sir,” she remembered to say, letting her eyes close.

His voice seemed to come from a distance. “I wish you a speedy recovery, Lady Richardson.”

Rosamunde supposed he left, but she was entirely focused on fighting nausea. She hated to vomit, but now she also feared the agony it would shoot through her head. What Brand must have suffered, and he’d also not known who he was, or where. Even so, he’d maintained an essential courtesy that she knew was part of him.

What was her essential essence?

She had to move as people took off her gown and corset, but she managed to keep the nausea down. When offered a cordial of some kind, she tried it. Sweet with honey, it did seem to settle her stomach a little.

Perhaps it was going to be all right.

Then the covers were pulled over her, the window curtains drawn tight together, and peace settled.

“There,” said Diana, touching her head gently. “Rest, love. You’ll be better in the morning.”

“Probably,” said Rosamunde, sadly remembering taking care of Brand. Remembering that he was alone now, abandoned, and she was failing him. She was in no case to have him found.

Could she ask Diana to do it? When he woke, he’d be in a worse state than she was. No one would carry
him
up the stairs—

“Rothgar,” she muttered, memory stirring. “But isn’t that … ?”

“Hush,” Diana soothed. “Don’t worry about it. He didn’t suspect a thing.”

Rosamunde bolted upright. “Brand’s older brother. The marquess!”

She was abruptly and violently sick.

Her head! Rosamunde came to consciousness, a consciousness focused on a throbbing head. Immediately her thoughts flew back to Brand, to how he had felt, to how he would feel when he came around this time.

She must do something. She must have him found, cared for….

The attempt to move shot agony through her skull and she stilled, breathing deeply.

“Ah,” said a soft voice in a broad local accent, “awake, are you, milady? Not feeling too lively by the look of things, either. You just lie a bit, dearie. There’s nowt to fret about.”

Nothing to fret about. “What time is it?” Rosamunde asked, eyes still closed.

“Midafternoon or thereabouts.”

Midafternoon! She forced the panicked feeling down. There was still time to have Brand found before nightfall. To do anything, however, she needed her strength and wits back.

Had she dreamed it? No. Brand’s brother was here, and one look at the marquess’s strong features and eagle-sharp eyes had told her that though he had been kind, she did not want him as an enemy. She had made him her enemy, however. Now, she must not be found out.

It was almost too much. She had to somehow tell someone about Brand without arousing the suspicions of the ominous marquess. His effect on her had been so powerful, she almost felt he must have seen straight through their disguises.

Diana!

She quickly opened her eyes, and as she thought, saw a sturdy, middle-aged woman looking down at her. “Where’s my maid?”

“Nothing’s amiss, milady,” said the maid soothingly, taking one of Rosamunde’s hands in her own warm, rough one. “She went to find a headache powder for you at the apothecary, and asked me to watch you. Now, what can I do for you, milady?”

Rosamunde suppressed a moan. She knew her cousin. She was up to something. Probably spying on the marquess. Diana couldn’t seem to take this situation with the dread seriousness it deserved. She took it seriously enough not to want to risk exposure, however, so this might be Rosamunde’s only opportunity.

She began to slowly ease herself up. That headache powder would be welcome if ever it arrived. For now, however, pain or not, she must get up and find a way to send a note to the marquess.

Very indirectly.

When she’d achieved the vertical and the room had stopped wavering, she asked the maid for some tea.

“Of course, milady. Just the thing. Anything with it?”

“No.” The thought of food made her stomach churn. “No, thank you.”

When the maid had tiptoed out, Rosamunde considered her stomach. Though her innards still churned, she didn’t think she was likely to throw up again. Brand had only vomited once.

With a groan she remembered broaching the subject of debt payment to Brand when he was in this state or worse. No wonder he’d seemed snappish about it. She could only pray she’d recover as quickly as he’d seemed to.

She was stripped to her shift, but she staggered to a chair by the window. Gingerly, she eased back an edge of the curtain. The sun was off this side of the building, so she wasn’t assailed by light. She looked down onto a garden, however, and saw nothing of interest.

To find out what was happening, to make sure Brand was found, she’d have to leave the room.

How long would it take for him to come round? She’d been unconscious for about four hours during the journey and slept another couple. At the thought of how much he’d drunk of the potion, she winced with guilt. He was a big man, but even so, he could be unconscious all day and his pain would be at least as bad as the last time.

The maid came in again. “Oh, you’re up, milady. You must be feeling more the thing. I’ve made a good strong pot of tea, but there’s water to thin it if you want. And I brought a few plain biscuits in case you did feel
like something to settle your stomach.” She put the tray down in front of Rosamunde. “Would you like me to pour, milady?”

“Yes, please. Strong and sweet.”

“That’s the idea. Strong, sweet tea and a body’s ready for anything.”

In moments Rosamunde was cradling the warm cup and sipping the mahogany-colored tea, feeling the heat, the taste, and the sugar bring her back to life. Her headache eased. “It’s wonderful. Thank you. What is your name?”

The maid curtsied. “Gertie, milady. And we do have good tea here. Mr. Sowerby—he’s the innkeeper—he has his own blend. Very popular it is with those who like a good dish. Mind, his home-brewed ale is famous, too. That’s good and strong as well. But now, I mustn’t be chattering,” she said and went to tidy the bed.

Rosamunde would like peace and quiet, but she needed news more. News about the marquess—why was he here? And especially news about a man found in a barn.

“Have you many guests?” she asked.

“Full to the rafters, milady. But that’s because of a great lord who arrived today with ever such a lot of servants. Hard to see how one body can need so many people to look after him, and that’s the truth. And we already have his brother here with another herd of people doing for him. Though he’s not here at the moment. The brother. Now there’s a nice man, Lord Brand. A lovely smile, and generous with it.”

She smoothed a pillow, having repaired the bed so well that it looked as if it had never been used.

Generous, Rosamunde thought in sour and irrational jealousy. It was true, though. Brand did have a lovely smile, because he meant it.

“Not that it’s not interesting to have all these fancy servants in the house,” Gertie continued, tidying the washstand. “Some of them aren’t above a bit of mischief, if you know what I mean. Mrs. Sowerby has the younger maids locked up tight at night.”