Jo Beverley - [Malloren] (4 page)

So—she rubbed her hands nervously down her thighs—it was just a question of getting him to do the necessary. That should be no problem. Men were like bulls and rams, weren’t they? Given a chance at a female, they took it. If he woke up to find a woman in his bed….

Rosamunde’s heart began to pound and she swallowed to ease a dry throat. Could she really do that?

She must.

She wouldn’t be a coward anymore.

She drew the curtains tight again, then took off her dressing gown, placing it neatly with unsteady hands on the chair back. After a frozen moment, she eased under the covers, onto the very edge of the warm feather bed.

If anything, it was too warm, so she removed one cloth-wrapped brick. Then she tried to get comfortable. It was not strange to sleep with someone, for she’d done so since her marriage, but here the man was settled in the middle.

She wriggled as close as she dared—

Mercy me! She’d forgotten he was naked. It shouldn’t make any difference, but it seemed the wickedest thing imaginable to be lying next to a naked man.

No. Not the wickedest.

She was trying very hard to commit adultery.

That was the wickedest.

She made herself prepare her mind for the act. No panicking at the last moment!

It was a simple business. He’d pull up her nightgown, move over her, and poke around until he got it in. He’d push in and out a bit until his seed escaped, then roll over to go back to sleep. Perhaps he’d even forget it had happened.

All she’d need to do would be to let him.

She took some deep, steadying breaths, telling herself again and again that she could do that. Let him. After a moment, to make it even easier, she eased the front of her nightgown all the way up to her waist.

When nothing happened, she made herself edge even closer so her naked thigh was in contact with his.

Then she softly laughed at herself.

What? Did she expect him to wake from his drunken stupor as if she were smelling salts waved under his nose? What an idiot she was! He was dead drunk still, and was probably going to sleep the night away. He could hardly be overtaken by lust until he was conscious.

Blinking back some tears—part laughter, part pain—she decided she might as well go and sleep in her own bed.

She didn’t though.

It was easier to stay with the familiarity of a warm body beside her. And heaven knew when he’d wake. It could be late tomorrow, but it could be within hours. She had to be here when he did.

Perfectly aware that she was behaving strangely, Rosamunde turned to snuggle closer to her unconscious, wastrel knight, her unsuspecting lover,
her heaven-sent savior. Gently, she let his warmth and soft breathing lull her into sleep.

Dark.

Pain.

Agony!

He raised his hands to hold his splitting head together, astonished to find that it wasn’t in fact expanding and contracting with every heartbeat.

Where the devil was he?

What had happened to his head?

When he opened his eyes a chink, he saw nothing.

Blind! Was he blind?

But then his frantic eyes caught a slit of lighter darkness. Surely a crack in heavy curtains showing night outside. Please God, let it be so.

Pain in his belly. Cramps. Not as bad as his head, but bad enough. He prayed not to be sick. If he threw up, he’d likely choke because he was never, ever going to move his head again.

Staying perfectly still, he began to notice other things. He was in a bed. Quite a comfortable bed.

He was naked. They wouldn’t put a grievously ill man to bed naked, would they?

Someone was with him.

They lay a little apart, but he could hear regular, sleeping exhalations. A woman? It would explain his lack of clothing, but….

What the devil had he been up to?

It could be a man—a fellow traveler, a fellow drinker, collapsed with him. He risked movement, stretching out an inquiring hand.

Female surely. He picked up the faint scent of flowers that had spoken to his instincts. In a nightgown. Strange, that. He couldn’t remember ever enjoying a woman and leaving her nightclothes on.

Perhaps she was excessively modest, but that wasn’t his type either.

Who was she?

He had no idea.

No idea even of possibilities.

’Struth, what a mess!

He must have drunk a barrelful to have a head like this, and to not remember the woman. What was he going to say to her in the morning?

Where
had he drunk so much? He should know that. He should remember starting to drink. He scrabbled for a place, a name, a picture—

And fell into a terrifying void. Where his memory should be, lay only emptiness.

Panicked, he clung to a fact he did feel sure of. He didn’t drink to excess. He hadn’t been truly sozzled since that time in Italy on his Grand Tour. He’d been sixteen and he’d thought the effects had cured him of overdrinking for life.

Was he in Italy now, sozzled on fine wine in a palazzo in Venice?

No. Years had passed since then.

Many years.

He was in England.

Yes, he was sure he was in England, and a grown man. He slid a hand down to his chin, feeling the strong bones and the roughness of stubble. A fact presented itself. His twenty-ninth birthday was not long past.

Why were some things so certain and others lost? He knew he was in England, but not where. He knew his age, but little of what he’d done with over ten years. Perdition! He started to shake his head and stopped with a hiss of agony. His brain felt both scrambled and faded, as if heavy veils hung between himself and the fragments of his life.

What did he remember? What?

Taking farewell of his family in London.

He had a family—brothers and sisters. He could even see faces, but when he asked for names he got only nonsense. An elf? A bright elf? A sinful elf … ?

He couldn’t stand this. He tried to sit up, then stopped, frozen by pain. Oh God. Oh God—

He slowly eased his tormenting head back on the pillow, went back to lying very, very still. His head shrieked with every breath.

Perhaps he was gravely ill. But then, who was the woman in his bed? His nurse?

Hardly.

Who
was she?

Who was
he
?

That simple question sprang into life, then fell tangling into that ominous void, stiffening him with terror. Terror of following the question into that deep, black hole where he wouldn’t exist at all. He reached out for something real. Anything. Her cotton nightgown.

“Oh. You’re awake.”

The woman had moved, and now she took his trembling hand in hers. He clutched at her, ready to weep with gratitude.

“Where am I?” he whispered, afraid of the pain of speaking louder.

Silence. Had he imagined her? He gripped her soft hand tighter….

“Gillsett! Please. You’re hurting me.”

Immediately, he relaxed his grip. “I’m sorry. I … I can’t see.”

Her other hand brushed his forehead, a gentle touch that seemed blessedly familiar. Was this his wife? Surely he’d remember if he were married. It was not unpleasant, though, to think of being familiar with that warm voice and soft, caring hand.

But no. Her gentle touch merely reminded him of his mother, dead many years ago. Her soft voice would soothe him in fevered nights. Speaking in French, however. Was he French … ?

No, surely not.

“It’s just dark, sir,” the woman said, definitely in English. “It’s the middle of the night.”

He was making a fool of himself. Here he was, doubtless in an inn with a doxy, suffering the hell of a drunkard’s head, and acting as if demons were after him. The pain, however, was real, and his stomach still churned ominously.

“I seem to have drunk too much.”

“Do you not remember, sir?”

Oh, hell. Could he avoid letting her know that he didn’t remember her or the merry bedgames they’d doubtless shared? “I’m sorry. My head … It hurts.”

“It’s all right.” She touched him again in that tender, devastating way, sliding her cool hands over his and easing them down off his head. “Try to go back to sleep. You’ll feel better in the morning.”

“Is that a promise?” He even found a bit of humor for the comment, and that felt in character. But then the foulness bit at his throat and he rolled sharply away from her despite the agony in his head. “Going to be sick!” he choked out.

He fought it, and by some miracle she was round the bed and had the chamber pot ready by the time his stomach overwhelmed his will.

At least the racking, burning vomit seemed to take some of the agony with it. When he collapsed back onto the pillow, blades no longer stabbed through his skull. Only mallets hammered it.

The stink fouled the air, however. This was possibly the most embarrassing thing that had happened to him in his adult life. “I do beg your pardon….”

“It’s all right.” He heard humor and groaned. Quite the figure of fun he must be. Doubtless he’d been smooth enough last night when he’d coaxed her into his bed, and now here he was like a puling, sickly child.

A damp cloth wiped his face. Then she raised his head slightly and cool glass pressed near his lips.

“More,” he said, when he’d drained the water.

He heard a chink, and the promising gurgle. He was grateful she was working in the dark, for the thought of bright light made him wince. In moments she presented another full glass, and he drank it, then sank gratefully back onto the pillows.

Down pillows.

Inns didn’t have down pillows.

“Where am I?” he asked again. She’d answered before, hadn’t she? He’d forgotten.

“Gillsett.”

That didn’t sound like an inn. It sounded like a residence. A farm. Even a gentleman’s house …

“What is your name, sir? Should we notify anyone?”

At least he didn’t have to tell her he didn’t know. He was sliding back down into that annihilating void.

Chapter 3

R
osamunde straightened and shook her head. She planned adulterous wickedness and ended up custodian of foul chamber pots. Perhaps her dull life was not the result of her accident, but simply her fate!

But at least she’d carried off the lie about where he was.

She’d never been a convincing liar. She hated deceit, and her stumbling tongue and guilty blushes had given her and Diana away time after time. Tonight, however, she had told her untruth in a calm voice and darkness had hidden her burning cheeks. Perhaps she could carry this wild plan off after all.

But not immediately.

The plan would have to wait until he recovered, so she might as well continue with chamber-pot duty.

She opened the window to freshen the air, then put on her dressing gown and carried the noisome pot away. She could hardly leave it to stink up the corridor, so taking the small nightlamp, she crept downstairs and placed it quietly outside the back door.

She returned to her room, took the clean pot from under her own bed and going to his room, placed it by his side. Should she stay in case he was sick again? Well, she wouldn’t. The wretch had drunk himself ill, and he could puke himself sober without her help!

Thoroughly disgruntled, Rosamunde snuggled into her own bed—which by now was unwelcomingly cold. Her sense of the ridiculous soon returned, however. Why had she imagined that a sick man would awake cured and full of amorous intent?

Such foolishness.

She wished he had, though. Then, it would be over.

She turned, punching her pillow, feeling wretched about something….

Then she remembered. Remembered thinking about her dull life. It was the sort of thought she didn’t normally let out.

She had a lovely life. A kind husband. A comfortable home, and a prosperous estate that provided plenty of useful work. Loving family nearby. Good friends all around.

The accident could have made her a recluse for life, but Digby had rescued her with his kind offer of marriage.

What was a recluse, though? Even someone who lived in a community could be considered a recluse if she never left it. If she was afraid to. The recent trip to Harrogate had been her first venture out of Wensleydale in eight years.

So? She turned and punched her pillow again. Plenty of people were content to stay close to a good home. There were people in Wensleydale who’d never even been to Richmond!

So—the truth was that she wasn’t happy living that way. Instead, she felt barred from the world by her face.

She fingered the scar ridges to the right of her eye. They weren’t the problem. It was the long one down her cheek that made her hide away, even though her family and Diana kept saying it wasn’t really so bad.

Even Digby, however, preferred to sit to her left.

Dear Digby. As a friend of her father’s and an honorary uncle, she’d loved him all her life. But not, she was coming to realize, as a wife should love a husband. She hadn’t known that at sixteen, however, hadn’t know how wrong it would feel when he claimed his husbandly rights. It had never been terrible, just not something she and Sir Digby Overton should be doing.

She’d been relieved when the activity had ceased and they could be comfortable together again.

Until now.

Now, however, she had to have a child. She
owed
it to Digby, to Wenscote, to everyone who had been so kind to her these past eight years.

Anyway—and this shamed her—she wanted Wenscote for herself. Without a child, when Digby died, she’d have to leave. Leave her sanctuary. Leave the place where she had powers and responsibilities.

Digby was a fair landlord, but not an adventurous one. It had been Rosamunde who’d started sheep-breeding projects, and growing winter fodder. She’d put the cottage industries—cheese making, spinning, and weaving—on a more orderly footing, and made sure everyone received a fair price. And, her true enthusiasm, she’d started breeding horses.

It had all come about out of boredom, but she knew she’d stumbled upon her life’s purpose. Where was she going to find the like if she lost Wenscote? It wasn’t even considered proper in most circles for women to be directly involved in animal breeding.