Unlaced by the Outlaw (Secrets in Silk) (7 page)

She had a voice of her own, opinions of her own, and she needed Henry to recognize that.

“You have a duty to our wedding guests,” he reminded her, “as their hostess. If you busy yourself with the necessary tasks, you won’t think of Margaret anymore.”

She gaped at him. “Do you honestly believe that? Henry, you were away for years. You never saw our girls growing up the way I did.”

His silence hung over both of them, before he admitted, “It wasn’t by choice.”

No, but when he’d had the chance to return, he’d gone to London instead. He claimed it was to settle the details of the inheritance after his older brother’s death, but it had felt like he was avoiding her. Their marriage had slowly deteriorated over time, and now she didn’t know how to repair the torn seams.

Beatrice took a deep breath and forced herself to meet his gaze. In his eyes she saw sympathy and a trace of grief. “I’m sorry. It’s just been a difficult day for me.”

He stood and straightened, looking more like an officer than her husband. “You’re not alone in this, Beatrice. But for one day, you must put aside your melancholy and try to be happy for Amelia. She needs both of us to stand at her side.”

She knew he was right, but she asked, “Give me a few minutes more, and I’ll return.”

After he’d gone, she touched her cheek where he’d kissed her. He was trying so hard to mend the differences, but she didn’t know if that was possible anymore. The heartache inside her was more than grief over Margaret. It was loneliness and years of regret. She wasn’t the sort of wife Henry needed anymore, and she was struggling with the words she wanted to say. The marriage she had and the marriage she wanted were two different things.

You have to try again,
her conscience urged.
Allow him to kiss you and comfort you.

But she didn’t know if she had the strength to try again.

The days and nights blurred and were impossible to count. Cain was only aware of each breath and the agonizing fire upon his back. He vaguely remembered the accident and that he’d somehow fallen against the surface of the coach, his shirt catching fire.

A cool, damp cloth rested across his shoulders, and there was a pillow beneath his cheek. He didn’t know where they were or what had happened to Margaret, but the vague memories suggested that she’d fed him and given him water during the past few days.

It took a moment for his eyes to adjust, but as he opened them, he saw Margaret seated on a stool, warming her hands before a fire. Her hair was down around her shoulders, and her sage-green ball gown was ragged and torn. Despite her unkempt appearance, he’d never been so glad to see her face.

“Good morn to you, lass.” His voice came out raw, hoarse from all the smoke he’d inhaled.

She spun, and her eyes revealed a blend of shock and relief. “You’re awake.” A fragile smile bloomed upon her face, and it warmed him to see it.

“Where are we?” he managed to ask.

Her shoulders lowered, and she admitted, “I found this village, and I made arrangements for us to stay here.”

His suspicions sharpened at that. “How?” No one would willingly give up a cottage without a good deal of money. Had she found the coins he’d hidden within his plaid? He’d deliberately kept very little in his sporran, for it was too easy for thieves to steal.

Margaret’s gaze turned downward, and she flushed. “I told them you were my husband. I offered to pay them with my pearl necklace so we could stay here until you recovered.”

The necklace was far too much to offer. It was a wonder someone hadn’t stolen it from her at night. It bothered him even more to think that if anyone had tried to harm her, he couldn’t have lifted a hand to stop them. “That was too dangerous, lass. They could have taken the necklace and killed both of us.”

“No, this is the vicar’s house,” Margaret explained. “He and his wife agreed to stay with his brother while you recovered.”

So far as he knew, there were no villages near the location of the accident. Which raised another question in his mind. “How did you bring me here?” Surely she must have had help. Margaret was tall but slender, and he doubted if she had the strength to lift him.

“On horseback. You were unconscious and in a great deal of pain from the burns. We had to travel for several days before we reached Wickersham.” She turned, adding a brick of peat to the fire, as if it were no matter at all.

“Did anyone help you?” Somehow, from the look on her face, it didn’t seem so.

Margaret faced him and shook her head. “It was very hard to lift you and get you out of there. The hardest thing I’ve ever done.”

Though she spoke the words in a soft tone, he sensed the hardships she’d endured. Most women would have crumbled and wept at such a situation. Instead, she’d saved his life.

“How long has it been since the accident?” he asked.

“Nearly a fortnight now.”

A fortnight? Cain couldn’t believe it could possibly have been that long. And yet, the agony of his burn wounds seemed to have lessened somehow. A thousand questions tangled up inside him, of how he could possibly have remained unconscious for that long. How had she fed him and taken care of him?

“I gave you laudanum for the pain,” she admitted, answering one of his unspoken questions. “The vicar’s wife had some, and I paid her for it with the last of my coins. You were hurting so badly, I had no choice.”

It explained why he hardly remembered anything from the past two weeks. But there was more he needed to learn. “What happened to your sister? Was there any sign of her?”

Margaret shook her head. “I don’t know.” Though she kept her expression neutral, he knew she was disappointed. “I can only hope that my father or Lord Castledon found her in time.” She went to pour water into a basin, as if she needed the distraction. After sitting beside him, she lifted the cool cloth from his shoulders and replaced it with another.

“You should have returned home and left me, lass,” he said quietly. “You could have used your necklace to pay for the journey.”

She remained at his side and didn’t answer at first. “I wasn’t going to leave you here to die.”

Her words held a trace of softness that he’d not heard in a long time. He didn’t know what to say, for he knew too well that she deserved better than a man like him.

“As soon as you’re strong enough to travel, we’ll go,” she told him. She was about to stand up, but he caught her wrist.

“How badly was I hurt?” Though it wasn’t nearly the fiery ache he’d remembered, he could feel the weakness lingering.

She pulled back her wrist, as if he’d tried to accost her. Her voice was cool, but she answered, “It was a wonder you lived, Mr. Sinclair.”

There was fear within her, and he questioned whether she blamed him for losing Amelia’s trail. Before he could ask, she brought him a bowl of soup. “You must be hungry. It’s only simple fare, made with barley and vegetables. And there’s a bit of bread.”

“Thank you.” He took the bowl from her, his fingers brushing against hers. “Have you eaten?”

She nodded, adding, “My cooking is not very good, I’m afraid. It’s the first time I’ve tried to make soup. The porridge and other meals weren’t much better.”

“You’ve no’ cooked before this? Even at Ballaloch?”

She sent him a wan smile. “Do you think Mrs. Larson would let any of us set foot in her kitchen?”

“I suppose she wouldna allow it.” Their housekeeper had the personality of a war general, but he liked Mrs. Larson well enough. She’d always made sure he had a full meal before he’d left the Andrews household.

He tasted Margaret’s soup and resisted the urge to spit it out again. There were boiled vegetables and barley, but the broth itself was little more than water.

“It’s terrible, I know.” Margaret sent him a twisted look. “I could hardly tolerate it myself.”

He forced himself to take another spoonful, pretending that there was flavor there. “It’s no’ so bad.”

“And you’re lying, Mr. Sinclair.” She grimaced as she put the pot of soup near the hearth once more. “I would gladly eat anything else. But I didn’t want the vicar’s wife to cook for us.”

He didn’t ask why, but Margaret rolled her eyes. “The woman was insufferable. She took one look at my gown and decided that I was a useless young lady of the ton who couldn’t even boil water. And worst of all, she’s right.”

Cain knew this was one of those conversations where any word he spoke would get him into trouble. To avoid an answer, he took another bite of the terrible soup.

“I can’t do anything,” Margaret admitted. “I was raised to marry a duke or a marquess. I can plan menus and organize a dinner party. I can host a society event, but when it comes to surviving here, I’m useless.”

“You’re still alive,” Cain felt compelled to point out. “You built a fire and tended my wounds. That’s no’ so verra useless, lass.”

She sent him an incredulous look. “The only reason we have a fire is because I kept a torch burning from the coach accident. I couldn’t dare let it go out.”

He took a deep breath and forced himself to move his legs to the side of the bed. It hurt like hell, but he wanted to sit up and face her. “You saved our lives, Margaret Andrews.”

“I only returned the favor. We both would have died if you hadn’t helped me get out.”

“We’re even then,” he told her. “And if you’re wanting to go and look for Amelia, that we’ll do.”

She sobered at that. “I fear it’s too late to find her now, Mr. Sinclair. Even if she did come this way.”

He didn’t like the defeated tone in her voice. This was the woman who had climbed atop a burning coach to save him. She’d already risked everything to save her sister, and he wasn’t about to give up. “We willna stop searching until we ken whether or no’ she’s safe. I promise you that, lass. We can leave in the morning, if you wish it.”

When she didn’t answer, he offered, “Or I could take you back to London.” He wondered if her parents knew what had become of them. They’d been gone for so long, it surprised him that no one had come after them.

“No, I don’t want to go back,” she said.

“Does anyone ken where we are?”

Margaret shook her head. “I should have sent word, but I didn’t want—” She let the thought drift away, but he pressed further.

“You didna want what?”

She took the bowl of soup from him, turning her back. “I didn’t want to face them yet. I should never have gone after Amelia, and I just . . . wanted to stay until you were better.”

In other words, she was hiding from her family. But it was surprising that she wanted to remain with him. He leaned on one elbow, waiting for her to sit beside him once more.

“Have you been tending me all this time? Alone?” His memories were vague, and he recalled little of what had happened.

Margaret nodded. “I had no choice.” She sat on a stool beside him, her posture rigid. “But you
are
getting better.”

“Then you’ve seen me naked, have you no’?” Given how long she’d cared for him, it was inevitable.

“We do not need to discuss that.” But Cain didn’t miss the pretty blush upon her cheeks. She
had
seen him.

“It doesna seem verra fair that you’ve seen all that God gave me, when I’ve seen naught of you,” he teased.

He expected an indignant response, but instead, Margaret sent him a narrowed gaze. “Life isn’t fair, now, is it?”

“Nay, lass. And now I’m beginning to wonder what else you did to me while I was asleep.” He studied her, wondering if those hands had touched his bare skin.

She folded her arms across her chest. It appeared that she was about to snap at him, but then a sudden mischievous look crossed her face. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

Cain choked back a laugh. “Aye, Margaret. I would.”

She leaned back, and he noticed that her blond hair was carelessly pulled back, several locks framing her face. He liked seeing her in this way, with her hair unbound, her hands bare of gloves. In this place, she appeared like any other woman—a woman he wanted to touch. “I fed you. I helped you drink water.”

He suddenly grew aware that she must have also taken care of more personal needs as well. It shouldn’t have embarrassed him, but it was strange to realize that this woman had taken care of him in ways only a wife would know.

“It wasna my intention to burden you like that, lass,” he admitted. He enjoyed teasing her, but more than that, he was grateful for her help.

“And I washed you,” she said with a wry smile. There was a glimmer of wickedness in her tone, and he reached out to take her palm.

“Did you?” He’d suspected that, but it startled him that she was playing along with his game. “Now
where
did you wash me, lass?”

“I washed every last inch of your . . .” She let the words hang, allowing his mind to wander toward sinful thoughts.

“. . . back,” she finished.

“How disappointing. There are other more interesting bits of me,” he pointed out. And damn it all, but he wished he’d been awake while she’d bathed him.

Margaret’s smile turned smug. “I had to tend your wounds, didn’t I?” Her face was relaxed, and she tucked her feet up beneath her skirts.