Vixen (18 page)

“Samuel, leave me alone.” The sentiment was savage, the voice quiet.

Samuel left the library and went back to bed. Chloe heard him come upstairs and crept back beneath the covers Of her own bed, encouraging Dante to leave her feet and come up beside her. His breath was damp and warm on her face, his heavy body like an extra blanket, and finally she fell asleep.

In the library Hugo kept up his lonely vigil of endurance.

C
rispin didn’t come the following morning, and Chloe, who had already worked out a plan for evading her custodian’s sharp eyes, was more disappointed than she cared to acknowledge. Restlessly, she decided to take Hugo’s advice and divert her energies into housekeeping. She took down the hangings and curtains in her bedchamber and washed them, hanging them to dry in the courtyard. With Samuel’s grumbling assistance, she hauled the Elizabethan rug outside and beat the clouds of dust from it, then swept and polished the oak floor and the heavy wooden furniture in the bedroom. By sundown she was exhausted but satisfied. Dante, who’d had a long walk in Billy’s charge, was equally at peace and flopped muddy and breathily at her feet in the kitchen.

Samuel was preoccupied, his grizzled, beatling eyebrows drawn together in a frown of anxiety as he clattered copper pots on the range. He’d been in and out of the library all day, bearing pots of coffee, bowls of soup, all of which he’d brought back untouched.

Chloe was well aware of this, but when she asked what was going on with Sir Hugo, Samuel told her it was none of her business and changed the subject. All her speculations led back to the assumption that he’d drunk himself into unconsciousness and Samuel was waiting for him to come to. She contemplated going into the overgrown garden and peering in through the library window, but quailed at the thought of what would happen if Hugo caught her and this time could justifiably accuse her of prying.

She lay in bed, waiting for the haunting sounds of the pianoforte, but Hugo had gone far from the solace of his
music into a world where nothing could express his anguish. His body was racked with pain, every muscle and joint aching with the single-minded concentration of his will. It would be so easy to put a stop to his agony. One swallow and he would begin to feel better, but he fought on even when he saw shapes in the corners of the room, felt creeping things on his arms, and his spine was terrifyingly alive with myriad tiny feet he could neither catch nor see. He prayed for the gift of sleep, for just an hour of surcease from his torments, but he remained wakeful, sweating, staring into the room, visited by every evil memory and every shame of his past.

There was no sign of Crispin the next morning, and Chloe decided that she’d mortally offended him. She minded more than she felt she should, and the realization didn’t sweeten her temper. By late afternoon she was on the verge of defying prohibition and taking herself off for a long walk across the fields, when Crispin rode into the courtyard.

His absence had been carefully calculated and had achieved the desired result. Any doubts Chloe might have had about playing truant in Crispin’s company had been defeated by the prospect of losing the opportunity for truancy.

She greeted him with a warmth she’d not shown before.

“I give you good afternoon, Chloe,” he said with a slightly smug smile as she came swiftly toward him, ready words of welcome on her lips. “Or is it evening? I’m sorry I couldn’t come before, but Sir Jasper had some business he wanted me to transact for him in Manchester.” He dismounted carefully, holding a small lidded box against his chest. “I have a surprise for you.”

“Oh?” Chloe took the box. Instantly, she knew it held something living. Gently she lifted the lid, where air
holes had been bored. “Oh,” she said again. “Poor baby. Where did you find it?”

A baby barn owl lay in a nest of straw, its dark eyes unblinking in the heart-shaped face. Its plumage was ruffled, one buff wing oddly angled.

“It must have fallen out of its nest,” Crispin said. “I found it near the ruined belfry of Shipton Abbey. I think it’s broken its wing.”

“Yes, I’m sure it has.” Delicately, she touched the awkward-looking wing. “If it’s a simple break, I believe I can splint it. How clever of you to find it, Crispin.”

“And even cleverer to bring it to you,” he said with another complacent smile. “I trust I’ve made up for my unkind remarks about that pathetic nag.”

Chloe laughed. “Indeed, you’ve earned your pardon.”

“Sufficiently for you to come on a picnic with me?” He slapped the reins in the palm of his hand, watching her reaction through narrowed eyes.

“Certainly,” Chloe said promptly, gently stroking the bird’s breast. “I have it all planned. I will meet you at the bottom of the drive. But it would be best if we made it early in the morning. Samuel’s busy then, helping Billy in the stables.”

“Tomorrow?”

“If you like.” She was too absorbed in the wounded owl to look up at him. “About eight o’clock.”

“Then I’ll be at the bottom of the drive with Maid Marion. But I can see you’ve got more on your mind than chatting with me at the moment, so I’ll leave you to your doctoring.” He remounted. “Until tomorrow, Chloe.”

“Yes,” she agreed absently. “Bye, Crispin.” She hurried into the house with her prize without waiting to see him go.

Crispin rode out of the courtyard well satisfied. By
this time tomorrow Chloe Gresham would be safely secured in her half brother’s charge.

Chloe carried the bird into the kitchen and set the box on the table.

“What you got there?” Samuel asked, coming in through the back door with a basket of apples.

“See for yourself,” Chloe said distractedly. “I’m going to warm some milk and mix it with bread to make pellets for it. It’ll do for food for the moment, since I don’t think I’m capable of regurgitating mice.”

“Lord love us,” Samuel muttered, peering at the bird. “What’s the matter wi’ it?”

“Broken wing. I have to find two very light, thin pieces of wood to act as splints. Do we have any thread?”

“Reckon so.” He watched with a resigned curiosity as she mixed bread and milk into tiny pellets and sat down, holding the bird in the palm of one hand, patiently opening its beak to pop the food inside. After two pellets the baby owl was opening its mouth without assistance.

“There, that’s better now, isn’t it?” she crooned, laying the bird back in its box. “Now, for a splint.”

She was working intricately with two shavings from the log basket wrapped in thread when Hugo came into the kitchen. He leaned against the door jamb and said tranquilly, “Good evening.”

Chloe was painstakingly straightening the broken wing and made no response. Samuel, however, sighed in audible relief and beamed, scrutinizing the haggard figure in the doorway. Hugo’s face bore the ravages of four sleepless days and nights and the deeply etched lines of endurance. His eyes were red-rimmed, the paper-thin skin beneath swollen, a week’s worth of stubble on his chin. But he exuded an air of peace, a sense
of being purged, of being washed up on a calm shore after shipwreck.

“Come you in.” Samuel rubbed his hands together, his eyes shining with pleasure. “What can I get ye?”

“Coffee first, then food,” Hugo said. He surveyed Chloe’s rigid back and said, “Good evening, lass.” Again there was no response. He raised his eyebrows interrogatively at Samuel, who shook his head and set the kettle to boil on the range.

“What are you doing, Chloe?” Hugo tried again.

Chloe ignored him, concentrating on the exquisitely delicate operation of binding the splint to the owl’s wing.

Hugo came over to the table. “Didn’t you hear me, lass?”

“I should have thought it was obvious what I was doing,” she muttered. “I’m splinting a broken wing.”

Hugo watched her fingers and pursed his lips in admiration at their precision. He decided to ignore the issue of blatant discourtesy and sat down opposite her.

His first draft of coffee was a revelation. He’d taken nothing but water since incarcerating himself in the library. Anything else had made him violently nauseated. Now the hot liquid seemed to bring renewed life to every crevice of a body that seemed as sore both inside and out as if it had been passed through a mangle. He was famished and exhausted. But he was cleansed, his body freed of poison and his mind clear, his spirit somehow healed, as if in those long hours of endurance he had finally expiated the past.

Now he had to address the problem of his beautiful ward from whom anger and resentment radiated in almost palpable waves. He knew he had hurt and confused her. From now on they would conduct their relationship on the friendly practical basis of guardian and ward, and Chloe would soon forget what had
passed between them in his drunken madness. And he would make up for it in whatever ways he could without compromising his authority.

“The problem now is where to put you,” Chloe said, examining her handiwork with a critical frown. “Somewhere dark and quiet … and safe from Beatrice. Although she’s fairly occupied with the mice,” she added.

“A mouser, is she?” Samuel tossed sweetbreads in a skillet over the range.

“Yes, I just wish she wouldn’t play with them before she kills them,” Chloe lamented, sniffing hungrily.

“It’s the nature of the beast, I suppose,” Hugo remarked.

Chloe flicked him a look of supreme contempt, as if he’d said something idiotic, and pointedly addressed Samuel. “So, do you have any suggestions, Samuel, about where I could put him?”

“Why don’t you use the old stillroom?” Hugo persevered. “It’s dark and there’s a key in the door, so you can be sure it won’t accidentally open.”

“Where will I find it?” Chloe continued to address Samuel, as if it had been his suggestion.

“End of the north corridor upstairs,” Samuel provided. “Full o’ cobwebs, prob’ly.”

“Then he’ll feel quite at home.” She picked up the box and left the kitchen.

“Oh, Lord!” Hugo groaned, resting his head in his elbow-propped hands.

“Reckon as ’ow some fences need mendin’” was Samuel’s laconic response. He put a loaf of bread and a crock of yellow butter on the table.

“An understatement … but I haven’t the energy to do anything about it tonight.”

“Now, don’t you let Miss trouble ye,” Samuel advised with a touch of asperity. “You just get rested.” He scraped the contents of the skillet onto a plate and set it
before Hugo. “Get that down you, Sir ’Ugo. Do ye a power of good. And there’s a nice brook trout to follow. Caught it this mornin’.”

“And what are you going to feed the lass?” Hugo asked with a slight smile. “It’s not going to sweeten her temper if I eat her dinner.”

“She’ll ’ave ham an’ eggs like me an’ be thankful.”

Chloe had no fault to find with ham and eggs and cast no envious glances across the table at her guardian’s dinner. She had, however, been shocked at his spent appearance on her one surreptitious examination, although the green eyes, despite their red-rimmed exhaustion, were clearer than she’d ever seen them. The memory of that dreadful music knocked at the carapace of anger she was fiercely preserving. If he hadn’t been drinking during the long days and nights in the library, and he obviously hadn’t, what had he been doing?

“How’s Rosinante getting along?” Hugo asked, laying down his fork with a sigh of repletion.

Chloe shrugged. “All right, I suppose.” She’d have liked to have discussed the animal’s condition, but perversely denied herself the opportunity for a second opinion.

Hugo pushed back his chair. “I’m dead on my feet, Samuel. I’m going up to bed. Don’t wake me.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Samuel declared.

Hugo came around the table and stopped at Chloe’s chair. Catching her chin, he lifted her face. The deep blue eyes glared, but he could read the deeper emotion the belligerence was masking.

“I grant you the right to punish me this evening,” he said evenly. “But tomorrow morning, lass, you’ll accord me ordinary civility at the very least. Is that clear?”

“I am not uncivil,” Chloe replied, trying to pull her chin free of his fingers.

“Oh, yes, you are. Abominably so, and I won’t have it
after tonight. We have a lot to discuss, and I don’t intend to conduct the discussion with a monosyllabic brat.” He softened the words with a weary smile because she was heart-stoppingly beautiful despite the truculence of her expression. Then he remembered where contemplation of that beauty led and abruptly released her chin. “I bid you both good night.”

The kitchen door closed on his departure. Chloe brushed her chin where the imprint of his fingers still lingered.

C
HLOE WAS AWAKE
at cockcrow, filled with a sense of adventure that she knew arose from the forbidden nature of the day’s plan. In any other circumstances the prospect of a ride with Crispin would have left her unmoved. He was hardly a stimulating companion. But she was sick to death of being confined in a dusty, falling-apart manor house at the bidding of a man who couldn’t get his own head together. After ten years locked up in the Misses Trent’s seminary, it seemed to add insult to injury. Besides, the sun was shining and there was a world awaiting.