“I rather doubt that. It’s the boy I have an affinity with.” He brushed wood shavings from his lap. “There’s something about him that I understand.”
Sarah pressed her lips together to prevent smiling. “Well, he is your son. You’d know him best.” Her heart trembled, for Simon and Cecil were good together. It felt right, as if the stars had aligned for this moment. And it stole her breath. Her chest tightened. What if she wasn’t enough for the boy and he should legally stay with his father? But, oh, what would she do without him? Her breathing shallowed. Tears prickled the backs of her eyelids. The room seemed to shrink, pushing her closer into Cecil’s gravitational pull. She struggled quickly to her feet. “I’m going to step outside for some air.” And to compose her thoughts. There was too much change in the offing. “Will you be all right by yourself?”
He grunted and eyed her askance. “I’m not an invalid, Sarah. Stop treating me as such. I’ve had more than enough of that these past months.”
Heat stung her cheeks. “I wasn’t...” She met his knowing gaze. “Perhaps I was; I cannot help it, I suppose. It’s the nurturing instinct in me. Being a mother and an apothecary, I like to fix people—to heal them. I thought you might appreciate being looked after and cared for.”
“I do.” The admission was propelled through the air on a barely-there whisper. “But not at the expense of adding to your chores.” He offered a small smile and it changed his face, brightened it, took years from his expression. So much so that she easily saw the man he used to be, the one who’d completely fascinated her that night long ago. “Thank you. Truly. Finding you at the end of my convalescent journey has been...”
“Trying? Disconcerting?”
The smile widened a bit and she gaped at him as if she were a girl just out of the schoolroom. “Perhaps, but mostly, it has been needed, let’s say. I am still coming to terms with how to live as a regular person without the structure or responsibility of the military.” His jaw worked as he held her gaze. “It is more difficult than I’d anticipated. Your kindness makes the transition bearable.”
Caught off guard by his smile and his words, as well as the shivers that chased up and down her spine, Sarah’s courage fled. “I...” Warmth filled her that had nothing to do with the fire. “I’ll return presently. I need to feed my hens, and I’d forgotten.” She fled the room.
No, no, no! She couldn’t fall for his charm or the vulnerability he’d finally shown. Not again. She was a mother now. No longer did her needs or wants matter; she lived exclusively for the boy. There was no place for romance in her life, if that were even on his mind, which she highly doubted, for he’d exhibited none of the signs. No matter how Simon adored the man, she wasn’t looking for a husband... or even a lover, which would further complicate their arrangement.
No matter which way her thoughts turned they were muddled and fuzzy. As she scattered cracked corn and grain for the few laying hens that she kept in the garden, her mind spun. And if the Major didn’t wish to take up sole responsibility for the boy, how the devil could they all live together if the silly feelings she currently harbored grew into something worrisome?
Oh, why did he have to come?
Seeking relief from her inescapable musings, Sarah opened the garden gate and walked through the trees. She rubbed her hands together, for without gloves, they were easily chilled. Her breath clouded about her head; Cecil was right. It could very well snow soon.
When the hairs on her nape quivered, she paused in her rambles. So far away from the windows of the cottage, shadows swallowed everything. She swept her gaze over the immediate area. No one was there, but she swore she was being watched. She felt the presence of another person.
“Cecil?” Perhaps he’d followed her out under some misguided pretense of protection. “Is that you?”
The snap of a twig sounded from somewhere behind her—and away from the house. So then, it wasn’t Cecil. Perhaps a deer or other nocturnal creature after its evening meal? Icy tendrils of fear twisted down her spine. In all the time that she’d lived hidden in the country, she’d never been ill-at-ease by herself on this land.
Was that breathing nearby? Human breathing? Her scalp prickled in warning. Every muscle in her body tensed for flight. The next thought nearly sent her to her knees. Had Owen managed to escape custody and locate her after all this time? He was the only person who’d have an interest in hunting her down.
Panic coursed through her veins and prompted her into movement. With her pulse pounding, she ran back to the garden gate, not bothering to latch it into place behind her. Picking her way through the dark shapes of plants, she pelted to the door and then wrenched the panel open, being sure to slam it behind her.
As her chest heaved in alarm, Cecil joined her in the tiny entryway, his eyes flashing, his posture alert.
“What has occurred?” He glanced about the entry and then rested his gaze on her. “You’re trembling, and from more than the chill.”
The concern in his voice worked at her undoing. She almost cried in relief at having a man about the place for protection. “I thought there was a possible prowler out there with me, but I couldn’t be sure. Perhaps it was an animal.” A shiver lanced down her spine and she shook from the fright.
He nodded. “Stay here. I’ll have a look ‘round.” Then he’d opened the door and was gone before she could utter another word. Barely had she had time for form a coherent thought before he returned, throwing the lock behind him. “If there was someone out there, he’s gone now.”
“Thank you for searching.” Her fears calmed a bit knowing she had help and that she wasn’t alone with the boy should there truly be danger lurking.
Worry filtered through Cecil’s expression. It lingered in his eyes. “I will do another check at sunrise. Perhaps the intruder left clues behind. Meanwhile, I’ll test all the door locks and window latches as a precaution.”
“I’m sure there is no need to go to further trouble.”
“Sarah.” He touched her shoulder, and the warmth of his hand gave her additional comfort. When his gaze crashed into hers, she tamped down on the urge to weep in relief. Truly, every piece of her past was hurtling into her present if what she suspected was true. “Let me do this in exchange for what you have done for me.” His voice softened as did his expression, and he gently led her into the common room. “Come. Sit down.”
“But, I...”
“No arguments. It’s not the time.”
Bemused and still more shaken than she wished to show, she settled on the sofa and accepted a quilt he handed her. When she snuggled into it, Cecil sat in the leather chair. He took a book in hand and opened to a page that he’d left off with earlier in the day. Not inclined to talk, she rooted in the basket on the floor and withdrew a pair of Simon’s trousers that needed mending.
The cozy, domestic comfort sank into her bones and she smiled as she worked. When she glanced at him and the firelight threw his scars and twisted flesh into sharp relief, a twinge fluttered in her chest. Suddenly, she longed for more than tentative friendship with this man, and not because he offered protection or stability with his presence.
As a shuddering sigh left her throat, Cecil spoke.
“I didn’t always want to be a soldier.”
“Oh?” She peered at him through the shadows. The light caught in his blond hair and turned the strands to molten golden and silver. “You’ve been one for twenty years though.”
“Yes. I suppose it became habit after a while.”
“What was your dream?” Here was a chance to learn more about him, this man who’d never lost his intrigue.
“I wanted to travel. Take folks on tours to far off places.” He glanced at her, his eyes a brilliant lake blue. “I’m well-traveled and book-read, and I enjoy adventure... as long as it doesn’t involve killing my fellow man.”
Her heart fluttered, but she ignored the reaction. “It shows.” Her fingers paused over her work. “You have more patience than I
with Simon. That’s a start.”
A small grin curved his mouth, and she dropped her gaze to his lips. “He’s smart. Capable. Willing.” His voice softened. “The boy makes me proud like nothing I’ve done in my life to date has. It is a... foreign feeling.”
Warmth spread through her chest as she stared at him, this man who’d she known intimately at one time, this man who’d seen more ugliness in the world than anyone should, this man who’d turned her world on its head—twice. In her mind’s eye, she saw him ushering a group of tourists over the sands of Egypt or through a tangle of jungle. “It’s never too late to live a dream, Cecil.”
“I beg to differ.” He transferred his gaze to the fireplace. “Perhaps it’s impossible now.”
“Why?”
“My injuries prevent me.”
“Pish posh. They add truth and intrigue to your person.” She waved away his comment. “If you wish to lead fat, rich, stupid tourists through ancient wonders when the travel ban lifts, you will do it. I have faith in you.”
He flicked a glance to her, speculation deep in those depths. “A man could become used to being bossed.” Another tiny grin took hold of his sensuous lips.
Oh, he was dangerous for her peace of mind. “Think of it rather as forceful support.”
“Indeed.” A rusty chuckle emanated from him and she stared again at the unexpected mirth. “What of you and your dreams?”
“I hadn’t thought of anything beyond raising Simon.” It was her turn to break their eye contact. She trailed a fingertip over the line of mending she’d just done. “That is what a mother does.”
“You were never a good liar,” he whispered.
If only you knew.
“If you won’t talk of your dreams, answer me this. Why were you so afraid when you suspected a prowler?”
Her heartbeat kicked up a notch. “As you said earlier to Simon, that is a story for another time.” She raised her gaze to his again, and wished heartily she could confide in him, but this was her problem, not his. “Perhaps it’s best I go upstairs. Simon will wonder what’s become of me.” As she stood, she dropped her mending into the basket. “Goodnight, Cecil. And thank you.”
“Goodnight, Sarah.” He closed his book with a sharp snap. “If you should need to talk in the night, I’m right across the hall.”
That was part of the problem. He was all too accessible, and sooner or later, she’d be all too weak around him.
Hadn’t the past shown her that?
Chapter Nine
December 18, 1814
Sarah sent Simon out into the garden with a bit of relief, for Cecil had searched every inch of the property at dawn, just as he’d promised. When done, he’d declared it safe, though his mouth was set in a hard line that worried her. Had he found evidence of an intruder, or had he not and thought she was a silly widget with a runaway imagination?
She hadn’t asked, and he’d set about repairing parts of the roof that had a tendency to leak. Simon stood anxiously by while Cecil was on ladder, but no amount of pleading from the boy convinced the Major to let Simon come up. Through it all, he’d made no complaints, and with each steady fall from the hammer, a new sort of contentment settled over her.
Was this what it felt like to no longer worry? All the same, she would write a letter to her old contact in the Home Office inquiring as to Owen’s whereabouts or his status within Newgate. He would have been hung for his traitorous crimes, but once she’d fled the capital, she’d been away from the news and rarely read The Times anymore.
Conversation between Cecil and Simon filtered to her ears. She peeked out the stillroom window. The two of them were having a discussion regarding replacing a rotted board beneath the very window she looked out of. Her heart constricted from the fact that Cecil conferred with the boy as if he were an associate or equal.
After having reached a decision, Simon squatted beneath the window while Cecil went to retrieve a piece of board from a pile not far away. As he bent, he rubbed his right shoulder with his free land and then went on to massage the muscles in his hip on the same side. Never once had he said a foul word about the work or soreness such activity gained him.
Stubborn man. She turned away from the window and contemplated her table. Since he’d consented to drinking a cup of her calming tea each night after dinner, perhaps he’d let her give him a salve or a balm. I might have something here that will help.
By the time she’d finished her work in the stillroom and had talked to a few village women who’d dropped by to order a few remedies—or to gawk at the Major, it was difficult to tell—Cecil had completed his repairs and had vanished upstairs. Simon, being properly worn out from the unaccustomed stimulation, had fallen asleep on the rug in front of the fire, a stuffed tiger clutched to his side.
With a bottle of thick lotion in hand, Sarah climbed the stairs. At the door to his bedchamber, she made a peremptory knock and then pushed the panel open. “Cecil, I thought you might—” She sucked in a breath just as he stepped from a copper-lined hip bath and wrapped a worn towel about his waist. “Oh, my.” She couldn’t help staring.
In the years they’d been apart, he’d acquired more lean muscle than he’d had before. The man had no flabby flesh on his tall frame. A light mat of blond hair flared out across his upper chest in a pattern that she remembered well. As she raked her gaze down that broad torso, followed the thin line of blond hair over his abdomen and further south past the narrowing of his waist until it disappeared beneath the towel, he stood quietly still with the veriest of smiles pulling at the corners of his mouth. Lean hips, muscled calves, forearms, and shoulders all spoke to a man unused to lying about. The flat planes of his abdomen recalled her memories of that night when she’d spent copious amounts of time exploring that flesh. Even now, her fingers fairly itched to sweep themselves over the planes of his chest.
How had he kept himself exercised during his convalescence? Did he still ride? Where had he gone once he’d left London before he’d come here?
So many questions needed answers that she felt like Simon. Shoving the pestering inquiries from her mind, she cleared her throat and finally met his knowing gaze. “You are quite... Oh, my.”
“I believe you already said that.” His low-pitched voice rumbled through the air to send tickles through her belly while his grin widened a touch. So easily she saw again the man she’d shared everything with that night.
“It bears repeating,” Sarah managed to croak out. She waved a hand to encompass his form. “Forgive me. I was taken off-guard by your appearance.”
“There is nothing to forgive, but why should my looks shock you?” He moved a step closer. “You are well aware of my body.”
Heat splashed into her cheeks. “How gauche of you to mention it.” Though, did that mean he thought often of that time, just as she did?
“Someone had to, don’t you think? I rather doubt the both of us will ever forget that night we shared, for it produced Simon, and we are both proud of that.” He kept one hand clutching the towel and one bushy blond eyebrow rose in challenge. “Is there something I can help you with, or have you shown up in my bedchamber for a specific reason?”
His words, caressed as they were in his baritone, recalled her errand, but the heat in her cheeks refused to fade. “I did come for one reason.” She held up the bottle. “I thought you might want to rub this into your muscles.”
“I am fine,” he bit off quickly, all vestiges of the earlier grin vanishing from his countenance.
“You’re not. I saw you out my window this morning. Your muscles pain you from the work you’re doing.” She wiggled the brown bottle in her hand. “This will help. Some of the village women purchase this balm for their husbands who toil for a living.”
When he eyed the bottle, he nodded. “Thank you, but again, I am fine.” There was a warning growl in his voice. When she moved to the bureau and placed the bottle atop it, he angled his body in an effort to keep his left side toward her.
“Oh, Cecil.” Her heart went out to him, for he didn’t wish her to see his marred flesh. So proud, even now. His body stiffened. No doubt he thought she pitied him. Then a wicked thought rattled about her mind. Once more she took hold of the bottle, and she came toward him. “Let me help you.”
“No. Please, Sarah.” Fear clouded his eyes, but for what? He held up a hand. “I don’t want help or even assistance.”
“No one ever does,” she whispered and reached out a hand, tugged at his arm, but he resisted her efforts to turn him so she could view his right side. “Lord knows my pride took a blow when you came in here, ordering me about, repairing things I never could, shattering the peaceful existence I’d made for myself.” Perhaps, in this, they were equals, both standing on uncertain ground, not wishing to have secrets exposed that would make them appear less in each other’s estimation.
A trace of red climbed his neck and into his ears. “I don’t mind taking care of things around here. It keeps me busy, gives me a purpose.”
“Neither do I mind this.” She poured some of the thick lotion into her palm, shoved the bottle into his hand, and then slipped beneath his arm to his right side, obliged to tamp down on the gasp that threatened to escape. “Oh, Cecil.”
His body tensed, but before he could retreat, she slathered the balm onto his shoulder and arm. Scars, some tiny, some as large as a pence, all white or pink, marred his skin. With each pass of her fingers, his muscles went taut.
“I despise pity,” he said from around gritted teeth.
“I’m not giving you any.” She swept her hand up and down his arm. Perhaps the repetitive motions would soothe him. “I’m merely empathizing with you, wanting to help you heal.”
He stood rigid, his back straight, but he looked away from her as she rubbed the peppermint-scented balm into his skin. Everywhere there were scars and puckered skin or knotted muscles, she massaged, refusing to back down in the face of his grouchy façade. Cecil grunted when she glided her fingertips along his ribcage. “Tell me how monstrous I am. They all have, even sisters of mercy.”
On a Midnight Clear Page 9
