She let out a cry and grabbed at the bedcovers as her vision swam, darkness filtering her vision and pulling her down. The bedroom door slammed open, and Mr. Trentham was there, catching her in his arms and cursing under his breath.
“Stupid, stubborn woman.”
Despite the rough words he lifted her gently back to the bed. With one move he stripped the crinoline off, leaving her legs bared to the thigh. Before she could protest the immodesty of it he pulled the covers up, then laid the back of his fingers against her cheek, his expression unreadable. “Don’t move.” He then left the room.
No need to caution her. She was not certain she could move even had she wanted to. Caroline closed her eyes. She almost wished she had lost consciousness—anything to elude the horrible feeling in her head.
Faint sounds came from the room beyond, dishes clinking together, a chair scraped across the wood-planked floor. She heard him return but could not manage to lift her lids.
Perhaps she had pushed herself too far. But really, a week in bed? It was out of the question. She had promised to help with Maggie’s orphanage project, not make it impossible for her friend to succeed.
“Drink this.”
She opened her eyes to see him holding out a clay cup. “What is it?”
“Water.” He slipped one arm behind her and held the cup to her lips. “You’ve exhausted yourself.”
He set the cup down and tucked the covers closely about her, then gathered up her clothes and returned them to the wardrobe, making no mention of her failure to dress. In fact, he did not speak at all as he fetched a broom and swept up the broken vase. Caroline watched him from behind heavy, half-closed lids—the unyielding set of his lips, the pull of his shirt against the strong muscles of his arms….
~*~
Blast it. Alex paced, more concerned about Miss Huntington than he wanted to admit. She was weak and seemed intent on doing herself harm. He had not expected she would have been able to sit up, let alone actually get out of bed and tumble to the floor. Her strength of will surprised him. He had been a fool to let her try to dress herself alone, but something about the woman goaded him unreasonably.
Hold her captive? Not bloody likely.
Still, temper or no, the image of her clad only in her chemise would not leave him, nor the feel of her soft curves against him, her naked legs…. He swallowed. Now that she had regained consciousness he needed to get her out of his bedroom, and out of his house, as soon as possible.
The sound of the mule-drawn cart creaking up the hill interrupted his thoughts. He ran a hand over his face and went out to the stoop. His home—chosen for its seclusion—had never seen so many visitors. It was patently impossible to work with her under his roof.
The gnarled olives on one side of the cottage cast dappled shade over his garden: sunflowers and pole beans and a scatter of wild poppies mixed in with the rioting greens. Beyond, hills ran down to the sun-spangled blue of the Mediterranean, with a distant glimpse of the village nestled between the cliffs and the sea.
There was Manolis driving his ramshackle cart, which always looked as though it would go to pieces if it hit a stone. Somehow, though, it never failed to make the journey up the dusty, winding track to his door. The serious Mrs. Farnsworth sat on the bench beside him.
Alex straightened his shoulders and stepped out into the light as she disembarked, tweed skirts uncreased from her ride up the hill, her sand-colored hair neatly in place and not a smudge on her gold-rimmed spectacles.
“Good day,” he said.
“Is it?” Her voice was shaded with worry. “How is Miss Huntington?”
“Awake at last.” And perfectly stubborn.
The anxious lines on Mrs. Farnsworth’s face eased. “I am much relieved to hear it. Thank you for caring for her so capably, Dr. Trentham. We are scheduled to depart for Malta on Monday’s boat, and I am sure she has told you of the importance of our project. The orphans there…”
He gave her a stern look. “I have explained to her, and I will explain to you. Miss Huntington will not be traveling for some time yet, and certainly not on the next boat.”
Mrs. Farnsworth paused at the doorstep. “Oh dear. But it is essential—”
Alex caught her elbow. Surely Mrs. Farnsworth would be more reasonable than her younger companion. “What is essential is that Miss Huntington makes a full recovery. You are responsible for her welfare here, are you not?”
“Not precisely.” She gestured with one hand. “We are traveling together, but Caroline is not my employee, nor my dependant. She has a will of her own.”
That much had been amply demonstrated. He tried again. “You must make her understand. She cannot embark for some time yet.”
Distress settled around the corners of Mrs. Farnsworth’s eyes. “But the nature of our errand is urgent. You have no idea how difficult it was to obtain an interview with the governor. If we are not there at the appointed time…” She pulled away and stepped into his house. “That appointment must be kept.”
Alex pressed his lips together and gestured Mrs. Farnsworth to the bedroom. Perhaps seeing how weak her companion was would make the woman see sense.
Miss Huntington’s face was pale, but her expression warmed when she saw her friend. “Maggie! I’m so sorry about all of this.”
Mrs. Farnsworth hurried to the bed. “Don’t be sorry. I am so glad to see you’re awake and recovering.” She set her hand lightly on her friend’s shoulder. “Whatever shall we do? The doctor says you are not fit to travel to Malta, and I cannot possibly leave you.”
“We will…” Miss Huntington stopped and glanced to where he stood in the doorway. “Mr. Trentham, I desire a private word with Mrs. Farnsworth, if you would be so kind.”
How easily she dismissed him, as if his bedchamber were her private domain, and he nothing more than an unwanted errand boy. He gave a curt nod. “Ten minutes.” He strode out of the room.
Her voice followed him. “Mr. Trentham.”
“Yes?”
“Please close the door behind you.”
Alex shut the door on the two women, resisting the urge to slam it. Of all the irksome…He left the house for the sunshine outside, but not even the fresh, salt-edged air could ease his irritation with Miss Caroline Huntington. He could tell she was plotting something in there with her friend. Perhaps they needed a demonstration of where, exactly, the limits of her strength lay.
Manolis waved to Alex from where he had pulled his cart into the shade. The cart driver was eating his lunch: flat bread, a white slab of feta, and oil-cured black olives. Alex went to join him and leaned against the side of the cart. He studied his cottage, sturdy and serviceable with thick, earthen walls washed white to reflect the summer heat. Moving Miss Huntington to the village would do much to restore his refuge.
“Manolis, could you transport the Englishwoman to the village as you brought her here the other night?”
“The road is steep and rocky.” The older man gave him a curious look. “She is so bitter then that you do not want the taste of her in your home?”
Involuntarily, Alex recalled the warmth of her hand in his as she spoke through the laudanum that first night, the way her unbound hair spread across his pillow. He frowned. “It is best if she recuperated at the villa.”
“I see.” Manolis inclined his head. “Perhaps she is too much like honey, and iatros, you deny yourself the sweetness of life.”
“Life is not sweetness.” The words sounded harsh even to his own ears. Yet he could not banish the image of Miss Huntington in her thin chemise as he had lifted her that morning, nor forget the feel of her body pressed against his.
Perhaps there was sweetness in life—but not for him.
He pushed away from the cart. “Come in the early afternoon. Sweet or bitter, I will have Miss Huntington out of my house.”
The two women glanced up, startled, as he entered the bedroom without knocking. “Starting tomorrow the two of you will have all the priv
acy you desire. I am moving you back to the village, Miss Huntington.”
“Oh?” Her brown eyes lifted to his. “Of course, it’s welcome news. I will be able to assist Maggie—and she can help me.”
Mrs. Farnsworth nodded, then added, “It is for the best, especially as you appear to be an unmarried man, Mr. Trentham.” Her voice was firm, but she flushed after delivering the words.
“Maggie is right,” Miss Huntington said. “It would be unseemly for you to keep me here any longer than is necessary.” She dropped her gaze to the coverlet, and he guessed she, too, was remembering the events of the morning.
“Then it is agreed. Manolis will move you in the cart—tomorrow. But I warn you, it will be a difficult ride down. You’ll need to be well rested, and be tended to afterward. You’re in no condition for extended travel.”
The two women shared a glance, then Miss Huntington laid her head back against the pillow. “I trust this will work out for the best. For all of us.”
CHAPTER FOUR
London, March 1848
Reginald Huntington, Viscount Rowland, paused at the top of the steps outside his club and turned the collar of his greatcoat up against the rain. Behind him the doorman bowed good night, then pulled the mahogany doors closed, sealing away the warm light and polished comfort. Reginald turned with exaggerated care and made his way to the line of carriages waiting at the curb. Not that he felt the cold, at least not physically. More than enough whiskey burned through his blood to keep the night at bay.
It was the knowledge of his father’s latest betrayal that chilled him. His cousin Caroline was going to become his sister! The old man was going to formally adopt her.
It was a fate he would not wish upon his worst enemy—no, it was precisely the fate he would wish upon his worst enemy. The insufferable chit. His father would do well by her, providing a dowry and annual income and leaving Reginald—the heir—with a substantially reduced portion. His cousins had wormed their way into his father’s affections and the old man had treated them as his own. Reginald scowled. Better than his own.
Where was his bloody carriage? He squinted into the darkness, finally locating it near the back of the line. His driver, bundled against the pervasive drizzle, climbed down to open the door without so much as a “Good evening, my lord.” The fellow kept his head bent and whisked away the step before Reginald even had a chance to settle himself. He had half a mind to call him back and remind the scoundrel who it was who paid his salary, but the carriage had already lurched into motion.
He settled back onto the leather seat and closed his eyes. It was sour, the knowledge that he had never been enough for his father. But life was sour. The real problem was the reduction of the Twickenham estate. Given his father’s fondness for Caroline, her portion would be substantial.
Which was most unfortunate, since Reginald had already pledged nearly the entire inheritance as security for his loans.
The carriage veered around a corner. Damn his driver, was the man drunk? Reginald raised his fist and pounded on the carriage roof.
“By God, watch your driving! Why aren’t we there?” He pulled back the curtain and peered out at run-down buildings crowding a narrow, dirty street. Windows were cracked and boarded, and the few pedestrians out in the rain looked bent and ragged. Not a neighborhood he would wish to visit even by daylight, and certainly not a neighborhood they should be passing through on the way to his town house in Grosvenor Square.
A needle of fear pricked him and he wrenched on the door handle. The door was fixed shut from the outside.
“Stop at once!”
In response, the driver whipped up the horses, sending the carriage careening through the back alleys of London. One wheel went up over the curbstone, jolting Reginald to the floor. He braced himself against the corner and kicked repeatedly at the door, splintering the wood beneath the fine-tooled leather, but it would not give. The coach slowed, then halted as he gave one last kick, sending the door flying open.
“Well, well. Look who’s being a feisty lad.” Figures loomed in the opening, one holding a lantern. The light showed a blunt-nosed man wearing an unfriendly smile and a garish green waistcoat. “Viscount Rowland, I presume.”
Reginald slowly sat upright, taking in the menacing faces, the yellow-wheeled cab parked behind them. Fear laid a clammy hand on the back of his neck. He swallowed and made a show of straightening his clothing. “You are mistaken. The name is Crawford. Anthony Crawford.”
The man raised the lantern. “Crawford, is it. Well, Mr. Crawford, why would you be riding in Reginald Huntington’s carriage in the wee hours?” He turned and spoke to the driver. “This is Huntington’s carriage, isn’t it?”
“Aye, the driver said so hisself before I knocked him down and took his clothes.”
“If that is the case,” Reginald said, “then I must have entered the wrong carriage by mistake.”
“Did you? Well then Mr. Crawford, it’s a bigger mistake than you know. Our employer told us to deliver a message to the occupant of this carriage,” said the man with the lantern.
“What message is that?”
“Come out here and we’ll tell you.”
Reginald backed against the seats. “I think not.” He kept his voice steady. “The weather outside is positively dreadful. Besides, I am tired and drunk, and unlikely to remember much of your message. Perhaps you can call on me at a more propitious time.”
“Perhaps you can stop your yammering.” The man turned to one of his companions. “His lordship wants us to call on him another time. Jenks, are you free for Tuesday Tea with Lord Rowland?”
“I’ll have to check me datebook. No, no, I’ve a luncheon with the Queen on Tuesday.” The laugh that followed sent an unpleasant shiver up Reginald’s spine.
“Well then.” The blunt-nosed man slammed his fist into his open palm. “We’ll have to deliver our message as scheduled.”
The lunge through the carriage door came an instant sooner than Reginald expected. He twisted aside, but hard hands yanked him from the coach.
“Here now.” The man called Jenks fetched him up against the wheel. “Glad you decided to join us, yer lordship.”
The other men snickered, and Reginald ceased struggling. The odds were so far out of his favor that it was belittling to even try. “Very well. Say your piece.”
“Oh, our message ain’t in words.” Jenks plowed his fist into Reginald’s midsection. He doubled over, breathless, as blows rained down. He covered his head and dodged as he could, but soon enough ended up on the ground, a warm trickle of blood scoring down his cheek.
“Tsk, tsk,” Blunt-Nose said. “Seems you’ve ruined a fancy set of clothes. Hard to get bloodstains out of fine linen, I hear.” He bent and grinned into Reginald’s face. “Now listen. Our employer has heard some disturbing news about your inheritance. Seeing as you owe him a fair bit, he wanted to make sure you understood how serious he views the situation.”
Reginald wiped his mouth and stared straight into the man’s muddy brown eyes. “I assure you, whatever rumors your employer has heard are unfounded. You may tell him I will see to the matter.”
“That’s what the boss is afraid of, seeing how last time you said that you went chasing off to Africa. That’s not going to happen again.”
“Let me take care of it.”
The other man turned his head and spat on the ground. “You’d better be quick about it. Our employer ain’t going to wait for you to muddle things this time. He’s sending someone to handle it, ain’t it so Simms?” He tipped his head to Blunt-Nose.
The man smiled. There was no mirth in the expression. “Time for a bit of game hunting, I think. I hear those Mediterranean islands hold plenty of good sport.”
Reginald lifted himself off the unswept cobbles. “What are you saying?”
Simms gave him an unpleasant grin. “Only that it might not be healthy for your cousin to come between the boss and his interests. And it might not be healthy f
or you to let that happen—if you get my drift.” His booted foot caught Reginald squarely in the ribs. As he gasped for air, the other men hauled him up and flung him back into the carriage, which set immediately into motion.
He lay on the floor gasping as the vehicle jolted over the cobbles. They could not threaten him like this—him or his family. Much as he disliked his cousin, she was his cousin, to deal with on his own. There had to be some way to stop Caroline’s adoption. He had to find a way. His life depended on it.
The carriage halted again and Reginald braced himself for another encounter, but there was only the shifting weight as his driver dismounted, followed by the sound of running footsteps fading into the night.
Crete, March 1848
Caroline lay quietly, trying to will away the aching in her head. She should be feeling far stronger. Maggie needed her, and right now she was hardly able to sit up. One thing was certain, though: no matter how weak she might actually feel, she could not reveal it to Mr. Trentham. If he thought her unfit to travel to the village today, she would become his captive. She could not afford his interference. Once she and Maggie reached Malta she would rest, but not before.
Besides, being here was not truly restful. She was too aware of his presence—his footsteps as he crossed the front room. Even now she could tell he was coming to the bedroom. A quick knock at the door, and he entered. His dark hair curled over his collar and his simple shirt was open at the neck. She tried not to stare at the tanned skin revealed there. Did the man not own a cravat?
“Manolis will arrive soon.” He strode to the wardrobe and gathered her clothing. “We’ll have you convalescing in your rooms at the villa before suppertime.”
Convalescing. She hated that word. But now that she was about to leave she did owe him her gratitude.
“Mr. Trentham.” She lifted her eyes to his. “Thank you. I know I have been a burden, and I shan’t forget your kindness. You are a skilled physician.”
He looked away. “I did very little. Thank Legault. I would have sent you away.”
“All the same, you did care for me. I know your presence here will be of great benefit to the people of the village. I have always thought England should produce more doctors and send them out to teach and heal. Like you. Imagine the benefit to the people of this village if it had a clinic with you at its head.” She smiled.
To Heal a Heart Page 3
