“No one in the village said anything about you having a husband,” he said suspiciously. “And you are called Clarke, like your father. In fact, you’re called Miss Clarke by everyone.”
“My husband is a distant cousin, also named Clarke.” She shrugged. “Since I have been known as both Miss and Mrs. Clarke, I answer to both.”
He glanced around the room as if expecting her husband to materialize. “Where is this mysterious spouse?”
“I’ve only been in Hartley for a few weeks,” she pointed out. “He has not had time to join me.”
Burke looked even more suspicious. “What kind of a man isn’t with his beautiful wife when she moves to a new home?”
Deciding she’d had enough of Burke, she swept to her feet. “The kind who serves his country in the Peninsula rather than gambling away his patrimony in a drunken stupor! It is time you left, Mr. Burke! Take your grandmother’s table and go.”
Instead of losing his own temper, the infuriating man smiled at her. Like all gamesters, he loved a challenge. Loved risk. “Forgive me, Mrs. Clarke. I should not have spoken with you about personal matters when you are still absorbing the news of your father’s death.” He bowed. “I offer my condolences. I shall return for the table at some later time.” He turned and left, closing the door quietly behind him.
She would prefer never to see Burke again, but at least his presence had been a distraction. Knees weak, she sat again and opened her right hand to reveal her father’s gold ring. He was dead. It still didn’t seem real. She must contact the London solicitor who had handled the transfer of ownership for Hartley Manor and ask him to investigate further. Perhaps more details would make Charles Clarke’s death seem more real. She would also see if his body could be brought to Hartley for reburial. Papa had so looked forward to living here….
Mariah closed her eyes, tears stinging. He had been too young to die! Too necessary.
But she had seen sudden death more than once and knew it played no favorites. She must make the best of her life here in Hartley. She gave thanks that she was in so much better a position than she had been two months before. Her father’s luck at cards had left her a young woman of means rather than in desperate straits. It was his last gift.
The only thing desperate about her now was the enormous lie she had just told. Years of traveling with her father in sometimes sticky situations had made her very good at prevarication. She could open her big brown eyes and lie with utter conviction when necessary, though she disliked having to do it. But she was a practical female, and when she’d concocted this particular lie, she was ready to say anything that would persuade Burke to go away and leave her alone.
Had she ever told anyone in the village she was unwed? The subject hadn’t really come up that she could remember. She was called Miss Clarke and no doubt everyone assumed she was a spinster, but she had never said so.
In public she usually wore gloves, like a proper lady, so the presence or absence of a ring was unlikely to have been noticed except by the manor servants and her friend Julia Bancroft. Mariah must find a ring for her wedding finger, at least until Burke left Hartley for good. How her father would laugh when she told him of this scene….
Her body spasmed at the visceral realization that her father was dead. She began to weep uncontrollably.
Rest in peace, Papa.
The day after Burke’s visit, a letter arrived from the London solicitor who had handled the transfer of title to the estate. He confirmed the death of Charles Clarke and offered his sympathies in dry, lawyerly prose.
The letter killed Mariah’s despairing hope that Burke had lied about her father’s death in the hope of coercing her into marriage. In the following pain-filled days, George Burke called on her regularly. He brought flowers and left his polite best wishes even though she wouldn’t receive him at first. The servants and her friend Julia were the only people she could bear to see.
Eventually her social conscience caught up with her and she went downstairs to see Burke when he called. He was so polite and charming that she wondered if she’d misjudged him. That first time they met, both had been upset and less than reasonable.
She suspected that he was trying to decide whether or not she really had a husband. He was attracted to her—she could feel lust radiating from him and perhaps he sensed that she was lying. Whatever his private thoughts, his behavior was beyond reproach. Since he acted like a gentleman, she must be a lady.
As she began coming to terms with her new life, the Sarah side of her began murmuring that perhaps it was worth considering Burke’s offer. Though she had been admiring the vicar, that was mere daydreaming. Burke had made her a genuine offer, and being a wife would give her more standing in the community. He would likely spend much of his time in London, leaving his wife free to run the estate. And he was undeniably good-looking. One could do worse for a husband, and many women did.
Besides, she was so lonely knowing that her father would never come home….
At this point in her ponderings, Mariah would tell Sarah that she couldn’t possibly be lonely with an imaginary sister living in her head. Burke was a gamester and would make his wife’s life hell. He’d probably gamble Hartley Manor right out from underneath Mariah’s feet. She had craved stability for too long to place her welfare in unreliable hands. Far better that Burke believe she was married and out of his reach.
Yet Burke persisted in his attention. One night Mariah awoke shaken by a vivid dream that she was marrying him. They were pronounced man and wife, he took her hand—and squeezed it painfully hard, trapping her with him forever. She knew why she’d dreamed that: he’d visited again that afternoon and hinted about lawsuits between his compliments. His noose was tightening around her.
She buried her face in her hands and whispered, “Oh, Granny Rose, what should I do? If Burke keeps coming around, in a moment of weakness I might say yes.”
While Sarah was a product of her imagination, Granny Rose was an indelible part of her memories. Dark, calm, and loving, she had raised Mariah, teaching her cooking and riding and laughter. Though Mariah had waited breathlessly for visits from her father, it was Granny Rose who had been the center of her life.
There were some people in their small village of Appleton who had called her grandmother a witch. That was nonsense, of course. Granny Rose made herbal potions, read palms, and gave wise counsel to girls and women of the village. Occasionally she performed rituals to achieve particular ends, though she always said there was no magic involved. Rather, rituals focused the mind on what was desired, and that made goals more likely to be achieved. Like prayer, but with herbs added.
Mariah needed a good ritual. She thought back and decided that a wishing spell would be best since she could ask for whatever would best solve her problems. Her grandmother had always cautioned Mariah against being too explicit with her wishes, because sometimes the best solution was one that she’d never thought of.
She had some lucky incense that she and her grandmother had made together years earlier, and tonight the moon was full, a good time for a ritual. Since she couldn’t sleep, she might as well try a ritual. At the least, doing so would strengthen her resolve to keep George Burke at a distance.
She tied a robe over her sleeping shift, slid her feet into slippers, then wrapped a heavy shawl around her shoulders. After collecting a tinderbox and a packet of lucky incense, she descended the stairs and went outside toward the sea. The night was cool and clear, and moonlight silvered the fields and the sea.
The garden included an open gazebo with a stone patio and a sundial. Thinking this a good place for her ritual, she closed her eyes and thought about her lost loved ones until she felt their friendly presences.
She started by setting the incense on the brass top of the sundial. After striking a spark and setting it ablaze, she silently asked for help through this difficult time. Healing, protection, strength, luck…
For an instant she imagined a real husband—not Bur
ke but a man who fit her dreams. Ruthlessly she suppressed that image and concentrated on asking for mental and emotional strength.
As the pungent scent of the burning incense faded into the wind, she stepped into the gazebo and sat on one of the stone benches that circled the interior. She leaned back against the wall, feeling peaceful. Her night braid had come undone and her hair was drifting around her shoulders, but she felt too lazy to redo it.
As a child, she’d had few playmates—that’s why she’d invented Sarah. But she’d had her grandmother, and they did everything together for many years. She’d nursed her grandmother in the old woman’s final illness, and her father had appeared at the end to help. She and Charles had mourned together, and then he had taken her with him on his restless travels around the British Isles.
Now they were gone and she was truly alone for the first time in her life. That was why George Burke was looking treacherously attractive. He did seem to like her, and it was very appealing to be wanted.
But not by George Burke. Though she’d like a husband someday, she wanted a reliable, kind man like the local vicar. Whom she had been avoiding since her father’s death, because of her complicated situation. She really couldn’t be glancing coyly at the vicar under Burke’s nose when she was claiming to be married.
Closing her eyes, she rested.
Hold on hold on hold on…. In the far corner of his spirit to which he had withdrawn, he was aware that the end was near. He had been clinging to life for an eternity, and soon the sea would claim him. By now, he no longer cared if he lived or died. Almost, he didn’t care.
The dream brought Mariah sharply awake. Go to the shore. The internal voice sounded like her grandmother, and it was filled with urgency.
Not stopping to question, she pulled her shawl around her shoulders and raced down the lane at a tomboy’s speed. The full moon’s light was bright but uncanny, and she felt a chill, as if she had entered a world where magic could really happen.
Waves crashed hard on the narrow beach, which was a mix of sand and shingle. She halted, wondering what madness had brought her here in the middle of the night. Then she saw a dark object floating not far offshore, every wave bringing it closer.
Curious, she studied it. Good heavens, was that a head? Perhaps a corpse?
She gagged at the thought, wanting to run away. But if this was a drowned man, it was her Christian duty to bring him ashore so he could be properly buried. The tide would shift soon and she couldn’t be sure the…object…wouldn’t be washed out again.
She pulled off her slippers and wrapped her shawl around them. After setting the bundle above the waterline, she waded into the waves. She was almost knocked off her feet, and the water was cold. Luckily, she managed to regain her feet before she went under entirely, but by the time she reached the floating object, she was soaked to the skin.
Hoping the sight wasn’t too ghastly, she looked closer and saw that it was indeed the body of a man. His arms were locked around a large chunk of wood, perhaps a piece of beam. Wondering if he could possibly be alive, she caught hold of the wood and towed man and beam ashore, fighting rough water all the way.
A last wave helped lift him onto the sand above the tide level. His clothes were tattered to the point of indecency, with shirt and trousers reduced to rags. Shivering, she knelt beside him and cautiously spread her hand across his shirt. To her amazement, there was a faint, slow heartbeat. The man’s flesh had a deathly chill from the water and there were lacerations and other marks on his skin, but he lived!
His hair and complexion looked dark in the moonlight, so she guessed he was a foreign sailor. Since water lapped around his feet, she took hold under his arms and dragged him onto the coarse sand. As she pulled, he began coughing convulsively.
Hastily she let go and the sailor half rolled onto his side, spewing water. When the violent fit ended, his breathing was rough but he was undeniably alive. Relieved, she wondered what to do. She didn’t want to go for help and leave him alone, but the faster she got him indoors and warm, the better.
Hoping he could walk, she leaned over and asked, “Can you understand me?”
After a long moment, he nodded, head bent.
“If I help, do you think you can walk to my house? It’s not far.”
He nodded again. Though his eyes were closed and he shivered with cold, at least he had some awareness of his situation.
She brushed the sand from her feet and put her slippers back on, then knelt and draped his left arm around her shoulders. “I’ll lift as best I can, but I can’t manage without your help.”
She lifted and he struggled. Between them, he got to his feet, swaying. She used her free hand to wrap her shawl around his shoulders, hoping the heavy wool would dispel some of his chill. “We’re on our way. It’s not a very long walk.”
He didn’t reply, but when she started walking, he followed her lead. Their floundering progress through the sand was excruciating and the breeze sliced through wet clothing.
Matters improved once they reached the path. A pity it was all uphill. But with her under his arm and taking half his weight, the sailor managed to keep moving.
He used a railing to drag himself up the steps into the house while Mariah supported him on the other side. They staggered inside, Mariah wondering what to do next since he surely couldn’t manage another flight of stairs to the guest bedrooms. Then she remembered a small chamber at the back of the ground floor. Once it had been used by an elderly housekeeper. The room was shabby and underfurnished, but there was a bed. It would suffice.
She steered the sailor through the darkened house, occasionally banging into furniture. She hoped her charge wasn’t acquiring as many bruises as she was. It was a huge relief to enter the small bedroom. Because the aged housekeeper had been infirm, the bed had been built low. With the last of her endurance, she steered him to it. “You can lie down now.”
The sailor folded onto the bed in an ungainly sprawl and promptly clutched a pillow the same way he’d hung on to his beam. Mariah swung his legs onto the mattress, then used her tinderbox to light a lamp. Even though the room hadn’t been used for years, the capable Mrs. Beckett had oil in the lamp and a fire laid in the tiny fireplace. The bed wasn’t made up, but there would be blankets in the small, battered wardrobe.
After she lit the fire, she tugged at the pillow he was crushing. “You’re safe now. Safe.” His grip eased and she was able to remove the pillow and examine him.
She patted his shivering body dry with a thin towel from the washstand. His clothing was so tattered that she was able to examine him fairly thoroughly without stripping off the ragged remnants. Some of his garments were charred at the edges. Perhaps a ship’s fire drove him to jump into the sea.
He was massively bruised and had cuts and scrapes beyond counting. There were also areas of blistered and scorched flesh, which fit with the charred clothing. Mercifully, the burns weren’t severe. He must have hit the water quickly.
She found no major wounds on his limbs and torso. Though some of his injuries had bled, his time in the seawater had washed away the actual blood and nothing seemed to be bleeding now.
She pulled blankets from the wardrobe and wrapped him in multiple layers. Luckily the fire was warming the small room rapidly and he was losing his deathly chill.
Taking the lamp, she made a trip to her room for dry clothing, then descended to the kitchen. While tea water and broth heated, she brought a pitcher of water and a glass back to her patient. He was sleeping. In the soft light, his complexion and his unfashionably long hair were dark. She was no expert on male whiskers, but it looked as if he had at least a couple of days’ growth. If he had been in the water that long, he had to be as strong as an ox to have survived.
It was hard to guess his age under the facial bruises, but she thought he was somewhere around thirty. Though not broadly built, he had a well-muscled working man’s body, with calloused hands.
She frowned when she noti
ced the way his hair matted on the left side of his head. Setting down the lamp, she explored with her fingertips and discovered a long, deep gash that oozed traces of blood.
She swore under her breath as she swaddled his head with another towel. Everything she had done so far was common sense, but the head injury looked serious and she didn’t know what to do. She must summon Julia Bancroft now rather than wait until morning.
Mariah brushed wet hair from the sailor’s face, wondering where he came from. Somewhere in the Mediterranean, perhaps. She was pulling the blankets up when his lids rose, and he stared at her with mesmerizing green eyes.
Chapter Four
After an eternity of cold water, numbness, and despair, he was dragged ashore. Emerging from the water had pulled him from the deathlike trance that had allowed him to survive for so long. Dimly he remembered stumbling along with help, sliding into blackness, and then awaking to…perfection.
The woman bending over him seemed more dream than reality, yet the warmth radiating from her was palpable. Her eyes were warm brown and a cloud of golden hair floated around her perfect oval face. She shimmered in the lamplight. Wondering if he’d drowned and gone to some other realm, he raised an unsteady hand to stroke those fine spun strands. They were gossamer silk against his fingers.
“You’re safe now.” She pulled her long hair back and tied the shining mass in a loose knot at her nape. Her every movement was grace. “Do you speak English?”
He had to think to answer her question. English. Language. Understanding. He licked his dry lips and whispered, “Y…yes.”
“Good. That will make things easier.” She slid an arm under his shoulders and raised him enough to drink from a glass that she held to his lips. He swallowed thirstily, thinking it strange how much he craved water when it had almost killed him. And humiliating that he was so weak that he couldn’t even drink without help.
Loving a Lost Lord Page 3
