“Well . . .” Enid chewed her lip and stared at him.
“We’ll do it tomorrow in the heat of the afternoon.” Mrs. Brown removed the towels from Enid’s hands.
“There we are.” Everything had fallen out just as he’d planned, and he smiled at Enid, sure she would be glad he had taken charge. “It’s all fixed.”
She didn’t smile back. Looking straight at him, she demanded, “Why Mrs. Brown? Why not me?”
MacLean exchanged an exasperated glance with Mrs. Brown.
“Because he’ll not be pointing anything at me,” Mrs. Brown answered.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake! It’s not as if I—” Enid bit her lip.
“It’s not as if you . . . what?” It’s not as if she hadn’t seen it before. He could almost hear her speaking the condescension-laden words. But she hadn’t finished the sentence, and he detected a faint blush on her cheeks. She might have seen it during their marriage, but that had been years ago. And she might have seen it while he was unconscious, but even a lass as tight-laced as Enid must realize there could be a huge—and he did mean huge—difference.
“You can’t even hold a mug. Who’s going to hold the bedpan for you?” she asked in a tone so cocky he ached to throttle her.
“I will piss on the floor,” he snapped.
Mrs. Brown interrupted their mutual fury with a chuckle. “Just give a good shout, sir, and someone will come to care for ye.”
Enid stopped glaring at him to glare at Mrs. Brown. The older woman withstood that with good humor, and just when he thought he’d won a round, Enid got her revenge.
She spoke to Mrs. Brown as if he weren’t there. “Since we’re not going to bathe him, we’ll exercise him.”
All remnants of relaxation vanished. “You make me sound like a horse,” he declared. “What do you mean, exercise me?”
Picking up his hand, she rotated his wrist first one way, then the other.
Mrs. Brown did the same with the other side.
He couldn’t pull his hands away from the women, knew to try would be foolish. He understood they worked his limbs to keep him mobile; he even appreciated the care they’d taken of an unconscious man. But how he hated this weakness! To be pushed and pulled, shifted and shoved. To be incapable of moving himself.
Like a spectator, he watched as the women lifted his arms above his head in a slow rhythm. His muscles ached as they stretched. His gut twisted at his helplessness, and even though they made the effort for him, he found himself gasping for air.
“Let’s give him some water,” Enid said.
“Yes, let’s,” he replied sarcastically.
They glanced at him as if surprised to hear him speak, and he swore to himself this would never happen again. Starting tomorrow, he would exercise himself. He would push himself to the limit of his endurance. He would stop worrying about the workings of his mind and concentrate on the workings of his body until each joint and muscle moved with the strength and dexterity of well-oiled steel.
Grimly, he accepted the water, gulping it down, and watched as the women moved to his lower body. They draped the sheet over his hips, lifted his legs, and first moved the ankle up and down, then pressed the knee toward his stomach. Enid held the broken leg; she moved it slowly and steadily, but the pain made his eyes half-close and sweat roll off his body. When they stopped at last, he asked, “Will I be able to stand on that leg?”
“Yes!” The question seemed to surprise Enid. “Unless there’s some damage I can’t see, you’ll be able to stand and walk.”
He mopped the perspiration off his brow with the towel she handed him, and watched as they wiped him down with damp cloths, then dried him piece by piece. He wanted to cavil about that, too, but except for his leg, which really hurt, his muscles ached with pleasant tiredness, and he found he enjoyed the attention. “I’ll hold you to that promise, lass.”
“You do that.” She smoothed the covers over him. “You do that.”
Chapter 8
Enid sat alone in the rocking chair, listening to the creak of the floorboards as she rocked, pretending to read her well-worn copy of Northanger Abbey. The late afternoon sun warmed the attic room, the breeze blew through the open windows, and for the first time in six weeks—no, in eight years—she had leisure time for herself. And she didn’t know what to do with it.
Her gaze wandered to the bed where MacLean sprawled. His bath had exhausted, but not hurt, him. Mr. Throckmorton had ordered the procedure, and all had gone as planned. Mrs. Brown had supervised. Harry, Mr. Kinman and Jackson had carried him to the tub. He had soaked in the warm water while an army of servants had stripped his bed, cleaned the floors, even changed his mattress for a fresh one packed firmly with feathers.
Now, as daylight caressed the polished woods and lingered to illuminate every corner, Mrs. Brown had gone visiting, the attic no longer smelled like a sickroom, and MacLean slept the sleep of the innocent.
They’d done it without Enid. Every bit without her. She had walked in the garden, enjoyed the sunshine, smelled the flowers . . . watched the window, wrung her hands, waited to be called . . .
How odd to feel betrayed by the fact that the man she had hovered over for six weeks had recovered enough to do without her for an hour.
He looked so much better. Already his cheeks had filled out, and his eyes were no longer sunk in their sockets. His newly washed dark auburn hair gleamed, and the scars that crisscrossed his face were pale and healed. Jackson had trimmed MacLean’s beard close to his face, and she could see now that his square jaw jutted forward, giving his face a bulldog determination. His cheekbones were starkly high, and his poor broken nose had a hump that gave him the look of a ruthless thug. Perhaps when he’d had a shave and a haircut, he would look like Stephen MacLean, and not like some stranger who tugged at her heart.
She smiled as she looked down at her hands. Tugged at her heart when he was asleep, anyway. When he was awake, he remained an arrogant, unpleasant jackass.
She thought she must feel the turmoil a mother feels when her sweet, happy baby takes its first steps and says its first word—and that word is no!
A groan from the bed brought her head up.
MacLean stretched in slow, careful increments as he watched her. “Now there’s a smile to make a man uneasy.”
Her fingers tightened on the book. When MacLean was awake, the blood raced through her veins, the air hurt to breathe and every moment she lived in fear of the hurtful things he would say. Lived in fear . . . and anticipation. Because something in her, some remnant of wildness she thought long crushed by life, relished their repartee. She gave him as good as she got. Never again would he treat her with thoughtless insensitivity. There was nothing of the invalid and the nurse between them, nor of the wronged wife and reckless cad. They were MacLean and Enid, opponents who shared a goal—the return of MacLean’s health and memory.
When he had remembered . . . then everything would change.
He finished stretching, but he still stared at her, observing her as she rocked her chair back and forth with slow, gentle motions.
She refused to speed up just because he made her nervous; she would maintain an air of serenity if it killed her.
“How long have we been married?” he asked.
She froze. The rocking chair stopped. She balanced her toes on the floor and wondered if his mind, gone for so long, ever now halted in its insatiable demand for information. “Nine years.”
“Infidelity?”
“I don’t think so”—her eyes narrowed as she stared at him—“although I’m sure there’s been plenty since.”
“I meant you!” he roared.
“Oh!” She lost all equanimity and started rocking rapidly, serenity vanquished. “No, of course not. As if I would care enough to cheat.”
That piqued his manly pride, she could see it in the way his mouth tightened. She didn’t care. In her opinion, he had a great deal too much manly pride, and no great reason for it.
She knew. She’d shared a bed with him. The experience was nothing to brag about. Yesterday’s expertly applied kiss couldn’t alter the truth of that, and she, and her body, had best remember what had happened last time she had yielded to this man’s entreaties. She’d ended up married, and at the start of a long, lonely, poverty-stricken road.
Yet the way MacLean had watched her last night . . . he hadn’t slept right away, as she’d thought he would. Instead he had observed her as she’d moved about the room, tidying up before going to bed. When she’d gone behind the screen to change into her nightgown, she’d been aware, every moment, that he’d listened to her movements and the rustle of her petticoats. She had found herself undressing carefully, slipping the nightgown over her head and removing her undergarments so as to show as little flesh as possible. As if he could view her!
Donning her robe, she had crept on bare feet out from behind the screen and across the floor, never quite checking to see if he was still scrutinizing her, yet knowing that he was. She’d blown out the candles, all except one. That she’d left burning in case he woke in the night and needed her. And that, she’d known, had given enough light for him if he’d wished to watch her discard her robe and slide into bed.
He had watched, of course. She never doubted that.
The memory drove her to her feet. “I can get you something to eat.”
“Yes.” Apparently her lecture the day before had had a bracing effect, for he tacked on, “Please.”
“Good.” She placed the book in the chair and made polite conversation. “I’m glad you’re hungry.”
“Why?” He lolled in the bed and sneered at her. “If you feel such indifference about me, why should you care if I live or die?”
So much for polite conversation. “The more you eat and drink, the farther the spectre of death slips away from you, and for all that you are an out-and-out rotter, that pleases me. I worked too hard to bring you back to life to accept anything less for you.” Let him chew on that! “I’ll be back.”
The trip downstairs took only a minute, and for all that she had not liked being away from MacLean while he’d had his bath, now she found herself loathe to return to him. Why did he have to be so disagreeable? If he truly didn’t remember their marriage, fine. But why did he have to interrogate her, then blatantly distrust everything she told him? He imagined himself a better person than he was, and therefore accused her of being worse than she was. It wasn’t fair, and as she ascended the stair carrying a bowl of stew and a ladle, she straightened her shoulders and stiffened her spine.
He didn’t even wait until she was all the way in the room to start on her. “We’re estranged,” he said.
“Yes.” She put everything down on the table and reached for one of the mugs Mrs. Brown had left her.
“Do you live in my home?”
“No.”
In a voice rife with irritation, he said, “Women like to talk. They never shut up. Why won’t you talk?”
She smacked the mug with the ladle so hard she cracked the cup.
“Speak to me, woman. Where have you been? What have you been doing?”
With more patience than was reasonable for any much-maligned woman to possess, she took another mug and filled it. “I’ve lived in England.”
“Alone?”
She halted, cup in hand, and glared at him. “Are you accusing me of having a lover?”
His gaze lingered on her lips, and his mouth quirked. “No. Not likely.”
What did he mean by that, and why was he smiling?
“How long have you lived in England?”
“My whole life.”
“You can’t be more than twenty-five.”
“Twenty-six.”
“How old were you when we were married?”
“Seventeen.”
“You were a child!”
“That’s an excuse.” She used her smile like a prod. “I usually just call myself a fool.”
“We were together less than a year?”
“Very good,” she congratulated him. “Despite your loss of memory, you can still do arithmetic. We were together for three months.”
Despite her rudeness, he had the cheek to sound smug. “Now you’re talking to me.”
Standing there with the cupful of steaming stew, she considered spilling it on his groin. But she wouldn’t. Only because it wouldn’t be fair. Not when he couldn’t leap up and pour cold water on his pants. But once he could stand . . .
He didn’t even realize his danger, or how great her restraint.
“Could this be any worse? This goes to prove an alliance between English and Scots is impossible.” Then, like a donkey, he brayed the same song. “I don’t believe we are married. I’m too smart to have wed a Sassenach.”
Stupid donkey. Stupid man. “If Mr. Throckmorton is in a conspiracy to trick you, why would he try to dupe you by presenting you with a wife so palpably distasteful to you?”
“You are not distasteful to me.” He had the gall to stroke his hand down her arm as if reassuring her. “You are simply difficult and sharp-tongued.”
“While you are the voice of wisdom and courtesy.” She moved away from his touch. “We had no reason to believe you would wake without your memories.”
“There is nothing worse than a female who has logic,” he allowed.
“Unless it’s a male who has none.”
He didn’t acknowledge her hit. Of course not. A male, concede that a female was smarter than he? Never!
Pretending she hadn’t even spoken, he said in an imperious tone, “I’ll eat now.”
“Your manners have disintegrated again.”
“Please, ma’am, may I have more to eat?” He watched her lift the spoon, and craftily suggested, “A little piece of mutton wouldn’t come amiss, or some cabbage and a wee dram of wine.”
“There are some mashed carrots and mashed potatoes to thicken the broth today.” She fed him until he snatched the mug from her and fed himself. “If you tolerate that, you can have a bit of minced beef tomorrow.”
He finished and blotted his mouth on the napkin she handed him. “Later today.”
“Maybe.” She refilled the mug.
He ate until he sighed with repletion and placed the mug on the nightstand. “When can I have a peach?” he asked. “I dreamed of peaches while I slept, and I have a mighty taste for their sweet, tender flesh.”
And although he looked in her face, she would have sworn he spoke of something else entirely.
Then, with a grin, he said, “The fastest way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.”
“The fastest way to a man’s heart is through his chest.” Enid leaned closer, and just in case he didn’t understand, she clarified, “With a dagger.”
“Virago.”
“Never forget it.” He had recognized her as a force to be reckoned with, and that thrilled her. His green-and-gold eyes locked with hers. And she found herself trapped in an unwavering match to see who would look away first.
She stared resolutely at first, seeing this as a minor skirmish that would show him, once again, that she could not be intimidated.
Then, with each passing moment, the silence between them thickened, and she realized theirs was more than a contest of wills. It was a seduction. He gazed at her as if she were a morsel and he a starving man . . . and worse, she knew he was a starving man. Starving for food. Starving for love . . . no, not love. For fornication. Eight years ago, MacLean had wanted adoration and obedience, not love.
Knowing that, why did she want to slip forward into the void of their silence, touch the burr of dark hair on his jaw, and taste his lips? Why did she imagine how it would feel to rest her breasts against his chest, to indulge in long, slow, deep kisses, to have his hands on her bare skin?
Her mouth parted as her breath quickened in heady anticipation. Her flesh warmed in a generous flush. The tension she had felt every moment since his awakening grew and skittered along her
nerve endings, settling in her womb like a burden that breathed and moved and demanded attention.
She would look away now—if she could. She would gladly concede him the victory in their small battle if she could only save herself from this . . . this what? This humiliation? This trap?
This pleasure?
“Madame MacLean?” an unknown feminine voice trilled from the room below.
The spell broke. Enid blinked. Her hands rested on the mattress, she was leaning over him . . . her head jerked back.
“Bonjour, Madame! Are you up there?”
Enid glanced around, bewildered to be brought back to earth so abruptly, thankful someone—a woman, a stranger—had rescued her. “I’m here,” she called and started toward the stairs.
But MacLean caught her hand and wouldn’t let go until she looked at him.
He watched her, unsmiling.
“Saved,” he whispered. “But not for long.”
Chapter 9
Enid pretended she didn’t understand, but MacLean didn’t care. She understood, all right. She knew what had almost happened. The passion between them pulsed and burned with fresh blood and new fire.
He slid a deliberate, carnal finger down her arm and over the pulse point in her wrist.
Yanking her hand away from his, she stalked toward the stairs, where the patter of footsteps sounded.
A head popped up, a beautiful female who dazzled with a smile, who wore joy like a garment and made everyone around happy to be with her. Seeing Enid, she asked, “Madame MacLean?”
“Yes, I’m Enid MacLean.”
As the woman climbed into the room, he saw she was petite and pretty, and even without introductions he knew she was the woman Throckmorton was taking to wife. No other woman could have made that solemn old son of a bitch marry without money or title.
MacLean blinked. What a revelation! He had known Throckmorton before, and he’d been a friend, too, or MacLean wouldn’t reflect on him with the cheerful amusement of one trapped male about another.
Lost in Your Arms Page 8
