* * *
When he surfaced again the weights were gone as well as the damn snakes. His side hurt as though a thousand devils had scorched it and he ached in every part of him, but his head was clear. Well, clearish. It felt as if his brain were stuffed with damp wool.
What had happened? Had he been ill?
A fire flickered in the grate and a branch of candles stood on a table by the bed. But these things were peripheral because Psyché was there. And he was in her bed again.
She sat in an old leather chair, sound asleep. A book lay open in her lap and her fingers entwined with his... What had happened?
‘Stay with me, Will!’
Memory trickled back. Kit! They’d been the decoys and someone had fired. One of the Runners? That didn’t seem quite right, for some reason. But he had a vague memory of Huntercombe saying Kit was safe and here was Psyché. Right here beside his bed.
Huntercombe? Wasn’t he in Cornwall? Had he dreamt that the Marquess was here?
He stared at their linked hands. His pale, hers soft, bronze silk, long-fingered and elegant, yet he knew their strength now. More memory surfaced. Psyché pressing his own cravat to the wound in his side, caring for him, dressing the wound, dosing him with medicine—and reading to him.
He focused on her sleeping face. Shadows beneath her eyes spoke of how tired she must be to sleep so deeply in a chair. A soft sigh escaped her slightly parted lips. Lush, generous lips. The feel and the taste of them under his came back in the sweetest rush. He thought he could lie there watching her for ever, grateful to be alive.
However much the afterlife might have to recommend it, there was a great deal he yet wished to do in this life. He gazed at those lips, remembering something he definitely wanted to do...
Later.
It was later now and if he could only sit up he’d do it...but there was something else he absolutely had to do first... He shifted uncomfortably as his body made its needs known.
Carefully, not wishing to disturb Psyché, he attempted to sit up... A ripe curse escaped his control and his fingers inadvertently tightened as fire exploded through him.
‘Will!’ She was on her feet and leaning over him in an instant. ‘You need to stay put.’
‘I need to—’ He choked that back. ‘I need to get up.’
She frowned, setting her hand to his brow. ‘Thank God the fever’s broken. Why do you want—?’
‘The chamber pot.’
‘Oh. There’s a commode in the corner.’ She bent and slipped her arm behind him. He bit down on the curse this time, but realised to his complete disgust that, cursing or not, he couldn’t have sat up without her help. Even with her help his head spun.
‘Gently, then.’ Her voice was very close and he realised his head was on her shoulder, that he was breathing hard.
Just from sitting up?
After a moment, she said, ‘Now, if we swing your legs over the side—’
He’d never considered himself unduly modest, but God help him, he was stark naked under here. He clutched at the sheet as he found himself sitting on the side of the bed. The sheet didn’t cover a great deal, but at least the essentials were hidden. And half his torso was bandaged anyway.
He sat there for a moment, sweating merely from the effort of sitting up. With help. And staying there—with help—while his head continued to spin. He shut his eyes and discovered that a room could still spin even so. How the hell was he going to reach the commode?
After a moment the spinning eased and he cracked his eyes open. When the room stayed completely still, he opened them fully.
‘That’s better.’
How the devil did she know?
‘Yes.’ He hoped. He wasn’t sure what would happen when he stood up.
‘Good. Stay there and—’
‘Sweetheart—’ Oh, God! How had that slipped out? ‘I really need—’
‘I’ll fetch it.’
He stayed mercifully upright unsupported as she hurried across to the commode and considered it an achievement. Psyché brought the chamber pot back and handed it to him.
Was he supposed to sit here and—his mind blanked at the notion. In front of her?
‘Ah, could you perhaps go into the other room?’
‘Lord Huntercombe is asleep in there.’ But she turned her back and walked over to the fireplace.
Another hazy memory floated up—Huntercombe’s calm voice as the surgeon dug around in his side.
‘Huntercombe is here? I thought I’d dreamt that.’
‘No. Do you need help with that?’
‘Ah, no. No, thank you.’
Conscious of burning cheeks that had nothing to do with fever, Will relieved himself as discreetly as possible. Damn it, never before had he realised how noisy a chap’s stream could be against porcelain. Finally done, he sat there wondering what the hell he was supposed to do with it.
Psyché, apparently quite unembarrassed, solved that. She came back, took the pot and replaced it in the commode. ‘Let’s get you tucked up again. If you need to swear, swear.’
He managed to grit his teeth and not swear, but that reminded him—‘Was the doctor here again?’
She swallowed. ‘Yes. He debrided the wound.’
He hoped that excused the swearing he vaguely remembered.
‘Am I allowed something to eat?’
Her smile leapt. ‘You’re hungry?’
Starving. ‘Yes.’
‘There’s chicken broth keeping warm.’ She hurried over to the fire.
He blanched. ‘Ham and eggs?’ he suggested.
Already pouring broth, she gave him a look that shot that hope down instantly. ‘Broth.’ Her tone of voice trampled the already dead hope into the dust. She walked over, set the broth down on the table and helped him back against the pillows. ‘If this stays down, you may progress to calves’ foot jelly tomorrow.’
‘I can’t wait,’ he lied.
After the broth, which she spooned into him, his eyelids were weighted again.
Somehow she knew it and, after a very token protest, he found himself lying down again and tucked up.
He shut his eyes and drifted, listening to the soft, comforting sounds as she put things to rights. The mists cleared a little as a hand slipped into his, slender fingers sliding into place.
Nice. More than nice. Not quite how he’d envisaged being in bed with her...
Soft lips brushed across his. ‘We’ll do better next time, then.’
Chapter Twelve
‘You are very much improved, Mr Barclay.’ The doctor straightened from re-bandaging Will’s wound. ‘I hope I don’t need to tell you that you’ve been damned lucky.’
‘No, sir.’ Will reached for his nightshirt and eased it over his head, wriggling it into place with care. He hoped like hell this was the last time he’d be poked and prodded.
‘Can I get dressed now?’
Blake snorted. ‘I said improved, boy. Not fully recovered. You should stay in bed a little longer. You don’t want to tear that open.’
‘Can I return home at least?’ He’d been in Psyché’s bed—sadly, by himself—for five days.
‘There’s no need for that.’
Psyché stood in the doorway holding a tray with a coffee pot and two cups. She had released her hair from the braids and the luxuriant curls were caught up loosely behind her head with a scarf of crimson silk.
‘The deuce there isn’t.’ Will sat up a little straighter, ignoring the dull ache in his side. ‘You’re sleeping on the sofa, for God’s sake!’
‘That doesn’t matter.’
‘Yes, it does!’
Dr Blake shrugged into his coat. ‘Hmm. If his lordship sends a carriage, and you remain in bed at Moresby House for a few more days, I dare say you can be moved.’
He nodded to Will. ‘Let me know. I can call on you there as easily.’
Will hid his reaction. ‘Thank you, sir.’ Huntercombe would be no more likely than Psyché to allow him out of bed against Blake’s orders. And apparently he hadn’t been poked and prodded for the last time.
Blake bowed to Psyché. ‘Your servant, Miss Abeni. I’ll see myself out and avail myself of a cup of your very excellent coffee downstairs. Good day!’
* * *
Will was left facing Psyché.
She fiddled with her skirts. ‘I’m sorry it’s so dull here and not at all what you’re used to, but—’
‘No.’ Damn it. Now he felt guilty that she could possibly think her home, her very bed, inadequate to his finicky needs. And he liked this room. It was comfortable, soothing with the delicate watercolour paintings on the wall, plain furnishings and pretty, feminine oddments scattered about. ‘It’s not that at all. You’ve been more than kind and—’
‘He would have shot me.’
‘What? The Runner?’ He stared at her, confused. ‘I’m surprised one fired at all—if they thought you were Kit—’
‘It wasn’t a Runner,’ she said. ‘I thought you knew—remembered—it was Carshalton. He fired at me deliberately, thinking I was Kit.’
Memory flooded back.
‘You stupid little bitch, Catherine! Stop or I’ll shoot you myself!’
‘It was nothing.’ Oh, God! The last thing he wanted was her gratitude, for her to feel any obligation. ‘He might have hit either of us.’
She reached out and took his hand. ‘It wasn’t nothing. And he couldn’t have hit me because you deliberately dropped back to shield me.’ Her smile trembled, doing strange things to his insides. ‘Knowing that you would have done the same for Kit, or any other friend, only makes you more special.’
The blush, curse it, burned hotter than the fever. She was making him out to be some sort of hero. What kind of man let a woman take the risk she had taken? He should have tied her up and left her safely in Selbourne’s shop when he’d seen that damned white velvet cloak!
But he couldn’t say any of that because her eyes were wet, her mouth trembling and—
‘Especially when it was my fault,’ she whispered.
Her fault? It was that bastard Carshalton’s fault. First, for being the sort of father who made a medieval baron look tender-hearted, second, for being the sort of fool to loose off a pistol without being sure of his shot and, third, for being the sort of bastard who would deliberately shoot at any fleeing woman, let alone his own daughter. And...
‘It was my fault,’ he said. ‘I should never have allowed you to come at all, let alone in that blasted cloak.’
Some of the tears turned to smoke as her eyes narrowed. ‘Allowed?’
He winced.
‘Just how did you propose to stop me?’
‘I have no idea,’ he admitted. ‘Your logic was unarguable. That doesn’t mean I have to like it. Or that I don’t want to—’ He broke off. She didn’t need to hear that he wanted her. Or that he wanted above all to protect her. Even from himself.
‘What do you want?’
He wanted...he wanted... He shifted uncomfortably as his want manifested itself in a very physical way.
‘Are your pillows uncomfortable? Here. Let me.’ Psyché leaned forward, bending over him to adjust the pillows at his back. And her mouth, that gorgeous, lush, warm mouth, was closer than temptation and a wish.
He braced himself carefully with one hand, reached up with the other and clasped it on the tender skin of her nape under the riot of spiralling curls. ‘The thing is,’ he said, ‘this is not how I ever envisaged being in your bed.’
Wide brown eyes stared into his. ‘It’s not?’
‘No.’ He was aware of tension in her, of the wash of her breath, coffee, spices and sugar, along with sweet woman and a faint whiff of coconut. He wanted the kiss. Wanted it more than his own next breath. But he wanted this moment, too. This moment, caught out of time, before now could become...and perhaps she didn’t want it, would protest...
But instead his name was breathed out on the softest of sighs and a smile trembled there on her lips. For him. There were the things he needed to tell her and it was important, but surely that could wait. Just for a moment, just for now...
He took the kiss and now became.
* * *
She had wanted the kiss. Wanted to know again the touch, the taste and texture of his mouth. It was everything, and more, than she remembered. Gentle, curious. A delight that promised enchantment. His lips were warm, firm and supple, moving tenderly against her own. Then the press of his tongue seeking, questioning. She answered, parting her lips in acceptance and invitation, falling deeper, deeper into the spell...
‘Perhaps,’ he murmured against her mouth, ‘you might consider sharing the bed with me?’
A throat cleared in a sort of Here we are kind of way.
They sprang apart and Psyché was conscious of burning cheeks as she faced a shocked, middle-aged lady in the doorway, Huntercombe at her back.
‘Mother?’ Will sounded as though he’d swallowed his pillow. ‘What—how did you get here? What brings you here?’
Mrs Barclay approached the bed. ‘A carriage. His lordship informed me that you were here when I arrived at Moresby House.’
‘Ah, I had a little mishap.’
Despite her scorching cheeks, Psyché had to choke back a laugh.
Mrs Barclay narrowed her eyes. ‘A bullet wound is a little mishap?’
This time Psyché didn’t manage to control the laugh.
The lady fixed her with an icy stare. ‘I am afraid I do not consider anything about this situation to be funny, young woman!’
Psyché shook her head. ‘Nor I, Mrs Barclay. Merely Will’s staggering talent for understatement.’ She stood up. This changed everything.
Smiling at Huntercombe, she said, ‘Dr Blake has just left. He says that it will be safe to move Mr Barclay now, as long as he remains in bed in Grosvenor Square.’
‘But—’
Will’s mother cut him off. ‘It will be very much more convenient for me to nurse him there.’
* * *
She missed him.
She, who had guarded her privacy and her heart for so many years and never permitted a man to remain for the night, found herself turning to speak to a man who wasn’t there. Her bed was lonely, even with the weight of Fiddle behind her legs every night. She had enjoyed coming up from the shop in the afternoon and sharing a pot of coffee with him along with the day’s gossip.
She walked into the shop after church on Sunday morning a week after Will had left and Caleb looked up from his books. He’d taken to spending Sunday mornings in the shop reading and studying. ‘You got a visitor, Miss Psyché.’
Her heart skittered. ‘I do?’
He nodded. ‘Mr Will’s mother, I think. She came in his lordship’s carriage. I thought you’d want me to take her upstairs. She’s been up there an hour or more.’
Despite the stab of disappointment, she smiled reassuringly. ‘Exactly right. Thank you, Caleb.’
‘I offered to make her coffee or a pot of tea, but she said as how she’d wait.’
She smiled. ‘Very well. Are you going out now?’
He hesitated. ‘You don’t need me for anything?’
Exasperated, she made a shooing motion. ‘Caleb! It’s Sunday. For heaven’s sake, go out and meet your friends. Have a little fun.’
He grinned and snatched up his cap. ‘Thanks. I’ll bring back some jellied eels if I see any.’
She laughed. ‘Yes, please.’ He liked to bring back a little something to share for supper on Sundays. She’d learned not to protest. ‘You’ve got your key?’ She opened the door for him.
‘Aye.’ He stopped in the door
way, jerking his thumb upwards. ‘Got her maid with her, she does.’
Psyché gave him a quizzical look. ‘Well, of course. No lady goes anywhere without her maid or a footman. You know that.’
He shrugged. ‘Yeah. But...she’s like us. Thought I’d mention it.’
‘I see.’ She gave his shoulder a light pat. ‘Thank you. Off with you now.’
* * *
Psyché stripped off her gloves as she walked into her apartment. ‘Good day, Mrs Barclay. I am sorry to have kept you waiting.’
Placing the book she had been reading on the wine table, Mrs Barclay rose from the sofa and nodded stiffly. ‘Not at all. Your servant assured me you would not mind if I waited up here.’ She turned to the Black maid, sitting quietly by the wall. ‘Wait downstairs now, if you please.’
Psyché caught the maid’s eye as she went past. ‘I have left a pot of tea and some small cakes on the main shop counter. Please, make yourself comfortable.’
She smiled at Mrs Barclay. ‘Tea? Or coffee, ma’am? Do be seated.’
‘Thank you.’ The lady sat. ‘Tea would be pleasant. You did not need to trouble yourself for the girl.’
Psyché swung the kettle over the fire. ‘It was no trouble.’ She busied herself with the tea tray. ‘I hope Will goes on well?’
‘Very well, thank you. My son appears to hold you in high regard, Miss Abeni.’
She steadied the cup she’d nearly upset and gave herself a moment. ‘Does he?’ She glanced at her guest, who was watching her uneasily. ‘I can return the compliment. He saved my life. And quite apart from that, Mr Barclay is a gentleman any woman must esteem.’ Even if he did make her insides wobble like a blancmange.
She gestured to the book. ‘I am glad you found a book to interest you while you waited.’
Mrs Barclay picked it up. ‘Ah, yes. An interesting tale. I note that the author, a Mr Equiano, has inscribed it to you on the occasion of your sixteenth birthday. He is a connection of yours, perhaps?’
Of all the books Mrs Barclay might have chosen, she had selected The Interesting Narrative of the Life of Olaudah Equiano, an African captured and sold into slavery as a child, just as Mam had been.
A Marriage of Equals Page 12
