by Cheryl Bolen
He took an apple from the pocket of his coat and offered her a bite. "Hungry?"
She took a bite. "There's another thing I need to tell you, my---"
"Harry," he said firmly.
"Harry," she said, smiling. "It's. . .it's that you have made me realize that not all men are selfish, horrible creatures like my father and husband. How many men could have spent three nights in the bed of a woman possessed of some beauty and not have tried to take their own pleasure with her? And how many men would have risked their lives to save a highly opinionated bluestocking who purported to hate men?"
His voice was soft when he spoke. "I sincerely hope I can continue to earn your trust, Mrs.---"
"Louisa," she urged.
"Louisa."
Brown eyes locked with blue.
"Nothing you could have said," he continued, "could have meant more to me. I wager you say the same thing to all men who rescue you."
They both laughed. She was grateful that an easy camaraderie had developed between them. Then she saw that his arms were still bleeding.
He followed the path of her gaze.
"Are you in pain?" she asked, compassion in her voice.
"Probably not nearly as much as you — from your knee."
"But I don't have to carry another person."
He got to his feet, and she thought he looked like a dark god. She forced herself to look away.
He lifted her, and without thinking, she wrapped her arms around his neck, which was still warm from the waning sun.
As they trod over the moorland, she rested her face against his chest and could never remember feeling such contentment in her entire life. It brought to mind the reassurance she had felt as a small child when her mother, rest her soul, had read her nursery rhymes and Bible stories in her soft, loving voice as Louisa lay tucked beneath her blankets.
She could hear the steady beat of Harry's heart and his labored breath, and she was intensely sorry she was such a burden. In so many ways.
She vowed to do everything in her power to aid him in his quest to regain Wycliff House.
She was almost sorry when they reached the inn in Boscastle, for he would have to put her down. She fleetingly wondered if she would ever again feel such warmth in her life.
She rather doubted it.
Chapter 11
As they sat across from one another over dinner at the tidy little inn, the fire to Harry's back, Louisa thought she had never before felt so comfortable with another person. That was not to say she and Ellie did not enjoy an easy camaraderie, but with Harry she not only felt completely warm inside, she seemed to glow on the outside. Something about being with him set her to sparkling like sun glancing off a bed of crystal. She found herself hoping it would be many days before they found their mysterious lord.
For she knew that when his quest was over, she would return to her dreary life of meetings with the bluestockings, her only social life. Now, companionship with such women held little allure.
She supposed they had filled a deep need in her at the time. Now, though, she felt another need, though she could no more put a name to it than she could understand it. All that she knew for certain about it was that it had something to do with Harry.
Calling him Harry seemed quite natural now, though she found it hard to countenance, as would others who might hear her address him in such a manner. So sitting there in the private parlor of the Cock and Stock, she came to the decision that she would never address him so familiarly in front of others. It would be like her mother's miniature portrait, something she could pull out and take comfort in when she was alone.
"This is the most I have seen you eat on the journey," he commented, his eyes not removed from her clean plate.
"Then the four-mile walk must have tired me, I daresay." There was levity in her voice and an amused glint in her eyes.
He cocked his brow. "A pity it was so exhausting for you. I found it rather invigorating."
She laughed, then moved forward ever so slightly and with a feather-like touch ran gentle fingers across his bandaged arms. "I cannot tell you how deeply I am indebted to you."
* * *
Her gentle touch was much like that which she had used when she had tended to his wounds upon their arrival at the inn. Instead of allowing him to look at her knee, she permitted him to carry her up the wooden stairs to the room his coachman had secured for them. And there on the high feather bed they had sat facing each other. He had followed her instructions to remove his shirt so she could minister to his wounds. He wasn't sure, but he thought her breath swooped as his shirt fell to the counterpane.
She had been quick to gain control of herself as she deftly cleaned and bandaged his mangled arm.
A pity he had not recovered as quickly as she had. His close proximity to her and the feel of her soft breast brushing against him as she bent over his arm affected him emotionally as well as physically.
Once she finished bandaging his arm, she bent over and lightly kissed his arm, then looked up at him, a flush creeping up her face. He could tell she was embarrassed and wished he could put her at ease.
"I'm. . ." she stammered. "I didn't think of what I was doing," she explained. "I used to kiss Ellie's wounds after I bandaged them when she was little."
He set his hand on her frail shoulder. "You've nothing to apologize for. My mother did the same to me when I was small, and to this day I believe it aids in the recovery."
When his remarks did not seem to put her at ease, he ruffled her hair and laughed. "Rather amusing that you think of me as a child."
"Oh, no!" she protested, looking up at him. "There's nothing at all childish about you. In fact, I believe you must be the bravest man I have ever known."
He made light of her compliment, changing the subject. "I believe we should ask for another bottle of wine."
"Pray, Harry, it's already made me lightheaded."
He became pensive. "I like it when you call me Harry."
"I confess, it seems most inappropriate."
"But there are those who find John Stuart Mill's actions inappropriate, though you and I know his vision is correct."
"You had not told me before that you approved of the younger Mr. Mill's efforts."
"You never asked me before," he said.
He could almost see the years of woe peel from her like layers off an onion as her voice became animated, her face lively. "Tell me, how do you feel about slavery in the colonies?" she asked.
"Until I met you, I confess I had never given it a thought." He caught the serving maid's attention and told her they needed another bottle of wine.
"And now?" she asked.
"Now I have decided it is not a good thing."
"Why?" she challenged.
Darn the chit! What was he supposed to say now? He'd never given thought before to African men. Then he remembered Thomas Paine's Rights of Man. He had not read the blasted thing, but the title gave him a clue as to its contents. "Regardless of the colour of the skin, a man is a man, and as such should have the right to be his own master and to be treated with dignity." He was completely surprised at his own eloquence. Perhaps he would have made a good show in Parliament.
"Oh, Harry," she beamed. "I cannot wait until we have your voice in the House of Lords."
He experienced a wretched feeling in the pit of his stomach. He had so carefully earned the girl's trust, and now as he held it as securely as a vault, he was about to trample it. Which just confirmed his own low opinion of himself. A pity he was not the man he pretended to be. That man could have been quite noble. Not conniving like Harold Blassingame, the Seventh Earl of Wycliff, former pirate of the high seas. Murdering and stealing his way to an extremely comfortable station in life.
The return of the serving lady saved him from having to make a response.
"Tell me, if you will," he said to the serving woman. "Is there a Lord. . .What was that man's name, my dear?" he asked Louisa.
Playing along with him, Louisa sa
id, "Goodness me, I cannot at all remember it."
Harry pretended to act drunk. "Can't remember the chap's name. What is the name of the local lord in these parts?"
"We have no local lord, sir," the woman said. "The closest one's Lord Harley over in Binghampton some forty miles from here."
"Is that in Cornwall?" Harry asked.
"Oh, no, sir. It's in Devon."
He watched somberly as the woman poured two more glasses of claret, wishing for the first time in a long while that he could drink himself into oblivion.
* * *
Edward Coke sat next to Miss Sinclair in his curricle as he made his way back to her house after Jeremy Bentham's first talk of the series. It had been difficult, indeed, not to burst out laughing at the most peculiar assortment of individuals he had ever seen in his three-and-twenty years. Reminded him of the first day he had stepped foot at Uncle Robert's former townhouse and faced Mrs. Phillips's room full of man-hating bluestockings. For today he had seen many of those same faces. At least he believed he had seen many of the same women. Though if push came to shove, he would have to say he hadn't actually looked — really looked — at any of their ugly mugs, either that first day or today.
Then, too, today there were any number of gaunt men that he'd wager a quid were Methodists. Not a Weston coat in the whole lot of them. In fact, they dressed so somberly they could have been at a wake.
Though none of these peculiar things had Miss Ellie Sinclair seemed to notice. He slid a glance at her rather taking little face. Unfortunately, the chit was still ecstatic over the peculiar little man they had heard speak this afternoon. She kept telling him how enlightening was Mr. Bentham, how brilliant was Mr. Bentham, how this had been the happiest day of her life.
For the life of him, he could not understand the attraction in Mr. Jeremy Bentham. The man's cravat was a disgrace, and he'd wager a quarterly the Bentham fellow had never run to foxes in his life. Probably didn't even know how to fence.
Nevertheless, Edward continued to feign enchantment over the weasel for the girl's sake. He had grown rather fond of her. Not just because she was the prettiest thing he'd seen in a very long time, but there was about her a certain innocence he found delightful.
And, besides, Harry had said he was to look out for Miss Sinclair during her sister's absence, and he had always done whatever his elder cousin asked.
However, looking out after her was far easier said than actually done. He supposed it was because she was country bred, but the girl was possessed of a ridiculous notion that all men had designs on her virtue. He'd like to ring the neck of the governess — Miss Grimm was it not? — who filled the poor girl's head with such nonsense.
He'd had the devil of a time getting Miss Sinclair to consent to allow him to escort her to the series of lectures. He glanced behind to assure himself the Phillips's cook was riding in Harry's gig, keeping a sharp eye on his actions with Miss Sinclair. Did the fat old hog also think he had designs on Miss Sinclair's virtue?
He inwardly sighed over the realization that he had to endure three more of these horridly dull talks. The things a man did for the lovely lady.
* * *
The longer Harry sat in the fire-lit room looking at Louisa, the more persistently he wanted her. That, he told himself, would never do. He had finally earned her trust, and he was not about to destroy it.
He looked down at the bandages on his arms. Which reminded him of the feel of carrying her over the moors. His arms had grown tired, and his breath seemed to come only with great difficulty, but he would do it all over again without a moment's hesitation.
Though Louisa had little fat, there was about her tiny body a real softness, a frailness, too, that evoked every protective instinct he had ever possessed, instincts he'd not even known he possessed. Yet they were instincts he enjoyed awakening.
He would always cherish the memory of holding her against him, of her arms secure about his neck, her sweet face resting against his chest as they made their way across the moors to the Cock and Stock Inn.
The more he looked at her face bathed in the glow of the candle, its light flickering in her hair, the more he remembered the heavenly feel of her in his arms, and the more he realized how difficult it would be to sleep with her tonight.
He took another swig of the wine. "I shall carry you upstairs now." He moved to her and gently lifted her into his arms and carried her to their chamber. "I return to the tavern now," he said simply.
Her eyes seemed melancholy when she nodded.
As Louisa dressed for bed, she heard rain beginning to pelt the window of their tiny room. By the time she had put on her woolen gown and slipped beneath the bed's chilly sheets, a full-fledged storm whistled and roared outside the inn. Then thunder boomed and lightning blazed across the night sky, and she pulled their blankets tightly around her.
Her thoughts drifted back to the day's events. She was sorry she had yet to aid Harry in his search because she wanted to repay him for all he'd done for her. Otherwise, she looked back over the day with no regrets.
She regretted that the trip must come to an end. She had never enjoyed anything so much. She remembered the fear that had robbed her breath when she had watched Harry descend the cliffside, fearing he would fall to his death any minute.
Looking back on it, her heart unaccountably swelled with pride over his actions. He had not only earned her trust today, he had earned her deep and abiding admiration.
Then she thought of the utter contentment of being swept up into his strong arms and of being held against his solid chest. Had anything ever felt so good in her life?
Despite the whooshing winds outside and the hard rain coming down on the roof over her head, she smiled.
Soon Harry would be lying beside her.
She went to sleep with the candle burning beside the bed, a smile playing at her lips.
That is how Harry found her an hour later. He was grateful she was asleep. Had she so much as said a single word to him, he would have been powerless to prevent himself from scooping her into his arms and destroying the progress he had made.
He stood for a moment looking down at her. The wine. She must have drunk nearly a bottle. No doubt it had made her very sleepy.
Which was a good thing.
Chapter 12
Fully dressed, Harry stood before their bed the following morning, offering Louisa a cup of hot tea.
She opened first one eye, then the other.
"Good morning, my dear," he said.
She rubbed her eyes. "I'm not your dear."
"I expect you have the headache from the wine you drank last night." He handed her a glass. "Here, I've made you an elixir that has served me well when I've . . . , shall we say, over imbibed?"
She shot him an angry look, pulled herself up to a sitting position, and took the proffered drink.
"How's the head?" he asked.
"Quite as awful as you think it is." She drank from the glass, then made a face of disgust. "That odious concoction had better work."
"You have my word on it that it does." He continued to watch her, thankful her woolen night shift climbed up to her throat.
She swung her leg over the side of the bed, and to his surprise she began to lift the wool to reveal her knee — with not a shred of modesty on her part.
Then he saw that her knee was bruised and swollen, and he moved to her, kneeling at her feet. He gently moved her calf down, then back up. "I don't believe it's broken," he said. "Since you did not scream with pain at movement, I'm guessing it only hurts when you put weight on it."
She nodded solemnly.
"Stay off it for two or three days, and I believe it will mend," he said.
She frowned, then reached for the tea and took a sip. "The chamber's far colder now than it was last night."
He got up and walked to the hearth where he picked up a poker and stirred. "The fire's died, and I asked that the maid not disturb you to lay a new one."
She n
odded appreciatively. "Also, I believe it's turned colder outside."
"To be sure," he said, his back still to her. "I just came from the stables, and I can attest to that."
A moment later he sat in a wooden chair facing her and watched silently as she drank her tea.
She set down her cup and gave him a quizzing look. "Why is it you know so much of wounds and of other things a gentleman of substance is not supposed to know? What is it you did those eight years? How did you really make your fortune?"
Good God, did she know? Why would she be thinking on it if she had not already guessed? A concerned look sweeping across his face, Harry went to her, dropping to one knee at her bedside. "If I tell you the truth I will lose any respect I have worked hard to earn from you."
Her indigo eyes looked into his as if she could see through to the soul he had long ago lost. "You were a pirate, weren't you?"
He closed his eyes and muttered an oath, then got up and walked to the hearth. He bent low and attempted to stir the embers once again.
"I see I've hit upon the truth," she said somberly.
He merely nodded, then moved to the door. "I'll go down and order your breakfast."
* * *
Because of the injury to Louisa's knee and the wetness of the weather, walking was out of the question. Harry carried her to his coach. The rain, which had continued throughout the night, had left the roads soggy.
The farther south they went, the cooler the temperature became. It was as if the heavy white mist followed them inland. Louisa lifted the curtain and pressed her face into the foggy glass. Progress was slow the first hour of their journey southward as the coach rattled sluggishly along the hilly terrain. Once the hills were behind them, the somber landscape leveled out, and the carriage picked up speed.
In the midst of the barren land that now surrounded them, Louisa beheld a most peculiar natural phenomenon. At least, she assumed the towering, cylinder-like rocks were natural. Though, for all the world, they rather resembled giant candles jutting up from the soggy earth.
"Pray, Harry, what are those things?"
