Groaning, he dragged both hands through his hair. He was mad. She was an invalid suffering from memory loss. He couldn’t take advantage of her. Her willingness, the invitation in her eyes—none of it mattered. Not without knowing who she was. Not being who he was. He wasn’t that much of a scoundrel.
He might be soulless, depraved, but he liked to think there was still some code of honor within him. Some lines he would not—did not—cross.
With a growl of frustration, he stormed from his chamber and out of the house, determined to find something to occupy himself. Something to consume his thoughts and help him forget a maddening female who begged for his touch.
Chapter Eleven
Are you ready?” Mrs. Kirkpatrick asked.
Annalise looked down at her legs, already in position, dangling over the side of the bed. The eager yearning she had felt over the last weeks to finally be rid of the bed, to finally rise and walk, had swerved into something else. An anxious fear that she loathed even though she understood it. It was the same wretched fear she felt all those years ago when she rose from bed after her accident. Each morning she woke and limped—staggered in the beginning—across the small chamber she shared with her mother toward the basin of water.
Even months after her accident she would linger a few moments in bed every morning as dawn seeped through the curtains of her window, praying that today would be the day when she rose and walked like she had before the accident. Sound of body. No limp. No longer a broken girl.
What if I can’t walk at all?
What if the moment her foot touched the ground, she crumpled? A wash of bitter fear coated her mouth.
“Miss Anna?”
She snapped her gaze back to Mrs. Kirkpatrick. The housekeeper watched her expectantly, a hint of impatience lurking in her eyes. A good portion of the woman’s day was now devoted to her. She doubtlessly wanted to see her up and about, too.
Nodding, she pressed her hands against the side of the mattress and gently eased off the bed. Mrs. Kirkpatrick gripped her arm for support.
“There you go now,” she encouraged as Annalise stood, a faint hint of her brogue creeping out.
For several moments she didn’t move, testing her weight on her feet. She offered up a wobbly smile. “Good so far.” She hadn’t toppled to the ground. The only question that remained was if her leg could bear her weight as she walked.
Mrs. Kirkpatrick nodded. “Ready for a step?”
Sinking her teeth into her bottom lip, she nodded, not convinced she was ready at all, but unable to hide from reality. Now was the moment she learned her fate.
The housekeeper tugged on her arm, nudging her to move forward.
Annalise shook her head and shrugged her arm free. “I’m fine.” If she was to do this, she needed to see if she could do it on her own.
She didn’t breathe as she lifted her right foot and set it down. Now came the true test. She lifted her left leg quickly in a step. And didn’t fall.
A small breathy laugh escaped her. She’d done it without collapsing. She smiled widely and then caught herself. She needed to attempt more than a single step to know for certain that she could still walk. Then she could celebrate.
“There you go. On with you.”
Sucking in a lungful of air, Annalise pressed forward. One step and then another. She staggered a bit, a little unsteady, cautious, fearful of falling. Mrs. Kirkpatrick hovered close.
Gradually, her steps evened out as she walked. Her leg felt weak, but that was natural after being abed for so many weeks. She frowned as she approached the door to the room.
“Is something amiss?” Mrs. Kirkpatrick asked, eyeing her up and down curiously as she hovered close. “Are you in pain?”
At the door, Annalise stopped and turned, hesitating for a moment before continuing. “No.” She walked a little more, feeling her brow furrow in bewilderment at her even, if somewhat tentative, gait. “I’m not in pain.”
“Well. That’s good news.” The housekeeper studied her face before glancing back down to her legs. “Then what is it?”
“I’m not limping.”
“Should you be limping?”
I used to, she almost said, but caught herself. She didn’t want to refer too much to her past as long as she was feigning memory loss.
“I merely thought . . . I feared there could be a limp.” She increased her pace, hope unfurling inside her. She didn’t want to think it could be true, but the evidence was glaringly clear with her every step.
“Well, apparently those Gypsy folk knew what they were doing when it came to setting that leg. Appears you can walk on it just fine now.”
She could walk. Without a limp.
Her heart thundered madly in her chest. She approached the bed, marveling at her smooth albeit slow steps. The hope in her grew, blossoming into full-scale joy.
The first time she broke her leg, Mrs. Danvers had forced her from bed a week after her fall, insisting she would not harbor any lazy layabouts beneath her roof. By then Annalise was helping her mother in the nursery and with other tasks about the house. She was not allowed to be idle—even in order to heal properly.
Apparently this time around, being off her feet had allowed her leg to heal properly. If Mirela was in front of her now, she would have hugged her to within an inch of her life. And she knew she owed her good fortune to Owen, too. If he hadn’t found her and taken her in and given her the opportunity to recuperate, she would still be crippled. If not dead.
“You shouldn’t push yourself too hard,” Mrs. Kirkpatrick said, “but you should walk daily. Lord McDowell said you need to increase your stamina each day.”
“You spoke with Lord McDowell?” She looked sharply at the housekeeper.
The woman nodded. “Aye. Yesterday. He’s the one that told me to get you on your feet today, that it was time for you to start walking.”
So he had not totally forgotten her. After last week’s embarrassing episode in her bedchamber, she had no sight of him. She hadn’t even heard any sounds coming from the room next door. She had started to wonder if he still intended to keep his promise to her.
She glanced toward the door that separated their rooms. “Is he here now?”
Mrs. Kirkpatrick’s lips thinned with disapproval, and Annalise wondered if she thought her interest unseemly. “No.”
Absurd, but disappointment lanced through her. She had hoped he was near, that he would surface to witness her progress. She was no longer the invalid. She could look him in the eyes now instead of from a chair or bed.
She crossed the room again, walking cautiously. Her limp might be gone but she still wasn’t quite in skipping condition.
“Don’t overtax yourself,” Mrs. Kirkpatrick reminded her, standing back now, hovering less.
Her lips curved. “A moment ago you were shoving me off the bed.”
“If you overtax yourself, then you won’t be able to get up from bed at all tomorrow. You’ll be too exhausted.”
“Will his lordship return tonight?”
Mrs. Kirkpatrick’s lips went thin again, and this time Annalise did not think it was just because she disapproved of her improper relationship with the earl. It was something else, something more. “I don’t expect him tonight.”
She stood in place for a moment, noticing that the housekeeper didn’t meet her gaze, instead bent her head and concentrated on smoothing the coverlet of her bed with her hands.
And then Annalise understood. Owen hadn’t been staying here. He was spending the nights somewhere else. Her mind shied away from just where he could be. Another residence? Another woman?
A hot surge of jealousy spread through her chest.
Squaring her shoulders, she looked down at her feet and continued her stroll around the bedchamber, shoving aside feelings of hurt. It was none of her business where he
spent his time. Or with whom.
“You don’t have to remain, Mrs. Kirkpatrick. I intend to walk a few more paces around the room at least.”
“I don’t know—”
“It’s as his lordship said. I need to increase my stamina.”
With a shrug, the housekeeper moved for the door. “Ring the bell if you need anything.”
Annalise focused on her steps again. She needed to be strong. Stronger than ever before. When she next saw Owen, he would not confuse her for the invalid he fished from the river. Nor would he mistake her as the woman who had so foolishly offered herself to him. She would not commit that mortifying error again.
He’d see her as a strong, healthy woman, ready for whatever instruction he could give her.
She’d make certain he saw her for who she really was. Or at least who she was determined to become.
Chapter Twelve
The house was silent as a tomb when Owen returned that night. A lamp glowed from a small marble table in the foyer. A groom emerged from the small room off the foyer, rubbing groggily at his eyes.
“Good eve, my lord. Can I attend you and help you retire for the night?”
“Unnecessary, Edmond. Take yourself to bed.”
The groom bobbed his thanks. “Very good, my lord.” He started to move away, stopping at the sound of Owen’s voice.
“How have things fared around here lately?” He’d stopped in a few days ago for some fresh clothes and had not returned since.
The groom blinked at his inquiry as if trying to wake and decipher its meaning. “Er, everything is well, my lord?” It was more question than statement. Clearly he did not know how to reply.
“All has been well? Everyone has been well?”
“We are all quite well, my lord, thank you for inquiring,” the man answered obtusely, smiling and bobbing his head agreeably.
Owen stared at him a moment longer. With a gust of breath, he finally asked, “And our guest, Miss Anna. Is she well?”
Understanding lit the man’s eyes. “Ah, yes. She is quite well. Walking now. Today she managed the stairs for the first time. That was a bit of excitement. Most thrilling for all of us, my lord. There was a bit of cheering. We were all quite caught up in the excitement. She mentioned taking a walk out of doors tomorrow.”
“Did she?” He nodded, absorbing this last bit of information. “Very well, then. Good night.”
The groom nodded his head. “Good night, my lord.”
Owen ascended the stairs, his footsteps deadened by the runner. He required fresh clothes again. A bath, too. He’d spent another night at Sodom, a gaming hell that belonged to his old school friend, Ian. There had been a fair amount of brandy flowing throughout several hands of cards. He could not rightly recall the details. Lately he had spent a great deal of time there, losing himself in drink and cards. He might have even spent a night or two in the bed of a woman whose name he did not know.
The female had been more than happy to offer him use of her bed. She even made the generous offer to share it with him. An offer he had refused for reasons he could not precisely define. As fetching as the curvaceous blonde had been, he wasn’t interested in making her his bedmate. He told himself it was because he’d simply craved sleep . . . a place somewhere within the walls of Sodom to rest his head, which felt as though it were stuffed full of cotton.
A wretched situation. He’d let her run him from his own home—the very place he’d long to return to. Inside his chamber, his gaze drifted to the adjoining room. No light glowed from beneath the door and he could only surmise she was asleep. Of course. In all likelihood she was exhausted from a day of walking stairs. He frowned, hoping she wasn’t overdoing it. He‘d left Mrs. Kirkpatrick with instructions that Anna should resume activities and start building up her strength, but he didn’t want her to injure herself. That would only prolong her stay here, beneath his roof.
He closed his eyes against that notion, and that was a mistake because the image that rose, unbidden, in his mind was of Anna. Naked in a tub. Anna stretched out wet and inviting on the bed, the towel clinging to her body, hiding nothing. Only emphasizing the flare of her hips, the generous swell of her breasts, the flat expanse of belly that begged for his touch. His fingers curled inward at his sides in reflex. As if it was all he could do to stop himself from striding into her room and laying his hands on her satin skin.
He turned to his bed. Sitting down, he tugged off his boots. Next he stripped off his jacket, followed by his vest and irreparably rumpled cravat. Realizing it was too late to call for a bath, he strode to the basin and splashed water over his face and bare chest, washing himself, heedless of the mess he was making.
He was bent at the waist, his head practically submerged in the bowl, when he heard the creak of a floorboard. He seized the towel from the side of the stand and dragged it over his face and head. Rubbing it over his chest, he lifted his face and listened.
It came again. Steps in the corridor. It was a little late for a servant to be wandering the halls. Curious, he strolled to his door and opened it.
The flickering firelight from his bedchamber spilled a path out onto the shadowy hall, directly onto the person inches from the threshold of his room.
“Anna?” He eyed her up and down, standing only one arm’s length from him.
She froze in place, blinking those large brown eyes at him. The velvet brown glowed, the outer edge a ring of black. “My lord,” she breathed.
Gazing at her, he registered that he had never seen her upright before. Her head only came to his chin. The way she stood so utterly still reminded him of a rabbit caught in the eyes of a predator. His gaze crawled over her, devouring the long rope of brown hair draped over her shoulder, the tendrils unraveling from its plait like so many threads.
She wore a modest nightgown, the neckline laced with ribbons almost up to her throat. Her bare feet peeped out beneath the hem, the small, round toes curling into the floor as if shying from his scrutiny.
“You are home,” she murmured, indicating that she had been fully aware of his absence. Home. Is that how she viewed this place? As her home now? He wasn’t sure how he felt about that. It probably wasn’t a good development.
He motioned to her person. “You are standing. Walking.” Inane, he supposed. He could see as much—even if he hadn’t already been informed, he knew.
“Yes.”
“You look well.”
“Thank you.” She paused, moistening her lips, and his gaze followed the glistening trail left by her tongue. “I am.” She walked in a small circle as though to demonstrate. “And no limp.”
She stopped to gaze up at him with a face glowing with delight. And no limp. The words had been uttered as though she expected a limp—as though he should have expected as much.
“Should you have a limp?”
Her mouth opened but no words fell. She had that look on her face again. The one that came like a cold wind, freezing her features. He recognized it, knew it signified something. Fear? Regret? He wasn’t certain.
“I simply thought that I might—” Her voice broke off. She tried again, “I’ve heard of people left with a limp after a broken leg.”
“Have you? I am happy to see you on your feet then.” Relieved, he silently added. The quicker she was well and moving about on her own again, the sooner he would be rid of her. An uncharitable thought, he knew, and one that caused him to feel myriad emotions aside from relief. Not all of which he could identify. Nor did he wish to even try.
When he’d left his brother and Paget, he had sought to simplify his life, and this was a far cry from that. From the moment he found her along that riverbank, his life had been in upheaval.
He wanted to find a place where it was just him and the blast of his ugly thoughts and waking nightmares. He was unfit for the company of others. That’s why he had to l
eave Jamie and Paget. Not because he was angry or jealous. He could not taint their happiness. He was a corrupted soul. He couldn’t be around them. He couldn’t be around anyone.
And yet here she was. He had never asked for her presence in his life. He wanted only solitude, to be left alone with his wounds, and yet somehow he stood here. In the dead of the night face-to-face with a woman who looked at him with eyes bright and full of expectation.
As if she sensed his anxiousness to be rid of her, she replied. “I am certain you are happy. My presence here is quite the burden. I understand that.” She tilted her head at a defiant angle, almost as though she dared him to dispute this.
His mouth curved and he glanced away, peering into the dark depths of the corridor, trying to banish his grin. It couldn’t be helped. She amused him . . . affected him.
He faced her again, his expression sober. “What are you doing from bed so late?
“I’m doing as you instructed.”
He arched an eyebrow. He had not been around lately to instruct her on any matters. A fact he was achingly aware of as he gazed at her, his every nerve, every sense, heightened and alive and aching at the sight of her. Even garbed in a virginal nightgown and cloaked in shadow, he vividly recalled what she looked like with it off. He swallowed against the sudden tightness in his throat.
“Mrs. Kirkpatrick conveyed your wishes that I should add to my distance each day in order to increase my strength.”
“Ah.” He crossed his arms and nodded sagely. “I said that, yes.” And then he’d gone about his way, leaving her to Mrs. Kirkpatrick’s care, trying to fill his days and nights and block out the past, block out her.
“And I’ve done that. Am doing that.” She waved her arms out.
Astonished, he dropped his arms at his sides. “Is that what you’re doing? Right now?”
“I want to become stronger so that you can start helping me.”
He ignored that reminder and stepped out into the corridor, looking left and right. “Foolish woman,” he muttered.
Sophie Jordan - [Forgotten Princesses 03] Page 10
