Rebecca smiled what was by far her most beautiful smile of the day. Indeed, it was so radiant that it almost hurt to look at her. “Nothing would please me more. Come anytime. I shall be here ready to receive you.”
“I will. Soon,” Emily promised, joy bubbling within her at the prospect of a new friend. “I shall ask Mercy to guide me so I shan’t be lost again.”
“You shan’t be lost at any rate, I promise. Never again,” Rebecca countered, still smiling.
Emily eyed her curiously. “How can you be so certain?”
“Because I am the go-between and you are my friend. That means that from this day forth you are under the protection of the otherworlds. You have only to ask and the pixies will safely lead you anywhere you wish to go on these moors.”
Chapter 11
It had been so long since he’d enjoyed a decent meal, that he had forgotten the delight to be had at the table. Now that he’d rediscovered it, he hoped he’d never again be deprived of it.
For what must have been the hundredth time since beginning his dinner, Michael groaned his appreciation. Luscious. Exquisite. It had to be the most delicious meal he’d ever eaten. So delicious, in fact, that Emily had teased him that there would be no need to wash his dishes, so clean had he thus far left them.
Right now he sampled what he silently christened as the tastiest onion and herb stuffed salmon in the entire world. Closing his eyes in ecstasy at the delicate explosion of flavor on his palate, he more moaned than uttered, “M-m-m, heaven. I cannot believe that Eadon approved this.” It was the same comment he’d made upon tasting each dish that evening, for it seemed impossible to him that such succulent fare could be made from the wretched foodstuffs allowed him on Eadon’s diet.
As she’d done each time he made the remark, Emily chuckled and responded, “I can assure you that he did. It meets with all of his requirements.” She sounded as happy as his stomach felt.
Opening his eyes again to shoot her both a look and a smile of everlasting gratitude, Michael turned his attention to devouring the salmon, along with its superbly seasoned side dishes of cabbage and rice, and dressed asparagus, a feat he accomplished in record time. When he’d eaten every last morsel and scraped his plate clean, he settled back into his chair, purring his gastronomic gratification. “That was excellent, Emily. Thank you,” he murmured, patting his stomach to exemplify his satisfaction. For the first time in what felt like a century, it didn’t ache with emptiness.
Emily, who ate her own meal at a ladylike pace, made a dismissive hand motion. “Oh, that was nothing. Just wait until you see what I have planned for you tomorrow, starting with breakfast.”
“I look forward to it.” The words slipped out so easily, so naturally, that Michael’s breath caught in his throat, arrested by the startling truth of the utterance. For the first time in over two years, he genuinely did look forward to a tomorrow. He had something to contemplate with pleasure, a reason to get out of bed.
And that something wasn’t the splendid meal Emily vowed to provide, tempting though the prospect was, it was the lure of Emily herself. It was the promise of her fine company, the enticement of her friendship. It was her unspoken invitation to share in the wonders of her world and to rediscover the glories of life. It was the joy of simply being near her, of basking in the warmth of her smile and thrilling to the exhilarating joy of her laughter.
Oh, true, he still suffered a certain measure of lust for her. How could he not? Despite everything, he was still a man, and she was the most beautiful and provocative woman he’d ever met. Unlike on their wedding day, however, when he’d viewed her as nothing more than a carnal temptation, he was now able to control his physical desires, difficult though it was at times, and content himself with delighting in the charms of her spirit. Oddly enough, doing so gave him immense satisfaction, a warm sense of fulfillment that lingered and continued to kindle his heart long after they had parted. In truth, the satisfaction he gleaned from just being near her was greater and gave him far more pleasure than that which he’d derived from making love to his many women.
Suddenly feeling happier than he could recall ever feeling before, Michael nodded to Ralph, who indicated a wish to remove his empty plate, then glanced back at Emily. She was staring at him, her expression a million miles away as she absently licked the back of her fork. Wanting to share in whatever had her so preoccupied, to better understand the woman who was not only his wife, but his savior, he leaned forward and murmured, “A penny for your thoughts, Emily.”
She paused midlick, her eyes widening briefly as if trying to recall both time and place, then she smiled sheepishly. “I’m sorry, Michael. How very rude of me to wool-gather like that.”
He smiled back, tenderly. “Hardly rude, considering that I have barely spared you a word the entire meal. Of course”—his smile broadened into a teasing grin—“my lack of conversation is entirely your fault. Had it not been for your delicious food, my mouth would have been quite free to entertain you.”
She laughed, something that was quickly becoming his favorite sound in the world. “In that instance, I suppose I must be prepared to amuse myself at every meal in the future, for I fully intend to see your mouth thus occupied from this day forth.” Smiling with a warmth that incandesced her beautiful eyes into pools of midnight luminance, she saucily added, “You see, I have my own theory on what ails you and my own plan for treating it.”
“More treatments?” He emitted a mock groan.
Her smile broadened, revealing a slightly crooked back tooth. Rather than detracting from her beauty, the flaw merely endeared her all the more to Michael. “Unlike Mr. Eadon’s treatments, I promise that you shall find mine most pleasant and vivifying. Indeed, if all goes as planned, you should be feeling much the better and have regained a goodly portion of your strength in several weeks’ time. If nothing else, my treatments will reduce the toll Mr. Eadon’s bleedings and other such horrors are taking on your body and spirit.”
“Treatments for Eadon’s treatments, eh?” Michael murmured, more thrilled than he could say by her interest. That she had given him so much thought and was prepared to go to such trouble on his behalf spoke volumes of the warmth of her feelings for him.
She nodded. “I have seen how weak and miserable they leave you, and have surmised that you will be better able to endure them if your constitution is improved. In my opinion, your want of constitution comes from being half-starved. You also appear to suffer a malaise, which I believe to result from a lack of pleasure. In short, darling husband, you must endure more tempting meals and several hours of daily amusement if you are to ever feel yourself again. Do you think you shall be able to bear all that?”
Darling husband. How he liked the sound of that. Wanting to shout his delight at her casual use of the endearment, he grinned and countered, “I shall gladly suffer any treatment you choose to inflict upon me … darling wife.” Hmmm. It seemed that he liked uttering endearments even more than he liked hearing them.
“Excellent.” She nodded again. “If you progress as I hope, which I am certain you will, I might be able to convince Mr. Eadon to reduce the frequency of your harsher treatments.”
“Indeed?” he drawled, liking her plan immensely. He couldn’t help but be improved by her gentle nurturing.
Another nod. “To my way of thinking, your bowels, digestion, and blood will eliminate bad humors on their own if they are strengthened enough to do so, thus reducing your need for weekly cleansing. A properly balanced diet paired with a lightening of your spirits should do the trick handily enough.”
At that moment William, the second footman, set a bowl of prettily garnished pudding before him. Michael gazed longingly at it for several beats, then shot Emily a querying look.
She laughed. “Yes, of course Mr. Eadon approved it. I wouldn’t have had it served if he hadn’t.”
“It is just that it lo
oks so wonderful,” he replied, eyeing the treat almost reverently as he picked up his spoon. “It hardly seems possible to make something so marvelous from the dreary foods he allows me.”
“It wasn’t, not until I convinced him to allow a few additions to your menus, such as sugar and cream. Of course, they will only be allowed at one meal a day and in moderation, but that should be enough to build your strength.”
“A miracle,” he sighed, referring to both Eadon’s allowance of the foods and the silken sweetness embracing his tongue as he tasted the confection.
Emily smiled and took a bite of her own dessert. “He has also consented to allow you a caudle on the days you are bled, which should do much to revive you, what with the heartening properties of the eggs and milk. As for the rest”—she grinned—“you shall see. I wish to surprise you.”
“I look forward to being surprised, though I doubt any future surprise will be able to match the excellence of this one.” He consumed another spoonful of the pudding, an involuntary moan of pleasure escaping him at the taste. “M-m-m. What sort of pudding is this, anyway?”
“Tansy. And it is counted as most healthful for someone in your condition. Not only does it have the benefits of cream, eggs, and sugar, tansy is said to help with seizures.” She paused to lick a dollop of pudding from the back of her spoon. “Since you like it, I shall make certain that you get it every week.”
For the next few moments they ate in companionable silence, Emily’s appetite for the pudding almost matching his. Unlike the night before, when they had dined in the formal Italian dining room, Emily had had the meal laid in the tiny breakfast room, a change he had to admit he liked. There was a homey sort of coziness about the room that seemed to encourage their growing intimacy. Deciding that he would order every meal served here, Michael glanced around him, inspecting the room in which he’d dined hundreds of times, but had never really seen.
It was modest, almost austere, with its creamy yellow walls and worn brick floor. The fireplace, unlike most of the other ones in the house with their ornate chimney pieces, was a simple stone arch, above which hung a pastoral landscape in a gilded frame, flanked by a pair of heavy black wrought iron sconces. The chandelier above their heads, too, was of black wrought iron, as were the andirons upon the hearth, which currently held several cheerily burning logs.
Like the room itself, the furnishings were spare and for the most part utilitarian. Indeed, aside from the bright Turkish rug beneath the polished oak refectory table at which they sat and the tapestry upholstery on the chairs, the only ornamental touches were the mishmash of paintings on the walls, ones clearly banished from other rooms. Those, and the decorative blue-and-white ware displayed upon the heavy oak sideboard that sat near the fireplace. Michael paused briefly to consider the low-beamed ceiling, then glanced over at the wall of leaded windows, beyond which stood the formal garden, now shrouded in evening shadow and rising autumn mist. Looking outside made him all the more aware of the welcoming warmth within the room. Most of the warmth, of course, was due to Emily.
Smiling, as he always did of late at the mere thought of Emily, Michael shifted his gaze to admire the charming picture she made as she sat bathed in firelight, daintily eating her pudding.
In keeping with the casualness of the meal, she wore a simple but delightful dinner gown of green and pink striped taffeta, one with a wide, square neck and short puffed sleeves. He particularly liked the fit of the bodice, the cut of which clung to her lush curves, and the way her jewelled-buckle belt whittled her already narrow waist into nothingness.
Her hair, which she usually wore hanging down her back in a profusion of gypsy wild curls, had been swept up this evening in a fashionable coiffure of glossy puffs and braids. Though he secretly preferred it unbound, he had to admit that her current style emphasized the exotic beauty of her face and gave her a certain air of sophistication. Indeed, were she to appear in the ton looking exactly as she did now, she most certainly would have been declared quite the thing and become the toast of the Season.
As Michael sat admiring Emily, imagining the pleasure of showing her off in London, she glanced up. When she saw him staring at her, she smiled and said, “I had the most amazing adventure today. Would you like to hear about it?”
Thrilled to hear anything she wished to tell him, he smiled back and nodded. “Please.”
“It happened when I was on the moor searching for tansy to make the pudding. I lost my way and—” She broke off with a soft gasp, her cheeks flooding with vibrant color. Darting him a guilty look, she rushed to amend, “I was just a little lost, mind you. And only for a moment. I’m certain—”
“What!” Michael roared, unnerved by the thought of the woman who was quickly coming to mean everything to him lost on the moors. “Are you saying that you went out on the moors alone?”
Her cherry cheeks darkened to the color of garnets. “Well, yes. But it turned out that I really wasn’t so very far from the abbey after all.”
He shook his head, not about to be pacified. “Be that as it may, you are never—ever!—under any circumstances to again set so much as a toe on the moors without one of the grooms for escort, preferably Abraham or Josiah. Both were born and raised in these parts and know the land as well as they know the back of their own hand.” Leaning forward to emphasize his point, he bore his gaze into hers and forcefully demanded, “Is that understood, Emily?”
She smiled weakly and nodded. “Yes, of course.”
“Do I have your promise?” he thundered, not about to let the subject drop until he was certain of her compliance.
“I promise. Now please, Michael, do calm down.” She reached over and gave his hand a placating pat. “You know you aren’t supposed to excite yourself.”
He snorted. “And how exactly did you expect me to respond to the news of your folly, if not with excitement?”
“I hadn’t expected you to respond at all, since I had no intention of telling you about that part of my adventure. It somehow just”—she shook her head, gesturing her bewilderment—“slipped out. I still do not know how it managed to do so.”
“Well, I’m glad it did. At least now I will know to keep a closer watch on you.” And he meant it. He’d be damned before he’d allow her to endanger herself in such a manner again.
“Yes, fine. You may follow me everywhere I go if you so desire. Just please, do calm yourself.” She patted his hand again, this time rather frantically, casting an anxious glance at the door as she did so. “If Mr. Eadon sees you in such a state, he will think you in need of another bleeding, and I shall never forgive myself if you have to suffer so on my account.”
She was right, of course. Eadon would no doubt deem his current pique worth opening a vein and draining a good twenty or thirty ounces. Nevertheless, it was a price he would gladly pay if it was what it took to curb her recklessness. Shaking his head, he growled, “I will survive a bleeding. You, on the other hand, might not survive another outing alone on the moor. Indeed, you were exceedingly fortunate to have found your way home this time. Countless people have been lost on the moors through the years, some of whom have never been found.”
“Oh, I admit I was lucky. In truth, had Rebecca and Magellan not found me, I might very well have stayed lost.” Her hand was over his now, gently stroking it in the way he found so soothing.
Michael sat very still for several moments, mesmerized by her woman’s touch. When he realized what was happening, he shook his head hard, determined to break her spell and continue her well-deserved dressing-down. Remaining bewitched despite his efforts, he scowled and muttered, “Who the devil are Rebecca and Magellan?”
“They are the real part of my adventure. Rebecca is a woman—a young, beautiful one—who lives in a magnificent cottage on the moor. And Magellan is, well”—a faint frown creased her smooth brow—“he appears to be her pet goat, but I suspect that he isn’t real
ly a goat at all.”
Michael’s frown mirrored hers. “Whatever do you mean?”
“Magellan looks like a goat, but he doesn’t act like one.”
His frown deepened at the oddness of her response. “How does he act then?”
She returned his gaze in silence for several beats, then bit her lip and looked away. Flushing again, she murmured, “He acts almost … almost … human.”
“What?” Michael exclaimed, staring at her as if she were the most eccentric chit on earth, which at that moment he believed she was.
“He acts human,” she repeated, her cheeks skipping the garnet stage entirely to blush a rich burgundy. Stealing a glance at him from beneath her thick lashes, she said, “I know this is going to sound absurd, but I could have sworn that the beast winked at me.”
“He what?” Surely he’d heard wrong? She hadn’t really said that the goat had winked at her, had she?
“He winked at me,” she confirmed with a nod. “And you should have seen the way he stared at me. It—it, well, it reminded me of the way men sometimes look at women when they think they are paying them no mind. You are a man, so I suppose you know the look?” She was gazing at him earnestly now, her face the picture of innocent appeal. “It’s that intense, hungry look, as if the man is imagining the woman in her chemise?”
Oh, he knew the look well enough, and he could have told her that those men weren’t imagining the women they were staring at in their chemises. They were picturing them naked and moaning beneath their thrusting loins. He should know—he’d spent enough time casting her that very look out his window.
Not wanting to think about the groin-wrenching lust he’d suffered during those moments, much less discuss it, he frowned and said, “Are you saying that the goat leered at you?” Better an absurd conversation than a provocative one.
“Yes, but as I mentioned, I do not think that he is really a goat. Not only doesn’t he act like one, he can talk.”
Bewitched Page 19
