Feeding the duke on apples, entertaining the children on wild tales, Fiona tried to live in the moment and not worry about the next. She didn’t like seeing Neville so still and speechless. It didn’t bode well. But she’d long ago learned not to fret because she couldn’t move the moon and stars.
So she imagined a picnic with the duke resting his head on her lap while she spun tales for the children they would never have together. If she’d thought their future could hold moments like this, she might have found a better way of handling the situation at Anglesey, but life was all about disappointment, and she knew better than to fool herself. So she borrowed this moment out of time.
The wagon dragged into Sligo at sunset. She was tempted to seek the duke’s yacht, but uncertain of the danger, she directed Sean toward a respectable inn. If the duke had enemies, surely they knew where to find his yacht. It was best not to reveal his helplessness just yet.
“I don’t have Doyle here to move you, Your Grace,” she whispered, wishing the nearly comatose man in her lap could hear. “Could you see your way to walking?” She didn’t expect an answer, and she certainly didn’t expect him to sit up and walk away. She just needed someone to talk to, and the children weren’t helpful.
“Walk,” came the murmur from dry lips.
Startled, Fiona raised her eyebrows. Cool gray eyes stared back at her. He was awake!
Tamping down her excitement, she kept her voice low as she issued orders to the children to behave, and sent Sean to check on the availability of rooms. She didn’t know how she would disguise the duke, walking or not walking. “Shall we try sitting you up first?”
His arms struggled at the cocoon of blankets. Hurriedly, Fiona unwrapped him. He still wore his frock coat, although it looked as if it had been thrown on the ground, rolled in the mud, and wadded up to dry. She shook out a blanket, draped it around his shoulders, and offered support as he struggled for a sitting position.
She could almost literally hear him fighting the pain as he leaned against her shoulder. The man she knew would never have leaned on anyone.
“All right, the end of the wagon is a few feet away. Do you think you can scoot over there?”
Fiona held her breath as he hesitated. She wasn’t at all certain that he comprehended. So far, all he’d done was repeat what he heard.
“Neville?” she whispered. The name came much easier to her tongue now than it used to, when he was his usual authoritative self. When he didn’t respond, she tried another tactic. “Move forward.”
That simple command produced a better response. He nodded, winced, then edged toward the end of the wagon.
Sean ran out, followed by an aproned innkeeper. Hiding her fear, Fiona threw part of the blanket over Neville’s head. He halted with his legs dangling half out of the wagon and grasped the wool so it didn’t fall.
“He’s got but two rooms.”
Fiona thanked the boy’s intelligence for stopping his tongue before he said her name. She gave him a grateful smile, then turned an anxious gaze to the rotund innkeeper. “My husband is injured, sir. We’re seeking a physician. If you would, I’ve the coins to pay for the rooms in advance.”
That news brought an immediate smile to the man’s face. “Of course, missus. Allow me to help with the poor man. Was it a fall from his horse? Knew a man once, fell from his horse, near broke his head open, he did. Never the same again.”
She didn’t need that cheerful news, but she managed a grateful smile. “His horse, yes. Minding his own business, and the animal just up and throws him. Never saw the like. Here, let me take the other side. Granny, if you’d see to the children...”
In a thick cloud of confusion, they helped Neville inside while children toddled, skipped, and chattered in a whirling pattern around and between them. Mrs. Callaghan held the sleeping infant and occasionally shooed a straying tot ahead of her.
Once installed in their rooms with Neville’s purse several coins lighter, Fiona sat on the edge of the bed, closed her eyes, and gave herself up to weariness. Tired children explored, climbed the furniture, and clawed through the sacks of food.
“Nanny.”
Fiona smiled at the word from the man beside her. He’d actually said something on his own, so his brains weren’t entirely scrambled. Leave it to a bloody rich duke to think of nursemaids. Not so rich, she amended, just spoiled.
“Not likely,” she replied. She thought she heard him laugh. She probably imagined it. She so desperately wanted his help that she would imagine anything even resembling it.
“Food,” he said succinctly.
That was the answer of course. The children couldn’t shout and whine and cry with their mouths full of food. Clapping her hands, Fiona set the older ones to cutting bread and cheese. Mrs. Callaghan had already produced a pot for boiling water on the brazier. They’d have hot tea and toasted bread in their bellies shortly. Weary as they all were, surely they would sleep.
She propped pillows behind Neville so he could sit up, supported by the iron bedstead. His eyes were open more often now and seemed to observe the chaos. He carefully examined the cup of tea she offered, then took the handle. She guided his hand toward his mouth. As he sipped the brew, some of the tension slipped from his posture, and he closed his eyes and drank without further aid.
Doyle had only packed a few tin mug s, but the children knew how to share. The smallest needed the mugs held for them, and Fiona helped Mrs. Callaghan with that task while keeping her eye on the man in the bed. The blanket had fallen from his shoulders, revealing the rumpled, muddy mess of his clothing. She’d have to send to his yacht for clean ones if she could.
Sean had said Neville hadn’t carried a bag with him. He must have been in quite a hurry to leave the ship without a change of clothing. If she considered the fit of fury Neville must have been in at the time, she could almost look at his current state as a welcome reprieve. Almost.
As the eldest took turns leading the youngest to the privy behind the inn, another thought increased her nervousness. Until now, Neville hadn’t taken in enough liquids to need the use of a chamber pot, but he’d just drunk two mugs of tea. Unless his body was more damaged than she’d thought, he’d need the pot or a privy before long.
She’d cleaned and bandaged wounds for the village workers over the years. She’d given them herbal teas to ease their headaches after drunken sprees. She had little shyness of men’s bodies. But somehow, even after what they had done together, the intimacy of tending the duke’s needs overwhelmed her.
Mrs. Callaghan took the youngest and the oldest children into the adjoining room where they washed, and arranged pallets or shared the bed. Fiona tucked blankets around the three middle children and heard their prayers. When she returned to the high bed, she discovered Neville watching her gravely.
“You.” He pointed at the door.
She understood, even if she wasn’t certain she agreed. “You’ll be all right?”
It took him an inordinate amount of time to understand the question, but finally, he repeated. “All right.”
She tried not to let relief overwhelm her at this indication that some of his comprehension was returning. Not willing to consider what that second blow had done to the duke’s fine mind, Fiona set the chamber pot near the bed and hastened out the door to the privy.
She knew this inn, had slept there before. She knew to avoid the tavern and to carry a candle through the darkened halls. She would have preferred company, but she could deal with most anything that came her way. Fortunately for her exhausted state of mind, nothing came her way.
Returning to her chamber, she found Neville had removed his constraining frock coat and hung it over a chair. She smiled at that tidy touch from a man who could barely hold his head upright. She’d taken the only candle, but the brazier gave off sufficient light to see that he lay in the bed, his golden head denting one of the pillows. The other pillow waited for her return.
Thanking the good Lord that Neville ret
ained enough strength to look after himself to some extent, Fiona studied her current predicament. Doyle had packed a bag for her, so she had clean clothes and a nightgown. She thought Neville slept, but she hesitated at undressing in his presence. It was a stupid notion, and she resolved not to give in to that missishness.
Stripping to her chemise, she wriggled on the nightgown, then pulled back the covers on her side of the bed. A strong male hand politely lifted them for her, holding them up until she crawled between the sheets. Embarrassment flooded Fiona’s cheeks, and she lay frozen on the far edge of the bed.
“Here,” he whispered, letting the covers drop back and tapping the place beside him.
She couldn’t hit him. She couldn’t scold. For all she knew, he made demands like a child, wanting the comfort of her closeness. But she didn’t have the excuse of a scrambled brain. She remembered quite distinctly the episode in the conservatory when he’d turned her mind to mush and her body into liquid fire.
She slid down in the bed a little more, edging just a few scant inches closer. “Sleep,” she whispered.
“Mine,” came the distinct reply as his hand reached out, caught her waist, and hauled her toward the center of the bed.
So much for scrambled brains. Fiona stiffened, resisting the urge to turn and flatten herself against him.
His hand stroked the cloth over her hip, then rose higher, his fingers finding purchase around her breast. She stopped breathing altogether.
Biting her tongue, she waited for what would happen next. Just the stroke of Neville’s hand had set her insides aflame, even though she suspected he had no clue as to what he was doing. She couldn’t risk pregnancy without the safety net of marriage, no matter how much she longed for the reassurance of his touch.
When he didn’t move, she turned to see if his eyes were open.
He snored.
So much for sleeping this night. Mentally relieved but fighting a sharp disappointment, Fiona wrapped her fingers around his and studied the ceiling. Now what was she going to do?
Twenty
He woke to the sound of childish whispers, the gray light of a rainy day, and the tempting warmth of a feminine body pressed against his side. He also woke to an erection that could have rammed stone walls, until he realized he didn’t have the slightest idea where he was or who he was with. That eased one pounding ache sufficiently to recognize the other one in his head. So much for lust.
Gingerly, he tested his surroundings with his other senses rather than open his eyes just yet. His stiff, rumpled clothing had pressed a permanent wrinkle into his backside, he decided. He couldn’t imagine going to bed fully dressed, especially if he shared the bed with a woman. And he was quite certain his companion was female. Her decidedly lush breasts pressed into his side, and a small hand curled trustingly in the middle of his chest. He thought he smelled lilacs.
The childish voices grew more argumentative, ending any thought of exploring soft curves. Prying open one eyelid, he glared in the direction of the noise. Three unknown children tussled over a pillow and a blanket. He glanced down at the woman tucked against his side. She slept, undisturbed by the noise.
He didn’t have many means of silencing the hooligans, and he was oddly reluctant to wake the woman. Carefully, he slid the pillow from beneath his own head and heaved it in the direction of the commotion.
The children looked up in surprise. He held a finger to his lips and pointed at the sleeping female. They instantly silenced. Briefly.
They discovered the sacks of supplies next. He winced as one yelled over the discovery of some delicacy and another attempted to steal it. The woman beside him stirred. At the same time, he heard more childish voices piping from behind the wall. The pounding in his head intensified.
Giving up on quieting the children, he concentrated on the female. Dark hair streaked with red tumbled in profusion across her pillow. A thick fringe of dark lashes swept over high, flushed cheeks, and ripe lips parted in sleep. He smiled as he recognized the woman he’d claimed as wife. The smile lasted only long enough to realize he couldn’t remember her name.
For all that mattered, he couldn’t remember his own name.
Preoccupied by that discovery, he wasn’t aware when she first awoke. Only her whisper startled his muddled thoughts back to the moment.
“Neville?”
Neville? That sounded right. Maybe. Lifting a hand to his pounding head, he tried focusing on a reply. No name came out. It was there, he was certain. It just didn’t emerge. Frantically, he looked around the room, searching for anything familiar he could name. Nothing. His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth, and pain lanced through his head.
The woman scrambled up beside him, looking as panicked as he felt. She touched his cheek, held a cool hand to his brow. Neville’s gaze focused on the view she offered of unfettered breasts cloaked in thin linen. Panic subsided as he noted two of the tiny buttons had come unfastened and he could catch a glimpse of pearly skin.
“Lovely,” he sighed.
She sat back on her heels and glared at him. “You scared me half to death, your worship. How’s your head this morn?”
Musical bells and scolding tones didn’t match. He glared back but again, couldn’t find words of reply when he hadn’t the faintest idea what she’d said. Rather than appear entirely addled, he nodded to the children arguing in the corner. “Noisy.”
“Well, at least you’ve moved on to adjectives today,” she said with a sigh, climbing from the bed. “You might make one word speeches all the rage in the Lords, and wouldn’t that be a blessing.”
He didn’t bother trying to understand the string of words. He just smiled at her wry tones. Redheads had a temper, he remembered. At least, he thought he remembered. He didn’t know where else the thought came from.
The youngest child bounced up to the bed. Wide dark eyes watched him, while sticky lips sucked on equally sticky fingers. Neville stared back. He didn’t think he’d ever seen this creature in his life. Surely it didn’t belong to him, but the woman did. He knew that of a certainty.
“Here, your lordship, wipe the little monster down.”
A damp rag was shoved into his hands. Neville glared at the woman, then back at the child. He might not understand what she said, but he knew what to do with wet rags and sticky fingers. The child didn’t protest as Neville cleaned him up.
He watched in amazement as another troop of midgets danced into the room a short time later. They emerged from the walls like cockroaches. He wanted to send them all away so he could concentrate on the lovely woman whose tempting curves were now wrapped in a hideous black shawl. But then he would have to concentrate on his communication problem, and that made his head hurt. So he followed the antics of the tribe of midgets instead.
He cleaned them off if they bounced on the bed. When one appeared half-naked and carrying a shirt, he pulled the garment over his head. Or her head. He wasn’t entirely certain. The entire lot had hair of various and assorted colors curling about their ears, except for the one with stick straight hair that stood on end. It was a trifle difficult distinguishing gender until they were into dresses or trousers.
At some point one of the elder children brought him some steaming hot tea and a crumbly cake of bread. It scarcely filled his protesting stomach, but he had some sense that there was barely enough to go around. That didn’t seem quite right. His memory had holes in it, large gaping holes that frightened him, but he did have some awareness of how things should have been. The visual image of groaning sideboards of assorted egg dishes, rashers, sausages, and muffins haunted his empty head.
Unable to voice his question, he sipped his tea and munched his bread. The woman he knew must be his wife disappeared into the adjoining room and returned fully dressed. To his utter relief, she ushered the children back to that room and closed the door on them, leaving the two of them alone.
Neville studied her quizzically. Among other things he remembered, one did not get dressed w
hen interested in bedplay. And he was definitely interested. His mind might not be functioning fully, but the rest of him had no such problem.
He didn’t like her high-necked gown, but he couldn’t form the words to tell her. He just fastened his attention on the full curves of her bodice as she approached, and the lower part of his body tented the blankets.
“Damn you, Neville, I need your help. Sean aimed for the wrong part of your anatomy.” She sat down beside him, wrapping her shawl tightly, blocking his view of the scenery. “I don’t know if it’s safe to go to your yacht, but I have to let them know where you are and find you some clean clothes. I lured you here to keep you from harm in England, but I’ve just muddled everything worse. What the devil am I supposed to do?”
His gaze instantly lifted to her face at the distress in her voice. Worry wrinkled her lovely eyes and twisted her lips into flat lines. He couldn’t abide seeing her like that. Searching his addled brain, he sought some means of reaching her.
“One... word.” There, he’d done it. Triumphant at this small accomplishment, he waited for her response.
She frowned and studied him. Reaching some decision, she nodded. “Yacht.”
That wasn’t the response he wanted. He recognized the word, but couldn’t put it together with any other. He shook his head. “Where?”
“Sligo.” She waited expectantly.
Frustration began to build, accelerating the pounding in his head. He clenched his fists and tried again. “Home. Go home.”
Her lips tightened. “Can’t. Danger.”
“Can,” he answered stubbornly. “No danger.” He wasn’t certain what he demanded, yet he knew he didn’t belong here. Neither did she. He had to get back to where he belonged.
She rubbed her brow as if it pained her as much as his did him. Then she leaned over and kissed his cheek, enveloping him in the scent of lilacs. Before he could grab her, she sat up again. “Rest. I’ll be back.”
The Irish Duchess Page 16
