by Lisa Kleypas
She gave him a scornful glance. “Forgive me if I’m less than impressed by your authority, Leo. Perhaps you should practice on someone else.”
And she left him in the gallery, while the thunder rumbled and rain cascaded down the windows.
* * *
Cam stopped the driver on the way to London, wanting another look at Ramsay House before he departed Hampshire. He was in something of a quandary as to what should be done with the place. Certainly it would have to be restored. As part of an aristocratic entailment, the estate had to be maintained in a decent condition. And Cam liked the place. There were possibilities in it. If the slopes of the surrounding grounds were altered and landscaped, and the building itself was properly redesigned and rebuilt, the Ramsay estate would be a jewel.
But it was doubtful that the Ramsay title, and its entailments, would remain in the Hathaways’ possession much longer. Not if everything depended on Leo, whose health and future existence were very much in question.
Considering the problem of his soon-to-be brother-in-law, Cam bid the driver to wait, and went into the ramshackle house, heedless of the rain that dampened his hair and coat. It didn’t especially matter to him if Leo lived or died, but Amelia’s feelings mattered very much indeed. Cam would do whatever was necessary to spare her grief or worry. If that meant helping to preserve her brother’s worthless life, so be it.
The interior of the house was smoke-filmed and sagging like a once-jaunty creature that had been beaten into submission. He wondered what a builder would make of the place, and how much of the structure could be preserved. Cam imagined what it might look like when it was fully restored and painted. Bright, charming, a touch eccentric. Like his Hathaways.
A smile tugged at the corners of his lips at the thought of Amelia’s sisters. He could easily become fond of them. Strange, how the idea of settling on this land, becoming part of a family, had become attractive. He was feeling rather … clannish. Perhaps Westcliff had been right—he couldn’t ignore his Irish half forever.
Cam stopped at the side of the entrance hall as he heard a noise from upstairs. A thump, a tapping, as if someone were hammering at wood. The nape of his neck crawled. Who the hell could be here? Superstition struggled with reason as he wondered if the intruder were mortal or spectral. He made his way up the stairs with extreme care, his feet swift and silent.
Pausing at the top of the stairs, he listened intently. The sound came again, from one of the bedrooms. He made his way to a half-open door and looked inside.
The presence in the room was most definitely human. Cam’s eyes narrowed as he recognized Christopher Frost.
It appeared Frost was trying to pry a piece of paneling from the wall, using an iron pry bar. The wood defied his efforts, and after a few seconds of exertion, Frost dropped the pry bar and swore.
“Need some help?” Cam asked.
Frost nearly leaped out of his shoes. “What the devil—” He whirled around, his eyes huge. “Damnation! What are you doing there?”
“I was going to ask you the same question.” Leaning against the doorjamb, Cam folded his arms and stared at the other man speculatively. “I decided to stop here on my way to London. What’s behind the panel?”
“Nothing,” the architect snapped.
“Then why are you trying to remove it?”
Collecting himself, Frost bent to retrieve the pry bar. He held it casually, but with the slightest change in his grip, the iron bar could easily be turned into a weapon. Cam kept his posture relaxed, not taking his eyes from Frost’s face.
“How much do you know about construction and design?” Frost asked.
“Not much. I’ve done some woodworking now and then.”
“Yes. Your people sometimes work as tinkers and bodgers. Perhaps even roofing. But never building. You would never stay long enough to complete the project, would you?”
Cam kept his tone immaculately polite. “Are you asking about me specifically, or the Rom in general?”
Frost approached him, the pry bar firmly in his grasp. “It doesn’t matter. To answer your previous question—I am inspecting the house to make an estimate of the damage, and to develop ideas for the new design. On behalf of Miss Hathaway.”
“Did she ask you to inspect the house?”
“As an old friend of the family—and particularly Miss Hathaway—I’ve taken it upon myself to help them.”
The phrase “particularly Miss Hathaway” uttered with just a hint of ownership, nearly shattered Cam’s self-control. He, who had always congratulated himself on his equanimity, was instantly overrun with hostility. “Perhaps,” he said, “you should have asked first. As it turns out, your services aren’t needed.”
Frost’s face darkened. “What gives you the right to speak for Miss Hathaway and her family?”
Cam saw no reason to be discreet. “I’m going to marry her.”
Frost nearly dropped the iron bar. “Don’t be absurd. Amelia would never marry you.”
“Why not?”
“Good God,” Frost exclaimed incredulously, “how can you ask that? You’re not a gentleman of her class, and … hell and damnation, you’re not even a real Gypsy. You’re a mongrel.”
“All the same, I’m going to marry her.”
“I’ll see you in hell first!” Frost cried, taking a step toward him.
“Either drop that bar,” Cam said quietly, “or I’ll dislocate your arm.” He sincerely hoped Frost would take a swing at him. To his disappointment, Frost set the bar on the ground.
The architect glared at him. “After I talk to her, she’ll want nothing more to do with you. I’ll make certain she understands what people would say about a lady who beds down with a Gypsy. She’d be better off with a peasant. A dog. A—”
“Point taken,” Cam said. He gave Frost a bland smile designed to infuriate. “But it’s interesting, isn’t it, that Miss Hathaway’s previous experience with a gentleman of her own class has now disposed her to look favorably on a Roma? It hardly reflects well on you.”
“You selfish bastard,” Frost muttered. “You’ll ruin her. You think nothing of bringing her down to your level. If you cared for her at all, you would disappear for good.”
He brushed by Cam without another word. Soon his footsteps could be heard as he descended the stairs.
And Cam stayed in the empty doorway for a long time, seething with anger, concern for Amelia, and even worse, guilt. He couldn’t change the fact of what he was, nor would he be able to shield Amelia from all the arrows that would be aimed at the wife of a Gypsy.
But he would be damned if he would let her make her way through a merciless world without him.
* * *
Supper was a somber affair, with the Westcliffs and St. Vincents having departed for Bristol, and Leo having gone to the village tavern for amusement. It was a miserable night. Amelia found it hard to imagine there would be much revelry in the cold and wet, but Leo was probably desperate for more sympathetic company than could be found at Stony Cross Manor.
Merripen had remained in his room, sleeping most of the day, which was so unlike him that the Hathaways were all worried.
“I suppose it’s good for him to rest,” Poppy ventured, brushing idly at a few crumbs on the tablecloth. A footman came hurriedly to remove the crumbs for her with a napkin and silver implement. “It will help him to heal faster, won’t it?”
“Has anyone had a look at Merripen’s shoulder?” Amelia asked, glancing at Win. “It’s probably time for the dressing to be changed.”
“I’ll do it,” Win said at once. “And I’ll take up a supper tray.”
“Beatrix will accompany you,” Amelia advised.
“I can manage the tray,” Win protested.
“It’s not that … I meant it’s not proper for you to be alone with Merripen in his room.”
Win looked surprised, and made a face. “I don’t need Beatrix to come. It’s only Merripen, after all.”
After Wi
n left the dining hall, Poppy looked at Amelia. “Do you think that Win really doesn’t know how he—”
“I have no idea. And I’ve never dared to broach the subject, because I don’t want to put ideas into her head.”
“I hope she doesn’t know,” Beatrix ventured. “It would be dreadfully sad if she did.”
Amelia and Poppy both glanced at their younger sister quizzically. “Do you know what we’re talking about, Bea?” Amelia asked.
“Yes, of course. Merripen’s in love with her. I knew it a long time ago, from the way he washed her window.”
“Washed her window?” both older sisters asked at the same time.
“Yes, when we lived in the cottage at Primrose Place. Win’s room had a casement window that looked out onto the big maple tree—do you remember? After the scarlet fever, when Win couldn’t get out of bed for the longest time and she was too weak to hold a book, she would just lie there and watch a birds’ nest on one of the tree limbs. She saw the baby swallows hatch and learn to fly. One day she complained that the window was so dirty, she could barely see through it, and it made the sky look grayish. So from then on Merripen always kept the glass spotless. Sometimes he climbed a ladder to wash the outside, and you know how afraid of heights he is. You never saw him do that?”
“No,” Amelia said with difficulty, her eyes stinging. “I didn’t know he did that.”
“Merripen said the sky should always be blue for her,” Beatrix said. “And that was when I knew he … are you crying, Poppy?”
Poppy used a napkin to dab at the corners of her eyes. “No. I just inh-haled some pepper.”
“So did I,” Amelia said, blowing her nose.
* * *
Win carried a light bamboo tray laden with broth, bread, and tea to Merripen’s room. It hadn’t been easy to persuade the kitchen maids that she could take the tray herself. They had felt strongly that no guest of Lord and Lady Westcliff’s should carry anything. However, Win knew Merripen’s dislike of strangers, and in his vulnerable state, he would be contrary and obstinate.
Finally a compromise had been reached: a housemaid would bring the tray to the top of the stairs, and Win could take it from there.
As she neared his room, Win heard the sounds of something hitting a wall with a thud, and a few threatening growls that could only have come from Merripen. She frowned, her pace quickening as she proceeded along the hallway. An indignant housemaid was departing from Merripen’s room.
“Well, I never,” the maid exclaimed, red and bristling. “I went to stir the coals and add wood to the fire—and that nasty Gypsy shouted and threw his cup at me!”
“Oh, dear. I’m so sorry. You weren’t injured, were you? I’m sure he didn’t intend—”
“No, his aim was off,” the maid said with dark satisfaction. “The tonic’s made him higher than a Cable Street constable.” The reference was to a mile-long road in London known for harboring a quantity of opium dens. “I wouldn’t go in there if I were you, miss. He’d snap you in two as soon as you got within arm’s length of him. The beast.”
Win frowned in concern. “Yes. Thank you. I’ll be careful.” Tonic … the doctor must have left something extremely potent to dull the agony of a burn wound. It was probably laced with opiate syrup and alcohol. Since Merripen never took medicine and rarely even drank a glass of wine, he would be highly susceptible to intoxicants.
Entering the room, Win used her back to close the door, and went to set the tray on the bedside table. She started a little at the sound of Merripen’s voice.
“I told you to get out!” he barked. “Told you—” He broke off as she turned to face him.
Win had never seen him like this before, flushed and disoriented, his dark eyes slightly unfocused. He lay on his side, his white shirt falling open to reveal the edge of a heavy bandage, and muscles gleaming like polished bronze. He was tense and radiating what her mother had gingerly referred to as “animal spirits.”
“Kev,” she said gently, using his first name.
They’d made a bargain once, after she’d gotten scarlet fever, when he’d wanted her to take some medicine. Win had refused until he offered to tell her his name. She’d promised never to tell anyone, and she hadn’t. Perhaps he had even thought she had forgotten.
“Lie still,” she urged gently. “There’s no need to work yourself into a temper. You frightened the poor housemaid half to death.”
Merripen watched her sluggishly, having trouble keeping his gaze focused. “They’re poisoning me,” he told her. “Pouring medicine down my throat. My head’s muddled. Don’t want any more.”
Win assumed the role of implacable nurse, when all she wanted was to baby and coddle him. “You’d be much worse off without it.” She sat on the edge of the mattress and reached for his wrist. His forearm was hard and heavy as it lay across her lap. Pressing her fingers to his wrist, she kept her face expressionless. “How much of that tonic have they given you?”
His head lolled. “Too much.”
Win agreed silently, feeling how weak his pulse was. Releasing his wrist, she felt his forehead. He was very warm. Was it the beginnings of a fever? Her worry sharpened. “Let me see your back.” She tried to ease away, but he had reached up to press her cool hand harder against his forehead. He wouldn’t let go.
“Hot,” he said, and closed his eyes.
Win sat very still, absorbing the feel of him, the heavy masculine body beside hers, the smooth burning skin beneath her hand.
“Stay out of my dreams,” Merripen whispered in the humid stillness. “Can’t sleep when you’re here.”
Win let herself caress him, the thick black hair, the handsome face devoid of its usual sullen sternness. She could smell his skin, his sweat, the sweet opiated breath, the pungent whiff of honey. Merripen was always clean shaven, but now his bristle was softly scratchy against her palm. She wanted to take him into her arms, against her chest, like a little boy.
“Kev … let me look at your back.”
Merripen moved, swift and powerful even now, more aggressive in his drugged state than he normally would ever have permitted himself to be. He had always handled Win with a sort of exaggerated gentleness, as if she would blow away like dandelion floss. But at this moment his grip was hard and sure as he pushed her to the mattress.
Breathing heavily, he glared down at her with glassy belligerence. “I said get out of my dreams.”
His face was like the mask of some ancient god of war, beautiful and harsh, the mouth contorted, lips parted enough to reveal the edges of animal-white teeth.
Win was amazed, excited, the tiniest bit frightened … but this was Merripen … and as she stared at him, the edge of fear melted and she drew his head down to hers, and he kissed her.
She had always imagined there would be roughness, urgency, impassioned pressure. But his lips were soft, grazing over hers with the heat of sunshine, the sweetness of summer rain. She opened to him in wonder, the solid weight of him in her arms, his body pressing into the crumpled layers of her skirts. Forgetting everything in the passionate tumult of discovery, Win reached around his shoulders, until he winced and she felt the bulk of his bandage against her palm.
“Kev,” she said breathlessly, “I’m so sorry, I … no, don’t move. Rest.” She curled her arms loosely around his head, shivering as he kissed her throat. He nuzzled against the gentle rise of her breast, pressed his cheek against her bodice, and sighed.
After a long, motionless minute, while her chest rose and fell beneath his heavy head, Win spoke hesitantly. “Kev?”
A slight snore was her reply.
The first time she had ever kissed a man, she thought ruefully, and she had put him to sleep.
Struggling out from beneath him, Win turned back the covers and grasped the hem of his shirt. The linen clung to the powerful slope of his back. Pulling the hem all the way up, she tucked it into the collarless neck of the shirt. Carefully she lifted the edge of the bandage, the cotton gau
ze sticky and reeking of honey. She blinked at the sight of the burn wound, which was angry and inflamed. The doctor had said a scab would form, but the oozing crust of the wound didn’t remotely resemble healing.
Seeing a black mark on the other side of his back, Win frowned curiously and pushed his shirt a little higher. What she discovered caused her breath to catch, her eyes turning wide.
For all Merripen’s robust physicality, he had always been an exceptionally modest man. The family had teased him, in fact, for his refusal to bathe in front of anyone, or remove his shirt even during strenuous exertions.
Was this why? What significance did this strange mark have, and what might it reveal about his past?
“Kev,” she murmured in wonder, her fingers tracing the pattern on his shoulder. “What secrets are you hiding?”
Chapter Nineteen
The next morning Amelia awakened to the unwelcome news, delivered by Poppy, that Leo had not slept in his bed the previous night and couldn’t be found anywhere, and Merripen had taken a turn for the worse.
“Bother Leo,” Amelia grumbled, climbing out of bed and reaching for her robe and slippers. “He started drinking yesterday afternoon and doubtless didn’t stop. I couldn’t care less where he is, or what’s happened to him.”
“What if he wandered out of the house and … oh, I don’t know … stumbled over a tree branch or something? Shouldn’t we ask some of the gardeners and groundsmen to look for him?”
“God. How mortifying.” Amelia pulled the robe over her head and buttoned it hastily. “I suppose so. Yes, although make it clear they’re not to go on an all-out search. I should hate for their work to be interrupted just because our brother has no self-control.”
“He’s grieving, Amelia,” Poppy said quietly.
“I know. But God help me, I’m tired of his grieving. And it makes me feel horrid to say so.”
Poppy stared at her compassionately, and reached out to hug her. “You shouldn’t feel horrid. It always falls to you to pick up the pieces of his muck-ups, not to mention everyone else’s. I’d be tired, too, if I were you.”
