“No, Sabrina, I’m not.” He gathered her hands once again into his and looked down a moment at the tapering fingers. No calluses, not that he expected any. She was a young lady.
A shadow of pain crossed Sabrina’s face and she turned her head away from him on the pillow, not wanting him to think her cowardly and weak. But she couldn’t prevent the racking cough that made her body arch forward.
Phillip rose quickly and fetched another hot towel. She shuddered as he laid it over her breasts. He covered her again and rose to look for medicine, anything that would ease her pain. In a small room down the corridor, he found a cache of bandages, ointments, and laudanum, most things he would have expected to find in a hunting box. He measured a few drops of laudanum into a glass of water and walked back to Sabrina’s bedchamber.
He slipped his arm beneath her head and brought her upright. “Here, Sabrina, this will help. Drink all of it. That’s it.”
Although she sipped slowly, she choked and began to cough. He pulled her up against him and began lightly hitting her back. “Shush, it’s all right. The water just went down the wrong pipe. That’s it, breathe in light shallow breaths. No, don’t fight me.”
He held her firmly until she regained her breath and again placed the glass to her lips. She managed to swallow the remainder of the laudanum between short, heaving breaths. Phillip gently eased her back down and she lay quietly, waiting for the pain to lessen.
Phillip stood over her, staring down, studying her. Oddly, he felt a strong tug of protectiveness toward her. She could be no more than eighteen years old, a young lady, and in all likelihood a virgin, for there was no wedding band on her left hand. He wondered who this bastard Trevor was, the man who had made her flee her home. He didn’t have a doubt that this was what had happened.
He smoothed back a curling lock of auburn hair that had fallen over her brow. She seemed to have fallen asleep, her lashes dark against her white cheeks. She was really quite lovely, not that it made any difference to anything at all.
6
Phillip left the bedchamber door open so that he could hear her if she awakened, and walked downstairs to the kitchen. He remembered suddenly how he and his fellow officers had hunkered around campfires in the mountains in Spain, roasting birds and rabbits to survive. He had learned to make soup from the remains, had even watched his men bake flat bread in crude ovens they’d made from parts of guns and equipment. But damn, that was more than four years ago. Since that time, it had never occurred to him to wonder where his next meal would come from. He thought of the exquisite meals prepared by Cook at Dinwitty Manor, and nearly swooned. He made it a point to have very mundane fare in London to keep him skinny. He’d give Cook a raise when he returned to his country home.
He walked to a small, cold pantry just off the kitchen that he’d noticed earlier. He was pleased and relieved that the owner of this hunting box knew how to keep it stocked. A haunch of smoked ham, beautifully cured, hung from a hook in the ceiling; there was a bin of flour, sugar and salt, potatoes, onions, carrots, dried peas, and even a partially filled barrel of dried apples.
Phillip Edmund Mercerault, Viscount Derencourt, donned a large white apron and set himself to the task of making soup. He sliced vegetables, cut up a slab of ham into small pieces, and tossed the lot into a pot with the dried peas. He gazed about him for water, realized that it wouldn’t magically appear, and took himself outside to fill a large pot with snow. The well was probably a foot under snow. Some minutes later, he stood next to a newly built-up fire in the grate, gazing down at his pot of soup. “Lord be praised. You’re not such a useless fellow after all,” he said aloud. He stripped off his apron, rinsed his hands, then strode back upstairs.
He walked quietly to the bedside and looked down at Sabrina. Her eyes were closed and her breathing so labored he didn’t even have to bend over her to hear it. He gently touched his hand to her cheek and found her cool to the touch.
Sabrina felt fingers, featherlight, against her cheek and forced her eyes to open. She could make out a man’s face above her and for an instant felt a stab of fear. Her memory righted itself and she whispered, “Phillip.”
“Yes, Sabrina. Don’t worry. I’m here.” He kept his voice pitched low and calm. The last thing he wanted was to frighten her again.
For a moment she thought it strange that he should know her name. She remembered vague images of her flight from Monmouth Abbey, her mare going lame, and the bitter, unrelenting cold. And then that cold was inside her. “I’m so cold. Really, so cold, just like I was in the forest. But I’m not in the forest now. What’s wrong?”
“No, nothing’s wrong. You’re safe with me, Sabrina. I want you to lie still. I’m going to make you warm.”
Phillip retrieved another towel from the grate, this one so very hot that he had to toss it several times into the air so that she would be able to bear its heat. She hissed out her breath when he placed it over her.
“No, don’t move. Don’t fight it. Just let the warmth seep into you. It will if you let it. Just hold still, that’s right.”
“I don’t like this, Phillip, I really don’t. It hurts worse than the cold.”
“It won’t in just a moment, I promise.”
She didn’t move. It was very difficult, but she didn’t even blink. She felt the scalding heat begin to seep into her. It was amazing. His fingers touched her hair and she heard him say, “Try not to move your head, your hair is still damp.”
“It’s better. I can’t believe you were right. I feel warm to my bones.”
He tucked the blankets close to her chin. “Good. Now you need to sleep. You’ll get better faster the more you sleep. I remember my mother telling me that after I nearly drowned. It worked for me. It will work for you. I’ll be right here if you need me.” Her eyes were closed. She was already asleep.
Phillip walked to the long narrow windows and pulled back the draperies. He could see nothing save white snow swirling against the windowpanes. He couldn’t help but smile. The fates and Charles’s directions had certainly conspired to alter his life, at least for the present.
He was too old and too tired. Sometimes he just wanted to close his eyes and sleep, and never wake up. He hadn’t deserved the long life he’d been granted, not after he’d let Camilla die. To lose her in childbirth, and all of it his own fault. He shouldn’t have given in to her pleas for another chance to have a daughter. They’d been given only one son, and how she’d wanted a daughter. But he had given in to her and she’d died, the boy child with her. No, he wouldn’t think about Camilla just now. He hunched forward in his chair and stared at his elder granddaughter, Elizabeth. She was graceful, he’d give her that, and she would be pretty if it weren’t for the discontent that dragged down the corners of her mouth, that leached out any sheen of contentment from her eyes.
Sabrina. She had come to tell him that Sabrina was dead? No, he wouldn’t accept that, never.
She came to a halt in front of him, not too close, because she hated him. He knew it but it had taken him a very long time to figure out why. And then one day, he’d known. She hated his power, seeing herself as powerless. She hated his age, finding it repellent, frightening.
He could have told her it wasn’t frightening at all. It was just a bloody bore. He’d told that to Sabrina and she’d lightly punched his arm, telling him not to be foolish, not to be bored because he had so many years in his dish because that was surely proof that God wanted him to remain here to watch over his lands and his people, to ensure their safety from the wicked that roamed the earth.
Wicked, he thought, and looked toward his nephew, Trevor. Aye, his nephew and heir, the future Earl of Monmouth, a pretty fellow who was always polite to him, any feelings he felt always held behind those veiled lying eyes of his.
He tried to keep the contempt from his voice as he forced himself back to Elizabeth. He forced himself to say the words aloud, but it was difficult, for to say them meant that they were true. He fel
t the gnawing of helplessness, felt nearly bowed to his knees with it. He swallowed, saying nothing for another moment, but Elizabeth held herself perfectly quiet, Trevor the same. There was no news, he thought, and said, “It’s been two days now, two days without a word, without a clue, without a sign of Sabrina. Have you brought me no news at all then? You know very well, Elizabeth, that she wouldn’t leave her home without some powerful reason to motivate her.” He pulled a crumpled piece of paper from his dressing-gown pocket and waved it at Elizabeth, a granddaughter he’d tried to love, tried to shield, but she’d not wanted that from him. Fear clutched at him, making his belly twist and knot. “As for the letter she left me—it tells me nothing. Damnation, what does this mean? She writes that she can no longer remain here and must go to her aunt Barresford in London?” He thought of Sabrina’s mare, her legs scratched from brambles, the left foreleg lame, returned yesterday to the Abbey, and felt his blood run cold. His blood had been cold now for two days. “No, don’t you dare tell me again about her depressed spirits, whatever that means. I want the truth now, Elizabeth. I don’t want any more of your lies.”
Elizabeth stood tall above the earl, almost wraithlike in her slenderness, and nervously shifted her weight to her other foot. What was she to say to this miserable old man who was the undisputed master, who didn’t even allow her to sit in his presence? How she wanted him to suffer. He deserved to for the slights he’d given her since the day Sabrina had been born. But the tug of fear was still there. She felt what little color she normally had fade until she knew her face was as white as the wall behind her grandfather’s chair. She didn’t move, something she’d managed to master many years ago. She never fidgeted in front of him, never showed him how much she despised him for his disregard of her. She nearly smiled as she said, “I have no lies to tell, Grandfather. It was as I first told you. Sabrina was quiet, withdrawn from me. I know nothing more today, truly.”
And Trevor, his too-pretty nephew with his grand manner, said, “Elizabeth doesn’t wish to cause you more pain, sir.” As he spoke he gently squeezed one of her pale slender hands. “Come, my dear, we must not further dissemble. You cannot protect your little sister forever.”
Elizabeth’s eyes widened at her husband’s words. She felt the excitement coiled in him, the pleasure at delivering a death blow, but she was afraid, still afraid of this wretched old man who held the reins of power over her, and would hold them until he died. Sometimes she wondered if he’d come back even after he was dead, and he’d torment her and mock her and she’d whimper and want to give up. And he’d win, he’d always win.
It was her grandfather’s words that decided her. Curse him to hell where he belonged. She shriveled as he said, his mouth twisted with dislike, “Well, girl, don’t stand there like a stupid cow. Out with it. If you know something about Sabrina’s leaving, I will hear it now, by God. And I’m tired of your supposed truths, Elizabeth, for they ring as hollow as a fool’s wit.”
Her head went back, she returned the pressure of her husband’s hand. She even made herself shrug. “I’m sorry, my lord, but it is as Trevor said. I am loath to cause you pain. But since you insist upon hearing the truth, then I will give it to you.” She felt power sing through her, making her strong, making her impervious, putting her in control, where she belonged. “If you must know, Sabrina was jealous of me. She wanted Trevor for herself.”
She stopped abruptly at the growl that came from deep in her grandfather’s throat.
“My love,” Trevor said, “you must tell his lordship the full of it. You can no longer protect your sister. As he says, she’s been gone for two days. He is worried about her. Come, tell him the rest of the truth.” Elizabeth felt his fingers tighten their grip on her hand, felt the bones push together. She hated pain, had always feared it, and he knew it, knew it well from their wedding night when she’d pleaded and pleaded but he hadn’t listened, just smiled at her and gloried in the pain he’d caused her. But now she held silent. Slowly, very slowly, she pulled her hand away. He let her go.
She drew a deep breath. “I haven’t wanted you to know this, my lord, but Sabrina tried to throw herself at Trevor. Yes, she tried to seduce him, so that in his honor, had he taken hers, he would have been compromised in your eyes. Mayhap even compelled to leave his home and me.”
It was well said, she knew it. Her voice had rung out with sincerity, but the old man just stared at her, saying in that loud strident voice of his, “What utter nonsense, girl. Sabrina, seduce him? It is beyond ridiculous. She doesn’t even like him. No, she didn’t tell me that, but I knew. She tried to hide her dislike, but I knew. Why are you still lying to me?”
“I’m telling you the truth, Grandfather. Why would I lie to you? She’s the one who ran away, not I. Indeed, I saw her, do you hear me? Yes, I saw her. She asked Trevor to accompany her to the portrait gallery, to see Grandmother Camilla’s portrait. When they were alone, when she knew no servants were about, she tried to convince Trevor to make love to her.”
Elizabeth faltered, but Trevor continued smoothly, his eyes sincere, his voice compelling. “I told her, my lord, that although I held her in great esteem, I would not betray Elizabeth. I told her she was now my sister, nothing more, nothing less. She was angry, sir, and in her anger she threatened to tell you that I had tried to make love to her. Elizabeth was there, sir, she saw everything. Neither of us would lie, sir. It is the truth, all of it.”
Elizabeth said, “It was then that I told her that I had witnessed everything. She must have realized she was ruined.”
Elizabeth watched the despicable old man look away from them. He stared down at his twisted fingers, then at the fire that roared in the fireplace, making the chamber so hot she had trouble breathing. The silence in the library was broken only by the occasional crackle of burning logs.
“So, you are asking me to believe that Sabrina fled her home with naught but a meaningless letter to me because of your noble rejection of her, Eversleigh?”
Trevor said calmly, regret brimming in his voice, “I would assume so, my lord. Perhaps she felt mortified at her behavior and dreaded the whole being told. My lord, she should have realized that as a gentleman I would not have let a word of what happened pass my lips. As for Elizabeth, I am quite certain that she has already forgiven her sister. Isn’t that true, my love?”
His fingers tightened again on Elizabeth’s hand and she said quickly, “Of course it is true. Trevor is right, Grandfather. Sabrina knows how much I love her. She knows that I’ve already forgiven her. After all, she is the spinster now, not I. That she wanted my place, my husband, well, that is something I have already set aside. My feelings of affection for her are deep.”
“Deep, you say? Aye, I believe every word that falls from your lips, Elizabeth. I always have, for you have been a granddaughter to point to with pride, to hold up as a model to all girls.”
She preened, and straightened her shoulders. The earl just looked at her, wondering how she could have believed his words when they’d dripped with sarcasm, but she obviously had. He turned in his chair to gaze through the long French windows at the end of the library at the storm, still full in its fury. And Sabrina had not reached Borhamwood to take the stage to London. None of the fifty men out searching for her had found a trace of her. He felt a spasm of grief grip him, such as he had not felt since Camilla had died. Sabrina was so very like Camilla, her eyes as deep a violet, her auburn hair glorious, thick, and curling. And she was good-hearted, open, and loyal, just as Camilla had been. He smiled for a moment, for she was vain about her hair, saying it was the same color as Queen Titania’s, in A Midsummer Night’s Dream. Perhaps it was. He remembered when she was eleven years old and she’d become deathly ill with a fever. They’d had to cut all her glorious hair off. He’d told her that she had to get well to grow it back. If she left him, why then, she would see him in heaven all bald. Surely that was worth getting well again. She’d improved almost immediately. Thank the gods for that small
bit of vanity.
But not for an instant did he doubt Sabrina. Her sense of honor was as strong and unbending as was his own. He felt impotent rage sweep through him. Sabrina might be dead and he was forced to endure Elizabeth and Trevor’s betrayal of her. What had really happened? Why had Sabrina run away? It was driving him mad for he could find no reason. But of course there was a possibility, a strong one, that Trevor had been the one to trap Sabrina in the portrait gallery, that he had tried to force himself on her. He looked at his heir from the corner of his eye. Yes, certainly it was possible, else how had they come up with that other tale? Aye, it was the boot on the other foot, that’s what it was.
He felt tired to his soul. He would have given all his worldly goods to rise from his chair and pound Trevor into the floor. But there was no proof of anything.
What had happened? Whatever it was had terrified Sabrina so much that she hadn’t come to him, and she’d come to him with all her problems since she’d been a little girl, even before her parents had died.
Without looking again at his granddaughter or his heir, the earl said coldly, “Send Jesperson to me. If there is any report on Sabrina, tell me immediately.” He waved a hand in abrupt dismissal. He couldn’t stand the sight of them, hovering near him, standing so close together they appeared as one.
“I will come to you the moment we hear anything, my lord,” Trevor said. The earl watched him lead Elizabeth from the library. It looked as if Trevor was holding Elizabeth’s hand tightly, so tightly that it was hurting her.
7
Once Trevor had pulled the library doors closed, he turned to his wife of less than three weeks. “Are you not all of twenty-three years of age, my dear?”
At her startled nod, he continued, his voice as soft as the rustling silk of her gown. “And Sabrina is but eighteen. Your failure amazes me. You had a full five years, my love, to win the old gentleman’s regard before she entered the world. How miserably you failed.”
The Offer Page 4
