Sweet Surrender

by Cheryl Holt

  "Never thought I’d live to see it," Albert muttered, and he strolled back into the barn.

  Jackson and Michael continued on toward the house.

  "It appears that you’ve impressed him," Jackson said.

  "He thinks I’ll make a much better earl than Percival."

  "He said that?"

  "Yes. That’s why I was curious about my brother. Mr. Albert claims Percival isn’t very happy."

  "Did he?"

  Jackson’s temper flared. He’d kept Michael and Grace at the estate in the hopes of preventing stories from spreading, but he’d stupidly forgotten to order them to be silent. How many others had they told? What a disaster!

  The slightest gossip would have everyone observing Edward’s traits, and if Grace’s allegations couldn’t be verified, Jackson would be accused of covering up the truth.

  "Listen, Michael, you shouldn’t be talking about Edward."

  "I wasn’t. Mr. Albert asked me if he was my father. I wasn’t about to lie."

  "When was this?"

  "During my first lesson. I guess my father and I handle the reins exactly the same. Mr. Albert hadn’t even shown me anything yet. I simply did it just like my father. Isn’t that interesting?"

  "Yes, it’s very interesting."

  Jackson had to speak with Grace about the burgeoning rumors. They had to be nipped in the bud. He was positive his mother had spies everywhere, and they were probably sending regular, frantic messages to her in town.

  Before he uttered a word to Beatrice about Michael, he intended to have Grace’s account confirmed or disaffirmed. He was most particularly waiting for a report on his clerk’s interview with the vicar who had supposedly performed the wedding ceremony.

  Then—and only then—would he broach the subject with his mother.

  "Where is Grace?" He was thrilled to have a reason to hunt her down.

  "She’s doctoring."

  "Doctoring…patients?"

  "Yes."

  "Where?"

  "In the kitchen. Cook set aside space in the back."

  "Doctoring? You’re sure?"

  Michael laughed. "Yes, I’m sure. She’s a very fine healer. Why? Are you ailing?"

  "No, I’m not ailing," Jackson said, although he had a splitting headache that was worrisome.

  Occasionally, he suffered a recurring and potent jungle fever that could lay him low for days, and it always began with a headache. There were few other warning signs, and he refused to accept that the annoying disease could have followed him to England.

  "At home in Cornwall," Michael explained, "she was quite acclaimed. She could fix you up in a minute."

  "I didn’t realize she had a vocation."

  "Yes. since she was a girl. She says it’s a calling—an angel’s gift."

  "My, my, if it’s a gift from an angel, she must be very good."

  Michael’s attention was distracted by some boys who were playing out in the park. They waved, and he raced off to join them.

  Jackson watched them go, noticing how Michael was already the leader of the group. They marched into the woods, the boys trailing after him, their expressions adoring, as if they’d been mesmerized.

  As Jackson noted he was behaving in the same hypnotized fashion, he yanked away and kept on to the Abbey.

  He was intrigued by Michael’s tale regarding Grace and her ability. He couldn’t imagine a female working as a physician. Women weren’t considered smart enough to learn difficult subjects. Who would have trained her? What male would have had the patience to teach someone so willful and stubborn?

  He skirted around to the rear servants’ entrance, causing an enormous stir as he stepped into the kitchen.

  The den of rooms was always a beehive of activity. There were a dozen people rushing around, and his entrance set off a slew of hushed, cautionary whispers of, "It’s Mr. Scott!"

  The bustle instantly halted. Maids curtsied, and footmen bowed their heads. Cook hustled over, exasperated that he’d dare to invade her domain.

  "May I help you, sir?"

  "Carry on, carry on," he urged, but no one moved. His arrival was too odd, too disruptive. "I’m sorry to interrupt, but I’m merely looking for Miss Bennett. I was informed that she’s here."

  "You found me, Mr. Scott," Grace said from a chair in the corner. "Ignore him," she advised the assembled crowd. "He’s probably never been in a kitchen before, so he won’t have any idea if you’re doing your jobs appropriately or not."

  With her giving them permission to resume their tasks, they started in again. It occurred to him that her word held more sway than his, and the notion was irritating. How had she won them over? Was she whipping up a petty rebellion among the staff?

  He huffed over to her, surprised to see that she was tending a footman. He was seated, too, and extremely pale. He had a deep gash across his palm, and she had just finished sewing a row of neat stitches to close the injury.

  "Michael told me"—he sounded halfway aggravated—"that you were doctoring, but I didn’t believe him."

  "You seem astonished. Why? Had you assumed I was an incompetent laggard like you?"

  At her rude comment, there was a collective inhalation of breath by the servants. They were shocked that she’d speak so candidly, and he had to admit that he was a tad shocked himself.

  He couldn’t decide how to reply or which charge should be addressed first. Should he confess that he questioned her skill? Should he defend his own competency?

  He wasn’t about to engage in a debate with her for he was afraid he’d lose. If she bested him, he’d never live it down.

  Pulling up his own chair, he made himself comfortable. She tried to ignore him and continue with her ministrations, but it was hard when he was sitting so near and studying her every move.

  She frowned. "Is there something you wanted?"

  "No. Michael said you have an angel’s gift. I’m curious as to whether he’s correct."

  "She’s…marvelous, sir," the footman gushed. "She’s already healed all sorts of people."

  Jackson glared at Grace. "How come I haven’t heard of this amazing feat?"

  "It’s not that unusual. The sick and wounded are naturally attracted to me. I help whenever I can."

  "Really?" He was openly scoffing.

  "Yes, now if you don’t mind, I’m busy. If you wish to stay, you may, but you must stop interrupting."

  She had an array of supplies arranged on a small table, and she grabbed a jar containing a brown salve. She peered at the footman. "I’m going to smear this on your cut. It will sting—just for a moment."

  The young man gulped with dismay.

  "All right."

  She swiped the salve on the affected area, then swathed the hand in a bandage.

  "You’ll work no more today," she declared.

  The footman’s eyes widened with alarm, and he glanced nervously at Jackson. "I can resume my duties."

  "No," she countered. "You’ve had a shock. You’ll rest this afternoon, then for the next few days, you’ll only assist with easy chores."

  "I’m hale and hearty," the footman complained, obviously panicked that he was about to be fired for slacking.

  "Don’t worry about Mr. Scott," Grace said. "He understands that you’ve been injured." She spun to Jackson. "Isn’t that right, Mr. Scott?"

  Jackson couldn’t countermand her order without looking like an ogre, so he magnanimously agreed. "Do whatever she advises for as long as she advises it."

  "Thank you, sir."

  The man pushed himself to his feet and hurried away. Grace called to his retreating back, "Keep the wound very clean. A new bandage every morning and regular washing with soap."

  "Yes, ma’am," he called in reply.

  "Find me next week, and I’ll remove the stitches."

  Then he was gone, and she turned to Jackson.

  "Are you finished?" he asked, excited to whisk her away and have her all to himself.

  "I suppose I cou
ld leave for a minute or two, but I spread the word that I’d be here until five o’clock. I’ll need to come back shortly—in case anyone else is searching for me."

  "I wouldn’t dream of delaying you," he lied. He was incredibly vain, and he thought she should be eager to attend him. He thought the whole world should be eager to attend him.

  He stood. "Let’s take a walk."

  As if he was an enormous burden, she sighed and stood, too.

  "If you insist."

  "I do insist, and as you’re beginning to grasp, I always get my way."

  "Only because people put up with you. It’s too exhausting to refuse your pompous commands."

  "Yes, it is."

  He took her arm, delighted to have an excuse to touch her, and he escorted her through the kitchen and out the door to the garden. He steered her down a groomed path, and as soon as they were shielded by the hedges, she pulled away. But he simply took hold of her again.

  "Don’t you know how to stroll with a gentleman?" he asked, his tone scolding.

  "I know how. I just don’t like us to be too cozy."

  "Trust me: Cozy is the last word I would use to describe how it feels to be around you."

  She tried to pull away again, and he tightened his grip.

  "Give over, Grace. It’s pointless to fight me."

  "Of course, it’s pointless, but that doesn’t mean I won’t protest your bullying. I realize this will come as a huge surprise to you, but I like to have my own way, too."

  "Women never get to have their own way. It’s silly to imagine any sane man would let you."

  "Men shouldn’t be in charge of anything. You’re all buffoons."

  "You have such a nasty view of my gender. Dare I inquire as to how your opinion sunk so low?"

  "Long and bitter experience with fools."

  "Since I don’t include myself in that group, I demand that you reconsider."

  "When I first met you, I saw you with your harem, Mr. Scott. I don’t believe I’ll ever push that sight out of my mind."

  "You’re ridiculously fussy, Grace, as well as unforgiving. And you’re to call me Jackson when we’re alone."

  "What is it, Mr. Scott"—she emphasized his surname, clearly having no intention of complying—"that you relish about heavy drink and loose doxies?"

  "What sort of girl would better tickle my fancy? Should I chase after debutantes who giggle and coo?"

  "How about not drinking in the mornings and not chasing after trollops? Has that idea ever occurred to you?"

  "No, it hasn’t. I’m determined to enjoy my life. You should try a bit of amusement yourself. You might be happier."

  "I’m quite happy now, thank you very much."

  "How long have you practiced healing?" he inquired.

  "Since I was a child. My parents died when I was young, and Georgina’s mother taught me her trade. She was a midwife."

  "You make a living at it?"

  "When I can." She peered up at him. "You look surprised. I don’t have a husband or family to take care of me. Many women don’t. You’d be amazed at how resourceful a desperate female can be."

  "No, I wouldn’t. By the way, I’m not an incompetent laggard."

  "Aren’t you?"

  "I had to forge my own path, too."

  She snorted and glanced over at the magnificent mansion towering behind them. "Poor thing," she sarcastically oozed, "you must have struggled so terribly."

  "I ran away when I was eighteen. I left on the spur of the moment, without a penny in my pocket."

  "Did you?"

  She appeared dubious, and suddenly, he was anxious to tell her all the paltry details of his sordid history. But he managed to refrain with only the briefest recitation of fact.

  "After I arrived in Egypt, it was years before my situation stabilized."

  "And now, you’re fabulously wealthy?"

  "Yes."

  He’d been positive his bold announcement of earned affluence would awe her, but instead, she rolled her eyes. "Oh, you men exasperate me. Life is so easy for all of you."

  He chuckled. "You’re hard to impress, Grace. You’re supposed to express concern for my past difficulties and flatter me for my thrift and drive."

  "Don’t forget your brother’s title, your name, and a hefty dose of luck. I imagine there was an enormous amount of luck involved in your success."

  "I’ve always deemed myself to be preposterously lucky, so I guess I’ll have to agree with you."

  There was a bench up ahead, and he guided her to it. She sat without protest, and he sat, too, much nearer than he should have. She scooted away, as far as she could go without toppling off the end, and he scooted with her, trapping her against the bench’s arm.

  The side of his body was touching hers all the way down, their hips and thighs crushed together.

  She shifted and glared. "If you’re hoping to misbehave again, you’re mad."

  "Who’s misbehaving? We’re simply tarrying in the garden and having a chat."

  "I can see it in your eyes. You’re intent on mischief."

  "What if I am? Would that be so awful?"

  "After the other night in your bedchamber"—her cheeks flushed bright red—"I’ve specifically avoided you."

  "Which is ridiculous, but then, I’ve repeatedly pointed out how absurd you can be."

  "You’re determined to race to perdition."

  "So?"

  "I don’t wish to race along with you."

  "Liar. You’re fascinated about where we might find ourselves at the conclusion; you’re wild for me."

  "I think you have it backwards. You seem fascinated by me, when I have no idea why you would be."

  "Don’t you?"

  "No."

  He pondered her comment, then shrugged. "You correct: I’m clueless as to why, but I’m enthralled."

  "And insane," she added.

  "A crazed man can’t be held accountable for his actions. Even the law courts say so."

  He bent in and kissed her as he’d been contemplating since their previous foray into passion.

  He had hazy, but riveting memories of that strange episode, and he suspected his powerful recollection had been skewed by his level of inebriation. He assumed that if he kissed her again, the thrill would be gone, his infatuation tamped down by reality.

  But no. He was more excited than ever.

  Why was he so intrigued by her? Why had she captivated him? He was a moth, and she was a flame, and he was eager to fly into the fire and burn himself to death.

  His fingers were in her hair and tugging at the pins, so her lovely tresses would fall down her back.

  "Jackson," she scolded, "let’s not do this. Someone might come by."

  "No one will see us."

  "You don’t know that."

  "If anyone approaches, we’ll hear their footsteps. We’ll hurry into the bushes."

  "We won’t hear them; we’ll be too preoccupied."

  He grinned. "Are you claiming I’ll thoroughly distract you?"

  "Yes."

  "Ha! We’re making progress, and you called me Jackson."

  "It slipped out."

  "No, it didn’t. I keep telling you: You’re wild about me."

  "You’re the most horrid influence."

  "Aren’t I, though?"

  He captured her lips again, deepening the embrace. He was fumbling with the buttons on her dress, madly wanting to remove her clothes—right out in the open where discovery was always a possibility.

  Kissing they could hide. Kissing they could abruptly halt. But if he unbuttoned her dress, they couldn’t conceal their transgression. For a reckless moment, he didn’t care. When he was with her, he felt like a god, in charge of a world where there were no consequences.

  But she was wiser than he. She broke off their torrid kiss and shoved him away.

  "Stop it," she groused, smoothing her bodice, her hair.

  "Only if you promise you’ll sneak to my bedchamber with me."
>
  "It’s the middle of the afternoon!"

  "Does that mean you’d agree if it was dark evening?"

  "No, it means you make me forget myself. You’re much too dissolute for my tastes. You ignite my worst impulses."

  "You have bad impulses?"

  "Yes, as you’ve proven on several occasions."

  She looked so stern, so abused, and so very, very pretty. He’d planned to reach for her again, but a swift, irksome wave of fatigue washed over him. Suddenly, he couldn’t lift his arms, and he was almost drunk with exhaustion. He was so hot…

  He gazed off across the park, disturbed to note a golden ring around his vision, which was a sure sign that he was about to suffer a bout of jungle fever.

  In Egypt, he had a bevy of servants who knew how to tend him during the onslaught. In England, he had no one and was completely unprepared for what was about to sweep him away.

  "Dammit," he muttered.

  "What is it? What’s wrong?"

  She was studying him, her brow furrowed with concern, but he could barely see her. He heard her voice, but it seemed to come from a lengthy distance.

  "I don’t feel very well," he mumbled.

  "You don’t look very well, either. You’re very flushed." She rested her palm on his forehead. "Land sakes, you’re burning up."

  "I was afraid I might be."

  It was the last thing he recalled saying to her.

  He slid off the bench and onto the grass in a humiliating heap. He thought she might have shouted, "Jackson! Jackson! What is it? Tell me what’s happening?"

  Too ill to reply, he shut his eyes and let the disease carry him away. He’d endured it for years, and there was no other route to the end but straight through the middle.

  CHAPTER NINE

  "Will you be needing me, Miss Bennett?"

  "No. You may head to your room."

  "Are you sure?"

  "Yes. It’s very late. You go on."

  Grace nodded to the door, urging the footman on his way.

  Over the past four days, the entire staff had been extremely solicitous. With Jackson so ill, they’d immediately expected her to take charge. And she had, but she assumed the servants had an ulterior motive for elevating her.

  Everyone was terrified that Jackson might perish while in their care. If he died, how would they explain it to his mother? It was much better to blame a stranger, a newcomer.