Get yourself together, Amelia. Stop being such a ninny. Taking a deep breath, Amelia stumbled to her feet and staggered over to the mysterious bulk, giving it a nudge with her foot. Everything within her urged her to turn and run home. To lock and bar the door behind her, and wait until Sir Hubert came to see where she was. Probably sometime tomorrow, if she was lucky.
Common sense held her still. How could she sleep at night knowing that this thing, whatever it was, was out there? Lurking. Well, not exactly lurking, but outside of her cottage nonetheless. It certainly wasn’t a newly fallen branch. It was too big. Besides, there were no leaves on it. Unless she was very much mistaken, it was clothed.
Another nudge. The lump rocked gently against her foot.
With shaking hands, Amelia clutched the lantern tighter, and bent over the mound.
“Hello?” She swore softly when her voice was immediately snatched by the howling winds. She knew there was nothing else she could do but take a look. Reluctantly she shuffled forwards, bending over the clothed mound cautiously. Slowly she tugged it towards her.
A scream locked in her throat, as it flopped over to reveal what she could only describe as a macabre caricature of a man’s face. Battered, bloody and covered in leaves and dirt, the man’s eyes remained closed against the persistent splash of raindrops on his eyelids and face. He showed no outward sign of life.
“Please don’t be dead,” she pleaded, quickly lunging to her feet. It was difficult to see through the inky blackness, but from what she could see up and down the cart track, there was no singular horse or overturned carriage to explain how he had come to be lying in the undergrowth.
A sudden blast of wind buffeted her, and she shuddered as icy fingers snatched at the sodden folds of her cloak. It helped considerably to snap her out of her shock.
She knelt on the sodden floor beside the man, and gently brushed the muddied mass of twigs and leaves from his angular face.
“Hello?” She pushed his thick shoulder and carefully watched him for any sign of acknowledgement. When several moments passed with no response, she reluctantly knelt once again and dipped her head towards his mouth. She almost wept with relief when the slight tickling of air swept across the delicate skin of her ear.
She was no judge of form at the best of times, but she could see through the almost transparent cotton of his shirt to the heavily muscled chest. He was very tall and well built. It was going to be difficult to move him.
The alternative was to leave him there, which she simply couldn’t do. If he didn’t drown from the amount of rain and mud he was lying in, he would almost certainly freeze to death and she couldn’t bear to have that on her conscience.
The night air was already getting considerably colder, rapidly chilling already frozen skin. He would not make the morning if he didn’t get warm. Sir Hubert’s house was too far away, and there was nobody else for miles around whom she could call upon to help.
It was down to her to get him into her cottage, where she could at least light the fire and get him warm.
When another gust of icy wind swept over the folds of her thin cloak, she lunged to her feet. Spurred into action, she was about to push him onto his back when she realised that she hadn’t seen his hands.
“You have to have some,” she muttered. It helped her deal with the situation she was faced with if she talked to him, even though she knew he probably couldn’t hear her. It also stopped her teeth from chattering. Grasping hold of his shoulders, she smoothed her chilled fingers over the corded muscles of his shoulders and down his arms.
“Surely to God-.” Disbelief widened her eyes, as she stared blankly into the darkness of the trees around them. She had found his hands, and the tight bindings that held them together behind his back.
Incredulous, she leant backwards to rest upon her heels and stared at his battered face. Her mind raced with possibilities. Who would do such a thing? Could he be a convict? Amelia didn’t know much about criminals, but had seen one or two as they were being transported to gaol. They had been secured with iron manacles. This man was tied with very tight rope bindings. Who was he, and what had happened to him that meant he deserved to be bound, beaten and left for dead beside a cart track leading to nowhere?
Running around the south-westerly edge of Lord Bestwick’s estates, the small cart track skirted the edge of Bestwick’s grazing lands, before connecting with the main road leading out of the small village of Glendowie. There was certainly very little through traffic.
Someone had sought to dump him here.
Shaking her head in consternation, Amelia set her concerns to one side for now. At least until they were warm and dry in the shelter of her tiny cottage. She wondered briefly if she should leave his hands bound for the time being. Despite the risk to her own safety should he turn out to be a murderer or rapist, she knew she simply couldn’t do it.
She was about to unravel the bonds when a small voice of caution warned her. Until she could be certain of his identity, and what had caused him to be in such dire circumstance, she owed it to herself to keep him bound. If not to himself, then she could at least bind him to the bed, the table, or something.
“You could at least wake up and help me,” she grumbled, pushing to her feet. Grabbing the thin folds of his cotton shirt in her small fists, she tugged at his heavy frame with all of her might. A small grunt escaped her when, despite her best efforts, he barely moved.
Fighting to gain purchase in the deepening mud, Amelia dug her heels in and cursed. Taking a huge breath, she pulled on his shoulders as hard as she could, crying aloud with joy when he slid a few inches towards her. Her chest was heaving with exertion when Amelia sank onto her bottom at the edge of the track several minutes later.
“At this rate, we’ll both drown,” she gasped, eyeing the short distance they had covered with a growing sense of defeat. She began to doubt that she could actually get him to her cottage. The puddles in the middle of the track were growing alarmingly deeper by the minute. Her arms already shook with the effort it was taking to drag him just a few inches over the soft ground. Pulling him through the water and deepening mud would be impossible.
Tipping her head backwards, she swallowed the raindrops that fell into her open mouth gratefully, and contemplated her situation. She had gotten him this far. In all conscience she couldn’t give up on him now. Whatever the cost to her arms and legs. Ignoring her aching back, Amelia bent over him.
“Please wake up.” She fought tears when the howling winds immediately snatched her voice. When he didn’t respond, she shook him harder. Muttering dire imprecations, she tugged at the tight bindings at his wrist until they unravelled. She was about to drag him again when his low moan caught her ears.
“Help me,” Amelia shouted into his ear, pummelling her fists against his solid chest in frustration. She cried out with joy when he issued another soft groan in response.
“Get up. Get up.” Her voice shook with a mixture of exertion and rising excitement, as the prospect of getting him out of the rain, and herself home at last rose like a phoenix before her.
“Get up and help me,” she persisted with growing impatience, when he didn’t immediately move. “Get up. Get up. Get up!”
Her tenacity was rewarded by the sudden jerking of his head as he peered at her through the gloom. She pushed and shoved at his lumbering frame, urging him to his feet. Shaking rain out of her eyes, she prodded him forwards relentlessly when he tried to stand. They only covered a few paces before he fell to his knees with a thud.
For several long and harrowing minutes they made their somewhat awkward journey across the muddy cart track. Amelia would prod the man who would heave to his feet and stagger a few steps, then slump to his knees again. When his swaying became so bad that he looked as if he would topple forwards onto his face, Amelia would stand before him and tug his shoulders, making him walk just a few steps more.
They were so close. Just another few feet and they would be at her
cottage door. She could get them both inside to safety.
Luckily her single-storey cottage had no steps inside to traverse. She was fairly certain that without the gritty boulders and stones to hamper his slide, she could move him easily across the floor of her cottage to the bed.
The heady scent of success wafted tantalisingly before her. Straightening her shoulders with determination, Amelia stretched her aching limbs and surveyed the few steps needed to reach the door.
“Get up, we are nearly there. Help me!” She prodded and pushed when he would have slumped over. Over and over again, she poked and pleaded, guiding him steadily to the reassuring bulk of her cottage.
Slamming the door open, she dragged his lumbering form across the threshold and into the sanctuary of her home. Exhausted, she collapsed on to the floor beside him with a heavy thump. For several moments she lay where she fell, while she regained her breath.
Eventually she gathered the last remnants of energy and stepped cautiously over his legs. Within moments she had crossed the track on trembling legs to collect the lantern she had dropped earlier.
Frowning at the jumble of questions that had to remain unanswered for now, Amelia returned to her cottage, dragging the man’s legs to one side to shut the door. As an afterthought she carefully bolted it. For added protection, she wedged a spindle chair under the handle. A scream lurched into her throat when a particularly heavy gust of wind rattled the door.
“Don’t be such a goose,” she chastised herself, quickly lighting the few candle stubs she owned, banishing the darkness to the far corners of the small space.
As the small light penetrated the inky blackness, Amelia reluctantly focused on the man who had suddenly thrown her life into such turmoil. A small flicker of awkwardness surged through her. Her initial impressions of him outside had been accurate. He was very tall with well-defined muscles. His unconscious bulk took up nearly a third of the floor in her little cottage.
“Oh dear.” She swallowed as she eyed the dips and hollows of his chest, which was now clearly visible through the transparent material of his shirt. Her cheeks flushed with embarrassment at her boldness and she quickly turned her gaze towards his face.
Despite the myriad of bruises, cuts and welts caked with mud and dirt, he was ruggedly handsome. His tousled hair was jet black, and tumbled in wild disarray over his high forehead. Long lashes covered his well-spaced eyes. His long aquiline nose screamed aristocracy, as did his sternly curved lips and firm jaw. The long lengths of his muscled legs were quite clearly the well-defined legs of a regular horse rider, and were encased in high quality breeches.
Everything about him screamed Ton. But did that automatically rule him out as a murderer? Or worse? From Amelia’s experience of the aristocracy, most of them were up to some illegal doings up to their ears. She had no doubt this man would be any different. Indeed, given his dire circumstance, it appeared he was definitely involved in something sinister.
A shudder swept through her, reminding her of her own immediate needs. Quickly she shrugged out of her sodden cloak and boots before changing into blessedly dry clothes. Bolstered by the warmth, she set a pot of water to boil and reluctantly turned to her new house guest.
She dreaded what she had to do next. Her arms and back already ached fiercely. She was loathe to drag him anywhere else but couldn’t leave him where he was. Further half-hearted prodding didn’t even raise a flicker of an eyelash. With a sigh, Amelia began to slowly drag him across the stone floor towards the bed. She was suddenly glad her single room cottage was so tiny.
“I don’t suppose you are going to wake up enough to help me again, are you?” she murmured, eyeing his masculine length ruefully. Eventually, she drew to a halt beside the bed. Tugging down the covers with a deep sigh of longing, she bent down to first tug his boots off. It required so much effort; she was left gasping and trembling from the effort. She eyed the sodden leather with disgust, and tossed them casually towards the fireplace before turning back towards him with a sigh.
No doubt he could afford another pair, she mused cynically, refusing to feel guilty for her casual dismissal of such expensive items.
“I should just leave you to shiver.” She dreaded removing the remainder of his clothes, but couldn’t leave him in sodden clothing any more than she could leave him on the cold, hard floor. Already his lips were turning blue and his skin was rippled with goose bumps. She didn’t want to wake up in the morning to find she had a dead body in the house, especially after everything she had done to get him there.
With a shudder, she squared her shoulders and untied the laces down the front of his shirt, grumbling softly as her fingers brushed against his frozen flesh. Easing the sodden strips of material apart, she pushed and shoved him until he rolled over enough for her to tug the shirt off his back. A careful survey of the muscled flesh on his back revealed plenty of grazes and cuts, but no visible bones or deep cuts requiring stitches. Relieved, she carefully eased him back down with a frown.
“You need to help me.” She leant down and roughly shook his shoulder. Through the gloom of the candlelight she could see the darkening bruises covering his chest, ribs and stomach. She hated to move him, but to leave him on the cold floor in his sodden condition could kill him.
When he remained unresponsive, she pushed again. “Please, you need to help me get you up.” Grasping hold of his arm, she tugged hard on it and was rewarded when he awkwardly pushed himself up, lurching to his feet.
“Sit,” she ordered softly, aware of the solid wall of his chest mere inches from her nose as she guided him down onto the bed. He was so tall against her not inconsequential height, she felt almost feminine against him. She tried hard to ignore the crinkling of his chest hair against her fingers, as she pushed gently on his chest until he sat down on the bed with a thump. She guided his shoulders backwards until he was lying down, having succumbed to unconsciousness once again.
Aware he was already unconscious; Amelia reluctantly eyed his wet breeches. If he had any chance of recovering and leaving her house, he had to get warm and dry. This meant removing all of his clothing.
Amelia frowned down at him in consternation. Could she do it? Should she? Or should she pretend she hadn’t the strength to wrestle them off, and leave him to take his chances? She knew she couldn’t do it. She couldn’t leave him in wet clothing. She had gotten this far. It wasn’t fair on him to leave him to die of cold to preserve her blushes. After all, it wasn’t as if he was watching her.
If he woke up then he could take them off himself. But as it was, he was out cold. So it looked like it was down to her.
She really did try to keep her eyes off him as she removed his breeches. Her gaze remained locked on his face for the most part. She only peeked, with one eye, to make certain she had hold of the cloth as she undid the front placket, and loosened them enough to tug them off. Eventually though, feminine curiosity won the battle, and she found herself studying his stunningly masculine physique with something akin to awe.
It was the first time in her life she had seen a man in all of his naked glory, and it was enough to send her pulse pounding.
Colour rose within her cheeks as she tried to keep her eyes from the soft length of his manhood nestled within the dark thatch of curls at the apex of his thighs. A brief glance at his face revealed not a flicker of movement. Amelia coughed uncomfortably and looked away. Despite the fact she was on her own, her cheeks still flushed with embarrassment. She could only be fervently glad that he hadn’t suddenly woken up to find her staring at his private, manly parts.
Carefully averting her gaze, she let her eyes travel curiously over the dips and hollows of his wide, muscled chest. He was definitely Ton. His elegantly cut hair was well groomed. The clothes and boots she had just removed were made from the finest materials, and probably cost an entire ten years’ worth of Amelia’s wages.
She studied the myriad of multi-coloured flesh covering his ribs. Whatever had happened to him had be
en brutal, and had taken place recently. She had received her own share of bruising since working as a housekeeper, and knew they only turned the colour of his when they were relatively new. Unfortunately, there was no way of knowing what was going on underneath the damaged flesh. Amelia could only pray that nothing severe was happening that could take his life.
Shaking her head, she carefully covered him in sheets and blankets before turning to the rhythmic clanking of the water pot on the hearth.
Several moments later she had gathered everything she needed, and quietly set about bathing the mud and grime off him, before tending to his battered flesh as best she could, given her own lack of supplies.
It took longer than she thought and was late when she finally stood up and arched her aching back. At last, he was clean and dry. All of his wounds were now washed and, where necessary, bound with strips of what had been her only petticoat. He seemed to be resting comfortably and more importantly, warming up.
Wearily she added more wood to the fire before easing herself into the chair beside the bed. Of larger than average size, it had been left behind by the cottage’s previous owner and was the only one she had. Its solid bulk seemed to envelope her as she settled back into its embracing comfort. Tugging the tattered edges of the last blanket she possessed around her, Amelia rested her head against the chair’s back and within seconds fell asleep.
It had been a long time since Sebastian had felt such contentment. He was blessedly warm and relaxed, lying on the softest bed he could ever remember having slept in. The sheets were luxuriously soft beneath his skin, and smelled faintly of roses. They reminded him of the many summers he spent as a young boy, rollicking around in his mother’s rose garden with his brothers.
Keeping his eyes closed, he listened to the myriad of gentle noises around him as full consciousness returned. The steady crackling of wood in the fireplace was interspersed with the rapid drumming of rain on the roof over his head. Ferocious winds howled and rattled against the window panes, searching for the smallest sign of weakness to gain entry.
Cinders and Ashes Page 2
