by Godman, Jane
Rosie smoothed the coverlet on the bed, “I’ll stay and watch over him, Tom,” she murmured, not taking her eyes from the marble-pale face.
As evening deepened into night, the unconscious man’s condition deteriorated and he became feverish, tossing and turning and muttering incomprehensibly beneath his breath. Once or twice he opened his eyes and spoke directly to Rosie, raising her spirits, but then he lapsed once more into delirium. On one of these occasions, he caught hold of her wrist, saying unevenly,
“You are so beautiful, sweetheart ... who are you?”
Rosie blushed, replying softly, “I am Rosie Delacourt. You are in my father’s house, sir, and you will be safe here.”
He pressed burning lips to the inside of her wrist murmuring, “You have the most delicious lips, Rosie Delacourt. Perchance I will taste their sweetness in my dreams,” before subsiding back onto his pillows. He seemed to sleep more peacefully after that and Rosie allowed herself to indulge in a brief daydream prompted by his words. Examining her wrist where he had kissed it, she was astonished to find that his searing mouth had left no mark. She could not shake the feeling that, in that scant moment, he had branded her flesh with his caress.
At midnight, Tom looked in and pursed his lips pessimistically as he felt the patient’s brow. Rosie clasped anxious hands together,
“Oh please, please, Tom, don’t look so severe! Tell me he will pull through this dreadful fever.”
Tom shrugged noncommittally, “He must be strong, Miss Rosie, to have survived thus far … and to have travelled here from Swarkestone Bridge with a bullet in him. If he can fight off this heat no doubt he’ll pull through.”
“What must I do for him tonight?” Rosie asked anxiously, unconsciously reaching for the rebel’s hand as he again thrashed wildly in his sleep.
Her touch had an immediate reassuring effect which did not escape Tom’s notice. Issuing detailed instructions, he left Rosie to watch over her patient during the night. He pondered briefly on the wisdom of leaving the care of a handsome hero to a young, impressionable and very soft hearted lady.
***
Dark images came back to him through a disjointed fog. His was a restless spirit which needed – nay, demanded – action. He had eagerly accompanied the party of seventy highlanders sent to protect the bridge so that the prince might cross to commence his triumphant march on London. It was quiet – unknown to them, events in Derby were already shaping the prince’s retreat – and, tired after the long ride south, he had dozed in a small copse, wrapped in his cloak as he tried to ignore the freezing ground. When he woke suddenly it was to find a young redcoat standing over him, sword in hand. Springing to his feet, he had been unaware that another soldier stood atop a small incline, just a few paces away. The impact of the shot threw him down the slope towards the riverbank. The king’s soldiers were prevented from pursuing him and finishing him off by a small but ferocious party of the prince’s highlanders who, alerted by the gunshot, rushed to his aid. A couple of these gruff men, clad in the tartan which proclaimed their clan, had stolen a horse. They placed him upon it and slapped the steed’s scrawny flanks, sending it scurrying away from the skirmish.
The face of a young woman intruded into these memories, soothing him and causing the horrors to recede. Her hair was dark as midnight and fell in shining ringlets about her shoulders. Concern shone in the luminous depths of her grey eyes as she studied his face. His vision had clear, creamy skin with a light dusting of freckles across her dainty, upturned nose and the most inviting, delectable, cherry ripe lips he had ever seen. Even in his dream, the delicate, soothing scent of flowers hung about her. He could not hear the words she spoke but her voice unaccountably reassured him. She wanted him to do something, but he was not sure what it was. He knew that he must wake from his nightmares of violence, pain and fear so that he could find out.
***
Tom came back early the next morning to check on his handiwork and seemed reasonably satisfied. Mr Delacourt joined them, his expression lugubrious, and regarded the prone figure on the bed with misgivings.
“He cannot be moved, I suppose?” he enquired gloomily.
Tom replied with a decisive negative, “Sir, as well as the severity of his wounds, he has lost a great deal of blood and he now has a fever. He must be given time to recover,” he assured his employer firmly, “I have thought of a tale to tell should the redcoats come looking for him.”
Rosie threw him a grateful look and he smiled reassuringly at her before continuing,
“No-one else need know the nature of his injuries. The less we say the better, but, as far as anyone else is concerned, he is a young kinsman – a distant cousin – of yours who was travelling through Derbyshire when struck down with illness. What more natural than he should come here to his family to recover?” Mr Delacourt mulled over the idea, a furrow between his brows.
“It is most unlikely anyone will pursue him here, sir. The king’s men will be too concerned with the Jacobite army regrouping across the border.”
Mr Delacourt sighed wearily, but to Rosie’s relief, he agreed that the rebel could stay and be nursed back to health. With a squeal of delight, she threw her arms around her father and kissed him. He tolerated this display of exuberance in his usual solemn manner. He advised her to fetch one of his own nightshirts for their guest ... but, he added in a stern voice, she was to be sure to leave the room while Tom dressed him in it.
During her second evening’s vigil, Rosie dozed off in her chair. She woke to find her patient motionless. So still was he that, at first, she feared the worst. Sitting beside him on the bed, she leaned over to check his breathing and was reassured to feel warm breath touch her cheek. Finally, he was sleeping peacefully. A single tear – a symbol both of relief and weariness in equal intensity – trickled down her cheek. Not caring how wrong it was, she kicked off her shoes and pulled back the coverlet. Lying down next to him, she fell immediately into the deep, dreamless sleep of utter exhaustion.
***
In the inky darkness of the early hours, he opened his eyes. His whole body ached and his left shoulder was on fire. An attempt to flex his arm informed him that it was useless, the muscles simply refused to respond. With questing fingers, he discovered that his shoulder was tightly bandaged and that he was dressed in a chambray nightshirt of generous proportions.
He lay still, trying to make sense of the unfamiliar surroundings and to understand the debilitating weakness in his limbs. The swirling fog of unconsciousness gradually receded and the events at Swarkestone Bridge came back to him clearly. But, try as he might, he could not summon up any memory of how he came to be here in this warm, comfortable bed. Amidst the fleeting images that danced into his mind, he remembered a girl as graceful as the morning mist, with hauntingly lovely features, gentle hands and a soothing voice.
Gradually, the realisation that he was not alone in the bed intruded on his thoughts. Turning his head, her scent informed him that, either he was still in the grip of slumber, or the girl of his dreams was flesh and blood and lying next to him. He could just make out her shape in the darkness. She lay curled on her side, fully clothed, facing away from him. Although the movement caused exquisite agony to tear through him, he slowly edged towards her and closed the gap so that he could fit his body into the curve of hers. Pressing his face to the silky skin at the nape of her neck, he drank in her delicious fragrance. She was as sweet and warm as honey. Comforted by her nearness, he sank into a deep, dreamless sleep.
***
When Rosie woke, the first light of dawn had crept through a crack in the curtains and she remained still for several minutes, bewildered by the unfamiliar surroundings. After a moment or two the emerald velvet drapes and heavy mahogany furniture of the spare bedchamber came into focus. With a soft sigh she stretched her aching limbs and turned her head on the pillow. Her eyes widened in shock as a pair of incredibly blue eyes crinkled into the most fascinating smile she had ever seen.
“Almost
...” he murmured softly, “... almost, it was worth taking that bullet. Since it bought me here to keep company with so much beauty.”
Rosie was unnerved by the feeling that time had somehow slowed to a crawl. She became suddenly aware of the compromising position she had placed herself in by sharing a bed with a stranger, even one so severely incapacitated. Her efforts to slide gracefully out from under the coverlet went sadly awry as her full skirts tangled about her thighs and she was forced to wriggle awkwardly while tugging them into place. Having restored some semblance of dignity, and hoping he had not noticed her struggles, she turned back to her patient. The unholy smile which lit his eyes informed her that he had not only observed, but also thoroughly enjoyed, her discomfiture. Annoyingly, her voice gave an odd little wobble when she ventured an artless comment.
“Why, sir, how wonderful that your fever has finally passed. I ... we have been so worried about you!”
Although he was alert and lucid, the fine features were pale and etched with pain. He held out a hand towards her, saying in formal tones,
“I should kiss your hands and feet in thanks for rescuing me, sweetheart. Unfortunately, my current incapacity prevents me from doing so. For the time being I hope it will suffice to introduce myself to you. I am Jack Lindsey and I will forever be your most humble servant.”
Echoing his formality, Rosie placed her hand in his,
“I am enchanted to meet you too, sir. My name is ...”
He interrupted her, raising her fingers to his lips and saying, “Rosie Delacourt,” a twinkle lit the depths of his eyes. “I remember. You are so beautiful that I thought you were a dream, Miss Delacourt.”
***
“Lindsey?” Mr Delacourt, summoned to be formally introduced to his house guest, spoke the name thoughtfully. “Might you be related to the Northumbrian Lindsey’s?”
Jack inclined his head as best he could while lying prone, “I am amazed at your wide knowledge, sir,” he admitted. “I am indeed of that family.”
“Then, if you are John Alexander Lindsey, I am addressing the Earl of St Anton, head of the family, am I not?” his host enquired, regarding him over the top of his spectacles.
“At your service, sir,”
Mr Delacourt’s encyclopaedic knowledge of the families of the British nobility never failed to impress his acquaintance, and he greatly enjoyed showing it off.
“If I am correct, you are the oldest of four children and ... let me see ... must now be twenty seven years old?”
“Twenty six,” Jack confirmed with a rueful smile at Rosie.
Mr Delacourt nodded sagely, “You are welcome to stay here, my lord,” he confirmed, “Until you are fully recovered from your injuries.”
Jack struggled to raise himself on one elbow. Failing miserably, he gave up the effort,
“Mr Delacourt, I cannot thank you enough for your help,” he assured him. “Believe me when I say that I will not stay here a moment longer than is necessary. I would not, for the entire world, place you and your family in danger.”
“Your sentiments do you credit, Lord St Anton. But I believe you will be safe here. The focus of attention has shifted back across the border once again.”
He proceeded to fill Jack in on the details of the Young Pretender’s retreat from Derby.
“It appears the prince was closer to victory than he or his generals could have known. Rumour has it that the king had ordered a vessel made ready on the Thames, so that he could flee the country, and that London was in uproar.” He shook his head sadly, “But the prince knew nought of this and listened instead to his advisors so that he is, even now, marching northwards back to Scotland. The focus of the king’s army is now, of course, to pursue him and secure a decisive victory over the Jacobites. A few troops remain nearby, and we must do all we can to shield your identity from them.”
When her father had gone, Rosie brought a glass of water and supported Jack to raise his head in order to drink it.
“Why do you frown?” she asked scanning his face, concern darkening the silver-grey depths of her eyes.
He sighed edgily, “I feel so helpless. Momentous events are taking place in which I have no part ... but it is not only that! It does not suit my code of honour that you should be forced to wait on me while I lie here like a feeble child!”
Rosie smiled tenderly and, unable to resist the temptation to touch him, smoothed a stray lock of hair back from his forehead,
“What a ... a mutton-headed idea … and you a grand gentleman … an earl, forsooth!” she teased him fondly, “Do stop fretting and try to get some sleep.”
Jack chuckled at her indulgent tone, “Yes, nurse!” he returned, enjoying the ready laughter which bubbled on her lips.
When Jack next opened his eyes, he found he was being watched by a dark-haired boy with a fierce expression and a large, aimlessly grinning dog. He closed his eyes again, deciding it was another dream but when, a few seconds later, he opened just one, he found they were both still there.
“Good day,” Jack decided a greeting was in order, “Won’t you be seated?”
His well-modulated tones came as a surprise to the vigilant defender, who had been expecting threats and curses. Curiosity and circumspection warred briefly in Harry’s chest. Curiosity won and, discarding his sword, he took the chair next to Jack’s bedside.
“Do you really know the prince?” he asked shyly, adding, when Jack nodded an affirmation, “What manner of man is he?”
Jack considered carefully before replying, “Very determined, witness the energy with which he raised money and ships to come to Scotland. He is a charismatic figure, a leader and one whom others will follow without question. A man one can truly admire.”
Desperate to learn more, he bombarded Jack with eager questions – had he been to both Venice and Rome? – and the Scottish clansmen who had joined the Young Pretender – were they really as fierce as the stories Harry had heard of them? Beau, deciding they would be here for some time, climbed wearily onto the bed and, after circling three times, lay down with a heavy sigh, rested his chin on Jack’s hand and closed his eyes. It was almost an hour later, when Rosie peeped into the room.
“Cousin Jack said that he learned to dance and fence in Paris, Sis,” Harry informed her enviously.
“I try to avoid doing both at the same time,” Jack said solemnly, making her laugh.
Rosie came and sat in her usual chair at his bedside and leaned in to pore over some of the books Harry had brought up from the library. Her dark head was bent close to Jack’s fair one as he pointed out some of the detail in a painting of The Pantheon,
“How beautiful,” she sighed.
“Exactly what I was thinking,” Jack murmured, and, hearing the soft laugh in his voice, she turned her head slightly to regard at him.
He was looking straight at her, making not the slightest pretence of studying the book. Their faces were close enough to kiss and the blaze of light in his eyes almost scorched the skin from her face. Jack stared blatantly at her mouth and Rosie found herself in the decidedly odd position of not knowing what to do with her lips.
The tension laden moment was interrupted by an exclamation from Harry, who had noticed an engraving of the Venetian canals. Watching in fascination as dark lashes swept down over those incredible smoky eyes, Jack answered him absent-mindedly.
“Are all the men in Derbyshire dim-witted?” Jack asked later, when Harry had gone. Rosie raised an enquiring eyebrow, unsure of his meaning, “How old are you, sweetheart?”
Rosie wasn’t sure her father would be happy to hear him address her in such a familiar way … but she definitely liked it!
Blushing, she replied, “Twenty. Why do you ask?”
“And yet you are unmarried, Miss Delacourt,” his voice was teasing, “Hence my question …are all the men hereabouts simpletons? Or are they just a pack of dull dogs? Or have you, perchance, taken a vow of chastity?”
Rosie gave a gurgle of laughter, �
��You are nonsensical, sir … I mean, Jack.”
“Am I, indeed? Do you then have a husband hidden about the place? Or a betrothed, mayhap?”
“No, but I have one very determined suitor and several ardent admirers!” Rosie announced with mock hauteur.
Jack whistled appreciatively, “Ardent, eh? I thought a diamond as fine as you must be much sought after,” he sighed exaggeratedly, “Clearly, a one-armed outcast such as I will not be able to compete amongst the ranks of your swain.”
“You are talking foolishly, sir … Jack,” an arrested look came into her eyes, “Unless … are you flirting with me?”
“Would you like me to flirt with you?”
“Now, how am I supposed to answer that? I must either offend you or appear quite dreadfully fast!” her eyes danced mischievously.
“Anyhow, it takes two to flirt. I can’t flirt on my own … and you are not indulging me by flirting back!” Jack informed her primly.
