A Midnight Clear (The Lost Lords Book 7)

by Chasity Bowlin

  “I need to reach Midford Abbey! Benedict—”

  “Is not going anywhere. I will get you there tomorrow. But if you persist in this foolishness tonight, you will be seriously injured or killed.”

  As if to emphasize his point, a brutal gust of wind blew through just then and branches shattered in the distance, falling onto the hard-packed, icy lane with a heavy crack. Sarah jumped and shuddered. Had she not fallen but continued on, she would likely have been struck by them. That thought silenced any token protests she might have made. It was certainly unorthodox for her to spend the night in the dower house with him, but there would be servants there, after all. And they were family. He was practically her brother.

  Except he wasn’t.

  “Very well,” she agreed. “Do you promise you will get me to Midford Abbey tomorrow, Branson?”

  “I will do everything in my power to get you there, Sarah. I know you’d prefer as little time in my company as possible,” he replied sharply. “Now, let’s get you up off the ground.”

  Sarah took his hand, noting how warm it was despite the frigid cold. But as she rose, her injured ankle gave way beneath her and she stumbled. He caught her, pulling her against him and managing, somehow, to keep them both upright.

  “You are injured,” he said accusingly.

  “I must have turned my ankle when I fell. It will be fine,” she insisted.

  He maneuvered them so that her injured side was against him. “If you lean against me, it will be easier going. I’d carry you but if I fall, it would go even worse for you.”

  She did as he suggested. His arm was strong about her as he supported most of her weight and she was vividly conscious of the warmth of his body against her even through the layers of sodden clothing between them. She was not without desires. Despite the cruelty of her late husband, she was still a living woman, with a woman’s body and a woman’s needs. Needs that had been awakened so long ago, but never truly fulfilled.

  Sarah closed her eyes and tried desperately to push such thoughts away. They were futile and pointless, as he would never see her as anything but some addlebrained ninny. Unable to do anything else, however, she clung to him as he turned and led the way down the icy lane. Somehow, in spite of the conditions, he never slipped, slid or even seemed to fumble for his balance. He was completely and utterly implacable even in the face of such intolerable conditions. Never in her life had she known anyone more stoic than Branson. Though, if she were forced to admit it, there were times when that same trait that maddened her had also helped her to salvage what little of her dignity remained. Had it not been Branson, after all, who’d dealt with the aftermath of James’ scandalous demise in the bed of his infamous mistress? And there was his unfailing knack for saving her and their fortunes whenever she’d been on the verge of falling under the grasping thrall of any mystic who offered hope her Benedict was still alive.

  There was much to be grateful to Branson for and it was that, more than anything, to which she took umbrage and which made her unfortunate response to his nearness so embarrassing. In his presence, she always felt less, weak, lacking in some way that he’d been the one to protect her from herself for so long. She resented it, she realized. She resented him because he reminded her of her own weaknesses and failings, because he reminded her of a time before James had humiliated her beyond reason, before the disappearance of her son and the uncertainty of his fate had nearly driven her mad. And any deep-seated desire she might have for him, any unconscious acknowledgement of how strong and handsome he was, would only bring disaster if allowed to come to fruition.

  Shuffling beside him, struggling to maintain her balance on the slippery ground with one injured ankle, she resented him for the relative ease with which he made the short trek to the small, gated entrance of the dower house. More than that, she resented him for making her feel things she had no business feeling and could never act upon.

  Finally, they reached the house. Even through the deluge of icy rain, she could see it was entirely dark. “Have your servants already sought their beds?”

  He glanced back at her. “There are no servants… well, not that stay here. There’s a maid that comes down from the house to tidy things up here and there. I’ve never liked having a valet, as you well know.”

  “But there’s no butler or cook?”

  His laughter carried on the wind. “Lest you forget, Sarah, I will no longer have the entirety of the Middlethorp fortune at my disposal. I have elected to accustom myself to my newly-lowered standing by forgoing such things.”

  They would be alone. Utterly and entirely alone. She hadn’t been alone with any man since her husband’s passing and, even before that event, James had shown no interest in her. He’d preferred the company of his mistresses, after all, or women who would tolerate his abuses with a smile and an open palm for their coin. Of course, it was Branson. He had no interest in her either. But it was simply the thought of it, of that strange intimacy that occurs in the darkness between two people. Could she bear it? Did she have a choice?

  He reached for the door, pushed it open and then moved to help her inside. She hesitated there just long enough for his expression to harden. “I realize it’s beneath you, Sarah, but so is freezing to death!”

  Chastened and more than a little embarrassed, she stepped into the darkened hall, still leaning heavily on him. The snick of the door closing blocked out all other sounds save for the muted buffeting of the wind against the house. It was as if the darkness inside provided its own sort of insulation, a buffer against the rest of the world.

  Following his unspoken commands, Sarah disengaged herself from him and leaned back against the wall, avoiding putting weight on her injured ankle. Within seconds, he’d moved deeper into the narrow space and lit a taper left on the table there. The dim glow of the candle illuminated the entryway and cast harsh, dancing shadows over his face. “The library was in use earlier and had a fire laid in it for most of the day… I daresay it will be the easiest room to knock the chill off of you first. I’ll get you settled in there to warm up then get a bedchamber readied.”

  Sarah nodded and accepted the taper as he held it out to her. Rather than leaning on him for that short journey, he simply swept her up and into his arms, carrying her, mud and all, into the room to the right of the entryway. Trying to think of anything but how glorious it felt to be in his arms, she focused on their surroundings instead. The small library was a much more feminine room than she might have expected but, then, he hadn’t had the house redone to his tastes. She assumed his lodging there was of a temporary nature. Branson was a London man. He’d never cared for hunts and riding the way others did, though he certainly excelled at both.

  He sat her down in a wooden chair before the fire and helped her to remove her heavy cloak. He started to simply drop it, but she halted him. “Not there. For heaven’s sake, let us spare the upholstery such an ignominious end.”

  He said nothing, but moved the garment into the hall and draped it over the banister. Branson returned almost immediately and coaxed the few remaining warm coals in the hearth back to life. Eventually, the fire blazed and cast a soft glow over the room. As silently as he’d entered, he simply rose and retreated from the library.

  Sarah could hear his footfalls on the staircase as he made his way above. Easing herself into one of the chairs before the hearth, she acknowledged how much her body ached. She was not as young as she had once been and the few slips and tumbles she’d suffered along the way, and her more serious one just before Branson had reached her, had taken their toll. No doubt, she’d be a mass of bruises by morning. But it was her ankle that would truly be the devil. If she didn’t get her boots off, she’d likely not be able to. She could feel her ankle beginning to swell already.

  Carefully, she bent forward and removed her boots, ignoring the twinges of pain as she did so. If she acknowledged the aches and pains, such an admission would only be greeted with a smug “I told you so”. The situati
on was intolerable enough to start with without adding fuel to that particular fire. By the time she’d managed to remove her offending footwear, she was all but in tears. It hurt terribly. More than that, she feared that it would impede her efforts to spend the holiday with her family. She simply would not allow it, she vowed. Whatever pain she might suffer, the end result would be worth it.

  With the task finally done, she leaned back in the chair and considered her options. She was, at least, closer to Benedict than when she had started. But if the weather continued, would they truly be able to reach Midford Abbey the following day?

  “The farmer just down the lane has a sleigh. I sent Travers there for the night with instructions they should use the sleigh and fetch us in the morning. It’s already turned fully to snow outside and I imagine, by daybreak, we’ll have quite a bit of it. If there’s enough snow to cover the ice, we’ll have no trouble getting to Midford Abbey.” The explanation was offered without any preamble at all, despite the fact that it seemed he’d read her mind. As a matter of fact, it was just as everything he did, it seemed.

  “You think me foolish,” she said. “Foolish and sentimental to go to such lengths.”

  “I think your judgement is clouded because you are trying to make up for lost years, Sarah. Do not waste the present trying to recapture the past,” he warned.

  “It’s the first Christmas I will have with my son in more than two decades, Branson. Can you not see how important it is that I not let another such special day pass without being close to him?” She was imploring him to understand, and he did, she thought. When Benedict had been small and Branson a young man about town, he’d doted on the boy. There had been no denying that he had been heartbroken, as well, when Benedict had been abducted all those years ago. The only person who had been unmoved had been James. He’d simply been livid to have himself saddled with a wife who was no longer capable of giving him an heir to replace the one taken. If anyone could understand her desperation, wouldn’t it be the other person who had loved Benedict so well as a boy?

  *

  He’d get her there. If it meant moving heaven and earth, he would find a way. When she looked at him like that, as if he truly had the power to do anything in the world, how could he do anything less? “I will get you to your son by Christmas, Sarah. No matter what. You have my word.”

  She dropped her head and sighed with relief. “Thank you, Branson. I cannot tell you what it means to me.”

  “I had thought you were to set out more than a week ago,” he commented. That was the very reason he’d made himself scarce, after all. It was easier to avoid her than to be in her company when he’d been informed that she would be spending more than a fortnight with them at Midford. So he’d gone to Bath to deal with some inane business that could just as easily have been handled by post.

  “My maid took ill. She is recovering now but is still far too weak to travel, and as I could not wait any longer, I set out without her.”

  He didn’t harangue her for it. There was no point. They both knew it had been a foolish choice. It also wasn’t his place. With Benedict returned, he was no longer the trustee of the estate. He no longer had any control over Sarah’s finances, behavior or living arrangements. All of those things were now the purveyance of her son. That thought weighed on him, pressed down upon him with a heaviness that made his heart ache. Ignoring that, as he’d done with so many of his emotions over the years, he stepped deeper into the room. At his side, he carried a small bundle of bandages and a liniment that smelled like the devil but worked wonders.

  The truth of the matter, in its simplest of terms, was that he no longer had a purpose in life at all. Caring for her, even if it was often a battle to do so, had been the thing he’d devoted his life to. And now that was all gone. It was a maudlin thought, one that had plagued him numerous times over the last months. And while it was true, it certainly did no good to dwell on it.

  “Now,” he said, “let’s take a look at that ankle.”

  Chapter Three

  Sarah said nothing as he knelt before her and gently lifted her foot so that it rested upon his thigh. It was a strangely intimate pose for them to be in. She could not recall having ever had as much physical contact with Branson as she had before that night. Aside from occasionally helping her in and out of a carriage, he had never touched her. Not even once. It was curious then, as he lifted the hem of her skirt just enough to untie the garter that held her stocking in place, that her breath caught and a sense of expectation filled her. It was almost as if she’d been waiting for just such a moment between them, even without being aware of it. When his fingertips moved gently over her ankle, examining it carefully, she shivered slightly.

  “It isn’t broken,” he said. “But I daresay you will be limping for a few days. I think there is a walking stick about somewhere that should serve you well enough. I’ll locate it in the morning.”

  “Thank you,” Sarah replied. Her voice emerged breathless and thin.

  If he thought it odd, he said nothing. Instead, he applied the liniment to the bruised area just below her ankle bone and then began winding the bandages around her foot in a slow, mesmerizing manner. She watched every movement, every flicker of firelight as it danced over the harsh planes and angles of his face.

  “There,” he said. And perhaps, it was wishful thinking on her part that he sounded as breathless as she did. “All finished. I’ll help you up the stairs and get you settled into my room for the night. It’s the only one made up.”

  “Where will you stay?”

  “I’ll sleep down here. It’s better that way,” he said.

  Better for who? And why on earth should it matter? “You can’t possibly be comfortable down here.”

  “Sarah, I cannot… it would be best to keep as much distance between us as possible to maintain propriety,” he offered.

  She let out a nervous laugh, more to cover her own embarrassment and discomfiture than because she was amused. “Maintain propriety? Really, Branson! It isn’t as if I’m a young maid and you have designs on my virtue!”

  “Is that so impossible?” he demanded. “Or so laughable?”

  “We’ve known each for ages, Branson,” she insisted, more to remind herself of all the reasons her response to him was something best ignored. “We’re family.”

  “We are not. I am you brother-in-law. Or I was… in truth, that relationship ceased to exist when my brother died. I was the trustee of his estates for the years following. But with Benedict returned, that is gone, as well. In point of fact, Sarah, we are old acquaintances sharing one lodging, unchaperoned, for the night.”

  There was something in the way he said, something that rang with finality. “Branson, we are more than acquaintances. What is it that you are not saying?”

  “I’m leaving England, Sarah. As soon as I can impart enough knowledge to Benedict that he can manage the estates with the help of a trusted steward, I’m leaving for Jamaica.”

  “Why in heaven’s name would you do that?”

  “What is keeping me here?” he challenged.

  Me. I am. Stay for me. It was the height of her own selfishness that she longed for him to remain and be the rock he had been for so many years even when she’d resented his interference in her life so keenly. But he made her feel safe and what on earth would she do without him? Even as she opened her mouth to beg him to stay, she could not find the words to do so. It made her sound weak and needy, grasping and clinging in a way that she despised.

  “I can make it up the stairs on my own,” she said.

  “I don’t think that’s wise.”

  “I think I had best get used to doing things on my own, don’t you?” Sarah asked. Without looking back, she hobbled from the room and toward the stairs. She was panting and her ankle was screaming in protest by the time she’d made it to the top. Still, by leaning against the wall and ostensibly hopping on one foot much to her humiliation, she managed to reach the largest of the bedchamb
ers.

  The warm glow of the fire greeted her as she entered the room. It smelled like him, like leather and the shaving soap he’d used for so many years. As she reached the bed, Sarah struggled to remove her dress. Clad only in her chemise and petticoat, she climbed beneath the covers and refused to yield to the tears that threatened. He was entitled to leave and go wherever he wished. He was entitled to a life. So are you, a soft voice whispered in her mind. She ignored it, just as she always did.

  *

  Branson took the chair Sarah had vacated and stared into the flames that crackled and hissed in the ancient hearth. He’d been toying with the idea of going to the islands. He had many investments there and had little doubt they’d be infinitely more profitable if he was overseeing them more directly. But until that moment, when her foot had been perched delicately on his thigh and he’d touched her skin in ways which he’d only ever dreamed of, he had been undecided.

  She was like a demon to him, tormenting and ever present in his mind, and one that needed to be exorcised. Perhaps, distance would accomplish that easier than anything else. Not for the first time, he thought he should just marry. Find some woman of an appropriate age—old enough to be practical but still young enough to build a life with him—and marry. But his sense of fair play, of honor, would not permit it. Why marry one woman when his thoughts would forever be with another? Infidelity of the heart and mind was as damaging as infidelity of the body, after all.

  Cursing under his breath, he rose long enough to grab the decanter of brandy from a cabinet and fill his glass liberally with it. Removing his boots, he stretched out on the floor before the fire. It would certainly bring regret in the morning but no more so than attempting to fit his too large frame on a too small settee. It would be a very long night.

  Chapter Four