Tempting the Earl

by Rachael Miles

  “My head.” She reached up and pulled away fingers wet with blood. “Oh, my.” Her face blanched.

  “No, no, Livvy, don’t faint, I need you to stay awake. Do you think you can make it to the parsonage?”

  “The parson is spending the night in the next village over. No one is home to help.”

  “Perfect. We’ll make ourselves at home while we treat the wound on that pretty head of yours.”

  “But Southbridge . . .”

  “. . . Will be pleased we were able to take refuge in his home. Now, up.”

  He arranged her body so that he could more easily lift her to her feet.

  “Hold on to me.”

  She did, clinging to his side and arms as if she were in love with him.

  “There’s a key.”

  “Key?”

  “To Noah’s kitchen. At the back of his house.” Her words were breathy, forced, as if she was putting all her energy into speaking.

  His relief that she wasn’t meeting a lover soured. How did she know where Southbridge kept a key, if she hadn’t used it?

  As if reading his thoughts, she said, “He’s absentminded—locks himself out. I suggested he hide a key so that he can always get back in.”

  The feel of her body curved into his side, the support of his arm curved around her waist, the smell of her hair, scented with lilac water, all made him wish she weren’t wounded, so that he could kiss her until she remembered how good they were together—until she forgot the parson even existed.

  He sat her in the chair by the back door of the parsonage, leaning her upper body against the wall of the house, then retrieved the key from under a rock.

  Unlocking it, he lifted her and pulled her into his side. The kitchen was at the back of the house, and with the door open, Harrison had enough light to maneuver Olivia into the kitchen and into a chair beside the long harvest table. He lit a lantern, then bolted the door shut, and pulled the curtains over the windows. Her attackers might imagine Olivia had taken refuge in the parsonage, but Harrison saw no reason to make it easy to find her.

  He poured fresh water from the pitcher on the counter and blotted her head clean. She flinched at the bite of the cold water against her scalp.

  After a few minutes of letting him care for her, she pointed to a canister low on the counter. “Willow bark. He buys dried strips from the gypsies.”

  “Good. Can you sit on your own?”

  “Yes.”

  He retrieved the willow bark and handed her a narrow strip.

  “Thank you.” She chewed on it.

  “What were you doing there? And who was that man?”

  “I don’t know who he was. He’s been sending threatening letters, and I wanted to know what he was capable of.”

  “Threatening letters? About what? And why did you meet him? You might have been killed.”

  “But I wasn’t—might have beens are for children and fools. If you will return to the abbey and awaken Pier, she can doctor my wound. Tomorrow I’ll be good as before.”

  She tried to stand, then swayed. He caught her in his arms before she could fall.

  “Perhaps you will stay right here. If the parson is gone he cannot be angry that we have borrowed one of his rooms.”

  “Not just one.”

  “Yes, one. I’m not leaving you, not with that wound splitting open the flesh on your head.”

  “No one can know.”

  “Can know what?” He immediately assumed she wanted to keep him a secret, and his anger flared.

  “The meeting. The man. You can’t tell anyone . . . too dangerous.”

  He felt relieved that she wanted to keep something else a secret, not him. “You are bleeding all over my best boots. Of course we will call for the magistrate.”

  “I’ll agree to your bargain—remain your wife at least in public—if you keep this quiet.”

  He stilled. Her secrets must be serious if she would remain his wife to keep them. And if it were that bad, then he needed to know just what it was.

  “Then, wife, let me tend to your wound. We’ll discuss our bargain tomorrow.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  When Livvy woke the next day, she didn’t recognize the room or the bed. But she knew all too well the man next to her. Still asleep, with his hair tousled over one eye, he looked as he always had to her: as a golden-haired Adonis. She reached out gingerly, careful not to move anything connected to her aching head, and ran one of his curls through her fingers.

  He opened one eye, then a smile grew across his face. “I see you.”

  “That’s a child’s game.”

  “But a good one. How do you see me? Are your eyes telling you I’m one man, or two, or four?”

  “Just one. I couldn’t manage four of you.”

  “Well, that’s fine then. Did the willow bark ease the pain? Or do you wish for more?”

  She started to sit up, then blanched. “Perhaps a small willow tree would be in order.”

  He reached over the side of the bed and lifted a tin canister from the floor. He held out another thin strip of bark. “I’ll cut the tree down when you’ve finished the can. Perhaps while you chew, we can determine how I’m going to become Lord Walgrave to my devoted servants.”

  She took the small sliver of bark and chewed it.

  “Do you look so sullen because your head hurts or because you have decided to remain my wife for a while longer?”

  “Does it have to be one or the other?” She squinted with pain.

  “I can always call the magistrate to report the attack on you. Who is the magistrate, by the way? Sir Gerald?”

  “Lord Hocksley.” Impossibly, she looked even more sullen.

  “You don’t like him?”

  “He reminds me of a toad.”

  “Do you mean the way his neck flares out in layers of fat, or the way he has a tendency to say every sentence in a throaty staccato?” Harrison placed his hands at his neck, spreading his fingers, then mimicking Hocksley’s speech: “What! My word! An attack! Lady Walgrave! Oh no! Bad business! An attacker!”

  “I once told your father that when Hocksley visited I amused myself by counting how few verbs he used. After that, it became a game, each of us predicting the number whenever he arrived.”

  “Why were you in the churchyard last night?”

  She held up her hand, stopping his question. “I agreed to your terms. I will pretend to be your wife until the end of the special session. But I have no interest in being under your thumb or answering your questions.”

  She threw her legs over the edge of the bed and tried to rise, but before she stood up, she swooned. He barely kept her from falling out of the bed.

  * * *

  Olivia awoke to find Noah sitting by her bed, his face a mixture of fear, concern, and disappointment.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” Noah searched her eyes.

  “Tell you what?” Olivia felt confusion beating against her forehead in rhythmic pulses.

  “That I am your beloved husband come home to reconcile.” Harrison stepped forward on the other side of her bed.

  Noah on the right, Harrison on the left. Oh, no, not this. Not them together, vying for my affection.

  She looked at Southbridge, grimacing. Already her duties were bearing consequences, and one of them was the hurt she saw in Southbridge’s eyes. “He has come home.” She tried to push herself to a seated position, and immediately both men reached out to help her.

  “I’ve told the parson that this would be a good time to announce my return.” Harrison grinned. “Otherwise, it might look awkward for you to have been found in his bed.”

  “His house, not his bed. And I’m wounded.”

  “Ah, details.” Harrison seemed to be enjoying himself. “But you are caught between a rock and a hard place, as they say. It’s the parson’s house, and you weren’t alone. Either you have spent the night with Mr. MacHus, taking advantage of the parson’s absence. Or you and his lordship—
that would be me—encountered a footpad and took refuge in a nearby, unoccupied cottage. Which rumor will do the least harm?”

  “Fine. You may announce your return. And while you are at it, can you borrow a carriage? I don’t believe I can walk back.”

  “Already done. While Southbridge here stayed by your side, I sent for Herder to bring a carriage from the estate.”

  She leaned back, watching her options disappear as Harrison built a new narrative of their evening. “The staff will be hurt that I kept you a secret from them, as well as anxious that you have been observing among them under a false identity.”

  “We’ll tell them the truth. I didn’t even let you know I was coming, and after you discovered it, I demanded your cooperation. Besides, I have no complaints about the staff, though I still think that Cook belongs in an asylum.”

  “But he makes lovely biscuits.” She felt sleep come, and, feeling strangely content, she let it.

  * * *

  Olivia woke to the wet nose of a fox pup nuzzling her neck. She opened one eye, slowly, turning her head from side to side to see whether the pain would return. Bertie stood at the side of her bed, holding the pup next to Olivia’s face.

  “I didn’t wake you.” Bertie tucked the fox under his arm, gently.

  “But I’m awake.” Olivia leaned up on her side, waiting to discover what the child wanted.

  “Mrs. Pier said I could wait outside your door until you woke up, but I wasn’t to wake you.” He looked at her with earnest eyes.

  “Who woke me, then?” She reached for the dressing gown lying next to her on the bed.

  “Kit.” Bertie scratched the pup behind her ears.

  “I see. Did Kit want something in particular?” Olivia examined the boy’s face. His eyes were red and swollen.

  “Kit wants to sleep in the nursery tonight. The stable frightens her.”

  “It does? But wouldn’t that leave Mr. Calder all alone? Won’t he be frightened if Kit isn’t there?”

  He looked thoughtful. “I don’t know.”

  “Have you asked Kit why she’s afraid of the stable?”

  “She misses her parents. I found her last month after Lord Heron’s fox hunt. Her eyes were still closed. I fed her berries and snails. My da said I had to let her go in the spring.”

  “Foxes like the woods because that’s where the other foxes live.”

  “I know.” The boy looked crestfallen. “But then I won’t have anyone.”

  Olivia brushed his hair back from his face. She wanted to tell him he would have her, but until she knew whether Harrison would give her the settlement she requested she couldn’t make that promise. “I know it’s hard, Bertie. I lost my parents when I was your age. But Lord Walgrave’s father took good care of me. I promise that you won’t be abandoned. Lord Walgrave will take care of you too.”

  The boy’s eyes filled with tears. “They burned my house down.”

  “I know.” She knelt beside the bed and hugged the boy to her chest, both of them weeping. The fox wriggled between them. And suddenly she needed to make him some promise. “How about this? In spring, when Kit goes to her fox family, if you wish, we will find you a dog, a puppy who can sleep in the nursery when she’s scared.”

  The boy wiped his eyes on his sleeve. “I would like that.”

  “Bertie Davis!” Mrs. Pier exclaimed from the door. “Didn’t I tell you to leave that fox in the stable? Now come along. Mr. Stanley has made you some special cakes.”

  Bertie brightened slightly, then turned to Olivia. “At least I didn’t wake you up.”

  Olivia watched the five-year-old leave with Mrs. Pier, holding the housekeeper’s skirt in one hand, and his fox in the other. His losses broke her heart. She knew all too well what it felt like to grow up alone. She tested sitting up slowly, and finding no ill effects from her injury, she rose and began to dress, Bertie’s plight weighing heavily on her.

  She had never forgotten how frightened she’d been when Sir Roderick and his friends arrived at the cottage where her father had left her.

  “Fallon, you swindler. Where’s my money?”

  “Break the door down. That will teach him.”

  “We know you are there.”

  “You can’t escape us.”

  Fear hardened like an anchor in her throat. There was no time to run. She had flung herself onto the floor and crawled under the cot, pressing her back into the corner as far as she could. She had tucked her feet under her skirt, making sure that no part of her body or clothing stuck out. The damp of the wall had leeched through the top of her shift, making her shiver, but she’d willed herself to ignore it. She brushed a spiderweb away from her face, trying not to think about where the spider might be.

  The door shook under the weight of the angry men’s fists. “Fallon!” Giving under the pressure, the cottage door swung back hard against the wall, dislodging pieces of failing plaster. She could see boots, five pair. Her only hope was that the angry men might overlook her in the deep darkness surrounding the cot. Her heart beat hard and fast, and the sound of blood coursed in her ears.

  The men moved to search the room, each taking a different corner. The man by the window held the lamp up, illuminating the hearth and the front corners of the room. One of the men bent down in front of the fireplace, getting ashes on his shoes. “Hearth’s cold. No embers even. No one’s been here for at least a day, probably more.”

  “No food either.” The man by the cabinets in polished boots shut the doors. “But he left this. Lady’s reticule. Wait, something’s in it.”

  She held her hand over her mouth to keep from crying out Mine! It had been her mother’s.

  “Tell me it’s that fat pile of banknotes he’s been showing off.” The man by the window sneered.

  The scuffed boots closest to the door met the recently polished boots at the center of the room. “No luck, Hardcastle. Just a letter addressed to Walgrave.”

  “Lucky devil,” Hardcastle tore it open. “Listen to this: ‘I leave you my greatest treasure to care for until I return.’ Fallon’s pinned Walgrave for the sentimentalist.”

  “I take exception to that.” The ash-covered boots walked closer, the man’s voice cultured and low. “I’m the smart one.”

  “What does that make the rest of us?”

  Walgrave laughed. “Archer is our dandy, Manning our diplomat, and you Hardcastle are the brawn.”

  “I think that letter is Fallon’s last joke. He wouldn’t have left anything of value. Not in his nature, the swindler.”

  Her father might be a thief, but he was her father. The only family she had. She felt an anger so deep that she wanted nothing more than to kick the man in the shins. But she knew she had to keep still, keep quiet. Her only hope was to be overlooked. She watched the frost curl with her breath, and she covered her nose and mouth with her hand.

  “Worthless bastard left you a beaded reticule and calls it his greatest treasure. I always said he had a sense of humor.”

  “Yes, Walgrave, I want to see you carry that to the next ball at Almack’s.”

  “Anything we’ve missed?”

  One of the men—the one with the lantern—walked around the room. She could see the light move in a circle, from the door to the far wall to the hearth to the near wall.

  “Knew we should have brought more light.”

  “What’s there to see? He’s long gone—and left only a freezing cottage and a reticule.”

  “I’ll look under the cot all the same—perhaps he’s left me a strongbox full of jewels. Then you’ll wish he’d liked you better.”

  The ashy boots approached and set a lantern on the floor next to the head of the cot. A man bent on his hands and knees. His face, illuminated by the lamp, looked like the crags on the side of a mountain. She shrunk into the wall, trying to be as small as possible, curling into herself as if trying to ward off a blow. Then she kept very still, like a deer, hoping if she didn’t move he wouldn’t see her.

 
; “Nothing here.” His voice was cultured, deep. The man stood. She watched his boots walk away and stop beside her mother’s reticule. “Looks like we’ll have to try another route.”

  The other boots walked to the door, the men grumbling, but the man who hadn’t seen her held back. Before he left, he kicked the reticule under the bed, then pulled the door shut behind him.

  She pulled the reticule to her and clutched it to her heart, as if it could protect her, as if it could bring back her father. She knew to wait in her hiding place. It might be a trap to get her to bolt. She counted her heartbeats like her father had taught her. At four thousand she knew it had been at least an hour. She started to crawl out from beneath the cot, but she heard more horses, and she pushed herself back against the corner.

  The door opened again. The man who hadn’t seen her had come back. This time he lay down on the cold floor and looked under the cot at her.

  “There’s no need to be afraid. I know your father.” He held out a letter. “See? This is my name here. Walgrave. Your father asked me to take care of you, and that’s what I’m going to do. I have a friend. Her name is Mrs. Flint, and she runs a School for Exceptional Girls, as she calls it. Would you like to go to school? You’ll have a warm bed and plenty of food and friends.”

  “I have to wait until my father comes back. If I leave, he won’t be able to find me.”

  Sir Roderick’s eyes were kind. “I understand that. Why don’t we do this? You’ll go to school, while I look for your father. And I’ll find him for you, even if it takes until the day I die. Is that acceptable?”

  Cold and hungry, she nodded her agreement.

  “Then come along.” He held out his big, warm hand, and, scrambling out from under the cot, she took it.

  She’d never been that afraid again, except occasionally at night when she dreamed her father had returned to the abandoned cottage for her, and she wasn’t there. At least Bertie had—or would have—the cold comfort of knowing his parents were dead.

  She picked up the tiger’s-eye stone that Harrison had returned to her, and began to rub it in slow circles between her fingers.