by Barton, Anne
Daphne dropped her hands to her lap and stared at him, dumbfounded. He’d crossed an awful, ugly line, and the way he now avoided her gaze suggested he knew it. The anger that had etched his face during his outburst drained slowly, and he stood there stiffly, gazing at the ground between them.
“I should go.” He reached for his cane, which was propped against the bench, and turned as though he’d stroll back to the house and leave her there to ponder what on earth was wrong with him.
And just then, something inside her snapped. “Don’t you dare walk away.”
He paused but did not face her. After an uncomfortable silence, he said, “I’m not very good company right now.”
An understatement if she’d ever heard one. “I don’t know what just happened, and I certainly don’t understand the source of your ire, but running away will not help matters—it only postpones the inevitable.”
He heaved a sigh and slowly turned toward her. “I don’t want to argue with you.”
“Then, please”—she patted the seat of the bench beside her—“come sit.”
“Can we agree to change the subject?”
“Fine,” she said reluctantly. “But you might try trusting me sometime. I’m a very good listener. Or so I’ve been told.”
That elicited a wry smile, and he sat.
“I saw you through the window of the library, crossing the terrace and walking in the direction of the garden. I thought it would be a good opportunity for us to talk. When I finally found you and saw you sprawled on the ground, I feared the worst.”
“The worst?”
He shrugged, clearly embarrassed. “That you were hurt or sick. When I realized you were only sleeping, I actually said a prayer of thanks.”
Warmth filled her chest. “That is very sweet.”
“Irrational is more like it.” He looked as if he’d swallowed a bad kipper. “Praying to a God who’s obviously abandoned me—it makes no sense.”
She did not think it wise to engage him into a theological debate, so she said, “You’re not irrational.”
His dark eyebrows slid up his forehead. “Not usually. But for some reason, when I’m around you, I behave unpredictably. It’s… disconcerting.”
“If it makes you feel any better, I don’t act quite like myself when I’m around you either.”
“That does help, actually.”
They sat without speaking for several moments, listening to the breeze rustling the leaves.
Finally, he spoke. “I have some news about the second portrait.”
And he just now thought to mention it? Her stomach sank, and she gripped the edge of the bench, hard. She wanted to know, but then again she didn’t. “What is it?”
“I visited with Charlton last night. He has it.”
“Did you see it? Do you think anyone else has seen it?”
“No, and probably. But at least he’s hidden it for now. He fears someone will try to steal it from him.”
Perhaps she hadn’t heard him properly. She turned her ear toward him. “He thinks someone will steal it?”
“Yes.”
“That’s odd.”
“But it works in our favor.”
She warmed again at the way he’d said our. “How so?” She had to get the painting, but it sounded as though Lord Charlton was rather attached to it.
“It buys us some time. He’s not going anywhere and neither is the painting. I just need to convince him to sell it to me. And I will.”
He sounded utterly confident, as if it were all but done. A huge weight was lifted off her shoulders. And she was suddenly—and quite unexpectedly—perilously close to tears.
“That’s wonderful.” She wanted to hug him, but the memory of his anger was fresh in her mind, and any sort of touching seemed imprudent. “I’ll find a way to repay you.”
He pushed himself to his feet. “I don’t expect to be recompensed, Miss Honeycote.” He looked weary, as though this brief conversation had sapped his strength. “I should return to the house before people notice we’re both gone.” With that, he hobbled off, leaving Daphne perplexed and curiously bereft.
Chapter Fifteen
Texture: (1) The visual and tactile qualities of a canvas, often achieved through the buildup of paint or application of other materials. (2) The unique feel of a surface, such as the slight prickling of a gentleman’s chin beneath one’s fingertip.
Ben stared at the plaster ceiling, unable to sleep. Given his behavior in the garden earlier, one might suppose he suffered from a niggling conscience. By all rights, he should be guilt-ridden.
He wasn’t.
What kept him awake and as alert as a debutante’s mother in a roomful of rogues was pain. Of the excruciating variety.
It originated in his thigh but radiated through every bone in his body. Even his teeth hurt.
He began administering treatment—such as it was—at two o’clock in the morning, but the brandy didn’t have the desired numbing effect. It merely set the room spinning, compounding his misery. Never had a spell lasted so long. Throughout the night he writhed in pain, cursing himself each time a whimper escaped him.
When the first rays of daylight taunted him, his head pounded in protest.
An insistent knocking added to his agony; he answered with a groan.
The door swung open and Averill stuck his head into the room. “Get up, Foxburn. We’re going hunting, remember?”
Hunting had seemed like a good idea the night before. It would have taken him out of the house and away from Daphne. It would have taken his mind off things he’d rather not contemplate.
It now seemed a hellish idea. “Not going.” Speaking was a Herculean task. “Leg’s acting up. Need to rest.” He covered his head with a pillow and waved Averill away. He listened for the sound of the door shutting, but it did not come. “Damn it, Averill. Can’t you take a hint?”
“I’m not especially good at inferring meanings, no. Much better with facts, numbers, and the like. You seemed fine yesterday. What happened?”
“I was riding. First time in a while.”
“You’re in that kind of pain just from riding?”
Ben gritted his teeth. “Yes.”
“Shall I send someone up? Call for a doctor perhaps?”
Ben slung the pillow to his side. “Do not summon a doctor. Is that clear enough? Do you get my meaning?”
“I get it,” Averill replied grimly. He started to close the door behind him, but hesitated. “You know, Foxburn, sometimes I wonder if you enjoy being miserable.”
Ben glared at him, even though the effort hurt his face. “Get the hell out.”
Averill left, closing the door softly behind him, when any normal man would have slammed it.
Ben clasped his head in his hands. He hadn’t thought it was possible to feel worse.
He was wrong.
The next few hours passed in a haze. He didn’t bother drinking more brandy—it wasn’t helping anyway. Instead, he lay very still, breathing shallowly, wishing that he could fall asleep. Maybe he’d discover the last twelve hours were a horrible nightmare. He’d wake up, birds would be calling, there’d be a rainbow painted in the sky, and he’d dance a bloody jig.
He didn’t have that kind of luck.
He would have to endure the torture for as long as it lasted.
And that was the most terrifying part of the ordeal—not knowing how long.
He’d given up counting. And he’d begun to wonder.
What if it never stopped? What if he was sentenced to this pitiful existence for the rest of his sorry life? Sweat covered his body and dampened his sheets. He could hear blood pounding in his ears and above it, occasionally, low, pathetic moans that could only be coming from him.
Anger morphed into something darker. Despair.
Gruesome images flashed in his head. Robert’s trampled body; blood sputtering violently from his mouth. The bullet hitting Ben’s thighbone; the gaping hole in his flesh. Smoke s
tinging his eyes; anguished cries echoing across the battlefield.
The dreams, or memories, or whatever they were wouldn’t cease. They repeated, over and over, in the same horrifying sequence, until Ben could no longer discern what was real and what was not.
Then a knocking in the distance drove its way into his consciousness, interrupting the awful rhythm of his visions. He listened, grateful to whoever had given him a short reprieve.
More banging. “Benjamin?” A woman’s voice. Pure and sweet, it washed away some of the horror that lurked. But the pain remained.
“Ben, can you hear me?”
He wanted to be near her, needed to answer her. “Yes,” he tried to say. It sounded more like a groan.
“I’m coming in.”
He vaguely recalled he was in a bedchamber. At Robert’s house. Now Hugh’s house. He forced his eyes open and looked down at his body. Naked. Not a stitch of clothing, and the sheets were bunched in a ball beneath his feet. Worst of all, his right thigh was completely exposed, in all its grotesque glory, twisted muscle beneath scarred flesh, and a pit the size of a plum where part of his leg was gone.
He scrambled to retrieve the sheets and a quilt. It took every ounce of energy he had left, and he just managed to cover himself before he collapsed back on the mattress. The door cracked open.
Daphne. A very small measure of hope flickered in his soul.
“I hope I’m not disturbing you.” She looked like spring and daffodils and lemon cake.
He must look pathetic. Like a sorry, wounded animal. “No,” he croaked.
Her pretty blue eyes skittered over him and concern lined her normally smooth forehead. Her gaze lingered on the mostly empty bottle of brandy beside his bed and the clothes and linens on the floor. She placed her hands on her hips and said, “I’m going to help you. First I must ask Mrs. Norris for some supplies, but I’ll return shortly. When I do, you will not argue with me but will do as I say. Do you understand?”
He wanted to beg her not to leave, not even for a little while, because he didn’t know if he could endure another minute of agony alone. “Yes.”
Her eyes widened in surprise and she hurried off. The five minutes she was gone seemed like five hours, but she returned as promised, holding a pitcher in one hand. Several towels were tucked under her arm. “Mrs. Norris is heating some water for us. In the meantime, I’m going to clean you up.”
She placed the pitcher on his bedside table and moved the brandy to a far corner of the room. On her way back, she scooped up the clothes and linens and unceremoniously tossed them into the hallway. Then she took the bowl from the washbasin and placed it next to the pitcher.
“Would you like a drink? Of water?” she added quickly.
“Please.”
She looked around but could not find a clean glass, so she went to retrieve one. When she returned, she splashed some water into the glass. “Do you think you can sit up, or shall I help you?”
He lifted his head, which was apparently made of stone, about an inch off the pillow. She slipped her arm behind him and put the glass to his lips. He gulped and spilled some on the sheet covering his chest.
She eased him back down and the smell of wildflowers surrounded him. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.
The next thing he knew, a cool damp cloth rested on his forehead. Daphne moved beside him with brisk efficiency, wringing another towel in the washbasin and humming softly. When she faced him, though, her cheeks were flushed. “You look warm, so I’m going to cool you off. “Are you… ah…” She squeezed her eyes shut as though that would make it easier to finish her question. “Are you wearing any clothes?”
“No.”
She opened her eyes but avoided looking directly at him. “Well, then, we shall leave the sheets in place.” If he wasn’t so miserable, he would have chuckled at her blithe tone. As though she routinely administered baths to naked men.
But any amusement fled the moment she touched him. She removed the cloth from his forehead and pushed back his hair so that she could wipe his face with the fresh, cool one. Anyone could have done it—provided that small relief—but no one else could have even made him think of smiling in his pitiful state.
No one but her.
The soft towel brushed over his forehead, from one cheek to the other, via his nose and around his jaw and mouth. After soaking and wringing out the cloth again, she gently traced his ears and moved on to his neck and shoulders. Her thoroughness was impressive, and after she got over her initial embarrassment, she was all business.
Until she came to his chest.
Her faced turned a deeper shade of pink. “I shall wait until Mrs. Norris returns with the hot water. She can help me bathe the rest of you.”
He grunted. Mrs. Norris was not going to get under his sheets. It wasn’t as though he were on his deathbed for Christ’s sake.
At least he hoped he wasn’t.
“If you bring my robe”—he pointed across the room to where it was hanging over the arm of a chair—“I could put it on and spare you further embarrassment.”
“I’m not embarrassed,” she lied.
“Well, maybe I am,” he lied.
This elicited a small smile from her. “I doubt that. Perhaps we should agree to spare Mrs. Norris the embarrassment.”
Daphne glided across the room, returned with his dressing robe, and held it out so that he could slide an arm in.
“I can manage from here,” he said.
Her blue eyes twinkled. “I never would have guessed you were so modest, Benjamin.”
“Ben,” he said. “You promised.”
Just before she turned her back, he caught a glimpse of her expression. Surprise… and something else. Whatever it was made his heart trip in his chest.
“Let me know if you require assistance… Ben.”
Even in his sorry state he was sorely tempted to make a suggestive, highly improper remark, but he checked the impulse. It wasn’t like him to think before speaking, but when speaking took so much effort, one tended to choose words more carefully.
While he wrestled with his robe, Daphne made pleasant conversation. “All the men are out hunting. The women just left for the village—to shop and see the local sights.”
“Why didn’t you go?”
“I overheard Mrs. Norris telling a servant that you were not to be disturbed. I thought you might need some company.”
“You shouldn’t have stayed on my account,” he said gruffly. “It’s not proper for you to even be in here.” He searched in vain for the armhole of his damned robe.
“Perhaps not,” she said. “But you shouldn’t be alone. Do you mind my company?”
“No. Not exactly. I’m concerned for your reputation. If you stay, Mrs. Norris might mention it to Hugh or one of the guests.”
“Very well. When she returns with the water, I’ll leave… and then I’ll come back later.”
“What?”
She shrugged her slender shoulders. “You’ll tell Mrs. Norris—in your usual ornery way—that you want to rest and do not wish to be disturbed. Once she is gone I’ll sneak back down the hall. No one will know I’ve been here. You won’t have to suffer all alone, and my reputation remains intact—at least for the time being.”
He paused in his efforts briefly in order to admire the graceful curve of her back and the smooth expanse of skin below her nape. Under normal circumstances, he wouldn’t dream of discouraging a beautiful young woman from sneaking into his bedchamber. “I’m not sure this is a wise plan, Daphne.”
“I’m willing to take the risk.”
Getting the dressing robe on was more difficult than he’d imagined. The slight twisting of his torso caused his weight to shift and that was enough to make his thigh scream in pain. He must have made some guttural sound.
“Let me help you,” she pleaded.
“It’s done.” His body hit the mattress with a thud.
She whirled around and rushed back to his
side as though she feared he’d managed to injure himself further in the three minutes while she wasn’t watching. Once she was satisfied that he was still in one piece, more or less, she sighed. “Excellent. You shall be more comfortable this way.”
No, he wouldn’t. But it didn’t seem sporting to argue.
Daphne opened her mouth to say something, but Mrs. Norris whisked into the room carrying a steaming bucket. She set it on the floor beside Daphne.
“How is he?” the housekeeper asked.
“Awake and fully conscious,” Ben snapped. “But I feel like—”
“He’s very uncomfortable,” Daphne cut in. “I suspect the excessive physical activity of the last few days is catching up with him.”
Excessive physical activity? He’d ridden a horse, walked a bit, and played a game of billiards. It wasn’t as though he’d slayed a dragon or rescued a bloody princess from a tower.
“Shall I call for Doctor Sundry?” Mrs. Norris asked.
“No.” Ben glowered at the housekeeper, but she wouldn’t even acknowledge him. Instead, the question remained in her eyes as she looked pointedly at Daphne.
“Not yet,” Daphne replied, although she sounded somewhat unsure. “If he’s not vastly improved by the evening, then we shall have to, regardless of his wishes.”
Mrs. Norris nodded in full agreement. “What would you like me to do with the hot water?”
“It’s fine right here.” Daphne picked up a clean cloth, dipped it in the bucket, and squeezed out the excess. “Lord Foxburn, you can use this as a hot compress if you’d like. I’ll just hang it on the side of the pail to let it cool slightly.”
“Thank you.” Ben sighed and let his eyes droop.
The housekeeper’s white brows rose in response. “Is there anything else you require? Tea or porridge?”
“God no. Er, no. I shall be fine, thank you both.”
“We’ll see that you’re not disturbed for the rest of the afternoon,” Daphne said, quite the actress.
