"Really? I can’t imagine why," she said with a small smile as the thunder cracked over head so loudly, it sounded as though the roof were caving in.
He shot her a sharp look. "Pert little miss, aren’t you?"
She removed the damp towel from her head, shaking out her hair to dry.
"Just trying to find some humour in this dire predicament. It’s terrifying in here. Just imagine what it was like out in the woods."
"Thank God you found this house," he said earnestly. "It sounds like the whole of the heavens are tumbling down."
Once again she raised her dark blue eyes to search his in a most forthright and intimate manner. "Do you believe in God still, after everything that’s happened?" she asked quietly.
Michael shuddered. "I don’t know," he admitted after a time, not even trying to pretend that he didn’t know what she was talking about.
"I think I lost Him at the Battle of Toulouse, where I was nearly killed. April 1814. But since then, well, I’m not so sure. I’d like to believe. I just get so, so angry."
She nodded. "I know. Yet there are less fortunate people than ourselves. People who are more ill than you, for instance, or haven’t been blessed with two lovely sons like me. Darren is going to pull through, isn’t he? Gavin is going to see again?" The tears glittered in Bryony’s lovely eyes, and he longed to kiss them away.
He reached over to touch the back of her hand lightly. She accepted the caress without flinching. "We’ll do the best we can."
They rubbed down the children with the brandy for a time longer in silence.
Then Michael tested Gavin’s head. "They’re still far too warm, Bryony. I’m getting very concerned. Did you see the laundry tub when you were in the kitchen?"
She considered for a moment. "I did. Hanging up."
"Do you think you can manage to get it down and fill it?"
Her brows raised. "Why?"
"A cold water soak might help. They’re burning up. Excessive fever can cause fits and death."
Bryony was on her feet in a minute. "I’ll go now. I’ll manage if it kills me."
She came back a short time later and gathered Gavin up. She walked over to Michael and placed the toddler in his lap. "Here. You take him. I’ll get Darren."
He was surprised and inexplicably touched. He would have thought she would ferry them back and forth herself. But she seemed to be working upon an assumption of equality and competence which had him almost preening with pride.
Which goeth before a fall, he reminded himself. He couldn’t have filled the tub, now could he?
Well, perhaps I could have, he decided a short time later, as he watched her work, continuing to fill it. If he had enough reason to. If it were a matter of life and death.
"Come on, right up to their necks," he urged. They still felt scalding to his touch. "Bathe their faces too, with your hands. And as long as we’re here, we might as well get out the soap."
Bryony found some good strong-smelling lye soap near the kitchen pump and began to lather one of the cloths she had been using as a compress.
She scrubbed the children repeatedly until their skin looked more normal, even if still splotched with measles. Then he began to wash them as well, and his own hands, over and over again until she stared at him, and finally took the now much smaller bar from his grip.
He blinked and shuddered as if finally noticing her for the first time.
She was relieved when he said in a normal tone, "Good. Just leave them to soak here for a minute, and bank up that fire. Now that your hands are really clean, see what you can find to eat. Not too much, though."
"Oh no, I can’t eat at the minute. I’m too upset."
"Then you should probably get in the bath too."
She blushed, but took him literally and began to unfasten the shirt once more.
He shook his head and sighed, covering his eyes with one hand as her breasts began to peep out once more.
"No, not that tub, dear girl. It’s freezing, and I need it for the boys. The bathing chamber is under the stairs. You light the box underneath and wait for the water to warm, then open the spigot below. Be careful you don’t burn yourself. It’s probably still warm from our evening baths before. Go feel it, carefully."
She came back a short time later to report, "It still feels very hot to the touch."
He nodded. "Then just fill the tub, and in you get."
"Oh, but perhaps I shouldn’t leave you," she said, her brows knitting with worry.
"There’s no reason why not," he said in a reassuring tone. "The boys are resting comfortably. You can go in and wash. Take that lye soap with you. There should be some lemon as well which Blake always uses for cutting grime. Try the soap dish, or under the sink in the little cabinet. I’ll call you if anything changes. Go find a gown of Arabella's upstairs and some under things as well, and she has some aprons hanging on the back of the door here you can use while you help me nurse them once you're finished."
Her eyes widened and she shook her head. "Oh no, I couldn’t presume to go through her things."
"She’s a good woman. She really won’t mind. I’m sure that shirt is a bit, well, draughty, despite being so big on you."
She blushed and tugged it down over her bare legs, cowering slightly so that it finally covered her dimpled knees.
She hesitated for a moment, then nodded. "I’ll just make sure you’re all set in here. I’ll bank up the fire, if I may. Would you like something hot to drink? I used up the last of the coffee in the pot, but I could try to make more."
"Why don’t we have some tea? I prefer Gunpowder Green myself. You may have whatever you like."
"Oh, that’s my favourite as well."
"You’ll have to root around for it, though. This is not exactly my preserve, nor even my house," Michael said, longing for the safety and familiarity of his own home as he nursed the two sick lads.
"I’ll find it."
"Milk, sugar?" she asked a short time later.
"Neither for me, but you go ahead."
"I don’t take them either."
Soon she had a steaming cup by him on the table, and said, "If you’re really sure about the bath-"
"I’ll call you if anything changes, I promise. And you can’t sleep in a decent bed until you get clean. I hate to say this, but Blake would never forgive me if I didn’t check you for lice and fleas."
She blushed. "I’m pretty sure I don’t-"
"All the same, there’s some lice lotion and a special comb, and flea powder in the cabinet in the other room. Go up and get a gown and shawl and a chemise and fetch them. When you’re done bathing, come out wrapped in a towel and I can examine you and treat your hair."
"All right. But I hate to put you to so much trouble, Mr. Avenel."
"No trouble at all. We had to do it in the Army all the time or suffer the consequences, which believe me were not pleasant. Especially in one’s trousers."
They both rolled their eyes and shared a smile. "When I’m done with you, you can check the boys. You might want to bring the shears as well and cut their hair. They do look rather wild."
"Yes, I shall, thank you," she said, nodding. "I’ll be back soon."
"Take your time, my dear, and be thorough."
"Yes, Mr. Avenel."
"Michael. Just call me Michael," he ordered between gritted teeth. "If I hear myself called anything other than that or Major, I look around for one of my family members. Who are far too grim for me to even wish to think about."
"Very well, Michael, I’ll be back soon." With one last long look, she left him.
CHAPTER FIVE
Bryony went upstairs as Michael had instructed, making her way through the silent corridors of the old house, up the stairs to the room at the end of it with the help of a single candle.
She went in and lit a couple of more candles on the dressing table, then found the oldest gown she could in the wardrobe.
It was not a very good choice, since it w
as actually summer-weight and one of the ones that Arabella used when she was out gardening in the warm weather, and thus quite revealing. But anything had to be better than showing her legs in one of his shirts again.
Bryony blushed with mortification at the thought that the most handsome man she had ever seen in her life had met her when she was the lowest ebb in her entire existence.
But then, perhaps he was too, she thought to herself, recalling his almost wild-eyed look when the lightning had illuminated her in the window. The poor man had obviously reckoned her a ghost.
He was badly injured, and evidently furious with the entire world. Of course, many of the men who had served in the recent war were mad as hatters due to the terrors that they’d faced in their fight for freedom against the dictator Napoleon Bonaparte.
Michael Avenel seemed relatively sane. But she had seen the bottles of alcohol in his room when she’d gone in there to take off her drenched dress. The fact that he was drinking alone did not bode well.
On the other hand, in his chair he could hardly do her any real harm. Not if he was telling the truth that he had little sensation from the waist down.
Pity, that, she mused, then coloured up again at the uncharacteristic thought.
Yet it was no less than the truth, for he really was most spectacular to look at, despite his scars. It had to be the eyes, she decided, pale blue like a wolf’s, yet capable of a dark spark of passion that had her shivering with desire.
The frisson when he had touched her breast inadvertently had been the most powerful sensation she’d ever experienced. Her soft flesh still burned from the contact. There was a lambent languidness in her limbs which she recognised from her early married days. Before she had discovered just what a monster she had married. And by then it had been far too late….
She shoved the horrid thought out of her mind as she searched amongst the drawers for a chemise and some underthings, and a shawl. She looked at the gown again. It was pale blue. Oh my.
Then she shrugged. What was the point of wearing mourning for someone who had seen her as little more than a bank account and breeder of heirs? Her husband was gone now. It had been over a year. She had every right to come out of her cocoon. Even if anyone did care about her widowed status, which down here in Somerset she very much doubted. They would only know what she told them about herself.
But she could not come too far out of her shell, she reminded herself. She did not want anyone to recognise her, or ask questions.
On the other hand, she had rusticated on the Welsh borders ever since her marriage nearly six years ago. She had been only just sixteen when she’d wed. She’d fallen pregnant almost at once, and had never had a full London season. The chances of anyone knowing her after all this time and here of all places was fairly remote. One look in the mirror over the fine walnut dresser told Bryony she had altered radically from the last time she’d seen her image in a pierglass.
She who had been so proud of her looks, the fact that she was au fait with all of the latest fashions from the women’s papers, now seemed a shadow of her former self.
But a beautifully plumed bird in a gilded cage was still trapped. Better to be in rags, or even men’s clothes, Bryony reflected, looking down at the shirt which draped over her slender frame, than to be subjected to the sort of treatment that she had had to endure. If she could have got some men’s clothes and disguised herself before now, she would have. Anything to avoid being molested.
But the man downstairs seemed decent, respectable. Outraged at what she had had to suffer. If the doctor and his wife were as pleasant as he, then she was truly fortunate to have found Michael Avenel.
There was nothing to fear. She could put on a clean gown, perhaps even do her hair once it was dry. For a time she could pretend that she lived here, that she had a good home and food and friends.
The rumbling in her stomach called to mind more of her urgent needs. She took up the gown and shawl and undergarments carefully, trying not to touch them more than she had to. She knew lice and fleas could wriggle or jump. She hoped she was not infested, but it would be a miracle considering some of the places they had had to sleep.
She hastened downstairs and into the doctor’s study, found the medicine Michael had told her to fetch, and returned to the kitchen. "Everything all right?" she asked, breathless in her haste.
Michael was watching the boys carefully to make sure their heads did not slip under the water. "They’re fine. Resting. Leave those things here and go boil yourself."
"With pleasure." She gave a timid smile and left again.
He could not help ogling her as she left. The sway of her hips, her gorgeous legs, delicate but supple, her well-turned ankle, the way she flowed over the floor as though gliding, all of them moved him inexpressibly.
His manhood jutted almost painfully against the wool flannel of his trousers. He tamped it down with a towel on his lap now to mop up some of the worst of the mess Darren had deposited on him when the poor child had coughed up half his lungs.
Michael threw the used towel on the floor, and put another clean one over his lap to conceal his arousal.
For Heaven’s sake, he told himself, stop that. He was shivering and on edge after only one touch of her hand, and a few longing looks. He felt more heated than any puerile youth. A man his age ought to be able to get himself under control, especially one who had prided himself upon being an expert lover with hours of stamina for the more insatiable of his partners. Yet one more touch of her hand or glimpse of her bosom would surely send him over the brink.
Oddly enough, though, as lovely as she was, he found himself longing for a simple hug, or even a kiss. In the normal way of things he would not have valued them very highly, much preferring the play to the prologue or epilogue. In Bryony’s case though, he had the feeling that her kisses would be something exceptional.
As for a hug, well, it had been so long since anyone had touched him in any other way than the impersonal one of helping him to get dressed and undressed, or lifting him in and out of his chair or carriage. Even a simple chaste embrace would be better than nothing.
He could go back to Bath and somehow persuade one of the young men in his employ to find him a clean whore. But they were very hard-hearted for the most part and didn’t tend to hug and kiss. They would no doubt find his condition a lot of hard work. Not to mention the fact that he couldn’t bear to be ridiculed. Or felt sorry for.
He rather like that about Bryony—she had not looked at him with pity or condescension. She had actually spoken to him like an adult, not a child or mental deficient. Why was it that so many people equated a physical handicap with a mental one?
Michael sighed. If anything, his acute intelligence had made his whole set of circumstances even more difficult to bear. He had been directionless and in limbo, hoping death would take him.
He no longer had any family concerns or cares, or his Army duties or studies, which had all taken up so much of his time prior to the Battle of Toulouse. He had been floundering about for something to sink his teeth into ever since he had been proclaimed well enough leave the hospital. But what to do?
He had always loved languages at school—a multi-lingual dictionary, French, Portuguese, Spanish, Italian and English had been a dream of his when he’d been younger. His Italian was a little bit rusty now. Or was it just that his other four languages were so much better? Alexander Davenport had encouraged him the last time he had seen him at the Duke’s townhouse. Perhaps he was on to something after all?
He shook his head. Why was he thinking of this now? He had far more important things to worry about, with two sick little boys and a starving woman who looked as though she would blow away at the first puff of wind.
But then, Bryony had made it from the ruined monastery to Blake’s house in the raging storm. She had survived sleeping outdoors for months on end. He had to give her credit for staying alive, and the fact that the children were not far worse off. After all, if they
hadn’t got the measles so badly, they would never have had to seek medical help.
What to do with her now was the question. He hoped that Arabella and Blake would be able to use her as a housekeeper. Come to think of it, he wouldn’t mind seeing her face every morning himself….
But no, he had set up a bachelor establishment with no women servants for a reason. He didn’t want anyone’s pity. Couldn't stand being seen wheeled around as if in a child’s pram. Being hoisted on and off the chamber pot or into the tub were also appalling indignities he never wanted any woman to witness by accident. Only his manservant Robin helped him with his toilette and ablutions.
He had loathed being seen in public at Bath in such an enfeebled manner. It was one of the reasons he had eventually given up going—he was tired of being hauled all over the place like a bag of bones. He thought once again of Bryony’s gentle small hand touching him, and sighed.
The Model Master Page 4
