The Model Master

by Sorcha MacMurrough

  She entered a moment later clad in nothing but a white towel. She was so lovely he nearly swallowed his tongue.

  "Come sit and we’ll do your hair first."

  "All right. If you’re sure."

  "I am. Don’t be frightened. If there ever comes a time you inconvenience me and I want to be left alone, I’ll tell you, all right?" he said gruffly.

  She nodded, and went to sit on the low stool near his chair.

  Michael took up the lice comb and methodically began to part her locks at the scalp. "Nothing so far as I can see," he said after a time, "but I’m going to put the lotion on all the same. It doesn’t smell too foul."

  "My hair is hopelessly tangled, though."

  "I’m only doing the scalp. You can use my brush and work out the rest of it at your leisure."

  She lifted the scissors. "Or you could just cut it all-"

  "Not on your life!" He caught himself before he said anything more revealing about his feelings. "I mean, I haven’t the skill, and it would be a crying shame to cut such lovely hair."

  "Thank you for the compliment. I always found it a real disadvantage being so dark-haired. I wanted to be very English looking, you know? Blonde with cornflower eyes and a rosy complexion. Instead I got the dark Welsh locks and eyes of my father and none of the classical blonde beauty of my northern Italian mother."

  "Really? Do you speak the language?"

  "Si, signore."

  "Molto bene. I was actually thinking just this moment that I had to practice my Italian. Do you speak any other languages?"

  She nodded. "Father was a merchant. French, naturally, and some Portuguese. A tiny bit of Spanish."

  "Then I think I might have the perfect job for you. Working my secretary cum housekeeper."

  "Oh, no, really, you don’t have to say that just because you feel sorry for me," she said, glancing over her shoulder at him.

  "I’m not. I was always very good at languages at school and dreamt of one day creating a multilingual dictionary. I have little enough to occupy me these days apart from tending my portfolio. You could help me. Between the two of us, and with some help from my friend Alexander, we could create something of which we would be justly proud, perhaps even become famous for.. Carry on in the tradition of the great Encyclopaedists or philosophes."

  She said with evident hesitation, "I should be happy to work as your secretary, if you have no one else who could undertake this work for you. But surely a man-"

  He waved away her objections at once. "I live in a bachelor’s establishment at the moment. It could do with a woman’s touch. The cook is a worthy chap but he doesn’t understand my needs, and gives me the same thing day after day. I need variety and I need to stay healthy."

  "Why, what does he feed you?"

  "I no longer eat any meat, so the only thing he ever serves me is potatoes, cheese and the occasional bit of fish, and mainly peas and carrots."

  "I see. It does sound most tedious and unappetising. Do you eat eggs, chicken?"

  "Eggs yes, chicken no."

  "And do you like fish and crustaceans?"

  "Yes, I can stomach them."

  The way he phrased the sentence gave her a hint as to why he had forsworn meat. "So anything that resembles, well, flesh, sickens you?" she guessed.

  His quickly sucked-in breath told her she had hit the mark.

  "Yes, exactly so," he said, his voice as tense as the fingers that now parted her hair and rubbed in the lotion.

  "I understand."

  "I doubt it," he said shortly.

  "Blood then?" she guessed. "It worries you too?"

  "Worry is not an entirely accurate word," he confessed dryly. "Panics, apparently. I mean, I don’t have any control over it. Nor do I have any recollection of it when it happens."

  "When what happens?" she asked in a gentle tone.

  He sighed. "When I see something which sets me off. Gives me one of my funny turns. Then it’s like I’m right back on the battlefield in the thick of the action. Like a nightmare, but worse. I can hear every sound, feel every sensation. The sun on my face, the vibrating of the earth from the cannons and the cavalry at the gallop, the smell of the gunpowder…."

  His voice was growing more and more reedy, so that she turned around to face him.

  "But you’re not there now. You’re here with me in this snug little house. You’re helping me and the boys." She took one of his hands and held it in both her own.

  He blinked at the breathtaking young woman clad in nothing more than a thin towel, and felt his mouth go dry with desire. The storm had obviously unsettled him, and he was having another of his funny spells. Except that she had called him back from the brink of disaster. A second time now, he admitted to himself, recalling how near he had come to taking his own life.

  Bryony wasn’t sure what was wrong with the handsome man, but it seemed a great deal more than drunkenness and the past experiences he had been through. More even than his damaged body.

  But now was not the time for her to worry about such things. Not when her own sons were in peril and she was virtually naked in the kitchen in front of him. So she gave him her most reassuring smile and asked, "Are you done with the lotion?"

  Michael blinked at her and tore his eyes away from Bryony’s bare shoulders. "Er, yes, I think so. I don’t see anything nesting."

  "I can’t tell you how relieved I am to hear that," she drawled in her best imitation of an upper-class English accent.

  He snickered. "I’m sure. But before you become too ecstatic, let me check for fleas."

  She giggled.

  "No, I don’t see any bites back here. Can you drop the towel a bit? Hold it at the back so I don’t see anything I oughtn’t."

  "A bit too late for that with me parading around in one of your shirts, but thank you for being such a gentleman." She grasped the ends of the towel with one hand, and clutched the small of her back with the other, then let it slide down to her waist.

  "No, nothing," he confirmed. "I’ll just douse you with flea powder. You can do the rest yourself and get dressed." He took a couple of handfuls and began to rub it on her.

  Goosepimples immediately sprang up all over her body. To her shame, her nipples hardened under the rough fabric of the towel. She hadn’t been touched in so long. Even when she had it had never been so tenderly as now. She had to endure the exquisite torture in silence.

  It was no less painful for Michael, for never had he seen such a graceful figure. He had a couple of tantalising peeps of the sides of her breasts as well whilst he moved from side to side in his chair to cover her back thoroughly.

  She was breathtaking, her skin like alabaster, her waist slender, her hips daintily curved. He wondered how so delicate a woman could ever have given birth to two such fine sons. He also wondered at the fact that she showed no sign of having given birth.

  He had seen women with marks from where the skin had stretched-he had been fascinated by them. To think of a woman carrying life inside her, well, it was just one of the great unfathomables of the universe, he’d always felt.

  That was why even in his most extreme youth he had never indiscriminately spilled his seed, but instead withdrawn or used protectors. He’d been most fearful of disease after hearing his friend Blake’s lectures on the perils of syphilis and the dreaded mercury treatment usually given as a supposed cure.

  Now as he looked at Bryony, saw her lithe back, her dainty legs and feet, her petite body which could so easily be crushed and broken, bent to a man’s will, he felt here was a woman who was truly made to be loved and treasured.

  Michael stroked down her back a second time, reveling in the feel of soft warm flesh. It had been so long. Too long….

  It had never been like this. It had usually been a toss in the bed. A few hours at most. A few days if he had been lucky, and on to the next town, the next woman. Or more often than not, back to his studies or duties.

  But as he looked at her dimpled back, he decided
that here was a woman upon whom hours could be devoted, yet he would still never find the core of her mystery. Though he would surely have the utmost pleasure trying.

  His hands began to shake so much that she turned her head slightly. "Are you all right?" she asked breathily, trembling almost as much as he from the rousing contact.

  "Fine. I just get a bit shaky without sleep and too much coffee," he said quickly, watching the towel once more cover her back like a cloud concealing the sun.

  "What about some warm milk then?"

  A rather rude and suggestive retort crossed his mind, but he squelched it before it passed his lips. He didn’t want to shock the poor child to the depths of her innocent soul.

  "Whatever you think. Please don’t go to any trouble."

  "After all you’ve done for me, you can say that?"

  "Please, don’t keep thanking me," he said, his tone a near-growl. "You make me sound like some sort of saint. The truth is I’m a terrible sinner, especially seeing you in naught but a towel."

  He wanted to kick himself as she stiffened and began to step away from him quickly. Even now, crippled and with an innocent and fraught young woman he wasn’t able to mend his rakish ways. His erection rammed upwards so painfully as he caught sight of her cleavage when she half-turned that Michael was sure he was going to explode.

  To his surprise Bryony met his stare calmly. "There’s nothing wrong with looking, is there?" she asked, her gaze resting on his face.

  "I don’t know. I’ve never just looked."

  She blushed. "I’ve never wanted to look." She shook her head and left the room, leaving Michael aching after her like a soul in torment.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Once Bryony had left him alone in the kitchen staring after her like a lovelorn youth, Michael blew out a shaky breath and decided to busy himself by fishing the children out of the tub. He needed to check to see if their temperature was down, and them lying in a nice comfortable bed was preferable to the wash tub.

  He lifted Gavin out first, and found he could manage his weight quite easily. He cradled the soaking child in his lap, relieved to feel that he was much more cool. His skin was still warm and dry to the touch once he was toweled off, but he was not so scorching as he had been.

  Darren he was not so confident about. Once he had put Gavin up on the table, he felt the other child’s forehead. Still boiling. And he was still coughing up green phlegm every so often. He shuddered to think what Bryony would do if she lost him. He immersed Darren again right up to his neck and called to her.

  "My dear, can you please get me the willow bark from the other room whenever you’re dressed?"

  She came out of the bathroom and ran for the study at once, though she was clad only in a chemise and underthings. She threw the shawl over her shoulders, but he still saw her ample bosom peeping above the delicate lace and felt himself burning even hotter than Darren.

  He avoided looking at her as their fingers met. He gripped the bottle convulsively. "Thank you."

  She misinterpreted his quaking fingers as symptomatic of nerves or anxiety rather than raw desire.

  "It’s bad, isn’t it?" she asked quietly.

  He understood her thoughts, and though his fears were not the reason for his trembling, he nodded. "The fever’s not coming down. I had hoped not to have to administer any drugs. But at this point we need to take action. Can you fetch the peppermint again too, and some camphor? I’m going to make an unguent to plaster all over his chest. We need to get this mucus out of the lungs."

  A short time later they had Darren out of the tub and plastered with the thick green salve Michael had pulverized in a mortar and pestle.

  "Here, sit him up. Let’s do his front and back. At this point it can’t hurt."

  "I should have kept my old frock on. I don’t want to ruin Arabella’s clothes."

  "She won’t mind, really. It’s only a chemise, after all. I’m sure she has dozens. And no sense in being filthy if you don’t have to be."

  She sat up with Darren and kept rubbing the unguent into his chest and back. Michael kept his arms down to make sure he did not rub the noisome substance into his eyes.

  At one point she smiled timidly and said, "I’m sorry for having disturbed you this evening. You probably were welcoming a nice quiet night at home all by yourself, and we intruded."

  He dropped the pestle on the floor and looked at her, white-faced. She picked it up and put it back in his hand. The contact was almost electric, and they stared at each other until Darren began to cough violently once more. She inserted a creamware bowl under his chin and held it there as he spewed.

  "No, not at all. I can’t tell you how glad I am you came," he managed to grit out, thinking he had never spoken a truer word in his life.

  "Still, we’re keeping you from your bed, and this is rather disgusting."

  "Not at all. It’s not the child’s fault," he said in clipped tones.

  A short time later, he said a bit more warmly, "Speaking of sleep, why don’t you take Gavin inside and get some rest? I’ll sit up with Darren."

  "No, I couldn’t possibly let you--"

  One look at her earnest midnight blue gaze was enough to tell him it was pointless to try to argue with her. "All right then. How about getting some soft bedding and making a pallet on the floor by the fire? It isn’t much, I know. Even so it must be better than what you’ve had to put up with in the old ruins."

  "Rushes aren’t so bad, and moss and bracken. But I can’t recall the last time I had a decent night’s sleep."

  "You can take some valerian-"

  She shook her head. "Oh no, not at all. I need to stay awake in case he needs me. But soon, though. As soon as he’s out of the woods, so to speak. I’ll have a good sleep before we head back to the monastery."

  "I’ve told you, Bryony, you’re not going back into the forest," he said in a firm tone which few would dare to contradict. "Blake can find you a job even if you don’t wish to take me up on my offer of a post."

  "Oh, but you only said that to be kind," she said shyly.

  His pale blue eyes bored into her. "Why would you think I wasn’t serious, Bryony?"

  She shook her head incredulously. "What man would want to hire a servant with two small sons? Or were you planning on me farming them out to a poor woman? I would never-"

  "That was the last thing on my mind!" he protested almost angrily. "I would hardly offer you a job and expect you to split up your whole family at my say so.

  "Please don’t misunderstand. I have a large house with plenty of room. I only use one downstairs chamber and the study and dining room and bathroom. The rest of the house is empty. You can have the run of it, you and the boys. There are some nice rooms downstairs which are very near the bathroom and my study. Or a fine suite upstairs. You can have your pick of any one of them. Or as many of them as you need. After all, if we’re to launch into my great project, we’ll need some space, and I hope you won’t mind working odd hours."

  "Not at all. But may I ask what sort of remuneration-"

  "Bed, board and an allowance for you and the children. Say twenty pounds per month to start with."

  "But that is far too much for any housekeeper-"

  "Ah, but you shan’t be just a housekeeper. You will be my secretary, and even well, my companion, you and the boys. Blake has been telling me for some time that I’m too retired from the world. That I should get out and see more people. It’s hard for me to get out, but that is not to say I wouldn’t enjoy your family’s company."

  She still looked at him doubtfully.

  "If you’re so concerned for your virtue, we can—"

  She shook her head vehemently. "No, it’s not that at all. I’m no prude, and I don’t have such a prurient mind that I see danger at every turn. No, I was simply wondering if you were doing this because you really want to. Or if you simply view me as a charity case which has pitched up on your doorstep whom you feel sorry for."

  He scowle
d. "I’ve never been the type of man to take in strays, if that’s what you’re asking. No, I’m hiring you strictly upon your own merits. Your talent for languages, and innate housekeeping skills."

  "And the boys?" she asked quietly.

  He shrugged. "They’re part of you. And they need help. A good life and home. They can be trained up in one profession or another when they’re old enough. I have so much, and you all so little. And you’ve helped me more than you know. I’m very grateful, and always pay my debts. Is that enough for you to be satisfied? Or would you like me to come up with a few more reasons as to why I need you to come home with me?"