"No, that’s quite all right," she said with a blush.
With the way he was looking at her, she was afraid he was going to include a few personal ones she was not sure how to respond to. She had also heard the word need. It both thrilled and frightened her. He really was most remarkable-looking, but that was not why she was here.
Moreover, how on earth could he ever take a second look at her? View her as anything more than an object of pity or derision? He had checked her for lice and fleas, for Heaven’s sake.
She whose father had been one of the most prominent merchants in Chester and Liverpool, had now reduced to such a dreadful state. Every woman who had ever envied her would laugh themselves silly if they saw her now in an ill-fitting chemise which was only cotton, albeit good quality.
Not to mention laughing at her becoming enamoured of a crippled man who seemed to be little better than a common soldier. When she had been married to an earl, no less.
Still Michael was kind, as well as handsome, however grim and forbidding he acted at times. She could only imagine how impatient she would be having to be thus confined, restricted. What was it Shakespeare had said?
"But now I am cabin’d, cribb’d, confin’d, bound in,
"To saucy doubts and fears."
Only too late did she realise she had actually spoken the words aloud.
Michael was looking at her with a new appreciation in his eyes. "Macbeth. Act Three, Scene Four, the banquet scene. Does this mean you’re hungry, or are you thinking of the terms under which you are to come into my employ? If it is the latter, I can assure you that the boys’ needs will come first with you and my servants, and you may come and go as you please when you’re not working."
"No, it was the food actually," she lied, not daring to admit she had been thinking about his disability. "I would love some milk, and perhaps a crust of bread."
"Aye, you can hunt up some things while I hold Gavin. Make sure you wash your hands thoroughly. I don’t like to think of the damage the camphor might cause, or the taste. Ech." He made a face. "But you can’t overdo things."
"I shan’t. May the boys have some milk, do you think?"
"There’s a theory that dairy comestibles cause phlegm, but in his case I think it’ll be good to get something into both their stomachs."
"Very well, I’ll try."
She cradled each one of them in turn against her bosom as she had them sip. Again he felt his loins stirring so powerfully Michael had all to do to keep his hands steady as he cut the bread. He half-expected to behead himself with the knife he was trembling so badly. As it was, he nicked his index finger with the point and saw the red drops well up.
"Oh God, no," he gasped. "Oh Lord, I’m so sorry, Bryony. Please, help me. Oh God."
He clamped his eyes shut and gritted his teeth. He heard the roar of the guns, the screams of the dying all around him.
"Oh God, no! Make it stop! Make the blood stop!"
CHAPTER SEVEN
Bryony stared at Michael’s drawn white face, saw the cut, and knew in an instant that this was the very thing he’d warned her about.
He had not exaggerated: he was genuinely terrified by the sight of the blood, and was reliving the horror of the day he had been so cruelly injured.
But what could she do to help him?
The most obvious thing was to cover over the finger. She grabbed a cloth and tied it. When she was sure the blood was safely stanched, she threw her arms around his neck and hung on.
"It’s all right, Michael. I’m here. I won’t let you go. There’s nothing to worry about. Everything’s fine. You, me and the boys, we’re all fine. You can open your eyes and look around. We’re in Blake’s house, having some milk. Everything is just fine."
She hid the knife in case it also conjured up unpleasant associations. When he still did not open his eyes, she stroked his eyelids and face. "It’s all right. Everything is warm and safe. The storm won’t get you."
He was rigid in the chair, unmoving, frozen in the moment he was reliving in his mind’s eye.
When Bryony still got no response, she spoke a bit louder, realising Michael was probably also hearing the sounds of battle. That must have been why he had not heard her at the door when she’d knocked. He had been in the throes of one of these nightmarish episodes, oblivious to everything else.
Oh the poor man, she thought, locked away in his own private hell.
"It’s all right, Michael. We’re here, Gavin and I." She scooped the boy into her lap and together they nestled against him until his breathing evened out and he at last opened his eyes.
He immediately averted his eyes so as to avoid her gaze. Well, she couldn’t blame him for feeling embarrassed. Many might even think him mad. For her own part, so far as she was concerned he had fought for freedom and had nothing to be ashamed of.
She gave his shoulder a warm pat and glided off his lap, not too abruptly, for she did not want him to think she was frightened of him, but also knowing what she had done was probably not the wisest thing a woman clad in not much more than a chemise and shawl should have been doing.
She left Gavin where he was in order to reinforce her trust in him. She moved her head to meet his gaze without flinching and asked softly, "Can you please make him drink the rest of this milk whilst I try with Darren?"
He blinked owlishly, his pale blue eyes still slightly unfocused. "Oh, er, yes, I can try."
More of the milk seemed to go onto his shirt and lap than into her son, causing her to smile. "I’m sorry. Between them the boys have made a fine mess of you."
"No matter."
He had to admit between his episode and his clothing, he was rather embarrassed to be at less than his best in front of so lovely a woman, but after all, it was not as though they were at a soiree. The children were ill, and she was a homeless vagabond. And he had just acted like a raving lunatic in front of her. Well, at least he’d warned her before the spell had hit him, he reflected bitterly.
To their infinite relief, Darren drank a few mouthfuls. She put him back down on the makeshift bed and finally had something herself, bread soaked in milk. A couple of bites was enough to fill her.
Bryony made a face and held her stomach. "Oh dear. Stuffed already."
"You can have lots of small meals over the next coming day, good fortifying things like soups and stews. Beef broth. I don’t eat any meat myself now, but we can send out for anything you like once the servants return."
"Do you think that’s why you’re so thin?" she asked quietly.
He shrugged. "I haven’t much appetite. And my cook is pretty hopeless."
"Oh well, I hope I’ll be able to remedy that when I get to your house."
"Very kind of you, I’m sure."
"Not kind at all," she said promptly. "I’ll be working for you. It will be my job as secretary and housekeeper to make your life as smooth and easy as possible, the better to get on with your important business."
He stared at her. "Do you mock me, Madam?"
"No, not at all! What would make you think—"
"I’m not sick, I’m paralysed, crippled. I would appreciate it if you wouldn’t treat me as thought I were a fool as well!" he barked.
She stood up to him despite her better judgment. "When have I ever? I don’t know why you’re angry, Mr. Avenel. I just thought I could make some improvements at your home to make your life better. Food and so on. Everyone has to eat, true, but why not something you like?
"As for your work, it is important. How can you accuse me of treating you like a fool when your dictionary is going to be so admirable and useful? You see insult where none was ever intended. I can have nothing but the utmost respect and admiration for—"
"A man who is reduced to a snivelling coward by the sight of a little blood?" he challenged.
"Stop speaking about yourself that way," she said stoutly, refusing to back down. "Please don’t do this to yourself. I would no more blame you for that than I would hope you
would blame me for my terror of spiders."
He sat back with a sigh, inadvertently sloshing the rest of the milk onto himself.
She looked even more mortified than he felt. "Oh dear. What a mess."
He gave a wry smile. "Not to worry. I’m just glad he had something to drink."
He looked down at the boy and noticed that Gavin was quite happily snuggling against him as though he hadn’t a care in the world. Michael felt oddly moved at the sight. He was also very relieved he hadn’t scared the children. He knew he was probably quite ghastly when he lost control.
Bryony seemed to not take anything amiss, though she did not look at him. But then she was concentrating again on getting some more milk into Darren. He decided to test her.
"Bryony?"
She looked up at him, her blue eyes warm and friendly.
"Yes?" she asked maintaining the eye contact even when he said nothing.
He was infinitely relieved she did not appear disgusted by him. "Do you suppose you can get me a clean shirt?" he asked after a time.
"Oh yes, of course, I should have offered. So sorry."
She scurried out of the room before he could tell her not to bother, since he was only going to get another one dirty anyway.
He sat cradling Gavin against him, and closed his eyes. His one consolation was that the fit had not lasted as long as it usually did. Sometimes when he was alone in his chamber, it might be as long as an hour before he looked at the clock again and realised where and who he was.
He poured some milk for himself and drank it down thirstily. It was not something he normally imbibed, but he knew it might absorb some of the medicine he had taken, or at least dilute it.
For Darren was still not improving, and it was going to be a long night. The painkilling effect of the drug combined with the alcohol had made him very sleepy. Even with the coffee and tea he was not going to be able to last all night at this rate.
He put Gavin back up on the table and fetched Darren down to check him and rub more salve on. He coughed and spewed again, and the milk his mother had given him came right back up.
Michael almost laughed as he became drenched once more. It was so normal, so fatherly. He who had never imagined himself being a parent, was now doing all the things needful, and with a glad heart too.
Though now he had to admit that was not strictly true. He had imagined being a father more and more often as he had got older. But he had been at war, with no notion of when it would finally end.
He had also never thought he would ever find a woman who he could be interested in or trust long enough to spend more than a few days or weeks in her company. With Bryony now, there was something so strikingly candid about her that he could well imagine spending days, weeks, months with her by his side.
Yet he knew she had secrets, was hiding from her family. But she could not possibly be someone dangerous, a criminal, he amended. She was most certainly dangerous to his peace of mind, for she was so lovely he was tempted to ask her what she had meant about other ways to please each other. The thought filled him the excitement, trepidation and not a little jealousy for the lucky bugger who had managed to bed her.
He wondered if there had been more than one. Then he shoved the thought aside as being unworthy. She had indicated she was afraid of men, and had been through hell to maintain her chastity despite the overwhelming temptation to give her body in order to help her sons.
She returned with a shirt and trousers. "I thought you might as well get them both off. You must be soaked."
"But my legs," he said with a shake of his head. "I can’t—"
"I can."
"No, I will not have you—"
"I don’t mind."
"Well I do," he snapped.
"If I were ill like the boys, would you hesitate?" she demanded sternly.
"No, I suppose—"
"If you help me I won’t even have to look."
He stared at her with a gimlet eye. "Persistent little miss, aren’t you?"
She tossed her hair back from her face with an impatient shrug. "Common sense dictates you not sit around in soaked and bemired clothes all night."
"Very well. But you keep your head turned away."
He lifted Gavin, who whimpered at the loss of the huge warm comforting presence.
"It’s all right, lad. I’m not going anywhere. Just wait one moment whilst I change my clothes."
She did his shirt first, taking it from him as he stripped it off, donned the new one, and made sure it covered his male parts. She threw it on the pile with the other wash and tried not to stare at his incredible rippling muscles.
Then he wheeled the chair so that it was propped against the large kitchen table, unfastened the buttons of his trousers, and raised himself up on his huge sinewy arms. She yanked them down off his hips in one fluid gesture to his knees.
"All right. They’re free. But you’re rather messy. The liquids all soaked through."
Before he could protest she began to clean his lap with soap and water and then started to dry him. Once again, he was sure that he had some sensation after all.
"Let me know if I’m hurting you."
He held painfully still, breathless as she ministered to him so intimately. "You have a very gentle touch. I can’t feel very much anyway."
"I’m sorry all the same. This can’t be easy for you."
"No, it isn’t," he admitted quietly. "I’m so tired of it sometimes I could just-"
She nodded. "I know what you mean. Do something desperate," she said in a gentle tone. "But then I think of the boys, how much they need me and—"
She broke off with a shake of her head and sighed. She was trying desperately not to think about the huge pulsing male flesh so close to her hand.
"I’m so selfish. I mean I should never have fled, taken them. If I’d just given in to my brother-in-law they might both be well and safe."
He ventured to reach for one of her hands and squeezed it, then rebalanced on the table before he teetered over. "Listen, my dear, I don’t know all the circumstances. I hope one day you’ll confide in me so I can help. But for now I can see that you adore them and would do anything for your sons. You have nothing to reproach yourself for."
"Sometimes the best thing you can do for someone one is give them up," she said quietly, now drying him with long strokes of the towel he thought he could almost feel…
Michael shook his head. "You’ll never be able to tell me that a child is better off without its parents, unless they’re so cruel or indifferent that it would be better if they did leave."
"Thank you for helping and trying to make me feel better about all this. You have no idea how frantic I’ve been."
"I think I do. I went to war with my brother. He was younger than me by three years. I blame myself for him enlisting, becoming ill. He had a terrible fever in Spain but went into battle anyway and was killed."
She paused in removing his trousers from around his ankles and stared up at him. "Is that why you— Because you blame yourself for his death?"
His face closed up and he gritted out, "I blame myself because I was a killer. I broke every single one of the ten commandments and am going to hell."
"‘This is hell, nor am I out of it,’" she quoted.
"Mephistopheles in Dr. Faustus. How did you—"
"My own condition when I was married. I had a lot of time on my hands when my husband was out going about his business. I grew out of a silly little girl and into a woman of the world fairly quickly."
"I would love to have known the little girl."
Her startled gaze flew to his face. She shook her head. "No, you wouldn’t. I probably wouldn’t have looked at you with anything other than horrified pity then. Now we're going to lift this foot." She tapped the right one and worked the pant leg free.
"And now?" he asked, angered by her words, but fascinated too. What did she feel when she looked at him?
"A wounded soul in need of help, comf
ort."
"A wounded body, you mean," he said in disgust, sitting back down again in his chair with a thud.
"No, it’s your soul that’s more damaged. Those visions of yours—"
"You should lie down now. You’re talking gibberish," he hissed, scowling blackly.
The Model Master Page 6
