Lily

by Patricia Gaffney

  She awoke to find him staring at her. How long had they slept? She had no idea.

  “You look terrible.”

  She wasn’t offended; she’d seen him looking better too, after all. “Thank you very much. How do you feel?” She got up and stood over him. His eyes were clearer, the set of his mouth not quite as pained.

  He waved the question away. “Listen to me. There’s something you have to do. I wish I could do it myself but I can’t, and there’s no one else.” She was surprised when he reached for her wrist and held it tightly. “I want you to find my horse and unsaddle him, put him up. He’s probably standing in front of the stables in the rain. He’s gentle, in the main; he won’t cause you any trouble if you handle him calmly. Put him in his stall and rub him down. Then put his tack away and dry it off. If there’s blood anywhere, get rid of it. Do it quietly. MacLeaf’s there, and there’s another lad who sleeps in the loft. Don’t take a light. Can you do that?”

  “Yes, I can do it.”

  His eyes traveled over her slim, straight body, noticing the weary slope of her shoulders, the shapeless dress that still clung damply to her skin. Her face was gray and drawn with fatigue. He wished he was through asking her favors. But he wasn’t. “After that, I want you to bury my clothes. Anywhere, but away from the house.”

  She opened her mouth to ask a question, then closed it. He wouldn’t answer anyway. She would do this because it was important to him, and later she would ask herself why that made it important to her.

  “When you come back, Lily, I want you to change clothes. Get dry and put on another dress. You’ll take—you won’t be any help to me if you make yourself ill.”

  There were many things she could have said to that. Instead she gathered his bloody, discarded garments into her arms. “Will you be all right? I don’t know how long I’ll be. There’s water here in the pitcher if—”

  “I’ll be all right.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, then. Go to sleep—that’s the best thing.”

  “I will.”

  “I’ll come back soon.” Reluctant, oddly unwilling to leave him, she broke the thread that held their gaze and went away.

  Devon stared into the shadow-corners of his room, listening to the retreat of her light footfalls. The wind heaved an angry squall of rain at the window, and he shifted uncomfortably as he imagined her facing the storm again. If he had had any choice he would not have asked her to go; he’d have gone himself or sent someone else. But he had no choice. Why he trusted her was a mystery, and yet he did.

  The pain in his shoulder was coming in waves. One came now, and to distract himself he thought of the last time he’d seen her, in the park yesterday, before Clay had interrupted them. She’d wanted to lie with him, but had resisted. That had surprised him; girls of her class were not often so scrupulous. So he’d sent her away, and the look on her face afterward was vivid in his memory even now. She had felt humiliated. Why? What had she expected of him?

  The pain receded a little. He put Lily out of his mind and though of his brother. Bloody ox-headed fool—he’d gotten away without a scratch. His damned ship was somewhere in the Channel by now, far enough south, with any luck, to have missed the storm. And here he lay, half-dead and weak as a new foal, relying on his housemaid to make sure he wasn’t arrested for assaulting a riding party of the king’s officers. When Clay returned, Devon would have a few things to say to him.

  He rubbed his forehead wearily, making a wry face. In point of fact, leaving out the small matter of a bayonet wound, things in St. Remy’s Bay had worked out exactly the way he’d wished. No one had gotten killed—as far as he knew. Clay hadn’t been recognized and now was probably safe, maybe already on French soil. Best of all, when Clay came home he would have to honor the bargain they’d made, and give up playing at being a free-trader. His smuggling days were over. The fear Devon had lived with for two years, that his brother would be caught, tried, and hanged—that was over, too. Now Clay would have to get on with some normal kind of life. Whether that meant managing the mine or not would be his decision; Devon wouldn’t force that down his throat—couldn’t if he’d wanted to. But at least Clay would be safe, and engaged in an occupation that, for a change, wasn’t illegal.

  The pain returned, a deep, burning ache that brought sweat out all over his body. God, he hoped the girl would bring brandy with her when she came back. A doctor would dose him with laudanum, but he didn’t have a doctor. He had Lily Troublefield. He closed his eyes against the throbbing in his shoulder and thought of her. He fell asleep remembering the way she’d kissed him, and how close she had come yesterday to letting him make love to her in the grass.

  He was still sleeping when, more than an hour later, Lily returned. She set down her double burden—a bucket of water and a scuttle of coal—and went to Devon on the bed. One of the candles had burned down to nothing and the other was sputtering. She replaced them with new tapers she found in the bedside cabinet and held one high, to see him. He was pale, not flushed, and when she touched him his skin was warm but not hot.

  She had become an expert fire-starter in the weeks she’d been at Darkstone; within minutes she had the coals laid and lit in the fireplace grate and a hearty blaze burning. She felt silly—he was fast asleep—but still she couldn’t resist a few sharp glances at Devon as she stripped off gown and shift, shoes and stockings. The fire’s heat on her skin felt heavenly; she turned before it slowly, warming herself, shaking her wet hair out close to the flames.

  What would she put on? There were no extra blankets in sight—and certainly no clothes strewn around this tidy, austere room that she might appropriate for a couple of hours. She hesitated a second, then went to the wardrobe. And paused, hand on the knob, arrested by the sight of herself in the mirror on the door. It was the first time she’d seen all of her own naked body since she’d run away from Lyme. Something was different, but at first she couldn’t tell what it was. Something about her shape, her… Then she knew. She had muscles she’d never had before, and they gave her body a new look, a different kind of definition. Subtle, but definite. She looked strong. That would have dismayed her—women weren’t supposed to be strong!—but after a few more seconds of narrow-eyed perusal, she decided she still looked feminine. She still had breasts and hips and thighs, and none of them looked the least bit manly. It was all right, then.

  She resisted an impulse to turn around and try to see what Devon Darkwell had found so intriguing two nights ago on the beach. Instead she opened the wardrobe and pulled out the first thing her hand touched—his dressing gown, hanging from a hook on the door. Purple, and the softest silk imaginable. She really shouldn’t—she should choose something less personal—but even as she thought it she was putting her arms through the sleeves and tugging the sash tight around her waist. He used some spice-scented cologne; she shrugged one shoulder and buried her nose in the soft material, inhaling a wispy vestige of it, eyes closed.

  Time was passing. With a little guilty start, she set about rinsing the watery bloodstains out of her gown and shift. Afterward, she dragged two chairs over to the fire, as close to the flames as she dared, and carefully laid her wet clothes and stockings over them. They had to be dry by morning; they simply had to. Reaching down, she gave the coals another stir with the poker. Then there was nothing to do but wait.

  Fortunately there was one more chair in the room, the master’s leather-upholstered desk chair—the one he’d been sitting in that day she’d brought him his breakfast and then scalded him with hot tea. She pulled the chair over to the bed and sank down in it wearily. The smell of the leather was homey, somehow comforting, and the seat was roomy enough so she could bring her folded legs up onto it. She burrowed in drowsily, arms clasped, forehead pressed against the soft leather wing, and closed her eyes.

  Eight

  THIS WAS A HALLUCINATION. He didn’t feel feverish, but what other explanation could there be? A nak
ed goddess was standing in front of his fireplace.

  He could see her clearly, in profile, ruffling a wild mane of dark, curly hair over the flames. In that bent-over posture her back made a long, delicate line against the flickering orange blaze, and her pretty white breasts looked lush and ripe. Long arms, long slender legs, ivory-white skin as smooth as marble. Just then she straightened, and turned directly toward him. Her flowing hair covered one proud breast; the other was flushed a rosy pink from the heat. She was slim-hipped but shapely, as strong as Diana, as beautiful as Venus. And he was delirious, for in that moment she reached for her shabby-looking chemise and pulled it over her head, and he recognized her. She was no goddess, she was Lily Troublefield.

  She saw his rapt, open-eyed stare as soon as her head cleared the neckline of her shift. She smothered a gasp of shock and whirled to face the fire. “You were looking!” she accused breathlessly. “Don’t look!” She heard the rustle of covers and threw a glance past her shoulder. He’d pulled the sheet up over his face.

  A nervous laugh stuck in her throat. She jerked on her stockings and then her dress, hazily conscious that the former were dry, the latter not, and her shift somewhere in between. She took a few hesitant steps toward the bed, still buttoning her sleeves. “All right,” she said cautiously, pausing six feet away. She watched his fingers pinch the sheet underneath and slowly pull it down. It ruffled his hair, his eyelashes, the tip of his nose. His lips. For a second she saw the same feverish light in his eyes as before, and then it changed to amusement. She stared back, entranced. She’d seen numerous moods flicker in and out of those expressive turquoise eyes, but never amusement.

  Then that was gone too, and the hard look she knew best came down. “What time is it?”

  “I don’t know. Early still, five or so. I have to go.”

  “Go?”

  “I have to start my work.”

  “Why?”

  She looked at him blankly.

  “Go, then,” he conceded with a cranky wave of the hand, belatedly seeing her point. For a moment he’d forgotten that it was as important that her life appear to go on as normal as it was for his.

  “What will you do? Someone should help you. Please, if you would just let me—”

  “Don’t start in again, Lily. There’s no one but you.” Stiff, he tried to sit up straighter; the pain struck hard, and he swore. “Keep Trayer out of here,” he grated through his teeth.

  “How?”

  “How the hell do I know?” He squeezed his eyes shut and clamped down on his temper. “I leave that up to you. Just keep him out. Keep ‘em all out. Tell them I’m sick, and bring me my breakfast yourself.” When he opened his eyes, she was twisting her hands and looking as if he’d asked her to wade across the Channel. “Well? You did it before. What’s the matter?”

  She sighed, thinking he had no idea how things worked below-stairs, what it meant in the servant hierarchy to bring the master’s tray, and how difficult a task he’d given her. Stabling his temperamental stallion was a child’s game compared to this!

  “Nothing.” She went to the head of the bed and reached up for the bell pull. “Wait five minutes and then ring the bell,” she told him, putting the tasseled rope in his hand. “Five minutes. Don’t fall asleep.” She recalled herself. “Sir.” She walked to the door and turned back. “What would you like for breakfast?”

  “Brandy.”

  “Anything in addition to that?”

  “No.” He watched her drop another of her ironic curtseys and slip out the door.

  Anything in addition to that? What sort of way was that for a housemaid to talk? The girl was educated, but for some reason she wouldn’t admit it. He closed his eyes and settled deeper into the pillows, wincing. A more interesting question was, what sort of way was that for a housemaid to look? he thought sleepily, remembering her naked before the fire, as lovely and desirable as any woman he’d ever seen. Even Maura.

  Maybe they were two of a kind. They both came from the servant class; they were both too clever by half for the social niche that fate had set them in. They both had guileless faces and kind, innocent eyes. But Maura had possessed a treacherous heart. How fortunate that Lily Troublefield’s heart didn’t interest him even remotely.

  Her body did, though. Her body interested him quite a good deal. He fingered the soft gold threads at the end of the bell pull while he stared into the still-glowing coals across the way. A minute later he gave the rope a violent jerk, then four more after that, evenly spaced, each harder than the last. In his eyes there wasn’t a particle of amusement.

  Breathless, Lily skidded into the kitchen half a minute before the bell rang. She had time to greet the cook, the scullery maid, and one yawning footboy, the only ones up at this hour, when the bell in the wall over the door jangled and all heads turned. Number 4, the master’s bedroom. Amazement registered on every upturned face. “I’ll go,” Lily said quickly, confident that no one would challenge her; there was no one else up yet who could go.

  She hurried out into the hall. But at the foot of the stairs she pivoted and made a right turn into the open door of the estate agent’s office. She hurried to the far end of Mr. Cobb’s cramped but tidy room, away from the door and out of view of anyone who might pass in the hall. There she waited, counting off the minutes she estimated it would take to walk upstairs, listen to the master’s order, and come back down. She smoothed her skirts with damp palms, wondering if Lowdy had missed her last night. The girl had made no mention of it just now when Lily had crept into their attic room for a clean apron—but she had just woken up, and coherent speech was beyond her so early in the morning.

  When it seemed to Lily that enough time had passed, she returned to the kitchen. “Mr. Darkwell wants his breakfast immediately,” she told the cook. “He’s not feeling well. He asked for hot broth and dry toast and an egg. And a pitcher of beer.”

  Mrs. Belt peered at her in surprise, but didn’t hesitate. “Dorcas, fetch an egg from the larder and be quick,” she directed as she took down the grill to set over the hearth for toast.

  The butler and a few sleepy servants drifted in, mumbling good morning. Lily kept an apprehensive eye on the progress of the master’s tray, praying it would be ready before the housekeeper arrived. The topic of the day was Mr. Darkwell’s “illness,” and there was much speculation on what time in the night he might have come home.

  “There, it’s ready.” Mrs. Belt laid a cloth over the tray and gestured for Lily to take it.

  “What’s this? Where are you going with that?” Mrs. Howe stood blocking the door, black-garbed and bulky, impenetrable as a boulder. Behind her Lily saw Trayer, his face a hostile, goading replica of his mother’s.

  “It’s—it’s the master’s breakfast,” she stammered. “He rang early and told me to bring it up. He’s not feeling well.”

  “Told you to bring it?” Trayer shoved into the room on his mother’s heels and stood in front of Lily with his fists on his hips. “That’s Rose’s job. I’ll take it up myself if she’s not down yet.”

  Lily tightened her grip on the tray in near-panic. This was exactly what she had feared! “Mr. Darkwell told me to bring it,” she said as calmly as she could.

  “I’ll take it,” Trayer repeated.

  “No. What I mean is, he said for me to bring it. He—said he didn’t want anyone else. And he said for you not to come to him today. He—doesn’t want you.”

  The kitchen went silent. She looked at no one except Trayer, but she could feel the focused eyes of every person in me room. Measuring her. Judging.

  Trayer spoke in a low snarl. “You’re lying.”

  She shook her head, and the tense stillness flowed back.

  Mrs. Howe finally broke it. “Go on, then,” she said in a quiet voice that frightened Lily more than if she had shouted. “You don’t want it to get cold, do you? Get upstairs quick, then come back and help cook with the baking.”

  Lily muttered, “Yes, ma’am,”
and escaped, head down and face expressionless, careful not to look at anyone. But she heard the soft, surly growl of gossip start before she was halfway down the hall.

  When she pushed Devon’s door open, she found him leaning against the high bureau, white as chalk, trying to shave.

  “Judas!” She set the tray on the desk and rushed toward him. “What are you doing?” She took the razor from him and moved him toward the bed with a firm, insistent hand at his back. “I thought you had better sense,” she clucked under her breath, “I truly did. Sit down before you faint. How do you feel? You’re as pale as the sheet. What got into—”

  “Lily.” His voice was stern, but Devon imagined he didn’t cut a very commanding figure when his hands were trembling, he wore nothing but his breeches, and three-quarters of his face was covered with drying soap. “I’ll remind you that it’s not your place to tell me what to do. Your job is to do exactly what I tell you to do. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, that’s perfectly clear. I beg your pardon, my lord, I forgot myself. What is it you would like me to do?”

  It was impossible to tell whether her remorse was genuine. He studied her limpid gray-green eyes, serious mouth, and demurely folded hands, and decided it wasn’t. For some reason that pleased him. “I’d like you to help me finish shaving,” he conceded gravely. “I don’t think I can manage it on my own.”

  Her pique dissipated. “Well, then. Sit down.” She hurried to the bureau to retrieve his shaving things. “The soap’s dried out,” she murmured as she wet her hand in the basin and moistened the lather on his face by making little circles with her fingertips. She dipped the razor in the basin, shook it off, and began scraping the whiskers along his jaw, her other hand resting on his throat. “I’m sorry the water is cold; your valet probably heats it.”