His Saving Grace

by Sharon Cullen

  What was written on this paper were not words. Well, some of them were, but most of the words were misspelled and out of order.

  She swallowed, unsure how to react. He was looking at her closely, almost desperately, and she had no idea what to say. He couldn’t possibly send this letter. Roberts would have no idea what it meant.

  “There are a few misspellings,” she said slowly. She put the paper back on the desk and looked around. Spying an upright chair in the corner, she dragged it over to the desk, sat down, and pointed to the salutation. “You’ve spelled Roberts’s name wrong. It’s O-B, not A-B.”

  Michael cursed under his breath, grabbed a fresh sheet of paper, and wrote the name again. He was beginning to pen the rest of the letter, but Grace put her hand on his arm to stop him.

  “There are other misspellings.”

  Painstakingly, one word at a time, she took Michael through the entire letter. Mercifully, it was short and to the point. He knew what he wanted to say, but translating that to paper was nearly beyond him. Grace tried valiantly, and for the most part, she succeeded in keeping the tremor from her voice and the tears from showing.

  Before her was a little boy just learning his letters, concentrating so hard and so determined to get it right. His mouth was a slash and his eyes were flat, but he worked hard, and over an hour later, he had a letter that he could proudly send. One that Roberts would understand.

  Grace was exhausted from trying to help and from keeping her emotions in check.

  Michael signed the letter, folded it, and sealed it. Then threw the pen across the room.

  She was so astounded at the outburst that she jumped and stared at the pen as it landed on the carpet, splattering ink. Michael surged off the chair, tipping it backward into the wall behind him. He rubbed his head, muttering to himself.

  All sorts of platitudes leaped to Grace’s tongue, from “It will be all right” to “It will take time” to “You did well.” She bit her tongue to keep from saying them, because even to her ears, they were nothing but words with no meaning. For all they knew, time had already done the damage, and it wouldn’t be all right.

  “We can hire a secretary to take care of your correspondence,” she said, opting for a practical solution. “You need one anyway, now that you’re the earl.”

  He laughed. “I can’t even write a damned note. A simple note, Grace. It’s beyond me. It looked perfect to me. I couldn’t see the mistakes even after you pointed them out. Damnation.”

  She felt so badly for him. He used to be such a proud, independent man. The pride was still there but battered and bruised. He desperately clung to it, but the independence was missing, and that had to be unbearable to a soldier such as himself.

  “I can contact William’s former secretary. If he’s already employed, he can surely recommend someone.” She didn’t know what else to say. The fact that the jumble of words had looked right to him was alarming.

  He rubbed his head.

  “Are you in pain?” she asked.

  “I’m always in pain.” He dropped his hand. “Hire the bloody secretary.” And he walked out of the room.

  —

  In his room, Michael took the ball of paper out of his pocket and smoothed it out on the bureau. He read over the letter. He could name each individual letter and could even read the entire correspondence. At least the correspondence he’d wanted to write. But apparently, what he wanted to write and what he had written were two different things.

  Tarik entered with a stack of clean shirts. Michael thrust the letter out to him. “Read this.”

  Tarik put the shirts down, took the letter, and began to silently read.

  “Out loud. Read it out loud.”

  Tarik looked up at him with a solemn expression. “I can’t. These aren’t words.”

  Michael cursed in Russian, took the paper from Tarik, and tore it into tiny pieces. He left the room and headed outside, where he took a path that wandered through the thick stand of trees that constituted Blackbourne land, toward Blackbourne Lake.

  It was spring, the birds were chirping, and the trees beginning to sprout tiny leaves. There would be a scent to the air, a freshness that winter lacked. He couldn’t smell it, but he could remember it. He could remember a lot of things, like the time he proposed to Grace—on a day much like this one and a path very similar to this one.

  He was so nervous that his hands were sweating. He didn’t want to touch her for fear she would notice, even through his gloves. He sneaked a look over his shoulder, but her maid was far behind, dawdling and looking at the flowers. No doubt giving them time alone.

  He’d already spoken to her father, who had given his permission and a promise to keep quiet until Michael asked her himself. All was in order except his rampant nervousness.

  Beside him, Grace was prattling on about something. Plants and flowers, no doubt.

  Suddenly, he stopped and looked at her. At the sun streaming through the trees and touching her hair until it glowed golden. She stopped as well and looked up at him, her head tilted, her beautiful blue eyes questioning. She was wearing blue. He would forever remember that she was wearing blue. What an odd thing to want to remember.

  “I…Uh…” He licked his lips and resisted the urge to run his hands down the side of his legs in agitation.

  “Yes? You what?”

  Then his nervousness was gone and his heart resumed its normal functioning and he knew, deep in his soul, that this was the right thing to do. He loved Grace so deeply that it sometimes frightened him. He loved her so passionately that life without her was inconceivable.

  He dropped to his knee, right there in the middle of the path, with the birds chirping and the sun shining and her maid just around the bend.

  Grace’s eyes widened and her hand went to her throat. “Michael?”

  “I love you, Grace. More than life itself. Please say you’ll be my wife.”

  Her hand went to her mouth, and tears appeared in her eyes. She nodded. “Yes,” she whispered, then louder, “Yes!” She dropped to her knees in front of him and hugged him so tightly that he swore he heard his back crack, but he didn’t care. They were both laughing, and yes, even he had tears in his eyes.

  Almost right away, Michael knew someone was following him. At least his soldier instincts hadn’t failed him. He also knew who it was without having to turn around. Eventually, he stopped to allow Grace to catch up.

  She looked at him warily and with sorrow. Quite a bit different than that day five years ago. It seemed so much longer than five years, and yet it seemed like yesterday that he had been that naive boy, a fool to believe that life would always be that good and happy.

  Now he saw in her eyes what he knew in his heart. He was half a man. Hell, he couldn’t write a simple sentence. That he needed a secretary grated on him, even if most men of his station employed one. There were times when a man wanted to write his wife a love letter, and a secretary’s hand just wouldn’t do.

  “I can’t smell, either.” It wasn’t what he wanted to say, but why not tell her everything.

  Her brows came together, and little vertical lines formed on her forehead. She looked that way a lot lately. Frowning. Confused. “You can’t?”

  “My sense of smell is gone. Like my writing ability.”

  “Maybe it will come back.”

  “And maybe it won’t.”

  “It doesn’t matter to me, you know. I couldn’t care less if you can smell or write.”

  “It matters to me.”

  “I know, and I’m sorry.”

  “I didn’t even realize the words were spelled wrong. Even when you pointed it out.”

  “I’m more than happy to read over your correspondence until you hire a secretary.”

  “That’s not the point, Grace.”

  “I know it’s not, but it’s the best I can offer. I refuse to tell you that everything will be all right, because I just don’t know, Michael.”

  “Your honesty is
a breath of fresh air.” It was beyond him to keep the sarcasm from his voice.

  “I can’t believe that Tarik has been less than honest with you.”

  “I don’t tell Tarik everything, and I don’t employ him to stroke my ego.”

  “No. I can’t imagine he would, anyway. I hope you aren’t overly angry with him for letting me into your room last night. It wasn’t his fault. I forced my way in.”

  He suppressed a smile, picturing his slight wife standing toe to toe with the Cossack warrior. He’d seen Grace when she became determined, and he couldn’t fault Tarik for folding in the face of her determination. She was a formidable foe when she wanted to be. “Nevertheless, I don’t want you in my room when I’m like that.”

  “Nevertheless, I’m afraid you are in no condition to say so. I will be there the next time and the time after that and for however long you need me.”

  The sun lit a halo of gold around her head, and her blue eyes flared at him. Clearly, she was just as angry as he. His bright flash of irritation at her impudence and insubordination burned out as fast as it appeared, and he thought back to that day he’d proposed to her, when life was as perfect as it was going to get.

  “I’m not a soldier, and you’re not my captain,” she said.

  “I’m your husband, isn’t that the same?”

  “Hardly.”

  “You are my wife. You are supposed to answer to me and obey me in all things. Isn’t that what our marriage vows stated?”

  Her lips twitched, and he found he wanted to see her smile. A true smile. Not the false one she’d bestowed upon him at church. He stretched his mind back and realized the last time he’d witnessed her real smile was days before leaving for the war. That was a tragedy.

  He didn’t know when it had happened, but he found they were holding hands as they walked the wooded path. The sneaky woman. Her hand in his felt so natural. How many walks had they taken? With the sun behind them, their hands entwined, talking nonstop about nothing and everything. This was what he thought about in those dark hours when he was in so much pain. This was the bright light he longed for.

  He swung her arm so that she twirled in front of him. Before she could react, he cupped her chin in his hand and kissed her. There in the middle of the woods, in the middle of the path, with the birds chirping and the sun filtering through the new leaves.

  It was like coming home. It was joy and beauty all rolled into one. And his body responded. There was relief mixed in, for he had worried that his injury had affected more than his brain and his balance. One of his greatest fears had been that he would not be a husband in full to his wife. That didn’t seem to be a worry, for he was so hard it actually hurt. If they hadn’t been in the middle of the woods, he would have swept Grace up to her bedchamber and proved to himself that he was a man in full.

  He kissed her more passionately, and she responded by wrapping her arms around his neck and leaning in to him so he could feel her breasts pressed against his frantically beating heart.

  When he pulled away, they were breathing hard. Her eyes were glazed, her lips swollen, but there was a smile on her face that lit him from the inside out.

  “I love you, Gracie.” He spoke from his heart. All those days he’d said the words to himself when he was in the throes of fever. He’d kept them close to his heart and said them over and over. Even when he couldn’t recall her face, he knew her love and his love for her.

  “I love you, too, Michael.”

  They walked back to the house hand in hand, and the darkness that dogged his every waking moment and haunted his dreams was pushed away for the moment.

  Chapter Eleven

  The memory of Grace’s body pressed against his kept Michael awake that night. As he watched the shadows dance across the ceiling, his body burned for her in a way that it hadn’t in a long while.

  He surged off the bed and left his room. Tarik, accustomed to Michael’s midnight wanderings, slept on in his makeshift bed.

  Michael prowled through the depressing drawing room with its faded wallpaper and old, worn furniture, angry all over again to see how Grace lived. She was—had been—the dowager countess of Blackbourne, and her station called for much more luxury than this. Nigel was an ass. A self-centered ass who deserved far less than what Michael was offering. He was glad that in a few days’ time, he and Grace would be residing in the manor house.

  He turned on the gaslight and folded himself into the chair at Grace’s small desk. Every time he sat here, he feared the decrepit thing would fall apart. He pulled over the ledgers that Roberts had delivered promptly that afternoon and stared at the line of numbers marching down the page.

  He hated that he was so unsure of himself. Were the numbers he was seeing truly the numbers listed? Was he mixing them up, as he had mixed up his letters?

  He’d wanted to call Grace in when he’d first looked at the books, but he hated relying on her and hated for her to see his uncertainty. If he couldn’t read a bloody ledger and decipher some damn numbers, then he didn’t deserve to be the earl of Blackbourne.

  He shoved the ledger away and sat back to stare at the window that, in the light of day, overlooked Grace’s gardens. There was a darkness inside him that tainted everything he did and every thought he had. No matter how hard he tried to combat the darkness, it always returned, a formidable foe with weapons he could not fight against. It made him think sinister thoughts. Made him question himself. Made him believe he was less of a man than he used to be. It kept him awake at night, worrying that he had disappointed Grace because he was not the man she had sent off to war.

  He surged off the chair and began prowling again. Before he knew what he was about he was climbing the steps to the upper rooms. Most of them were closed off. Only Grace’s and his rooms were open. He hadn’t had the opportunity or the inclination to look into the other ones. Did she keep them closed because it was silly to open so many rooms for just one person, or did they need such major work that she could not open them?

  What did it matter now? Nigel was out of his life, out of the earldom, and out of the manor house in a few days, whereupon this house would sit silent once again. However, he vowed that one of the first things he would do would be to renovate the house.

  His thoughts brought him to Grace’s closed bedroom door. He placed his hand against it and dropped his head. She was inside. The only thing keeping them apart was the door.

  And his mind.

  He desperately wanted to go to her, to lie with her, to hold her and kiss her and make love to her. Hell, he was already hard and aching for her. But the darkness kept him rooted. It whispered in his mind that he wasn’t good enough anymore.

  His hand slid from the door and he took a step back, then another and another. The darkness drove him away. He hated that darkness, and yet part of him believed the vile voices.

  He returned to his bedchamber and climbed into his cold bed to lie awake the rest of the night and stare at the shadows.

  —

  The day they moved into the manor house was warm, the sun bright, the clouds white puffs that moved lazily across the sky. To Grace, it seemed a good omen. A bright start to the leg of the journey that was the rest of their lives.

  Ida and George helped, along with the rest of the staff. There were many smiles and lots of laughter. Alfred was the most jovial as he directed the servants. There was a lightness to his voice and a spring to his step; his enthusiasm was contagious.

  Grace brought only a few things from the dower house, for there was little she wanted to bring to this new life. The chipped plates and the mismatched flatware stayed behind. She made a mental note to throw it all away when she had the opportunity. The one thing she oversaw with tender care was the transport of her seedlings from the conservatory at the dower house to the conservatory at the manor house. She employed the help of a footman and rode in the back of the wagon with her precious plants, making sure they stayed upright. When they reached the conservatory at th
e manor house, she could only stare in horror.

  She hadn’t expected Nigel or Clara to take care of the glass enclosure, but she had not expected this. Vines had climbed halfway up, obscuring the structure until you almost couldn’t see it. What broke her heart were the shattered panes of glass.

  She hadn’t even realized Michael was near until she heard him curse.

  “Who would have done this?” she asked.

  “I don’t know, but we’ll get it fixed, Grace. We’ll replace the glass. I’ll send the footman to town right now to bring the glass blower up here and measure. I can get the gardener to pull down the vines and remove the weeds.”

  She blinked away the tears that blurred her vision. It was just another thing in her life that was broken and needed to be fixed. For a short moment she let self-pity overtake her; some days it was too much to keep it at bay. Seeing her precious conservatory, the one place she could escape with her thoughts and lose herself in her plants, in such disrepair was almost too overwhelming.

  “In the meantime, we can keep your seedlings in the house if you need to,” Michael was saying. He instructed the footman to take the seedlings to the big house and put them in the kitchen. No doubt Cook would not be pleased, but Grace didn’t have any other ideas. The plants would never survive the cool nights.

  Shaking off the sadness of the conservatory she had lovingly designed and created, Grace oversaw the seedlings’ transport to the big house. Cook hurriedly cleared out a room just off the kitchen, and Grace carried her plants inside. Once she was finished, she set her mind to instructing the servants and put away the thought of the conservatory. There was nothing she could do now, so she focused on the positive. Michael was alive. They were moving home. It was just a silly glass house.

  Only in her dreams had she imagined moving back into the manor house. Late at night as the tears rolled down her cheeks, missing Michael so much it was a physical ache, she dreamed that his death wasn’t real, that he would return and sweep her off her feet and they would live happily ever after.