Tempting a Proper Lady

by Debra Mullins

  “I have not swooned yet, Captain.” Easing away from his touch, she set down her bonnet on the bureau and went to John’s bedside. She bent over him, pressing her hand to his forehead. “I believe he is already becoming fevered.”

  The innkeeper’s wife came up behind Samuel where he stood in the doorway. He moved aside, letting the lady enter the room with her basin of water. “The surgeon should be here at any moment,” she said, bustling to the small table beside the bed. “He lives just down the road.” Cilla stepped out of her way as the woman carefully lowered the bowl, then set down the cloths that had been hanging over her shoulder.

  “He seems very warm,” Cilla said.

  The innkeeper’s wife frowned in concern and rested her hand briefly against his cheek. “Indeed he is. Best get that wound cleaned.” She glanced at Cilla. “Nothing you can do for now, Mrs. Breedlove. I’ll see to your coachman. We’ve got the private dining room set up for you.”

  “We’ll wait until the surgeon gets here,” Samuel said. “Mrs….”

  “Caruthers,” she replied, dunking one of the cloths into the water and wringing it out. She moved to John and lifted the handkerchiefs they had used as the last bandage, then pressed the damp cloth gently against the ugly hole just below his left shoulder. John groaned and shifted. His eyelids lifted for just a moment, then fell again.

  Footsteps pounding up the stairs drew Samuel’s attention away from his friend. An older man thundered up the staircase at a pace he would not have believed possible. But the surgeon—a short, square-shouldered, balding man with spectacles sliding down his nose—reached the doorway in record time, and Samuel found himself moving out of the lively man’s way.

  “Mrs. Caruthers,” the surgeon said. “What has happened here?”

  “Their coachman was shot, Mr. Emerson,” Mrs. Caruthers said.

  “Who shot him?”

  “A highwayman,” Cilla said.

  “Indeed?” The surgeon bent over John, lifting his lids to peer into his eyes.

  “Black Bill,” Samuel clarified.

  Emerson sighed. “That young man certainly keeps me busy.”

  “He seems to be well-known around here,” Samuel said.

  “Indeed he is. Notorious even.” The surgeon waved away Mrs. Caruthers and lifted the damp cloth to study the wound. “Well, your friend was lucky. I think Black Bill missed the artery.”

  “He seems warm—” Cilla began.

  Emerson sent her an impatient glance. “Of course he does—he’s been shot! What did you expect would happen?”

  Samuel came forward and took Cilla’s arm. “Will he live, Mr. Emerson?”

  “We’ll know in a few hours. As long as this fever doesn’t worsen, I expect he will make a full recovery.”

  “What can we do?” Cilla asked.

  Emerson barely spared her a glance. “Stay out of the way. We’ll call you once we’ve got him comfortable.”

  “Cilla.” Samuel tried to tug her away. “Come, let’s go downstairs. I’ve ordered dinner.”

  “We have a fine lamb today,” Mrs. Caruthers said. “Go on now. Your coachman will be here when you get back.”

  “John,” Cilla corrected, her eyes on the wounded man’s face. “His name is John.”

  Emerson looked up at that. “We’ll care for John. Off with you.”

  Slowly she turned away. Samuel slid a guiding hand around her waist as they left the room and made their way downstairs. She did not protest. The farther away from the sickroom they got, the slower her movements became. He signaled to Caruthers, the innkeeper, then followed the man to the private dining room, feeling by the time they reached it that Cilla had somehow left a part of herself upstairs with John. It was as if he guided a life-sized doll to the table where a steaming feast awaited.

  “Would you like some wine?” Caruthers asked.

  “No—” Samuel began.

  “Yes,” Cilla replied, sitting down at the foot of the table. She stripped off her bloodied gloves.

  Caruthers glanced at Samuel.

  “Bring some water with the wine,” Samuel said, and then the innkeeper slipped from the room. Samuel ignored the place setting at the far side of the table and pulled out the chair right next to Cilla. “Are you all right?”

  “I thought I was.” She stared at her stained gloves, an affront to the neatly set dining table, then glanced up as Samuel took the discolored pair away and stuffed them into his coat pockets. “It all happened so quickly.”

  “You were magnificent.” Samuel placed his hand over her restless one. Her skin was soft, her bones delicate. “If you hadn’t kept your head, John would be dead.”

  “I would be better if I could be up there with him. Sitting here doing nothing—it’s frustrating.”

  “From what Mrs. Caruthers said, this Emerson is supposedly an excellent surgeon. Best we give him the room he needs to do what needs to be done.”

  “I know, but—” She raised her gaze to his, her dark eyes wide and troubled. “I suppose I function better when I am the one handling the problem.”

  “Dolly Bailey has been known to say she could not manage without you.”

  “That is kind of her.”

  “Kindness has nothing to do with it. You forget, I have seen you in your capacity as a lady’s assistant. You are frighteningly efficient. Scared the devil out of me the first night we met.”

  She let out a reluctant laugh. “If that were true, Captain, you would never have disrupted the party.”

  “Nonetheless, I knew you were the one who might actually succeed in stopping me. You were the one I watched.”

  “Well.” She licked her lips and dropped her gaze to their touching hands. “I suppose I should be flattered.”

  “It was meant as a compliment.”

  Caruthers entered the room, bearing a tray with a bottle of wine, a pitcher of water, and two glasses. Samuel took his hand from Cilla’s. Her brisk efficiency of the previous hour was slowly giving way to some sort of panic. He knew what to expect from the strong, efficient Cilla who managed details as easily as he commanded a ship. But this other woman—pale, sober Cilla with the trembling fingers—this woman was a stranger. One who was quietly losing her composure.

  “I’ll pour the wine, Caruthers,” Samuel said as the innkeeper started to uncork the bottle. “Please leave us. The lady needs a few moments in private. And please ask the staff not to disturb us.”

  “Of course, of course.” Caruthers placed the contents of the tray on the table, then gave a bob of his head and left the room, closing the door firmly behind him.

  “I apologize.” Her whisper came out on a quivering breath. “I do not want to be any trouble.”

  “Nonsense. This has been a harrowing ordeal, especially to someone who is not accustomed to that sort of thing.”

  “Are you? Accustomed to it, I mean?”

  He shrugged and reached for the wine bottle. “I’ve spent many years at sea and seen my share of unpleasantness.”

  “I feel like a ninny. Like a pale, simple woman.” She sucked in a breath and straightened her spine. “Again, I apologize.”

  “You’re a human being, Cilla. No reason to apologize for that.” He worked loose the cork on the wine bottle. “I believe some wine might help.” He poured her a glass. “And for the record, my dear, you are a woman.”

  “Perhaps, but I do hate to be missish.”

  He gave a bark of laughter. “The last word I would ever use to describe you, Mrs. Burke, is ‘missish.’”

  She picked up her wineglass and slanted him a look from beneath her lashes. “Mrs. Burke? I was Cilla a few moments ago.” She sipped her wine, never looking away from him.

  He turned his attention to pouring his own wine. “I hadn’t noticed. I do apologize for using your Christian name without permission.”

  She laughed, such a startling sound that he bobbled the wine bottle with a loud clink against his glass.

  “After all of this, Captain—and
given that we are essentially conspiring together—I believe it is appropriate for you to call me Cilla.”

  He recovered control of the wine bottle and topped off his portion. “Then perhaps you should call me Samuel.” Setting down the bottle he raised his glass. “To John.”

  Her expression sobered. “To John,” she echoed, and touched her glass to his. “I do hope he is all right. It was very brave of him to chase off that highwayman.”

  Samuel took a swallow of wine—a surprisingly decent bottle of red, given the inn’s humble ambience—and set down his glass. “I am in his debt again. The man seems to make a habit out of saving my life.”

  “He saved you from the island.” She sipped more of her wine. “Given John’s actions this afternoon, I feel inclined to believe your story. I mean, that he would come back for you—if that was indeed the situation.”

  “He did come back for me. Rescued me from that blasted rock. And he saved my life again on Tuesday, no doubt why he reacted so quickly today.” Samuel swirled the wine in his glass, then took a healthy swallow. “I don’t want him killed because of me.”

  “What happened Tuesday?”

  “Someone tried to shoot me. John went after the fellow and captured him, but then the shooter got away from us.”

  “My heavens.” Cilla splayed a hand over her bosom, then finished off her glass of wine in one gulp. “More, please.”

  Samuel raised his brows. “Perhaps you had best eat something. Too much wine with no food in your belly will knock you flat.”

  “I am not hungry.”

  “You should still eat something. You barely got any of that sandwich before our picnic was so rudely interrupted.” Samuel grabbed the platter of hot sliced lamb. “Allow me to serve you, milady.”

  “Do you listen to nothing I say?” She watched him fork several slices of lamb onto her plate. “I told you I am not hungry.”

  “Cilla, be reasonable. You don’t want to get all muddled from the wine, do you? After all, Emerson will not stay forever and I will have to take you home. I doubt you want to return to the Baileys inebriated.”

  The mutinous light left her eyes. “I suppose you are correct. Very well, I will eat. Perhaps some of those potatoes?”

  “Certainly. And here, try the French beans.” He served her each dish, passing her the loaf of bread once her plate was full.

  “I will not be able to eat all of this.”

  “Just eat some of it and I will be content. And then you can have some more wine.”

  She shot a narrowed-eyed glare at him. “I am not a child, Captain.”

  “Samuel. And I am well aware you are no child.”

  “Then stop treating me like one.”

  “You were overset. I was only trying to help.”

  “I was not overset! I was simply—at a loss.”

  He toyed with his wineglass, amused by the myriad of expressions flickering across her face. Did she have any idea how easy she was to read? “You were at such a loss that you forgot the basics. What would you advise a young woman who had just been through such an ordeal? Been threatened at gunpoint by a highwayman? If she were overset, I mean.”

  “If she were overset, then I would advise her to have some hot tea and take to her bed until her nerves had recovered.” She lifted her brows and held up her empty glass. “This is not tea, Captain; therefore, I am not overset.”

  He chuckled and filled her glass halfway. “You are overset. We agreed you would call me Samuel, but now you are back to Captain. Therefore, you are overset.”

  She pressed her lips together, no doubt to restrain some unladylike epithet. “Thank you for the wine.”

  “No more for you until you have eaten some of that.” He pointed at her plate.

  “I should inform you that I drink wine regularly, Cap—er…Samuel, and that I have yet to become inebriated. I do know my limitations.”

  “That’s good to know. A person should always know his limitations.”

  She sliced off a sliver of lamb and popped it into her mouth. “And what are yours?” she asked when she had swallowed.

  He sliced his own lamb. “My limitations? Given that I have been on my own since I was fifteen, I imagine my limitations are somewhat less than yours. I have had to test myself many times over the years.”

  “Fifteen? Heavens! Where was your family?”

  “The truth is I never knew who my father was. My parents were never married. And my mother died when I was fifteen, so I went to sea to make my living.” He focused unduly on cutting his meat into bite-sized pieces so he wouldn’t have to see the shock on her face.

  “How terrible for you, Samuel.” She touched his hand, and he looked up. Her soft brown eyes melted with sympathy rather than the rejection he had expected. It reminded him of the night she had run after him. “Fifteen is too young to lose your only family.”

  He shrugged, pulling away from her touch on the pretext of reaching for another piece of bread. “I survived. It did me good to learn I can stand on my own. Besides, I had the Baileys. When things got unpleasant at home, I went there.”

  “No wonder you were so upset the night we met.”

  “Yes.” He ripped apart his bread with deliberate care. “The Baileys were closer to me than my own mother had been. That they would not believe my tale…” He fell silent, his throat working to dislodge the knot forming there.

  “And you were fifteen when you went to sea?” She sliced another piece of lamb as if she hadn’t noticed his momentary lapse, though he knew she had. “You were hardly more than a child.”

  He cleared his throat, regained control. “I became a man quickly because I did the work of a man. Eventually I earned my way into the captain’s position. I had my own ship, my own business. I would never be dependent on anyone else ever again. But then my ship was lost to fire, and I had to take on work as a captain on other men’s vessels.”

  “That’s how I felt after Edward died, that I would finally be independent.” She clamped her mouth shut as if the words had escaped against her will, then popped a piece of potato into her mouth as if to prevent more such outbursts.

  Her distress intrigued him. If she was going to help him save Annabelle, he needed to know everything about her…especially if she would betray him.

  Since she was finally eating, he picked up the wine bottle and topped off her glass. “Tell me about Edward.”

  “You do not want to hear such an old story, surely.” She dug into the food as if suddenly ravenous.

  “Cilla.” He laid his hand over hers before she could lift the fork to her mouth. “Tell me about Edward. I want to understand.”

  She laid down her silverware with a clatter, slipped her hand from beneath his, and took up her refilled glass. “Edward is dead. He is in the past. Surely we can leave him there.”

  “Now, Cilla.” He gave her a charming smile. “You know everything about me. About my parents, about Raventhorpe. Is it unreasonable I should ask questions about you? After all, you are going to be my partner in all this.”

  “I may be your partner. I have not yet decided if I believe your wild stories.”

  He sighed. “What must I do to convince you I tell the truth? Do you have so much love for Raventhorpe?”

  She wrinkled her nose. “I cannot say that I do. The man truly does seem rather self-serving most of the time. And what you told me at the picnic was positively chilling.”

  “All right then.” He leaned closer to her. “Knowing that, which one of us do you trust more? Me or Raventhorpe?”

  “I—” She stopped.

  “Has anything I have ever told you been proven a lie?”

  She shook her head.

  “Have you ever seen me harm anyone or heard about me harming anyone?”

  “Just Thomas.”

  “Who the devil is Thomas?”

  “The footman you struck when you pushed your way into Nevarton Chase.”

  A satisfied smile curved his lips. “Ah, yes. T
homas. I do apologize. I tend to be rather single-minded when I want something, and he was trying to block my way.”

  “Single-minded? Yes, I have observed that about your character.”

  “My honor is at stake, Cilla. My word is being doubted by the people who were closest to me. Please understand that I truly believe Annabelle will be in danger if she marries Raventhorpe, and I will do anything to stop this marriage.”

  She set down her fork. “You are asking me to sacrifice everything to help you.”

  “I know I am, and I am sorry. But isn’t saving an innocent girl’s life more important than anything else?”

  “More important than your honor?”

  “Yes.” He held her gaze, willing her to believe him. “I have only my word to support my argument. John might even tell you his story in hopes of convincing you. I am not trying to marry Annabelle myself or steal her fortune. I just want to make sure a woman I once cared for does not end up married to a man I know to be a killer. I will even dance at her wedding to another man, as long as that man is not Raventhorpe.”

  “Oh, Samuel.” Her lovely face softened with sympathy. A sheen of dampness brightened her eyes. “I will consider it, but I need time to reflect on everything you have told me.” She dabbed at her eyes with the edge of her sleeve. “Please forgive my manners, but I used my handkerchief for John’s bandage.”

  “I would lend you mine, but I used that one for John, too.” He gallantly offered his napkin. She took it and dabbed at the corners of her eyes.

  “Thank you.” She took a sip of wine, clearly struggling to regain her composure. Finally she looked at him again. “Clearly you loved Annabelle very much, to go to such lengths to protect her.”

  “Not exactly.” He looked away, toyed with his fork.

  “Not exactly? Are you telling me your affections for Annabelle have changed?”

  He looked at her sweet face, her dark eyes misty with romantic tears, and he almost didn’t tell her. But he was an honest man. “I was never in love with Annabelle, Cilla. I’ve come to the conclusion I’m not capable of it.”

  Chapter 9

  Cilla stared, certain she had not heard aright. “Of course you are capable of love.”