What the Stubborn Viscount Desires

by Sandra Sookoo

  “I have heard of the monastery.” Finally, something familiar. “Many of its treasures were taken by Napoleon’s armies.” Perhaps I can help with their financial difficulties.

  “Yes, eleven years ago, they burned the structure to the ground. Twice. The French are not good people.” The statement didn’t reflect bitterness or anger, and he marveled at that. “This is why we are leery about taking in strangers. However, we have promised in our vows to help where we can. This is the only way to change the minds of those who insist on hate.”

  “I admire your thinking, Sister Theresa, and I promise neither Sophia nor I will destroy your work.”

  A snort issued from the other nun. “We will do what we can for your lady,” said the older woman, though doubt clung heavy to her statement. “Above all, you will need to have faith. She might be beyond our medical knowledge. It is in God’s hands.”

  “Anything that you can do to help is much appreciated.” He peered down into Sophia’s too pale face. “Fight, love. For me. For us. So that you can tell me you were right about me, and I promise I’ll not complain if you never let me forget it.”

  From beside him, Sister Theresa patted his arm as she led him toward yet another flight of stone stairs at the right side of the chapel. “You love this woman.” It wasn’t a question.

  “More than life itself.” Bereft of the lantern’s light, he couldn’t read the nun’s expression. “Without her, I don’t know what will become of me.” The rawness and truth of the statement sent a shiver of fear into his heart. “I have just discovered those feelings.”

  Why hadn’t he seen the truth sooner? And what if he had? None of it would have changed the course of their mission. Sophia will have still accompanied him, and she still would have been shot.

  But at least she would have known of my regard before she was rendered unconscious.

  Sister Theresa patted his sleeve once more. “Trust in a higher power. If it is the will of God that she come back to you, she will. Right now, she rests in His hands. Perhaps that is the best place for her at this time. But you must remain calm and have faith. The sisters and I will do all that we can to save her, of this you can be certain.”

  “Thank you.” His arms trembled with fatigue. Please give her back to me, and I give you my solemn oath and vow that I will strive to be a better man. I’ll care for her with everything that I am.

  At the top of the staircase, he paused while Sister Agnes opened another oak door, and when he entered what appeared to be an entry hall into the convent, he gasped and blinked against the first rays of the dawn as they illuminated a stained-glass window at the rear of the hall.

  For the first time in a day, hope swelled his chest. Perhaps all was not lost.

  “Quickly, bring her upstairs. There is an empty bedroom,” Sister Agnes said in a voice full of authority. “Sister Theresa, please sound the alarm and gather the other sisters. We will need everyone to work together.”

  “Of course, Sister Agnes. I shall also notify the kitchens we’ll need boiling water and plenty of rags.” The younger woman squeezed his arm and then flew down the hallway while Jonathan continued to follow the older nun in the opposite direction.

  When they encountered yet another nun coming down a polished wooden staircase, Sister Agnes waylaid the woman, who glanced at him with wide, curious eyes.

  In Catalan, she said, “Please find Father Horacio. Bring him here immediately. We may require the assistance of his monks.” Then she calmly continued upward as if this type of emergency occurred all the time.

  By the time they arrived at a small, sparsely furnished room, Jonathan’s strength was ready to give out. The nun turned back the bedclothes, and he gently laid Sophia upon the bed.

  “You must leave,” she told him.

  “I will not.” He shoved a hand through his hair. “She is my responsibility. Where she goes, I go.”

  “Caballero obstinate.” Quickly, Jonathan translated: Stubborn gentleman. A ghost of a smile passed over Sister Agnes’ face. In English she said, “I understand your concern and your devotion, Viscount Trewellain, but there are no men allowed in the convent dormitory.”

  “While I respect that, I cannot in all good conscience leave Sophia. If she wakes, I want to be here.”

  The nun shook her head. “That is not possible.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “Make it possible.”

  “Viscount Trewellain.” The nun stood her ground. “You are exhausted and need rest. You’ll be no good to her if your strength is gone.”

  “I…” He looked at Sophia and his heart squeezed. “If she—”

  “We will work hard to ensure she won’t.” Sister Agnes nodded. “You may wait in the parlor for Father Horacio. Once he arrives, he will perhaps encourage you to bathe and find you… clothing better suited to being seen by nuns.” She shoved at his shoulder until he turned about and left the room. “Your Miss Wickham will be in good hands, but we cannot have you hanging about while we work.”

  With a last, lingering glance at the woman on the bed, Jonathan allowed the sister to lead him back down the stairs as several other nuns ran past him with their arms full of supplies.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  March 5, 1822

  Sophia came awake slowly to the warmth of sunlight on her face and its brightness on her closed eyelids.

  Groggy, she blinked and yawned. When she attempted a stretch, dull pain in her side prevented her from completing the activity. Why though? She didn’t know. With a frown, she turned her head on a firm, hard pillow to examine her surroundings. A Spartan room to be certain. Beside the narrow bed where she lay, there was a plain bureau of blond wood, a matching hard-backed chair, a vanity with a pitcher and basin… and one of the gowns from her own wardrobe she’d brought to Barcelona hanging from a hook on the wall. The sky blue satin trimmed with black lace and beads seemed oddly out of place in the simple room. On the floor beneath the gown were the matching slippers. A window sat opposite her bed with light rose muslin curtains thrown wide to admit the cheerful rays of sunlight.

  She sucked in a breath and gazed at the open window. A brilliant blue sky studded with fluffy white clouds beckoned. Exhaling, she inhaled again merely to sniff the air—the fresh, above ground air that wafted into the room. Salty, which meant a sea breeze, and when she strained to listen, the faint crash of waves came to her.

  I’m near the water.

  How did she come here? When did she and Jonathan finally gain the surface level?

  Jonathan! Where is he?

  Her heartbeat thudded out a quick rhythm as memories came flickering back into her mind. Being trapped in the Roman well. Talking with the viscount. His false leg. The escape into the caverns. The glowing pool. Making love with him in the warm water. Lord Basselton and his henchman. The chalice that wasn’t the one they sought. Being tied in the cave.

  I was shot.

  She gingerly explored her left side with her fingers only to find the area wrapped with strips of linen and pristine squares of cotton. Equally surprising was the clean linen night dress she wore that featured a high neck, long sleeves and a row of tiny pearl buttons that graced the front. The scant lace trim on the bodice and wrists made the garment a little cheerful. It was not one of her pieces of clothing.

  But what had happened after all of those adventures? No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t remember. Another glance about the room didn’t reveal Jonathan’s presence. Panic climbed her spine. Had they somehow become separated by force? She sneezed twice and when she attempted to struggle into a sitting position, the door to her room swung open.

  I have to find him.

  A woman, perhaps around her age, came into the room, and when her gaze alighted on Sophia, she smiled. The gesture transformed her plain face into something beautiful. Her black tunic-style dress brushed the floor, and her black and white veil hung about her shoulders like the wings of a bird, effectively hiding every scrap of her hair. “How lovely to
see you are awake.” Her accented English was lyrical in delivery and it made Sophia grin.

  “It is good to be so.” Her voice sounded rusty, garbled from disuse. She cleared her throat, and when she glanced to her right, her gaze fell on a carafe of water reposing next to an empty glass. A small amber bottle also stood there. Of what? “Who are you?” When she reached for the carafe, the nun clicked her tongue and shook her head.

  “Sister Theresa, and you are Miss Sophia Wickham.” Her visitor poured out a measure of water and handed her the glass. “Do you remember?”

  “Yes.” She nodded and took a few sips of the blessedly cool water. “How long have I been out?” She gave the glass back to the nun, who then set it on the bedside stand.

  “You have been here ten days. The first few were the most grievous, for you’d contracted a fever and we feared what an infection might do to your already weakened state.” The woman drifted to the side of the bed. She laid a cool palm against Sophia’s forehead. “Your fever has broken, thank God. Two days ago, to be precise. You continued to sleep, and we left you undisturbed. Are you in pain?”

  Ten days. Merciful heavens, that long? “Some. If I don’t think about it, I can manage it.”

  The nun’s chuckle was a pleasing sound like that of bird song. It was lovely to hear after so much… nothing. “You British always practice at being strong when there is no need. It is acceptable to be weak and rest when the occasion demands.” She slid her hand to the side of Sophia’s neck where she held two fingers against her pulse point. “Your heartbeat is steady. Much improved.”

  “Where am I?” When she attempted to squirm into a sitting position again, the nun gently kept her in place with a hand on her shoulder.

  “The St. Maria Convent of Montserrat. Located in the mountains just outside of Barcelona.” Sister Theresa drew up the hem of the night dress and checked the strips of linen on Sophia’s wound. “You are healing nicely, all thanks to Sister Agnes and her team.”

  “You have surgeons here?”

  “No, but we have a few people between the convent and the monastery who have studied and treat us here when medical knowledge is needed.” The nun smoothed the fabric back over Sophia’s side. “It was Brother Emil who actually dug the ball from your body. It had embedded deep. He possesses skill enough to locate such things without too much exploration.”

  “I hope I will have the opportunity to thank him myself.” It was bizarre, conversing about a surgery that had happened to her but not knowing anything about it. “Was I unconscious the entire time?”

  “During the surgery? Yes. You arrived in a sorry state.” Sister Theresa moved across the room and made quick work of washing her hands with a cake of soap that held a strong herbal aroma. “After seeing the mess of your gown—which we had to throw out due to hygienic concerns—Sister Agnes realized you’d lost much blood and went right to work. She oversaw the surgery. It was she who stitched you up, for her handiwork is organized and flawless. You will scar, of course, but it will not be a messy endeavor.”

  Scars. A permanent reminder of this adventure. “Was I unconscious the whole time?”

  “No. You awoke on your own on the third day, but the fever and threat of infection, Sister Agnes kept you on steady doses of laudanum. That combined with the fever made you drift in and out of awareness. You’ve not been yourself for some time.”

  When the rumble of Sophia’s stomach interrupted conversation, both she and Sister Theresa laughed. “I’d wager my belly is ready to resume normality.”

  The nun nodded. “I shall confer with Sister Agnes. If she deems it wise, I’ll bring in a tray.” She peered into her face. “Your eyes are clear this afternoon. That is a good thing. The danger has passed.”

  Sophia glanced toward the open door. “I traveled with a gentleman—Viscount Trewellain. Is he here as well?” Her heart ached. She missed him, and not seeing him, not knowing where he was had her chest tightening with anxiety. A violent sneeze gripped her and pulled at the newly placed stitches in her side. “Ow.”

  “You must be gentle with yourself, Miss Wickham,” the nun cautioned. She once again checked the dressings on Sophia’s wound. “No bleeding, but try not to upset yourself with your thoughts. Your body is still recovering.”

  “Where is Jonathan?” Now that she knew she wouldn’t immediately expire, her worry for him grew. She maneuvered into a sitting position, looking at Sister Theresa with firmness that said she refused to lie down again. “Is he well?”

  “He is quite well to the point of being a curmudgeon.” A smile curved the nun’s lips.

  “That sounds like him,” Sophia murmured and tears misted her eyes in gratitude that he wasn’t harmed.

  “He refused to leave your room when you arrived, but we have rules about men in the convent dormitory. He argued with Sister Agnes, of course, but she is quite a formidable woman when the occasion calls. So he sleeps downstairs in the parlor, for he refused to bunk in the monastery and be that much farther from you.”

  “Oh my.” She wiped at the escaped tears.

  The nun continued. “During the viscount’s waking hours, he sits on a chair outside your door. Twice a day we allow him into your room, where he sits at your bedside, stoically, as if he can rouse you back to wakefulness by his sheer will alone.”

  “He is bullish to a fault.” I need to see him, to know for myself he is unharmed.

  “Some would say he is determined.” Sister Theresa patted one of Sophia’s hands. “Such men are always true.”

  “Was he hurt or bleeding when he arrived here?”

  “Nothing except bruises, but he was beside himself, for there was every possibility that you would die.” The nun handed Sophia the glass of water once more. “He was quite frantic, but he was also humble knowing you were in the hands of God alone.” She smiled as Sophia finished the water and gave the glass back. “He was laid low with nothing to do to help. He and Father Horacio spent much time together in prayer.”

  Shock moved through her. She’d not thought of the viscount as a particularly religious man. “That is… surprising.”

  “Perhaps, but a man can be moved to great lengths when someone he cares deeply for is in peril.”

  Did that mean his feelings for her were more than of friendship or fondness? A tremble moved down Sophia’s spine. “Will you tell him I wish to see him?”

  Sister Theresa’s brown, almond-shaped eyes twinkled. “I am certain he is aware. He has been overly vigilant these past days.”

  The sound of boot heels ringing against the worn hardwood floors echoed from the corridor outside her door. Then Jonathan burst into her room. His eyes were as wild as his hair, his face haggard and bristled with several days’ worth of stubble. Worry lined his expression and clouded his eyes. The cuts and bruises he’d sustained during the fight with Lord Basselton in the cavern had faded to barely noticeable green.

  “You are awake.” He stood in brown trousers, a loose-fitting linen shirt and a moss green waistcoat embroidered with orange, yellow and brown birds—obviously he’d brought not only her clothing but his to the convent from their rented rooms in Barcelona—but he didn’t budge from the center of this one.

  “Observant as always, Trewellain,” she murmured, yet she couldn’t take her gaze from him. She wanted to touch him, to make certain he was well, to lean on his strength. “You look ghastly.” There was so much she wished to say but couldn’t while Sister Theresa stood nearby.

  A tiny grin lifted one corner of his mouth. “You are hardly fit to present to the king, to be honest,” he responded with relieved humor, but his eyes burned with passion and hunger.

  She pressed her thighs together as a throb of need moved through her core. Before she could speak, Sister Theresa softly cleared her throat as a bell rang somewhere in the depths of the convent.

  “I will bring tea and food once afternoon prayers are concluded. In the meantime, you may visit with the viscount, but remember not to overly tax or
excite yourself. You will become exhausted with too much stimulation.”

  No sooner had the nun left than Jonathan stumbled across the room. He fell to his knees at Sophia’s bedside, clutching her hands in his. “It is wonderful to see you awake.” A muscle worked in his jaw and she squeezed his fingers. “I had feared the worst the day I brought you here.” Shadows haunted his eyes.

  She lost the rest of her heart to him, so easily could she see his defining moment written in his expression. “I am better now, so you can stop worrying.” When she slipped a hand from his, she brushed her fingers along his jaw. The whiskers there were soft to the touch, different than the stubble that had abraded her skin with awareness. “However did you find this place? The last I remember we were in the cavern with the thermal pool.”

  Interest briefly lit his eyes, changing them from hazel to more green. “I walked and walked, through caverns that seemed never-ending.” A trace of excitement threaded through his voice. “They were both beautiful and plain, but the most extraordinary cave awaited me at the end of the journey.”

  “What?” The soothing tone of his voice washed over her. Oh, how she’d missed hearing him talk.

  “A statue of the Madonna, done in black stone, resting in a chapel, all underground.” Jonathan tightened his grip on her hand as if she would suddenly vanish if he relinquished his hold. “I laid you at her feet, implored the heavens for help…” His swallow was audible. “Then Sister Agnes and Sister Theresa came, appeared like benevolent spirits.”

  “And then you brought me here.” When he nodded, she continued, “I assume this convent sits on top of the cavern you discovered?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was that how Lord Basselton escaped?” Memories raced back and she gasped. “We must apprehend him.”

  “I don’t know.” He shook his head. “I fear in my distracted state I missed a passageway where they might have branched off from the main one, but I wanted you to live and I…”

  “Shh. It’s all right.” She stroked her fingertips along one side of his face. Never had she witnessed him in the throes of such high emotion. He’d failed at a mission because he’d wished to save her more. Seconds ticked by while she marveled over that.