Without her shawl, Payton shivered against the cold. “Mrs. Brewster, is she actually leaving him to fend for himself?”
“She grows ill at the sight of blood. When her sister died, we, not Miss Anne, cared for the body. She didn’t even look at her. People can be queer about such things. If you’ll excuse me, Mr. Lambrick is feverish. I should take him a cool drink of water.”
“Let me take it, Mrs. Brewster. I’m not skittish near blood. He has been so kind. Let me try and repay his kindness.”
She watched the carriage overflowing with trunks and hat boxes drive away and thought how foolish Anne Newbury was to leave such a marvelous man alone.
* * *
Lambrick heard a light rapping on his door. He opened his eyes and suffered the stuffiness in the room. Was he dreaming? Heat with the strength of mineral baths closed in on him and his throat constricted. He struggled to remember what had happened. The knocking again.
“Sir? I have water for you.”
Annoyed and drained, he shouted, “Come in!”
The door opened carefully. A woman stepped in with a tray of water and tea. She slipped over the shining wooden floor on feet so light he wondered if she were real. “Here, sir. Have some cool water. And I have a cloth for your head. Mrs. Brewster says we need to bring your fever down.”
“Who is it?”
“Sir?”
He heard a voice. Whose voice? Alithea? When had Alithea come back to Kent? He looked into eyes blue and thoughtful. A cool hand on his brow. A smell of tea and flowers. His arms reached out of their own accord. He pulled her toward him. Alithea. Warm, young, vibrant and as beautiful as the day he’d met her by the stable...but pushing him away. His grasp tightened about her and he pulled her down, burying his face in her hair. “I’ve missed you so.” He locked his arms and searched for her lips with his own. Soft. She jerked back, freeing herself. The light footsteps slid across the floor as he tried to focus.
“Alithea?” Hot and spent, he fell across the pillows and blew air through his lips and over his damp forehead.
* * *
Payton leaned against the wall in the hallway, her heart racing, her fingers touching her mouth. With eyes closed, she felt his lips, pressing soft and warm, then pursuing hers with a vigor she didn’t understand. A quiver in her stomach forced her eyes to open wide. Other than a peck on the cheek from her father, she had never experienced a kiss before. But he had thought she was his late wife. Perhaps putting the kiss from her mind and returning downstairs would be prudent.
No matter what, she never would forget that kiss. Never.
“Why, miss, what would you be doin’ here? The master call for ya?”
She glanced up and sought Clarisse’s kind expression and prayed her face didn’t expose the hammering in her chest. “No. I...just took him some water. He was burning with fever. I believe he’s getting worse instead of better.”
“I’ll be tellin’ Mrs. Brewster to send for the doctor, miss.”
Payton opened the door and tiptoed across the floor; she peered into his room.
“Alithea. It’s so hot.”
She kept her distance. “It is Payton, sir. Payton Whittard. I am come to bandage your arm.”
“Find my wife!” His arms flailed in the air. She froze. His voice rasped with the same dryness she had known after the fire. “Please, God, my wife.”
Payton dashed to his side and grasped his arms. “Sir, you must keep your hands still. Your arm, sir. You’ll open the wound if you continue thrashing about.” With hands deft at healing and words pitched to soothe animals, she pulled the bandage tighter until the opening closed once more and the bleeding stopped. She brushed his forehead and spoke softly so he’d calm himself. Not moving again from his side, she stayed...out of arm’s reach.
Would the doctor never come? The wound grew uglier by the hour. Soon, infection would poison his whole body and they would have no choice but to burn it out.
“Hot!” he cried without energy to say more.
With a dog she would know what to do, but a man, a man like Mr. Lambrick, frightened her. “Lie still. I’ll summon Mrs. Brewster. Quiet now.”
“Don’t go. Alithea?”
Should she explain again that she was not his wife? She was no one, just Payton Whittard. So why was her heart aching in her chest, longing to be Alithea for Jonathan? Backing out of the room, in a voice barely louder than a whisper, she answered, “Mrs. Brewster will soon be here, sir.”
* * *
Was she leaving again? Why, when she had just returned? His eyes blurred as he tried to focus. He licked his lips. Dry. What poisoned his body? His thoughts? They had poisoned him for years. Why didn’t Alithea answer him now that she had returned?
Days passed before he could move comfortably in his bed. His lips had cracked and the scar along his face had swollen as if injured anew. Water, not food, was manna to his body. How many days had passed? He struggled to sit up and lean on his elbow, staring into darkness, but he felt weaker than Hope had looked the night of the fire. Carefully removing himself from the bed, he staggered to the window and struggled to haul back the heavy drapes. Light poured through. Squinting, he stared at his body, thin and haggard. He draped his arm over his eyes. Sharp fingers of pain shot through the muscles in his arm and his leg, and his head ached with a lingering throb. He remembered now. He had taken the back stairs toward the scullery and had fallen headlong into a table and then onto the floor. All the table’s contents had fallen and a knife had pierced his arm.
Alithea’s eyes consumed him. Why was he thinking of her? She had been gone these five years. But he reached for his mouth. She had kissed him, of that he was sure. He fell into the chair by the window, and before a single tear could slide over the stubble on his cheek, he brushed at it and gritted his teeth. Only a dream.
Chapter 5
Payton could not help gazing as Lambrick leaned against the cane Mrs. Brewster had given him. “Are you all right, sir? You gave us all quite a scare these past few weeks. Fever consumed you and—”
“Find Mrs. Brewster.”
“Yessir.” She hated to leave him. The servants had begun cleaning for the Christmas ball, a yearly event that Mrs. Brewster told her he had denied himself since Alithea’s death. But at Mrs. Brewster’s insistence, the ball would proceed. Soon the house would be filled once again with his friends from London and Colchester. And Miss Anne.
How she hoped Anne did not fill his heart. Payton’s feelings toward him differed now, though she didn’t understand why. Her first month here had been spent mostly in bed, healing from her burns. And then Mr. Lambrick had taken to his bed with fever. She had yet to become acquainted with anyone in the house other than Mrs. Brewster.
“Are you hungry, sir? I would be happy to fetch you a plate. No need to wait for Mrs. Brewster.”
“Go away.”
What caused the anger? Did he remember the kiss? Was he embarrassed? Though she should be, she wasn’t. Her mouth tingled each time she remembered his lips capturing hers in a blaze of heat. Did he somehow blame her? Think she had orchestrated the kiss? No, she wasn’t a manipulating female. Would he even know the difference?
She pressed down those thoughts and hurried by the workers in the sitting room, where heavy ropes of garland draped the air in sweet-smelling evergreen. Her nose tingled with the overwhelming odors and she smiled. Though she was safe, this would be a bittersweet Christmas without her family.
* * *
Jonathan dropped into a leather chair in the great room, struggling to find a comfortable position. The chair wouldn’t help his discomfort. Payton was creeping into his heart, minute by minute, day by day. The odd way she had begun to look at him caused great discomfort. He was too old for all of this folderol. Obviously much younger than he, she deserved something b
etter. He would not condemn her to a life with a man who was an emotional cripple, even if it meant pushing her away before they explored the chasm between them.
And now the ball. How dare Mrs. Brewster go forward while he was abed. No doubt another of her attempts to force him to get on with his life. He’d move on when he was good and ready, not before.
Loud ringing sounded in the hall. “Clarisse, we’ve a visitor. Clarisse. Someone!” The girl, no doubt busy stringing red berries across the great hall, did not respond. He forced his feet, one in front of the other, to the door. “Coming.”
Clarisse rushed past him with barely a bob of her head, her face red as the berries. “Sorry, sir.”
The door grated as it opened to a disheveled man on the stone walk. His features pinched together in an unpleasant attempt at a smile. A few days’ growth of beard covered his face and he wore his collar open, improper for any gentleman.
With her hand warily holding the door back, Clarisse waited for the man to speak.
Jonathan pushed ahead, pressing the maidservant aside. “What is your business, sir?”
Nodding, the man stuck out a beefy hand. “Day to ya. The name’s Whittard. Edgar Whittard. I hear tell my niece has come to stay at Kent Park. You the manservant or somethin’?”
“Whittard? I was informed her uncle was dead.”
“Then you were misinformed. As you see, here I am. Would you be kind enough to call the girl?”
Jonathan reached out. “The name is Jonathan Lambrick. Step inside. We will discuss this in the library.”
Whittard gazed from Jonathan’s head to his leg, and a smarmy crease dug into his cheeks. “A cripple, eh? Must be difficult with the child underfoot. I were told at the Mug and Ale you had m’brother’s girl here. How old is she now? Twelve, thirteen? I come to take her home.”
No concern and compassion showed through the sneer, only stained teeth, what there were of them. And the glitter in his eyes turned Jonathan’s stomach until his hand clenched. According to Mrs. Brewster, Payton was not thirteen but twenty. “She’s not yet one and twenty. I’m her guardian and she shall remain at Kent Park. Her father was a friend of mine and I am committed to her upbringing.”
“Her upbringing, eh?” Whittard ran his tongue over his lips. His insinuation hung in the air between them like a heavy, wet quilt.
Jonathan rose to his full stature with great difficulty and he lifted the cane. “Sir?”
Whittard backpedaled, enough so he was out of Jonathan’s reach. “Now, I don’t mean no harm. But the girl’s blood. My responsibility. That’s the least I can do for my poor, dead brother and his wife.” He clutched a scraggly hat over his heart. “They leave anything?”
So that was what he wanted. Well, let him be disappointed. Unless he was finagling for the last pup, and Payton would never allow Hope to go. “The cottage burned shortly after Miss Whittard moved out. Nothing remains. I can assure you she’s being cared for.”
“I’d like to see for m’self.”
The door opened and a scent of lavender entered, just enough to sweeten the air between them. Payton followed. “Mr. Lambrick.”
To Jonathan’s dismay, Payton glided across the floor and landed at his side. He cringed at the way her uncle stared. Whittard licked his lips again and stepped toward her, but Jonathan moved more hastily though his battered body cried out.
Jonathan put himself between the two of them. “Go to Mrs. Brewster. She needs you.”
“But—”
“Now!” No time for explanations.
“Yessir.” Her steps were mere whispers on the floor. She wasted no time, for once, questioning his authority.
Whittard’s gaze followed her steps. “She’s a lovely little thing. My missus’ll be happy for the extra help. We have five young’uns and she’s always tuckered out. Besides, the girl should be with her own family with Christmas so near.”
Jonathan lifted a cigar from the box and offered it. “You have interest in the girl or any money she might have coming to her?”
The man’s eyes lit up, not unexpectedly. “Money coming to her?”
“Not yet. But we could arrange for a stipend to help ease your pain. Have you come a long way?”
Sweaty hands twisted in front of his odd-shaped body. Short, brindly legs, massive upper arms and a head too small for his stature gave him a menacing appearance, a man Jonathan would not want to come upon in a foreign location. “Long enough. But money ain’t the issue. I expect the girl to come with me.”
With an aching stride, Jonathan paced now and watched every move Whittard made. “Are you able to show me any reason I should believe you are her uncle?”
Whittard straightened, hands at his sides, clutching against brown wool pants covered in long-journey residue. “I’m the girl’s uncle. What do you expect from me? Papers from the king? I intend to take her home. What kind of man are you keeping a young girl from her family? Is she living here alone with you, or do you have a missus?”
Jonathan’s breathing labored. Still sick from the previous week, he struggled with more than his injuries; he struggled with the nagging feeling this man’s intentions were designed to harm Payton. “She has a houseful of servants for whatever she might need. And I do not care for your implications, Mr. Whittard. I shall call her back in and see if, in fact, she remembers you.”
“That won’t do no good. She were a wee thing last time I seen her. I stopped at my brother’s back then to see if any... To see if he needed any help. But he weren’t a friendly sort. Bring her in. I’ll wait here while she packs her belongings.”
Jonathan’s stomach soured and he wasted no more time. “Clarisse, fetch Payton.”
* * *
The stranger held out his arms in a familiar manner, but the rough-looking man frightened her. Who was he? “Mr. Lambrick?”
Jonathan moved to her side, planting his foot so that his body prevented Whittard’s approach, but all the while the contact fluttered from her side to her heart. “Payton, this man has informed me he is your uncle. Do you recognize him?”
This couldn’t be her uncle. Her father was a clean man, a good man with a smile that brought joy; this man’s smile made her want to run and hide. “I have never met my uncle. My father only said he had a brother who ran away because he and a girl... He ran away. And left father to care for their parents.”
“That’s a dirty lie! I never run away. They made me go when—”
Lambrick held up his hands. “Perhaps the least said, the better. The fact of the matter is, he wants you to go with him, Payton. Do you wish to leave Kent Park?”
Perhaps Jonathan wanted to be rid of her. But to send her away with that man? Surely not. Nothing short of being escorted from the house would cause her to leave with him. “No, sir. Not unless that is what you want.” He couldn’t be that callous, could he? This man was pretending to be her uncle. Though he did have the look of her father. Still and all, she would never go willingly.
“Then, it’s settled.” He glared at the man. “Time for you to go.”
Whittard glared at Payton, and she cringed. The way he stared made her hug her arms across her chest. She stepped farther behind Mr. Lambrick and remained silent.
“I’ll be gettin’ the law to do what it needs and I’ll be back. She’s not of age and I am her only living kin. In a fortnight or soon after, she’ll be goin’ with me all right.” He tipped his hat. “For now, missy. Don’t you worry. I plan to protect you from this man.”
Worry? She wasn’t worried. She was terrified. She wouldn’t go. Couldn’t go. His eyes had raked over her body and she was afraid of what it would mean to go with him. “Mr. Lambrick?” Her eyes welled as she waited for his answer.
His arm lifted to protect her. The cane swung close to Whittard’s side. “Don’t come back if you
know what’s good for you.”
“Your money and position won’t keep the girl here. I’ll see you in a fortnight or I’m not Edgar Andrew Whittard.” He slammed the door behind him.
Payton grasped Lambrick’s arm and pressed in, causing him to stumble against a bench. They both landed with a plunk. He smiled as he slowly eased her to her feet.
“I’m sorry, sir. He frightened me.”
He guided her toward the door. “We’ll take our meal and discuss it.”
“Is he able to force me to accompany him as he said?” She simply would not go. That man caused her to tremble deep inside.
“No, Payton. I will not allow it. Let me think on it while you eat.”
Without warning, her eyes filled again and she dashed from the room before he could look inside her and know what she was thinking.
* * *
The voices rose and fell, depending on who was speaking. After an extravagant dinner that tasted little better than stale bread, Payton hid in the library away from Mr. Lambrick and Mrs. Brewster. Their voices had risen after supper. And it was all her fault. That man. The man who said he was her uncle. Did he want money from Mr. Lambrick? No. He would have said as much. Why did he want to whisk her away from what had become her home?
She strained to hear them talking.
“But she’ll not have any say in it. If you’ll excuse my saying so, that’s not right, sir.”
“Would you have him take her? I tell you, I had only to look in his eyes to fathom what was on his mind. Your going ahead with the ball is the perfect answer to our difficulties.”
“Oh. I can’t believe such foolishness.”
“You should have seen his face when he saw her.”
Bride by Necessity (9781460333907) Page 5
