“I...can’t breathe...very...well.”
He immediately lifted her in his arms and strode to Storm. “Can you put your leg over?”
“I’ll...try.” She hoisted her leg over Storm’s back, then she wheezed, shuddered and fainted. Jonathan maneuvered her so she leaned over Storm’s neck, and he swung into the saddle behind her. He kept his hold to a minimum so as not to injure her further but drew her into his arms, resting her head against his shoulder. He sucked back a deep breath, exhaling through tight lips, and nudged the horse for home.
Chapter 15
The dream again. Payton wanted to scream because it seemed so real. As if Jonathan was embracing her in a safe, sheltered cocoon, but she knew better. She’d been having the dream for days, weeks, maybe even months or years. Always, Jonathan held her close, his chin nuzzled into her hair where the warm breath fluttered over her. It couldn’t be. He hated her. Anne told her how much he hated women. He had killed his own Alithea because he was so jealous of her friends. He was glad when Payton’s uncle took her away; Anne said so.
The rocking calmed her body, but her head continued its fitful wandering. “Anne?”
“Anne? It’s Jonathan, dearest. I’m right here.” A hand soothed her forehead. A hard yet gentle hand. She tried to see whose it was. It couldn’t be Jonathan. Could it?
Over the past few days she had awakened dozens of times only to be disappointed when Jonathan was nowhere near. Not willing to succumb to the frustration, she squeezed her eyes shut, forcing the illusion away. Jonathan didn’t want her back. When she was ill at... Where had she been? Edgar kidnapped her and then she went with someone. Where and with whom? Anne? Oh, why couldn’t she remember what happened to her? Her head ached. The hand again and then the rocking, which sent her into longed-for sleep.
* * *
Payton recognized the hands plucking at her. She had felt them before, after the fire. Fingers sent pain shooting through her body. “No,” she cried, but the touching continued to torture her. “Hurts...so badly.”
The pain grew more intense. Hands turned her and throbbing filled her chest and throat. She leaned over the edge of the bed and vomited. Mallets hammered into her head, the pounding so real she couldn’t move. People screaming her name. Her head ached. Light caused more throbbing behind her forehead, and she pinched her eyes shut even tighter so that her breathing constricted along with the muscles. She had died and gone where no one wanted to go. Fire burned her hands and feet and she searched for her puppies in between the flames. Where are they? Did they all burn? Why am I here, God? I love You. I know I shouldn’t be here.
The voices softened. One in particular was familiar. “Miss, are you all right?”
Of course not, but no one’s listening to me. “I’m cold. A quilt?”
“You may have all the quilts you like, miss. Do you know me, dearie?”
She had heard the soothing voice. No, her mother was dead. “Mrs. Brewster?”
“You’re home, child. Jonathan’s outside the door. He hasn’t budged from your side for a week.”
“I’ve been...home a week? Why don’t I remember?” She sucked in air, but it burned her lungs and her side. “Mrs. Brewster...my head aches and my chest hurts...when I breathe.”
The old hands cradled her head and caressed the taut muscles at her temple. “You have three broken ribs and a bump the size of a goose egg on your head.”
“My ribs?”
“Yes, dear. And more bruises and scrapes than a rowdy farmhand.”
Payton tried to rise up on her elbow, but the pain ricocheted through her chest and drew her back. Before she could gain control over her body, she retched again into the metal pot next to her bed. “My head...swirling and flashing bright.”
“There now. Here’s a cool rag. I’ll go fetch the master.”
The cold, wet cloth felt good against her tormented skin, but it did not affect her tormented heart. She was afraid to see Jonathan. Would he be glad she’d come home?
As she waited, a small whimper at her side reminded her again where she was. “Come up, you. I...won’t tell...anyone.”
And with that, Hope leaped onto the bed and buried her nose against Payton’s side.
* * *
Weak, Payton lay against the pillows, her color nearly as white as the pillowcase. Jonathan could not stop the fists forming at his sides when he strode to her bedside. The smell in the room revealed that she’d been sick so many times he’d lost count. And it was too stuffy for anyone to heal properly in spite of what the doctor had told Emily. He walked to the window, drew the drapes back letting in glorious sunlight and opened it to air the room.
Emily grabbed his arm. “Sir, Dr. Finley said you must keep the drapes closed.”
“I don’t care what Finley said. She needs light, needs to see the world again.” He turned and directed his steps to Payton’s bed. He knelt by her side and murmured close to her ear, “Is that better, my darling, my beautiful Payton?”
She licked dry, cracked lips and whispered, “Better.”
He slipped his arm under her head and offered cold water to ease her parched mouth. “Darling, do you know where you are?” His face contorted and his throat choked shut. If she remembered, she might want to leave him again. Never! He wouldn’t allow her two steps from his side.
She fell back against the pillows with a sigh. “Home?”
“That’s right. May I ask you something?”
“Of course...anything.” Her breathing still labored and her words grew faint whenever she tried to talk, but he had to know. Who was lying to him?
He squeezed his eyes, trying to form the right words. He could kill a man with his bare hands, but here with Payton, he didn’t have the vaguest idea what to do. He only wanted to hold her, caress her, kiss away her fears. Each breath she took came at a high price, and he recognized how fragile her condition was. He listened to her struggle as he sat next to her.
His heart tightened in his chest; his hands grew clammy and cold. If only he could hit something, he would feel better. He imagined Wallace Fitzhugh’s face. Had Fitzhugh lied to him when Jonathan was in his home? Surely there was a person out there who had the answers.
Payton’s eyelashes fluttered against her cheeks, eye opening and closing, and he understood her pain. He couldn’t endure the strained expression any longer. His hands danced over her forehead, and he rubbed his thumb gently over her brow and down her cheek to calm the knotted muscles.
“What...did you want to ask me?”
“Never mind. Now that you’re going to be better, we’ll talk later.” She offered a grateful smile as her lids finally drooped.
He tucked the covers beneath her chin, shook the rag until it was cool again and placed it on her head. His eyes suddenly heavy, as well, he headed to the chair in the corner, where he stretched his long legs out on the rug. Hunter sniffed at the leathery boots; he draped his muzzle and paws over Jonathan’s ankles, where he closed his eyes and tendered a friendly growl along with a whoosh of warm breath. There was no hurry. Payton had returned home where she belonged. She could sleep all she wanted to. There would be plenty of time to ask the challenging questions.
* * *
Payton opened eyes filled with sleep, but what she recognized as refreshing slumber, not the sleep of the dead she’d been experiencing of late. In a minute her gaze adjusted to where she was. Jonathan’s home. She sighed. Her home. Their home. Her stomach rumbled, and she sat up, reaching for the dressing gown draped over the chair. She ran her fingers through her hair, now starting to grow out at the sides, and struggled to stand. She faced the mirror. So thin she hardly recognized her own image. The cheeks lacked the rosy-pink of summer. Her body had lost the shapely silhouette she had just begun to develop, and her eyes lacked the luster that had caused her father to say
they were the brilliant blue of flowers. Oh Father, I miss my family every single day. They were my life. And now Jonathan is my life. I pray he still wants me.
A smile tilted her lips. Her fingers traced the delicate lines of the silver brush she lifted from her vanity. What if he was still simply protecting her? Just brought her back to take care of her? After all, he had made it clear except for the one moment by the brook, perhaps a lapse in judgment, that he was only trying to keep her from her uncle. Wasn’t that what Anne had alluded to? That Jonathan didn’t really love her?
She threw the brush across the room, narrowly missing a porcelain vase.
Her head ached again, and she slumped into the chair, wringing her hands. Why couldn’t she think clearly? She remembered only bits and pieces of the past few weeks. Anne telling her Jonathan was happier without her. That he had moved on with his life. Then telling her he was dead. Oh, why was everything so muddled in her mind?
She loved Jonathan more than anyone or anything, and all she wanted was to live at Kent with him for the rest of her life. To have babies, be a family. Give him the loving home he had wanted with Alithea. She ached for him to love her back with all his heart.
Well, she knew one thing—she was tired of everyone telling her what to do. Her mind would clear and then she could decide what she wanted. Whether or not she stayed at Kent would depend on Jonathan’s love, not his pity for a helpless woman who had nowhere else to go.
* * *
Jonathan rode Storm until his leg ached. He’d spent the morning visiting tenants, doing his best to meet their needs. Having ignored his people far too long, he understood he had to make it up to each one. He would spend the next few weeks while Payton was on the mend tending to his properties. He owed his tenants that much...and more.
With Whittard dead, Jonathan believed Payton to be safe at last. But he still didn’t understand where she had been all this time. Relying on his tenacious nature, discovery would come. And he had to know before anyone had a chance to hurt her again.
Flowers had begun to sprout from the ground and leaves from the trees. The fields, being turned for planting, cast green speckles every which way, and Jonathan longed to jump off Storm and sift dirt through his fingers. As he drew from the strength of the land, each of Storm’s strides brought him closer to an idea.
An assembly. A party to let his friends know he was ready to move on. All of his friends would be expected to attend. And before the night of the gathering ended, his grasp on who had helped Whittard to bring harm to his wife would be more clear.
Chapter 16
Payton rested her head against the wall, waiting...for what? This morning Jonathan had begged her to remain in her room until evening. Unsure what he had planned and still feeling tired, she decided to do as she’d been told. For once.
He had assured her they had a lovely evening planned with friends. Whose friends? Most of Jonathan’s friends were barely acquaintances of hers. Well, there were Mr. and Mrs. Hathaway, friends of her mother and father. Delightful folks who cared for her, of that she was sure. But why all the mystery? He had been adamant about her keeping to herself while on the mend and nothing strenuous, which ruled out her rides.
Without another thought to what Jonathan had arranged, Payton slipped beneath the hot water and squeezed lavender-scented soap through her hair. The sides had grown in nicely, and now she could pull her hair up with curls dangling over her ears.
The beautiful gown Jonathan had brought from Colchester lay across the bed waiting for her to step into its billowy softness. The deep emerald against her almost-black hair contrasted nicely, and she knew she would appear at her best. Would Jonathan think her beautiful?
She was afraid of him as a child, intrigued by him after her home burned and now very much in love with Jonathan Lambrick. How life changed in an instant. Hers more than most, and she was the most blessed girl in all of England if Jonathan chose to keep her as his wife.
Payton rubbed her arms with the mild soap and languished in the luxury. Would her parents have been happy she had married the master? Of course they would have. Their marriage had convinced her that marrying only for love brought happiness. But did Jonathan feel the same about her?
She dipped under water once again and rinsed the soap from the long curls swirling about her shoulders. Her fingers wiped water from her eyes. The memory clouded her vision more than the soap. Swimming through the water after diving from the sloop. She’d nearly lost her life that night, but escaping from her uncle had been more than necessary—it had been a must. If she had stayed with the two of them... She shivered in spite of the hot water caressing her skin.
The way he had looked at her. She doubted that he was her uncle. No man with any worth looked at his niece thusly. Father had been such a good man, nothing like Edgar Whittard, if that was, in fact, his true name.
* * *
Jonathan paced the great hall with sharp steps that echoed. He flinched at the noise. Emily had chastised him as a child for his heavy foot. “Not proper to cause noise like a hooligan, young man.”
Hooligan? Edgar Whittard had been a hooligan, for certain. Whoever did that man in had done the world a favor. He shook his head. No...the man was still a human being. He hadn’t deserved to be killed. No one deserved to be murdered in his own home.
Behind him, the Comtoise clock struck two. By three, the hall should be filled, and by four, he intended to have answers.
Before his guests began to arrive, he prepared himself with prayer and patience to greet them with the broadest smiles. One by one he planned to pull each aside and dig his way to the heart of what had happened to Payton. Ideas whirled in his head, but he needed to know the truth. No accusations without proof. That was how Emily had instructed him in his youth. And with that thought filling his head, the first guest arrived.
Anne and an assembly of five others. Two women and three men. Evidently, she had come prepared to face off with Jonathan because Dowdy and Fitzhugh were part of her party.
Once they had tidied themselves, he extended a hand. “Welcome, Anne, dearest. Wallace, Patrick and Breighan McCarty, isn’t it? And who are these lovely creatures with you?” He fingered the scar on his face as he stared into Patrick’s gaze. If only... Not yet. He had to be sure.
Anne broke into a coy grin as she introduced two not-so-lovely creatures to him. Was she trying to appear even more beautiful with plain women at her side? “Jonathan, I’d like you to make the acquaintance of Miss Rosalie Duckworth and her sister, Miss Marianne.”
He bowed and scraped. Murmured pleasant greetings, all the while keeping his gaze leveled at Anne. What plans whirled through her head like flapping geese after a choice morsel? Well, Payton was not someone’s morsel.
Anne stepped close and put her hand on his arm possessively. “Darling Jonathan, how have you been? I’ve been faint with fatigue for all of the heartache you’ve been through these five years. First my dearest sister, and now this. How are you holding up against Payton’s disappearance? I do believe should she be all right, she would have found her way home by now.”
Jonathan cocked his brow. “Found her way home?”
Anne’s fingers dug into his coat. “You know what I mean, darling. Payton would have returned home had she wanted to be discovered. I fear she’s fooled you with pretense. Her affections were less than honorable, and now she has escaped the nest for her next conquest. Perhaps a man of more wealth, more position.”
Her words, like venom, slithered under his skin, and in that moment he understood with certainty that Anne had played a part in Payton’s disappearance. He glanced up into Fitzhugh’s face, then Dowdy’s. McCarty’s foot tapped an impatient rhythm as if he longed to move beyond such talk. Which of them had helped Anne? Or perhaps it had been one of the ladies attending her. His hands tightened. He’d handle this. One minute by o
ne minute, allowing each of them to dig themselves deeper into their pretense. Before this night was over, he intended to expose the guilty party.
“If you please, Emily has placed refreshments in the other room. Duncan will help with your things while you refresh yourselves.” He patted Anne’s hand, felt the cool assurance of a woman with a lying tongue. “What say you, Patrick? You have enjoyed many a meal here.”
“Aye, my friend. I have that.”
Jonathan lingered over Dowdy’s words. He had been here when Alithea died. Jonathan, suspicious of Dowdy, had chased after them to bring his wife back. The man had nerve to show his face at Kent.
Anne’s smile shone brighter than the stars. “Oh, Jonathan, I do believe you are ready to move forward. How I have longed for this day.” She dropped a gaze in the other ladies’ direction. “Come along. Emily always prepares all my favorite foods.” When she winked at Jonathan, she added, “I have no doubt there will be blackberries. With dainty little butter cakes and tarts. Am I right?”
“No doubt,” Jonathan answered. “No doubt whatsoever, Miss Anne.”
* * *
Payton waited patiently. She was to remain in her chamber until Clarisse came for her. But why? She should be welcoming their guests alongside Jonathan.
Another glance in the mirror assured her that her husband would shine with pride.
Sitting on the edge of the settee, she rolled the past few weeks over and over in her head. Would Anne be present? She longed to thank her for caring for her at Newbury. Payton might have died at Whittard’s hands if not for Anne taking her in. But the memories clouded. Her dreams had created a world of disbelief. Hadn’t Anne helped her with Winter?
No...yes! She had. She had put Winter’s saddle on, right? But why? Surely Anne could have seen Payton was in no condition to ride.
Payton’s head ached trying to remember all that had transpired once she’d jumped from the sloop, but huge gaps filled her recollections and tore her from truth to truth. Perhaps, if Anne came today, she would fill in the big, empty spaces. Before her thoughts could tear her in two again, Clarisse knocked on the door.
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