by Julia Donner
THE BARBARIAN AND HIS LADY
by Julia Donner
The Friendship Series Book 8
The Barbarian and His Lady Copyright © 2016 M.L.Rigdon (Julia Donner) All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or retransmitted in any form or by any means without the permission of the author.
Cover Design and Illustration by Stephen D Case [email protected]
The Friendship Series
The Tigresse and the Raven
The Heiress and the Spy
The Rake and the Bishop’s Daughter
The Duchess and the Duelist
The Dark Earl and His Runaway
The Dandy and the Flirt
Lord Carnall and Miss Innocent
The Barbarian and His Lady
An excerpt from Book 9 in the Friendship Series, A Rogue for Miss Prim is included.
In memory of Kris King Skewes, beloved and greatly missed theater bud, sister in Christ, and Master Gardener in heaven.
Rolands, Kent, England
1819
Chapter 1
A commotion downstairs interrupted Allison from completing the letter to Emily, Lady Exton-Lloyd, her friend and patroness. She elected to ignore the disturbance. Concern that Emily should not feel in any way slighted or neglected had pressed heavily on her mind the last weeks. Her friend had been so generous and kind, so understanding of her awkward situation, that she dreaded Emily suffering from any suggestion of indifference. Such unwavering support and friendship deserved more than mere appreciation. It was to be cherished, and being present to assist her friend through her first childbirth was imperative.
She bit her lower lip, searching for terminology to convey her concern without appearing encroaching or maudlin. One mustn’t sink to vulgar sentimentality, but somehow she must convey gratitude for Emily’s acceptance of one who would not normally be accepted in polite society. It had been years and still the scandal had not been forgotten or forgiven.
The noise on the ground floor escalated, punctuated by muffled shouts. Allison set down the quill and swiveled on the chair seat when a footman burst through the library door.
“Mrs. Davidson, please, ma’am. Will you come down?”
Since the owners of the house, Sir Harry Collyns and his wife, were absent, she stood. “What is it?”
“A man, a vagrant was found in the woods. He’s in a very bad way, ma’am. Would you agree to assist him?”
As they went down the steps, she tried to see through a cluster of hand-wringing servants congregated in Sir Harry’s impressively appointed vestibule. Many of them were bent over the afflicted man.
She asked the flustered footman leading the way, “You said he’s in a very bad way. What is the nature of his injury?”
“Badly beaten. Must have been waylaid on the main road and appears to have crawled up the lane.”
She had concerns about treating gunshot wounds or broken bones. She rarely had any involvement with men since the loss of dear Albert in the war. Her skills and experience had mainly to do with childbirth, female and children’s aliments. Rich or poor made no difference. If someone was ill and she could help, that was what she did without hesitation, and would do so now.
The footman wedged his way into the servants crowded around the man. “Step back, if you please. Allow Mrs. Davidson through.”
Allison halted to inhale a fortifying breath when she beheld the sight sprawled on the marble floor. Bearded, bloodied and rumpled, a large man had been deposited on his side. A long smear of darkening red showed a path of where he’d been towed from the entrance to the center of the foyer.
She spoke to the group. “Someone roll him over, carefully, if you please. Why was he brought into the front of the house instead of the servants’ entry?”
“His clothes, ma’am. They are well-worn, but not those of the lower order, and the back way is partially blocked by boxes sent ahead of Sir Harry and Lady Collyns. They’re packed in straw. The master will want to open them himself. There’s not enough space to carry this one through.”
Allison studied the dried blood from a gash below the man’s left ear. Luckily, the attacker had missed the major vessel. “He’s quite obviously been set upon by ruffians. Has his jacket collar been checked for a name?”
“Nothing sewn anywhere on his clothes to indicate ownership, what can be seen without undressing him,” the second footman answered. “There’s nothing in the pockets, no purse, not even a comb.”
“That is no surprise, especially if thieves were involved,” she muttered. She bent and ran her fingertips through the tangled disarray of tawny-brown hair. No bumps or swollen areas. The hair felt clean despite its state of unkempt snarls.
The knuckles on the man’s right hand showed the scrapes and bruises of a recent fistfight. She couldn’t distinguish any wounds to his face beneath the scraggly beard. His nose had been broken, but the injury wasn’t recent.
Allison knelt to pick up and study the man’s battered hand, calloused and well-shaped with the nails pared short. When she carefully turned the hand to check for injury to the palm, a maid shyly said, “Ma’am, that one’s been at sea for a long time.”
Allison glanced up at the young woman, who explained, “My da was a sailor. Fought at Trafalgar. I wasn’t but six, but remember that’s how his hands looked when he came home. Had calluses just like that.”
Allison spread her fingers on the man’s chest. A strong pulse beat against her palm. He was not well-fed, this condition made more pronounced by his, wide-shouldered, large-boned frame. Standing, this man would have a commanding aspect, but calloused hands meant he’d been a common seaman, not an officer.
“I cannot attend to him in the men’s dormitory. Is there another room below stairs that would be appropriate quarters, a place where I would not disrupt the staff with my presence?”
Quiet reigned for a moment, then the second footman replied, “There’s that room we had to set up for the shooting party. Lord Grieves came late and we put his valet there.”
Allison stood, and when she prompted him with raised eyebrows, the footman continued, “It’s under the back stairs, a storage room we cleared for extra space. We had more arrive than was invited and not enough room. Remember, Mr. Betters?”
Betters nodded. “Yes, that should do nicely. The cot is still there, but nothing else, which may be for the best. He’s of a height that his feet will drape over the end. If you permit, Mrs. Davidson, we shall carry him down. Will that arrangement suit?”
“If you will not be discommoded by my intrusion downstairs to attend to him.”
Betters, who acted as major domo when the butler traveled with the family, bowed. “Very kind of you to consider our privacy, Mrs. Davidson. We shall be ready to assist with anything you might need and have him cleaned up and presentable for your ministrations.”
“Thank you, Mr. Betters. There are supplies in my room that I prefer to fetch myself. I will join you shortly.”
“No hurry, if you please. We must make him presentable.”
“Leave the shirt and jacket where I can find them. I will need to check the cloth and laceration on his back to match up the fibers. There must be no threads left in the wound. And apply a clean cloth and pressure over anything that bleeds.”
Her small knowledge of wound care impressed the servants. Mr. Betters quieted their murmurs with a gentle clearing of his throat. “Come along, everyone. He’s a big fellow. It will take considerable maneuvering to get him down the steps. Betsy, see that we have a quantity of water warmed.”
A groan issued from the man
when the footmen hoisted him up from the floor. His shaggy head fell back against the first footman’s coat, and Mr. Betters scowled at the possibility of a smudge marring his livery. Sir Harry was an easily pleased master when it came to most things, but he insisted on perfection in the appearances of his house, his staff and precisely maintained grounds. The first footman wanted no smudges on his navy coat.
As they shuffled by with their burden, the man’s eyes opened, and Allison suppressed a gasp. He stared directly at her, then his eyelids drooped and shut. She stood fixed in place, her eyes wide with surprise.
Curiosity tilted her head to one side as she watched the servants carry their awkward burden down the passageway to the back stairs. When the sounds of their clunking retreat faded, she lifted her skirts to swiftly climb the staircase. She knew exactly where she’d seen those eyes before and flew up to a commodious reception room on the next floor, the one Sir Harry and Lady Collyns used for assemblies.
The adjacent gallery was furnished with many sofas and chairs for the overflow of guests wishing to contemplate Sir Harry’s much envied art collection. She passed by works of contemporary artists and those done by Flemish masters, elegant statuary and paintings of idyllic landscapes until stopping under a portrait done over a hundred years before.
The gentleman had been posed beside a great swath of maroon silk drapery. He stood with his weight to one side, his hand on a tall cane, and wore a brunette wig layered with curls that cascaded over his shoulders. His smooth-shaven face offered no hint as to his hair color. His thin eyebrows had been shaved or plucked then penciled into arrogant arcs. He wore a crimson jacket edged in gold lace and embroidery. The stockings on his muscular legs blazed a startling white. The knowing smile on his full, sensual mouth softened his arrogance. He commanded his space in the portrait as well as his place in the gallery. The name etched into the frame was Edward Blayne, Fifth Baron of Loverton. A shiver swept over her flesh whenever she felt herself pinned by those remarkable eyes.
Lured by the haunting of something intangible, she had stood under this painting many times, lured by the striking, unusual eyes—striations of blue, green and amber encircled in black. She’d been told that the sixth Lord Loverton died a very old man over a decade before, married but without a direct heir. The Peninsular Wars had taken his closest heirs, a nephew and four cousins. Six years earlier, another heir had been lost at sea during the crossing to engage in the conflict with the Americans. This portrait had been acquired by Sir Harry to keep it in the district.
As time passed, there had been much gossip, since the search for an heir continued in Canada. The nearby estate, Loverton Grange, stood empty when not rented, as the quest persisted, uncovering many false trails and ridiculous claims, most of them made by the descendants of the fifth baron’s many by-blows, who had aspirations but no legal claim. Meanwhile, monies kept in the funds continued to compound to the extent that a cash-strapped nation had begun to covet the accruing treasure.
Allison pulled her gaze from the portrait. She felt captured by the suspicion that the late baron’s relative, or perhaps even his true heir, might have been placed in a storage closet downstairs.
She sped to her room, collected the leather-bound box in which she kept her supplies, and took the servant stairs down three flights to the ill-lit hallway paved with flagstone. Mr. Betters waited for her by a closed door to the left of the steps. He opened it and stepped aside for her to enter first.
A cot took up most of the area. Hooks on the wall and a small table that held a lamp were the only furnishings. The sheet-shrouded man had been placed on his stomach. The crowded, confined space made her cringe.
“Mr. Betters, I will need more light.”
“Immediately, Mrs. Davidson.”
While the footman was gone, she set down her supply box and carefully folded back the linen to expose his back. Countless scars, not the long laceration down his left flank, choked off her breath. This man had been whipped and more than once. Welts of healed flesh layered older scarring. The sinewy arms that had been raised and arranged above his head on the thin pillow also displayed evidence of horrible wounds long-healed. Whatever had caused the gouges on the upper sides of his arms had not been recent.
She broke off her horrified stare when the footman returned. Sidling through the narrow doorway, Mr. Betters quietly opened and closed it, making her wonder how they managed to get their lanky victim inside and situated on the narrow cot. His shoulders were wider than the cot’s width and his feet well beyond its end. It was then that she noticed that his boots had been stolen. She placed her hand on his brow. No fever.
The oil lamp Mr. Betters carried had a reflector, providing improved light. She knelt and lifted the pad placed over the long laceration on his back. “Hold it more to my right, if you please. This still bleeds, which is not a bad thing. The flow often carries away that which would cause inflammation. If you can bring the lamp closer, I will try to ascertain if the wound is free of fabric. If this will cause you discomfort, close your eyes.”
Since Mr. Betters said nothing, she assumed his eyes were closed, but the light remained still as she carefully spread the wound to search for foreign objects. After finding none, she cleansed it and quickly threaded a needle with silk. She had to prompt Mr. Betters to bring the light closer when it drifted, but she managed to hold the wound together with one hand while closing it with swift stitches.
“There now. The bleeding has stopped. Other than being in need of nourishing meals, I believe he must be of good health and stout constitution. You may step back now, Mr. Betters. Thank you for your assistance.”
“The wound, it did not look too terribly deep.”
She dipped her hands in the basin left under the bed to wash the blood from her hands and fingernails. “There wasn’t much depth until the lower portion. Merely long and from a finely honed blade. He was excessively fortunate. I wonder, have you ever seen anything like the scars on his arms?”
“I have not, but Betsy may have the answer. She was quite shocked when she came in to gather up the soiled items. I thought it due to the man’s bared arms and shoulders, but she told me that this fellow has been most severely punished. She thinks he’s been keelhauled.”
Allison paused in the act of replacing items back in her supply box. She rose up from her kneeling position by the cot. “Surely not, Mr. Betters. The Navy abolished the practice.”
A gruff voice came from the cot. “The Navy did. Not the privateers.”
Chapter 2
A light touch had wakened him, a soft palm on his brow. A soothing warmth had flowed over his forehead, soaking down and throughout his system. He hadn’t felt anything like it since his mother’s loving hand. The sweet memory of her pierced the haze and brushed away the fog swathing his brain. When he stirred, the gentle hand returned, but this time pressed on his shoulder.
“No. Do not move. You are too injured. Will you tell us your name? Do you have family we may contact?”
He inhaled carefully. His ribs had been dealt some ugly blows, but the discomfort of expanding his chest was worth it. The deep breath cleared his mind and centered his thoughts. He’d been set upon, a strange thing to happen on the otherwise peaceful road. It had happened so quickly, and they’d taken him completely by surprise. Who would expect to be accosted by thieves on a quiet country lane? He breathed in another inhalation, slower this time. The room smelled of disuse and the crisp linen fresh from the line, a scent he’d missed for years. He’d been asked a question by the female with the comforting touch.
“My name is Cameron Bradford. I’ve sustained worse injury.”
The woman protested when he sat up, careful to pull the sheet over his naked chest and shoulders. The room whirled for a moment then resettled. Ignoring her urging to lie still, he asked the footman by the door, “May I have something to drink?”
She said, “Only beef tea or gruel, Mr. Betters.”
Cameron added, “And a crust of
bread wouldn’t come amiss. Haven’t had much to eat the last while.”
The footman left the door open when he went out. Cameron squinted at a long hallway paved with flagstone. He was underground—an unsettling feeling after being so long at sea, then walking for days in the open countryside.
He rubbed a hand over his face, encountering the places where fists had landed. Bruises would soon become colorful under his beard. He scratched it as he asked, “Where have I landed?”
“You are at Rolands. Kent,” she tacked on, as if the fight had jostled his brain box beyond the ability to think straight.
“Rolands, eh? Is Harry in residence?” When she didn’t answer, he looked up.
He’d taken her for a lady’s maid, since all he could see was the bottom of her frock and the toes of black flats peeking from under the plain hemline. He twisted his head to look up. She looked like her voice, serene and soft. Hair the color of Turkish coffee had been combed back, gathered somehow at the nape. Pale blue eyes, the color of the early morning sky at sea, conveyed apprehensive concern. She was not, as he first assumed by the way she spoke, a lady’s personal attendant. Her bearing, although placid, was not that of a servant. There was nothing remarkable about her, except that he couldn’t disconnect his gaze from hers.
He located his voice. “I beg your pardon, madam.”
When he moved to stand, she placed a firm hand on his shoulder. He felt it again, that soothing glide of comfort, flowing from her palm through the sheet, seeping down into his shoulder, throughout his body. It felt like an elixir of relief.
“No, sit, you must not move. You’ve been badly treated and I suspect by more than one assailant. I am amazed that you are lucid and able to sit upright.”
He took her hand from his shoulder, held it for a moment before allowing it freedom. It was the most difficult thing he’d done in a long time, releasing the contact with her hand and its soothing tenderness.
