The idea quickly squelched the warmness he was beginning to feel from her. She was good. It was evident in her compassion. She was different from him, and that idea both fascinated him and frightened him. Miss Creighton was how he wished he could be, but it was too late for such ideas. For he saw something in her he wanted to protect, to shield from the outside world, but how could he do that if he himself was dangerous? Unpredictable? Impulsive? If she knew the real William Sterling, knew of his past and of the danger surrounding him, she would know better than to be so kind to a man like him.
Miss Creighton, with a sharp nod of satisfaction, stood up and stepped away. “I think you will be all right now.”
“And you?” he blurted out, standing up from the chair.
She whirled to look at him. “Pardon me?”
“And you?” he repeated, his boldness surprising even him. “Will you be all right?”
Their gazes locked and her lovely eyes narrowed, as if assessing his sincerity.
He needed to speak quickly, otherwise he’d think twice about speaking to her so openly. “It has been a trying night. You have been through an ordeal.”
He thought he noticed a tremor in her lip. “I’m fine.” She looked away.
But, as if entranced, he could not look away.
She was so proper. So controlled. Or at least her words were. But the expression in her eyes conveyed a message far deeper, far different.
What he would give to know her thoughts. Her real thoughts.
He noticed her hand as she returned the jar to the shelf. He reached out to warn her. “Be careful, you’re trembling.”
But his warning was too late. The jar tipped and fell. William lunged forward and caught it before the glass container smashed on the stone floor, but in doing so he brushed against her robe.
She jumped back, as if she were the one who had encountered a burn. She masked her discomfort behind a wary laugh. “How clumsy of me. My hands . . . I suppose it is the cold. Or, I mean, the fire. Or—” Her words stopped short. “I’m fine.”
He didn’t believe her. Not for a minute. She wasn’t fine. He held her gaze, not allowing her to look away. His stomach churned with an unfamiliar ache. For a story was hidden behind those red-rimmed eyes. Her chest rose and fell with shallow breaths. Her cheek twitched. The desire to comfort her, to protect her, welled up within him, reminiscent of feelings he thought long buried. He sensed the emotion radiating from her, and as strange as it seemed, he almost felt as if he could identify it. And at that moment he knew he’d not rest until he knew what it was.
He should keep his mouth shut. He was tired. Hurt. All the more reason why he should guard his tongue. He never had possessed the gift of saying exactly the right thing at the proper time, and in instances such as this, he had the unfortunate tendency to play the fool.
He looked down at the ointment jar, still in his hand. “Here.”
She eyed him before allowing him to place the jar on her outstretched palm.
She swiped the back of her other hand across her cheek, and by doing so spread black soot over her flushed skin.
“You, uh . . .” His throat felt dry. Too dry to speak. He lifted his hand, hesitated, and smoothed some of the soot from her cheek with his thumb.
But at his touch, she recoiled. Alarm brightened her tired eyes, and she sucked in a deep breath.
A sharp reprimand sliced through his mind. What had he been thinking to touch her? They were not at a soiree in London. She was a headmistress in a country school who had shown him kindness.
Miss Creighton grabbed a linen from the table, turned her back to him, and wiped her cheek.
The spell between them popped. Was gone.
She looked back at him. “It is almost dawn. You must be weary. Can I offer you a room upstairs?”
“Thank you, no,” he stammered, feigning to adjust the bandage around his arm. “My groom is outside waiting for me. I’ll be by soon to assess the damage and see if any part of the stable can be saved. If not, we’ll determine next steps.”
He reached for his coat. This time she did not offer to assist. He managed to slide his good arm through the coat and left his injured arm out of the sleeve.
“Take these with you.” She retrieved the ointment and extra bandages. “I am sure your housekeeper has what you will need, but you might as well have them. Mary can make more.”
He glanced—quickly—at her eyes, making a memory of her before looking away. For whatever had transpired between them he was certain had affected him in a way that he would not soon forget.
10
William showed himself out of Rosemere. In the courtyard, smoke still twirled in the wind, clouding the night air and blotting out the moon’s gray light. He stepped closer to the still-burning remnants and to Lewis and young Charlie. In front of them stood a goat.
William tilted his head and assessed the pudgy animal. “Delilah. We meet again.”
The goat returned the stare, and William knelt down and looked her in the eye. “You caused quite the trouble for your young mistress, not to mention me.”
The animal bleated a response before bolting away. Charlie shouted and took off after her.
William tapped an empty bucket with the toe of his boot, and it rolled across the path. With the heat of the fire, all the snow around the stable had melted, leaving everything a slushy mess. He looked at Lewis. “What are you doing?”
“Letting it burn out. Nothing here to save.” Lewis nudged a piece of burning debris that had rolled away from the fire. “I moved the water wagon back by the gate. They’ve lost their carriage and their cart, but the animals are sound. The housekeeper said she believes they lost a chicken or two.” He nodded toward William’s arm. “You all right?”
“A little burn. It will be fine.”
“George told me what happened. How is the girl?”
“She is asleep.” William glanced up at the windows. They were all dark. The house was settling back down, its occupants returning to sleep. “She will recover, although I fear she breathed in much more smoke than is healthy for one so young.”
Lewis tossed a rope in his direction. “George went for the surgeon. He will know how to help her, certainly.”
William stared as if entranced at the mess of glowing beams and flickering flames. The surreal night was coming to an end. Soon the sun would climb into the broad expanse of the sky, shedding light on the full extent of the damage to the Rosemere stable.
Now that the immediate danger had passed, he feared what was next.
He knew that other landlords would refuse to take responsibility for such an incident. But his father had set the precedent. Everyone in the county would no doubt recall how his father had rebuilt the Camdon cottage when it burned ten years ago. How would it look if he did not do the same, especially when the building in question was merely a stable?
William scratched his head, then scanned the burning heap. He tried to calculate what it would cost to rebuild the structure, but in his exhausted state he could not begin to factor. He vaguely recalled Mr. Livingstone speaking of repairs to tenant cottages or outbuildings, but he had never paid attention to the sums. All he knew was that whatever the cost, he did not have the funds for it.
And still pay Rafertee.
He’d check the lease in the morning. Surely when his father drew up the paperwork, he’d included terms to clarify responsibilities in such an incident. His father had been steadfast in financial interests and likely freed the Sterling family from any obligations.
But even if that were the case, William could not simply walk away.
How Miss Creighton’s red-rimmed eyes haunted him. The sight of the limp child plagued his thoughts. And this tragedy could be a result of his own foolishness.
No, he could not—would not—walk away.
Lewis lifted the lantern. “Come here, I want to show you something.”
William pushed himself from the post he’d been leaning on. “What
is it?”
Lewis motioned for him to follow, and William stepped over some debris and followed the groom around the remains of the stable. Lewis led the way through the smoky mist to a clearing by the river. “Look.”
William’s eyes were still watering with such intensity that making out anything was difficult. “What are we looking at?”
“Here, take the lantern. Lean down.”
William knelt down in the spongy mud, squinted, and then—he saw it. A mess of hoofprints and footprints, in no apparent order. At the sight, his heart pounded, each beat harder than the last. He stood and handed the lantern back to Lewis.
William whispered, “Does anyone else know about these?”
“Doubt it. George is the only one who would likely take notice, and I doubt he would come down this way.”
William tried to rationalize it. “Could be Angus’s hoofprints from a few days ago. My own boot prints. I believe I rode through this clearing.”
“Perhaps, but look.” Lewis leaned down and pointed at the hoofprints. “Different sizes. Last I checked, all of Angus’s shoes were the same size.”
William felt as if he had swallowed rock after rock. “Are you thinking Rafertee’s men?”
Lewis shrugged. “They were out here on the moors at night a few nights ago, and look what they did to you.”
“But why would they be here? Why not Eastmore’s stables?”
“Eastmore’s stables are more exposed. Closer to the road. Maybe it would be too obvious of a message to outsiders.” Lewis shrugged again. “I’m not sure.”
Dread simmered, then bubbled into anger. William snapped a twig from a nearby tree and slammed it to the ground. He muttered, pressing the twig remnants into the soft, cold mud. “I’ve got to get the rest of that money, and soon.”
“Well, we can’t solve it tonight.” Lewis headed back toward Rosemere. “Let’s get the horses and take what animals we can back with us to Eastmore. We’ll figure it out by the light of day.”
When Patience awoke, sunlight flooded her room.
If it weren’t for the scent of smoke teasing her nostrils, she could almost believe that the horrible night behind her was only a vaporous dream. But then, as she rolled over, her thick hair, which had slipped from her plait, smelled so strongly of smoke she almost gagged.
She rubbed the kinks from her neck and glanced over at the window. When she finally had come up to sleep after the fire, the sun was just below the horizon, the eastern sky a light purple and the rest of the sky still gray. She shivered and wrapped her blanket around herself before crossing to the window to assess the grounds below.
Bright morning light pained her eyes, and even when she pinched them closed, she had no relief from the burning. The fire was gone, but the smoke lingered, woven into the fabric of the air.
As her eyes adjusted to the light, she was met with the reality she had hoped was but a nightmare. The stable, or what had been the stable, was a charred heap of scorched timber. Smoke and fog still rose from the ashes and debris. The snow was absent around the remnants, a stark contrast to the rest of the white landscape. Patience arched her neck, looking to see if anyone was about. But the grounds were empty. She shivered and pulled the curtains tight. Even in her solitude, a flush rose to her cheeks when she realized what she had done.
She was not looking to see if anyone was about.
She was looking to see if he was about.
Patience tightened the blanket around her shoulders and turned away. The memory of the roughness of William Sterling’s thumb on her cheek as he brushed soot away brought the oddest quiver to her stomach.
Shame on her. She should have been aware of how close she was. Of perhaps sending a message she had not intended to send. Such an intimate act to one who was practically a stranger was an impropriety.
Or was it?
Heaven help her, she did not understand the effect William Sterling had on her. Under normal circumstances, she was calm. Collected. Rational to a fault. Around him, she was unsure of herself, for his very presence made her question everything she thought she knew. Thought she wanted.
With his tawny hair and clear eyes, he was handsome, to be sure, but it was the memory of the corded muscles in his forearms that twitched as she cleaned his wound that refused to leave her. She turned to pull a clean robe from the wardrobe, and when she did, she caught her reflection in her small mirror. Her hair hung wild and tangled about her pale face, and sure enough, black soot was still smudged across her cheek.
She lifted her fingertips to the black residue.
So his touch had been intended to be helpful, not forward.
She tried to wipe it off. But it would not budge.
The last time a man had touched her had been many years ago. Ewan O’Connell.
Ewan had been the romance of her youth. She had been but nineteen, and he was her father’s protégé and lived with them in Rosemere. Ewan made her an offer of marriage, but she, silly and young, refused him, waiting for someone more handsome. More exciting. More romantic.
But that someone never came.
She wiped her cheek harder, unshed tears itching her eyes. She could not allow such silly thoughts of William Sterling to permeate her mind.
Thoughts of his hair, which she could not quite decide if it was light brown or dark blond.
Or thoughts of his tone, which she could not quite discern if it was flirtatious or sincere.
For he was a wealthy landowner, used to fine things, fast horses, and fancy women. She was a mere spinster headmistress of a modest girls’ school.
She called for Mary to come help her dress and did her best to bury her thoughts in the busyness of the day ahead. After donning a high-waisted, long-sleeved gown of charcoal muslin with black ribbon around the hem of her sleeves, she hurried to check on Emma.
At Emma’s bedchamber, she slowly opened the door and poked her head inside. Sunlight filtered through the room’s only narrow window onto Cassandra, who sat in a chair, leaning forward against the bed, her russet head cradled in the crook of her arm. Both slept.
Patience tiptoed over the planked floor, but as she stepped on an uneven floorboard, a creak echoed from the plastered walls. Cassandra jerked upright, sleep marks creasing her face. Her nose wrinkled in sleepy confusion, and her hair hung limp about her face.
Patience held her finger up to her lips and stepped closer to look down at the sleeping child. Emma’s tangled hair spread out on the white pillow, the dark hue of each strand contrasting sharply with the stark linen fabric. Traces of soot still colored Emma’s forehead, and her long black lashes fanned out on her olive skin. Her lips were parted in easy slumber.
Patience whispered, “How is she?”
Cassandra yawned, leaned forward, and smoothed the blanket. “She has not woken, although she had a few coughing fits and has moaned in her sleep.”
Patience placed her hand on the child’s forehead. “She does not feel feverish.”
Her stomach churned at the thought of the pain the child had experienced. “I need to check on Mother, but then I’ll be back to sit with her.”
She squeezed Cassandra’s shoulder and left the room as quietly as the uneven floor would allow. She trudged back to the west wing and then to her mother’s room. She found Margaret Creighton sitting up in bed, graying hair in disarray and blankets strewn about.
“Mother, have you not slept?”
Her mother fussed with an embroidered handkerchief. “How could I after such tragedy has befallen Rosemere?” She pressed the fabric to her nose. “And where have you been?”
“Well”—Patience hesitated—“I just came from Emma’s room. And before that, I was sleeping.”
Her mother huffed. “I see you have tended to the needs of everyone else. Just like your father would have done.” Her words seemed hurled as an accusation instead of offered as a compliment. “How quickly I am forgotten.”
Patience ignored her mother’s jab and for once let th
e chamber curtains remain closed.
“Let me call for tea. I am sure that after—”
But she stopped, silenced by the tears sliding down her mother’s cheeks.
Patience had grown accustomed to her mother’s emotional outbursts. Even though they were increasingly frequent, they were never easy. “Please calm yourself. I know this has been difficult, but I assure you, I—”
Her mother’s nightcap slid to the side. “Difficult? Difficult? Your father devoted his entire life to this school. Poured every ounce of his soul into it. To say it is difficult is an understatement indeed.”
Patience feared anything she would say would only further anger her mother. Yet remaining silent was not an option. “Of course he would have been upset, but I am certain he would realize that the stable is just that, a stable. It can easily be rebuilt.”
“Do not preach at me, Patience. I am fully aware of how serious this could have been.”
At the sharpness in Margaret Creighton’s tone, Patience pressed her lips together and clasped her hands behind her. How was it possible to comfort someone who did not wish to be comforted?
Patience shifted the conversation. “Mr. Sterling said he would be by soon, and he will—”
“You know how I feel about William Sterling,” her mother snapped. “I’ve told you so time and time again. Why, he didn’t even attend your father’s funeral. And he and his steward have neglected us. I don’t trust that man.”
Patience bit her lip to prevent the retort that would surely spill forth if she did not. Why did she feel the need to defend William Sterling? To tell her mother that it was he who saved Emma? Was it that she herself believed him to be a kind man, in his heart a decent man, or was it to spite her mother’s negativity?
But after her mother’s outburst, Patience could not help but wonder why Mr. Sterling’s visits had suddenly started now. Was it because of what she knew about his injury on the moors? He indicated that he wanted to keep it quiet. Did he think that if he helped her she would keep his secret?
The Headmistress of Rosemere (Whispers on the Moors) Page 9
