‘How is she?’ Mrs Sharp handed Grace a cup of warm chocolate.
‘Tetchy. And most displeased at being left with Alice,’ Grace said, sitting at the table. ‘Thank you.’
‘It is to be hoped you do not succumb to the cold as well. You look pale.’
The housekeeper’s concern was unexpected, endearing her to Grace, who cradled the cup between her hands and sipped, then tipped her head back, heaving a sigh, watching mindlessly whilst Mrs Sharp chopped carrots.
‘I cannot believe how exhausting it is, sitting and doing nothing other than nursing Clara.’
‘Has she slept at all?’
‘Not yet.’ Grace finished her chocolate and stood up. ‘I must return and relieve Alice. Poor Clara, she is so miserable. She does not know what she wants, but she wants it now.’
‘I have mixed up a remedy for her, to help ease her throat.’ Mrs Sharp often treated common ailments within the household with her remedies. ‘Give her a spoonful and then, when she does fall asleep, I will sit with her. You’ll be bound to have a disturbed night with her and you have missed your walk today. You should go outside for some exercise whilst you are able to. It is a beautiful day.’
Startled by the housekeeper’s unusual solicitude, Grace thanked her and, when Clara dozed off shortly after luncheon, Grace took her up on her offer.
Ravenwell had been out since first light, according to Sharp, sitting in his favourite overstuffed armchair in the corner as he sucked on his pipe. Grace lingered, hoping to learn a little more about her puzzling employer.
‘Likes to keep himself busy, see. Stops him from brooding.’
‘Brooding?’ Grace busied herself folding Clara’s freshly laundered clothes, as though any answer was of no consequence and she asked merely to be polite. The best way to wheedle information from Sharp was to pretend disinterest.
‘Oh, aye. He exhausts himself every day, to stop him thinking about his father. It’s the guilt.’
Guilt. Sharp had mentioned guilt before, but always refused to explain.
‘Oh, I cannot believe his lordship has anything to feel guilty about.’
‘Well that’s just where you’d be wrong, missy.’ Sharp tilted his head back and, eyes half-closed, blew a perfect smoke ring into the air. ‘So you don’t know ever’thing, for all yer education.
‘No,’ he went on after a pause. ‘He’ll never forgive himself. Feels it here—’ and he thumped his chest in the region of his heart ‘—he does. He ain’t the hard man you think he is.’
I don’t think him a hard man at all. But she had more sense than to say so to Sharp.
‘We tried to stop him going back into the fire, but three of us couldn’t hold him back, he was that determined.’
‘Was that the fire at Ravenwell Manor?’
‘If’n only we could’ve stopped him, but he were like a man possessed. And his mother. It fair curdled the blood to hear her screams.’
‘But...’ she had to ask and hope Sharp wouldn’t clam up ‘...why did he go back into the fire? Is that when he got burned?’
‘Aye. ’Twas his father. He couldn’t walk so well and he was upstairs when it broke out. His lordship...the Earl of Shiverstone as he was then...tried to rescue him. He got as far as the bedchamber, but then the roof caved in and his father was gone. Lord, the nightmares he suffered afterwards. Not to mention the pain. If’n you’ve ever burned your hand with a candle flame, missy, you’ll know the agony. Only multiply that a hundred...a thousand...fold, and you might get nearer the truth.’
Poor Nathaniel. A hard lump of misery lodged in Grace’s throat as she imagined his suffering, at only twenty-one years of age. Two years older than she was now. Another piece of the puzzle that was Lord Ravenwell slotted into place. The guilt, as well as the scars, must have been an intolerable burden to one so young.
She donned her pelisse and set off to walk up the hill behind the Hall, her sketchbook under her arm, hoping to capture the wildness and beauty of the landscape with her pencil. She had never ventured up on to the fells before—it was too far for Clara to walk—and she looked forward to exploring this area of her new home.
Her breath grew short as she plodded up the path, determined to reach Shiver Crag, jaggedly silhouetted against the blue of the sky, but she found she had to stop long before then to catch her breath.
She gazed back the way she had come. The day was clear and sharp, and the land fell away below her to flatten into the dale, with its woods and pasture. There was the river she had to drive across to reach the village and...she searched, her hand shielding her eyes...yes, there was the church tower, jutting out amongst the jumble of rooftops. Her chest swelled as she breathed in the cold air, refreshing her lungs and making her blood sing with energy.
She would walk a little further and sketch a little before going back. And she would hope that somehow, miraculously, her nap had restored Clara to full health. Her attention was caught by a huge, golden-brown bird circling lazily in the sky. Good heavens. She had thought the bird she saw when she first arrived at the Hall was big, but...this one was gigantic. She watched its mesmerising, effortless glide and marvelled at the span of its broad wings, tipped by feathers that resembled splayed fingers.
She looked back up to the crag. It was further than she first thought. She would have no time to reach it today, but it would be an imposing focal point for her sketches if she walked just a little further, to where the terrain levelled out ahead.
She trudged on until she reached the grassy plateau and there he was.
Ravenwell.
He had not seen her—he stood to her right, half-facing away from her as he delved inside a bag on the ground. What was he doing up here, all alone? Was he...as Sharp had said...brooding? It was odd there were no dogs with him. Nor was there a horse in sight. Did he come up here to this wild, solitary place to think about his father and the night of the fire? Would he welcome company, or would he send her away? The temptation to retreat before he saw her was powerful. She could disappear back down the path and he would never know she had been there.
But...this was her first opportunity to sketch this stark but beautiful landscape and she was loath to waste it. Making her mind up, she tucked her sketchbook more securely beneath her arm and headed towards the Marquess, picking her way across the springy tussocks of grass.
As she drew near to Ravenwell, he raised his left arm, clad in a massive gauntlet, straight out in front of him and let out a shrill cry. Grace’s steps faltered. Was it some sort of ritual? A movement caught her eye. The bird—that monstrous bird—had stopped circling. It swooped purposefully and then flew straight at Nathaniel.
It’s attacking! No!
Grace ran towards Ravenwell, waving her arms and her sketchbook, shouting as loudly as she could. The bird—surely as big as Grace herself—veered at the last minute, beating its powerful wings as it rose up into the air, its curved claws just missing Nathaniel’s head.
Grace grabbed Nathaniel’s hand in both of hers, her sketchbook dropping unheeded to the ground.
‘Are you all right?’ Her breath came in short, heaving bursts.
‘What the devil do you think you’re doing?’
Grace quailed at his fury. He tore his gaze from her and followed the bird’s flight.
‘Have you any idea how long I...?’ He paused.
Hauled in a deep breath.
Looked back at Grace.
Narrowed his eyes.
‘Did you ask if I was all right?’
Before she could reply, he threw back his head and howled with laughter.
She glared. ‘What is so amusing?’
‘You!’ He gasped for breath. ‘Were you trying to save me?’
‘Well, I did, did I not? That monster attacked you. I frightened it away.’
>
His chest heaved as another peal of laughter rang out. ‘That monster, as you describe her, is an eagle. And she has enough power in those talons of hers to do you some serious damage. And you thought to...’
Their gazes fused, and his words faded. Grace trembled as longing curled through her body and she lost herself in the molten depths of his eyes.
‘I...’
At that single word, his gaze, soft as a caress, drifted down to settle on her lips.
* * *
Nathaniel’s initial burst of rage was, within seconds, quashed by his mirth that this dainty, feminine girl had thought to rescue him. Her eyes, glinting in the sunlight, flashed her annoyance and he was drawn into their gold-green depths. And his laughter died. And then her lips parted and, without volition, his gaze dipped to trace their delicate shape and admire their soft, pink fullness. And to wonder how they would taste...
‘I...’ she whispered again.
Then he was jolted from his entrancement as shock flashed across her face and red infused her cheeks, and he felt the wrench deep inside as she released her grip on his hand. His right hand. His damaged hand, with its coarse and ugly puckered skin. He snatched it away, thrusting it behind his back, out of sight.
‘I...I am sorry, my l-lord.’ She would not meet his eyes now. ‘W-was it meant to fly at you like that?’
She was so pretty. Too pretty, too delicate, for a beast like him. He found the strength to thrust aside his humiliation in order to smooth over their mutual embarrassment.
‘Yes, but it is not your fault.’ He occupied himself pulling the leather gauntlet from his left hand. ‘You meant well.’
He conjured up the image of Ralph Rendell. Now there would be a suitable pairing: the same station in life, both of them young and attractive. Unscarred. That thought had the same effect on his lust as falling in Shiver Beck on a winter’s day—something he had done once and never wished to repeat.
‘Will it come back?’
He scanned the sky. Amber was very close to being fit enough to return to the wild. Would she return after her scare?
‘There. See.’ He pointed at the bird. ‘She has not gone away. Not yet.’
‘How...? Is she tame? Is she yours?’
He told her the tale of how Amber came to his care.
‘Her wing is healed now. I’ve been releasing her for longer each day to strengthen it. She comes back for food, even though she has begun to hunt for herself. One day, she will simply not return and hopefully she’ll head north, back to the Highlands where she was born.’
‘It sounds so romantic, the Highlands.’ Her voice was wistful.
‘More romance, Miss Bertram?’
Her lips compressed and a light flush crept over her cheeks. Not the most sensitive comment, following their difference about romance the other evening, and that interlude just now, when he had thought...
What had he thought? For one moment, he had forgotten who he was. How he was. He had been a man, looking into the eyes of a pretty girl. It had been a mistake, not to be repeated.
‘Have you ever been to Scotland?’ he asked.
‘No, but I have seen paintings. It is like this but...more so.’
Nathaniel looked around. More so indeed. Very much more so.
‘Where is Clara?’
‘She is unwell. I have left her asleep, with Mrs Sharp watching over her, whilst I take some exercise.’
‘Does she need a doctor?’
‘No. We both agree it is only a cold; there is no sign of fever. But she is very miserable, poor mite.’
‘I shall come and see her when I go home.’ Something caught his eye and he bent to pick it off the ground.
‘Is this a sketch book?’
‘I thought I might have time to capture the view. I have never been up here before. It is too far for Clara.’
Nathaniel riffled through the pages. ‘There aren’t many landscapes here.’
‘No.’ She put out her hand and he whisked it out of her reach so he could continue to look through it.
‘They are mostly portraits,’ she said repressively, ‘and they cannot possibly be of interest to you as you do not know any of the subjects.’
‘Oh, I don’t know. Here.’ He held up a watercolour of three young women and grinned. ‘I could be interested in these three beauties. Are they the friends you told me about?’
A light flush stained her cheeks. ‘Yes.’
He looked at the painting. It showed skill. ‘This is very good. Which one is which?’
She named the three and he said, ‘Would you paint Clara for me, when she is better? I should like to have a portrait of her at this age.’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘Thank you.’ He handed her the sketchbook. ‘Perhaps you would like to sketch whilst we wait to see if Amber returns?’
Grace perched on a rock and Nathaniel stood behind and off to one side, watching her work. He could watch her all day: her frown of concentration, the pull of her bottom lip through her teeth, the blonde strands of hair that had blown loose and glinted in the sunlight. Rendell was a lucky man, if she had set her sights on him.
All too soon, it seemed to Nathaniel, she closed her book and stood up.
‘I must get back to Clara. Oh!’ She pointed. ‘Amber has come back.’
Sure enough, the eagle was circling out over the dale. Nathaniel hadn’t even noticed.
‘Stand back,’ he said, pulling the gauntlet on to his left hand. ‘And for God’s sake stay still this time. We don’t want to spook her again.’
He waited whilst she retreated several paces, then took a morsel of rabbit from his bag and called as he turned his left side to Amber and extended his left arm, the meat held between his forefinger and thumb. There was the swish of wings, the jolting impact of the landing and the squeeze of the eagle’s talons through the stout leather of his gauntlet.
‘May I stroke her?’
Nathaniel took a hood from his pocket and slipped it over Amber’s head. ‘You may now.’
He glanced down at her profile as he spoke. Her brows were bunched across the bridge of her perfect little nose as she stroked Amber’s feathers.
‘But she would not hurt me. You laughed at me when I thought she was attacking you.’
‘I laughed at your bold conviction that you might protect me. I probably should not have laughed, for you showed courage, but please take more care in future, particularly if you have Clara with you. The hood is to keep Amber calm. She is still a wild creature at heart—can you imagine the damage that beak could inflict on a person’s face?’
Grace peered at Amber and shuddered.
‘It looks so cruel.’
‘It is efficient. It helps her survive. Cruelty does not come into it. But she is a powerful predator and should be treated with respect. Come. It is time I returned her to her mew.’
They headed down the hill, to the stable yard.
‘Would you care to see my other birds? They are smaller than Amber, but tame. I use them for hawking, as men have done for centuries.’
She hesitated before saying, ‘I should love to see them, but maybe another day? I must return to Clara.’
‘I shall come and see her once I’ve put Amber away.’
Nathaniel watched Grace walk away, conflicting emotions churning his insides as he thought back to that moment up on the fell.
That look.
It had fired all sorts of longings deep within him. And she responded—her eyes had not lied. She had been all too aware of that frisson that passed between them.
It had been so very long since he’d experienced feelings for a woman—not just the physical need for a woman, but the longing for...more. That most dangerous of random thoughts had taken root
in his heart: What if...?
She had held his hand without flinching, without even seeming aware... With a harsh sound, he quashed the bud of hope that formed deep inside his heart before it could begin to unfurl.
A beautiful girl like Grace would never want someone as damaged as him.
This yearning inside...it had been stirred up by Hannah and David’s deaths...by the realisation that, now, apart from his mother, he was truly alone.
I will adjust to this new reality. I still have Clara. No one can take her from me.
He returned Amber to her enclosure, working without conscience thought, his heart heavy, aching with the burden of loss.
* * *
When he reached the house, he found Clara inconsolable—the only place she would settle was on Grace’s lap and consequently he saw little of either of them for the rest of the afternoon or the evening. Bored with his own company, Nathaniel went to the book room to work on his ledgers, but he could not concentrate, his wandering thoughts returning again and again to that moment on the fell when their gazes had clashed. Finally, he admitted defeat and, as the clock in the hall struck eleven, he climbed the stairs to bed.
On the landing, a whimper and a cough reached his ears. Praying Clara had not taken a turn for the worse, he headed for her bedchamber.
It’s a cold. Nothing to fear. She will recover.
But cold dread gnawed at him. Childhood was precarious; so many died in infancy. He could not bear... Clara was all he had left of his beloved Hannah. He could not lose her as well.
He must set his mind at rest. He entered her bedchamber quietly, his gaze drawn to the bed, dimly visible in what remained of the firelight.
Clara was asleep, spreadeagled on her back, mouth open as she snored gently. Love for the tiny girl filled his heart. So very precious. A pale shape on the far side of the bed caught his eye—a hand, resting on the coverlet, mere inches from Clara. He tiptoed around the bed, his wavering shadow preceding him, and gazed down at Grace, fast asleep in a chair by the bedside, her head tipped back, the white curve of her throat both seductive and vulnerable. Even in sleep, she was graceful, her lashes fanned against her delicate cheekbones, her honey-blonde hair lying in a loose plait over her shoulder.
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