Touched by Fire

by Kathleen O'Reilly

  “Don’t you think I should help him? Wouldn’t that be what a proper wife would do?”

  Oh, she was definitely in love. The glow in her eyes, the determined lift to her chin as if she were planning a battle. Just the daunting kick the young man needed. Giles brushed his moustache to hide his smile. “My lady, in time the earl will be most appreciative of your support.” He hoped. “Perhaps the best thing you can do now is recover.”

  “I’ll be up this afternoon then.” She laid her cards on the table at her side and threw the covers aside.

  “But the doctor, and the earl—”

  “Pshaw.” She flashed her smile as if nothing were amiss. “I’ve been in the cursed bed for several days now and I’m in the very pink of health. Patience is not one of my strong suits.”

  “Of course, my lady.” Giles clicked his heels together and nodded politely. There’d be hell to pay, and Giles would probably suffer the worst of it, but it would be worth it. After so many years of tedium, things were finally beginning to look up.

  It took Sarah a while but she finally located her husband. Sarah rapped firmly on the large study door, waiting until Colin bid her entrance. The room was a big, monstrous place of dark wood and long shadows. Colin looked completely at ease behind the heavy desk, a thin volume in his hand. The entire desk overflowed with books, with several stacks piled on the wooden floor. Crates and boxes were strewn about, some filled with leather-bound volumes, some empty. She smiled at her discovery, feeling as if she had stumbled upon some unexpected aspect to her husband’s nature.

  Colin looked up from his reading. “Sarah? You should be resting.”

  “Are you awfully busy?”

  “No.” He put away the book and frowned, studying her face. “How are you feeling?”

  “Would you like the truth?”

  The beginnings of a smile twitched at his mouth. “Yes, please.”

  “I do despise those malingerers that do nothing but grouse about every little ache and pain, so I wanted to make sure this was something you really wanted to know and didn’t ask merely because it was the thing to do.” Her nerves were causing her to chatter like Iris.

  His smile grew to a grin. “No. Yes. You must be better. Are you?”

  “Perfectly fine. Quite as good as new. Shipshape.” She waved her hand. “Right as rain.”

  “Did you sleep well last night?”

  “Yes. You’ve been very kind. Although . . .”

  “Although?”

  Her hands twisted in her skirts and she plunged forward, wanting to create new memories to replace the others. “You know the sun is quite an excellent healer, and I haven’t seen the gardens yet, but I hesitate going out alone. For a walk. Because . . .” She couldn’t think of one clever reason why she couldn’t go alone. She shouldn’t have told him she was feeling so fit.

  He raised a brow. “Yes?”

  A mythical map adorned one wall, a picture of monsters and ships and the crashing sea. “I might get lost. And in the midst of the towering shrubs, I might have a relapse. And swoon.” He looked quite skeptical, but he was a very smart man. “And of course there would be no one to hear me because I would be—”

  “All alone,” he finished for her, watching her carefully. “We mustn’t have that. I suppose I’ve been neglecting my manners.”

  “Horribly.”

  He looked suitably taken to task. “That bad?”

  “The very worst,” she replied easily.

  “Very well then, we’ll eliminate that problem right now.” He looked over his desk and blew out his breath. “I didn’t want to finish this anyway.”

  Glancing at the title, expecting some boring military dissertation, she was surprised once more. She picked it up and opened it. “The Diabolical Nature of the Western Dragons: A Treatise On the Philosophical, Physiological, and Mythological Aspects and Their Effect on Civilization.” She tilted her head. “Western dragons?”

  “You’ve stumbled upon my hobby.”

  She flipped through the book, studying the creatures that leaped from the pages. “Which one is this?” She sidled closer to him, pointing to an angry creature with piercing eyes, crusty scales, and wicked claws.

  “A sea dragon. A female god, Tiamet, transformed herself into this creature when her lover was slain and created an army of fiendish monsters to avenge his death. Marduk agreed to kill the beast and sliced her heart in two.”

  “Brokenhearted to the end.” She turned the page, her shoulder brushing against his arm. He took one small step away. “And this?”

  “A wyvern. According to legend a young girl raised the dragon as a pet, but eventually his carnivorous nature shone through and the villagers demanded the head of the beast. A brave knight, Garston, slew the dragon, and the villagers lived in peace once more.”

  She studied him. “What happened to the little girl?”

  “The legend doesn’t say.”

  “How sad.” She studied him, the way his fingers traced the pages so lovingly. “You know them all, don’t you? Will you teach me about them?”

  “Perhaps some other time.” He slammed the book shut and put it away. “We should go. Out. Walk.”

  She would come back later and read his books, learn about the creatures that so fascinated him. She took his arm and went outside.

  Walking in the sunlight with Colin was exactly the soothing balm she needed. She sighed happily and leaned against him in a suitably weakened manner. A large lake graced the front of the grounds, and to her delight, at the back was a perfectly manicured formal garden, full of flowers in first bloom.

  “Iris and the remainder of your staff should be here by the end of the week.”

  Sarah was looking forward to seeing her maid once more. The quiet house desperately needed Iris’s gift for tongue-wagging. “You don’t mind that I sent for them?”

  “Not in the slightest. Iris will be a great help for you and I was worried about Nancy; I’d like to see her settled.”

  “She’s adjusted very well. Every now and then she speaks of Ethan and mentions Ackworth as well. The papers reported that it had been closed.”

  “Yes.”

  “And you’ll say nothing about the role you played in that?”

  He remained stubbornly stoic and she sighed.

  “I suppose I didn’t want to know anyway.” She stared at the bruise on her hand and saw how the color was fading. Soon it would be gone. “Have you heard from Monsieur D’Albon?”

  He stopped and looked at her closely. “No, nothing yet. I have guards here, Sarah. No one will hurt you. I swear.”

  She didn’t want to worry him and so she smiled as if it didn’t matter. “I’m being silly.”

  “No, you’re not being silly at all.”

  They continued walking in silence and she let the warm breeze wash over her. The day was far too lovely to spoil it with talk of the attack. His hand was strong on her arm, and when she was with him, she knew she was safe. She took a deep breath of fresh air and marveled at the bouquet of splendid color as far as the eye could see. “Look at all the flowers. I love springtime, don’t you?”

  “I must admit I’ve never given it much thought before.”

  She was appalled and threw her arms wide. “But surrounded by all this, how could you not notice it?”

  “Surrounded by what?”

  “Well, for instance, here is a cornflower.” She darted forward, spying another familiar plant. “And a begonia.” She ran her fingers down a row of cerulean blooms shyly peeking out. “And this is, well, I don’t know. But it’s very pretty.”

  He picked the fragile blossom and handed it to her. “Now I will notice.”

  His smile touched her, a treasure she would lock away. Today the splendid memories would start anew. Staring at the lazy clouds, the flowers that glittered brighter than all the jewels in the ton, she felt such peace. How could she not be happy here?

  They wandered quietly through the gardens, each lost in their ow
n thoughts. Row after row they walked. Each line was carefully cultivated. Someone spent much time providing for these gardens. Amidst all the color, one large square plot stood empty, the dirt fresh and newly sown. Such a barren place. She studied the broad expanse of sod, wondering what should be planted there.

  “Sarah?”

  In the nearest corner of the square, nearly buried under the brown soil, the flash of red caught her eye. “What have you done? Buried someone in your garden?” Bending down, she began to dig until she discovered what she had been looking at.

  A rose petal.

  She sank to her knees and swallowed, not because of her fears or dreams of an awful man. Because one man, so strong yet so unassuming, had thought to banish all the roses. A wave of warmth swept through her, touching her much deeper than the sun’s sparkling rays. She let the soft dirt run through her hands and knew the other man would never bother her again. Her heart was too full.

  “Blast.” He grabbed the petal out of her hand and pulled her to her feet. “Sarah? Are you all right?” he asked, rubbing her hands.

  She grinned in a foolish manner.

  This man was her husband, and by God, she loved him with all her heart.

  “Sarah?”

  He would probably think her dotty if she asked him for another kiss. “Colin?”

  “Yes?”

  All at once, she glimpsed what love really was. Her girlish infatuation and desire were no substitute for this warm washing of feeling that ran through her. This was what Juliette had tried to tell her, but she had been too stubborn to learn. She needed more from him than his protection. Much more. And now, here he stood, tall, handsome, rubbing her hands, tender concern in his eyes, and she blinked against the shimmering light that had revealed her feelings. With a woman’s eyes, she stared back.

  “We should go back. You’re not feeling well.”

  “No!” She winced at the volume of her response. She sounded like an idiot. Yet she was still fluttering inside and if her mind wasn’t as quick as it normally was, well, she couldn’t be held responsible, he was wholly to blame. She twisted her skirts, searching for some excuse. “Not yet. You still have much to tell me.”

  “You look pale.”

  Certainly not the most romantic of men, but she had no patience for poets. “Let the sun do its job, then. I don’t want to go back inside. Tell me about your home. Yes, Rosemont. This place is rather large for one man. What of your family? Your parents? Were they happy here?” She would be happy here with him, she knew it.

  He took her arm and continued to walk, albeit slowly, as if he were afraid she would swoon. “My mother died when I was young. I don’t remember much of her.”

  “I never knew my mother.” Her father had said her mother had no patience for his games, that it was only the two of them. He had made her childhood an adventure certainly, but there were times when she wished for more. “You had no brothers or sisters?”

  “No.”

  Just the boy and his father in this lumbering mansion. “And your father? Was he handsome like you?”

  Colin stopped and gazed at the formidable house and was silent for so long, she believed he wasn’t going to answer. “I’m very much like my father.”

  “He must’ve been very proud of you.”

  “No, the old earl was not proud of me at all.”

  How could this be? She leapt to her beloved’s defense. “Then he was a fool.”

  “No, merely hurt.” Colin spoke like a man who had accepted his situation long ago, and her heart wept. Did no one see who he was? This would never do. She tugged at his arm and ensured he was going to listen.

  “May I tell you something?”

  He nodded, and she began. “When I was a little girl, I believed my father was the smartest man alive. He was jolly and carefree and taught me how to laugh at all that society had ordained. After I met you, I realized I was wrong about my father. I had raised him to such exalted heights when I should have opened my eyes to who he really was. I love my father, I always will, but he wasn’t a very good father. I suspect your father wasn’t a good father, either. But that is who he was, and you’re who you are.”

  Something flashed in his eyes. Was it fear or pain? She couldn’t determine, but then he gazed at her with such tenderness in his warm sherry eyes she had difficulty breathing.

  “I don’t always see things as they are,” he replied with a husky voice.

  “And I’m very grateful for it.”

  “Why?”

  “If you were an astute man, you would have never married me.” And she thanked God that he had.

  Cocking his head to one side, he narrowed his eyes. “Are you fishing for compliments?”

  “Not if they’re untrue.”

  He smiled, and she pointed to him in triumph. “Ah! There it is. I believed it’d disappeared forever.”

  “What?”

  “Your dimple.”

  “You’re flirting with me, aren’t you?”

  “You’ve caught me in the very act.” She needed his touch so desperately. “I supposed if my knees gave way and I pressed a languid hand to my forehead, you’d simply let me fall to the ground.”

  He shook his head. “I’m not that easily gulled.”

  “And if I were to clutch at my stomach and double over in pain, you would be too smart to sweep me into your arms and carry me into the house in a dramatic manner.”

  “Of course,” he said, daring her to continue.

  She fanned herself with her hand, and closed her eyes.

  “Sarah?”

  She smiled bravely.

  “That was all nonsense, wasn’t it? You haven’t overdone it, have you?” He laid a hand on her arm, and she sighed with delight.

  Her knees dipped and he swore, scooping her up in his arms. She rested her head against his chest, listening to his heart. In the end, it would belong to her. It was the very least the man could do, since she had so easily lost her own.

  “Sarah?”

  The wonderful man sounded frightfully concerned and she felt guilty. She opened her eyes, flashing him a triumphant smile from the security of his arms. “Caught you.”

  He began to laugh and carried her inside. “Yes, I think you have.”

  Cornelius Twizzlerot read the short announcement for the fourth time that day. The earl of Haverwood had wed Miss Sarah Banks of London on the ninth of April, the year of our Lord, eighteen hundred and fifteen, at a private ceremony in Wellesley.

  He laid the paper down on his desk and sighed. Well, tush! The woman simply would not die. Of course, the men he had hired were less than competent, but he could only afford so much. So, the earl had chosen Miss Banks in the end. He had felt rather guilty about sending a man to kill Miss Lambert. Thankfully, the girl hadn’t been hurt after all.

  A less resourceful man would have abandoned his plans and given up. But Cornelius felt no need for such dire measures. He had prepared for all alternatives, and the marriage of the earl of Haverwood was a possibility he had foreseen.

  After all, there was still the matter of the letter from the previous earl.

  The thought of blackmail made him uncomfortable, but it was much tidier than murder. Killing an earl just wasn’t done, although when Bonaparte was in power, Cornelius had hoped that the sword of some pushy Frenchman would have done the job for him.

  Some brief vestiges of hope remained, though. War was once again on the horizon, and there were still two months remaining before the earl’s birthday. Cornelius didn’t want to dirty his own hands if he could help it. He studied his fingernails and stroked the smooth, pale skin of his hands. He was man of thought, not of action. A philosopher, a lover, not some baseborn ruffian who skewered men with a knife.

  Yes, social ruin would be fitting justice for the earl. After all, the man was subjecting the entire country to an outrageous masquerade. The scandal would be just as delicious as when the duke of York’s mistress was discovered selling commissions for a pro
fit. However, for a fair price Cornelius was willing to keep his secret. The earl had more than enough money, and Cornelius merely wanted a business enterprise of his own. He wasn’t that greedy.

  The smell of porridge wafted through the air and he realized it was nearly suppertime. Surely the brats were weary of all that porridge, every day. Margaret might be a satisfying lover but she had yet to cook one satisfying meal.

  In time, money wouldn’t be a problem and he could eat whatever he desired. The closing of Ackworth had made him nervous. The headmaster there had been so confident, so full of promises of riches for all. But now he realized that this was a difficult business he had considered embarking on, but the alternatives, porridge and shabby trousers, did not sit well. After the earl was no longer an issue, he would contact Mr. Wyndham, they could begin his new adventure, and the money would flood his coffers. But for now, it seemed porridge was the menu du jour.

  The most galling thing of all was that he would have to dig into his own meager savings in order to pay Mr. Roberts and Mr. Harper. It pained him to pay for a job so savagely botched. If he were an ethical man, he would simply honor his debts. Frankly though, the behemoth Mr. Roberts terrified him and the thought of once again entering that horrid house of pestilence made him ill.

  The ill-kept man did not know who he was nor where he lived and he hoped he never would. In time, the man would forget about the whole unsavory affair. Surely there was no honor among thieves.

  Mr. Harper knew when to keep silent. He had many interests to protect, mostly his own. He would cause Cornelius no problems.

  No, his most pressing problem was the rumbling in his stomach. He stowed away the paper and got to his feet. He would eat Margaret’s miserable porridge for the next few weeks until he had a proper discussion with the earl.

  And once St. George was safely in his hands, he would hire a fine cook and eat whatever he chose. On that happy thought, he left to go suffer the lumpy porridge once more.

  Chapter Eighteen