by Deborah Hale
She had no doubt the big, burly watchman, who haled from northern India, would be more than a match for any number of outlaws. But it was not herself, or even Rosalia, whose safety concerned her just now.
“Please be careful!” she called after Simon as he headed off into the night without even acknowledging her warning.
A wave of guilt and dread broke over Bethan as she watched him go. Clutching the handrail, she sank on to the top step. Had Simon rushed headlong into danger to escape from her and the wrenching memories she’d stirred up? Had her shock at the sight of his injured leg made him feel he needed to prove himself?
For the next hour she sat there waiting and praying for him to return. Time slowed to a crawl, measured by the frantic drumming of her heart and the terrifying scenes running through her mind. Her imagination tormented her with lurid visions of what might be happening to him. She was far more terrified on his behalf than she had ever been for herself or anyone except her beloved brother.
Thinking of Hugh brought back her whole quarrel with Simon about mutineers. Was it some malicious trick of Fate that her quest to find her brother had led her to a man who would want him hanged? Thank heaven she’d shown a little caution for once and not told Simon all about Hugh. Rather than sympathising with her brother, as she’d hoped, Simon would be the first to betray Hugh to the authorities if she ever managed to find him.
But could she blame Simon after what he’d suffered at the hands of mutineers? She found herself imagining Simon’s mutiny with her brother as one of the murderous crewmen. But that was madness. Hugh would never attack an innocent man and leave him to die. Would he?
Bethan wished she could be certain.
Her bottom was growing numb from sitting on the stairs when at last she heard movement and voices outside. She sprang up and flew down the stairs just as Simon staggered in, his arms around the shoulders of his driver and the gardener. All the tension that had been building inside of her during the past anxious hours shattered at the sight of Simon, injured but alive. It was everything she could do to keep from hurling herself upon him and sobbing out tears of relief.
“Is he very badly hurt?” She forced the words out past a choking lump in her throat. “What happened to him?”
“I’ll be fine.” As he hobbled past, Simon raised his head to meet her worried gaze. His mouth was set in a grim line and a trail of blood trickled down the side of his face from the hair above his right temple. “The outlaws took to their heels when they heard me coming. I made the mistake of getting in their way. Father Marco was more shaken than hurt, though I fear it would have gone worse for him if help had arrived any later.”
In an effort to curb her turbulent feelings, Bethan sprang into action.
Catching sight of Ah-Ming, she called, “The master has been hurt. Fetch the medicine chest.”
Then she hurried to Simon’s room where the two servants were easing him on to his bed. “Mahmud, please go fetch Dr Moncrieff.”
“Let the poor man sleep,” Simon growled through clenched teeth. “I don’t need a surgeon at this hour of the night. A swig of arrack and some sleep will put me right.”
He spoke a few words to the servants in their own language. They nodded and bowed, then left the room.
“You’ve got a head wound.” Bethan flew to Simon’s side. “That could be serious. What if it needs stitching?”
Simon lay back on the pillows, his eyes closed. “Then I’ll see the doctor in the morning. Don’t fret. I’ve survived a good deal worse than this.”
The thought of what he’d suffered in the past twisted her insides. What could she do for him now? “I wish Ah-Ming would hurry with the medicine chest.”
“I doubt she’s dawdling.” Simon did not open his eyes. “Why don’t you go back to bed?”
Bethan didn’t budge. “I wasn’t in bed. Do you think I could sleep while you were out risking your life? I’m not going anywhere until you’ve been tended to.”
Wanting to make him more comfortable, she began to pry off his boots. “Was it those same outlaws you told me about? Why would they attack a priest?”
“The very ones.” He stretched his stocking feet and began to tug at his neck cloth. “They must have been after the silver and gold of his communion plate.”
“Lie still.” Bethan perched on the edge of his bed. “I’ll get that.”
Her fingers brushed his as she untied the lightly starched fillets of linen. She had to concentrate fiercely to keep them at their task. They itched to stray upwards to caress Simon’s cheek.
Fortunately, before she yielded to that temptation, Ah-Ming arrived with the medical supplies. Together the two women stripped Simon of his coat and waistcoat.
“You wash the wound.” The housekeeper thrust a cloth and a basin of water into Bethan’s hands. “I will go brew herb tea.”
Before Bethan could protest, she was gone.
Simon made a sound like a soft moan crossed with a wry chuckle. “I’ve gained a healthy respect for Chinese medicine over the years. But the brew I need at the moment is good old Batavia arrack. It does an excellent job of relaxing muscles and relieving pain. You’ll find a flask in the pocket of my coat.”
As Bethan set down the basin and fetched the flask, he added. “It calms the nerves too. You should take a drop after I’m done.”
She shook her head as she raised the flask to his lips. “You need it more than I do.”
After Simon had taken several long sips, she gave him the flask to hold. Then she wet the cloth Ah-Ming had given her and began to bathe his head. “There’s quite a bump but it’s not bleeding much any more.”
With a gentle, caressing touch, she washed away the trail of dried blood down the side of his face. “I’m glad you weren’t hurt any worse. I was beside myself with worry.”
“No need.” Simon raised the flash for another sip. “I told you, I’m a survivor.”
From what she’d learned of his past, Bethan suspected he wasn’t used to being worried about and fussed over. “You’ve been through a great deal over the years.”
The blood was all washed off his face. But still she could not stop grazing the soft, moist cloth over his cheek. “I’m sorry I reminded you about that awful mutiny. If I’d known—”
“I should beg your pardon.” He raised his hand to cover hers, pressing it against his cheek. “I had no call to rage at you like that. You couldn’t have known what I refused to tell you.”
Hovering over him, Bethan gazed into his eyes. The unyielding blue ice seemed to have melted from them, revealing crystal-clear pools of intriguing depth. She leaned closer, yearning to explore.
“Here is your tea, master.” The housekeeper’s sudden entrance made Bethan spring back with a guilty start.
“I washed the cut on his head.” She dropped the bloodstained cloth into the basin and edged away from Simon’s bed. “It wasn’t as bad as it looked at first.”
“He is lucky not to be hurt worse.” Ah-Ming gave no sign of having noticed anything untoward between them. “Those outlaws stop at nothing. They take only men whose parents are dead, so they will not fear disgracing their families with their crimes.”
She held out a tea bowl to Simon. Wisps of steam rose from the surface, releasing a pungent aroma. “Sit up and drink this. It will do you more good than arrack.”
Simon grumbled a little, but did as he was told.
“Sleep now,” Ah-Ming decreed after he had swallowed the last sip. She pulled the netting over Simon’s bed and beckoned Bethan out of the room. “Aiyah! Such a night.”
As Bethan headed towards the nursery, her feet felt heavier with each step. What if Simon needed something before morning? What if he took a turn for the worse? She still could not shake the feeling that she was to blame for his injuries.
She wasn’t certain what made her turn and creep back to his bedchamber. Was it that sense of guilt or the growing feelings for him that she’d been trying to suppress?
&nbs
p; Perhaps the time had come to stop fighting those feelings and tackle her fears, instead.
Chapter Thirteen
His wounds throbbed—his face, his ribs and especially his leg. But none of them pained more than his conscience.
Simon tried to pry open his swollen eyelids, but the lashes were gummed together with dried blood. What little he could make out, as the Sabine sailed away, was awash in a sea of lurid red. His ears were filled with the thunder of waves pummelling the sand. But even that could not drown out the piercing shrieks. Was it only the gulls or the anguished cries of women beyond rescue?
An answering cry swelled up from deep inside, begging for release. But his jaws were clenched tight and his lips locked. With no outlet, the pressure in his chest threatened to crush his heart.
“Simon?” The sound of his name, spoken in that charming lilt, loosened whatever was gagging him.
A cry broke from his throat—a shriek of torment mingled with a bellow of helpless rage and a wail of bottomless guilt.
“Wake up, Simon!” the same voice summoned him back from that lost, hopeless place. “You’re safe now. It was only a bad dream.”
He struggled to sit up, breathing in ragged gasps. His heart hammered so frantically against his ribs, he feared they might crack. The only thing that sustained him was a woman’s arm, draped around his shoulders. It felt as soft and warm as a familiar blanket on a cold night, yet strong and steadfast as an anchor in rough seas. The fingers of her other hand swept over his hair in a steady, soothing rhythm.
“Your nightmare must have been a dreadful one. But it’s over now and none of it was real.” She comforted him as if he were a frightened child.
Part of him resented that, but he could not bring himself to pull away. For years he’d resisted the urge to confide in anyone or seek consolation. Now, as he surrendered to the tender sympathy Bethan offered, he began to see what a foolish error that had been.
“I know it was a nightmare.” He canted his head to rest against hers. “It is over, for now, but it was real.”
Even though he was now clearly awake, Bethan did not let go of him. “Were you dreaming about what happened tonight?”
Simon shook his head. “Ten years ago, aboard the Sabine.”
“Do you often have nightmares about it?”
“I used to, but not so much lately. When I kept myself occupied with business and refused to dwell on the past, they didn’t trouble me as much. But lately…”
Bethan sighed. “Lately I’ve been pestering you with questions, stirring up memories you wanted to let sleep.”
“You aren’t to blame.” His arm encircled her waist. “Any more than Rosalia was when she asked to go for a boat ride.”
“Now that I know, I won’t bring it up again,” she promised.
For some reason her promise troubled Simon. “What will you do? Tiptoe around watching every word so that you don’t remind me of something I’d rather forget?”
He didn’t want that. He preferred her the way she was—spontaneous, curious and forthright.
“I could try.” It was clear she realised the task would not be an easy one. “At least I could bear your feelings in mind a bit more—not blunder along saying whatever comes into my head.”
“But those things are often interesting or amusing. I’d hate to lose them all because you were trying to avoid anything on my lengthy list of forbidden subjects.”
She had no ready quip to answer that.
The compulsion to confide in her battled against Simon’s deep-seated reluctance. Being reminded of all his mistakes and failures would make him feel even less worthy of whatever misplaced admiration she might feel for him. Knowing them would give her a potent weapon against him, if she ever chose to use it.
Bethan would never do that, his fragile but stubborn faith in her insisted. After all, she could have exploited his sense of honour and feelings of guilt to make an advantageous marriage, but she had not. She had only ever used her knowledge of his secrets to loosen their power over him and leech away some of their bitterness.
“The worst of the mutiny was not my wounded leg,” he began in a hoarse murmur, “though the scars and the pain are a constant reminder. Mrs Mordaunt’s betrayal was not the worst either, though I fear it may have left a different kind of scar.”
“Who is Mrs Mordaunt?” asked Bethan in a tone of protective anger. “And what did she do to you?”
“The captain’s young wife aboard the Sabine.” It disgusted him to remember. “She sparked the mutiny by carrying on with one of her husband’s officers. I might have prevented it if I’d gone to the captain with my suspicions sooner. But she begged me not to, and I was fool enough to listen.”
Bethan’s head moved in a knowing nod. “Another damsel in distress calling on your protection.”
“The wicked irony is what happened to the other women aboard on account of my misplaced chivalry.” Simon drew several deep breaths, nerving himself to go on. “While the mutineers abandoned all their male victims on the northern coast of Ceylon, they took the women with them to endure a fate that haunts my nightmares to this day.”
Feeling a shudder run through Bethan, he braced himself for her response. Would she condemn him as bitterly as he had often denounced himself?
“That was a terrible thing!” She clasped him tighter. “But you were not to blame. You were unarmed, outnumbered and wounded. You could not have stopped them.”
“I know.” Somehow, hearing that reassurance from her lips made it easier to believe. “The same way I know I can trust you. Reason tells me so, but my conscience and my nightmares tell me something different. And they are harder to ignore.”
“I do know,” she whispered and he sensed she was speaking from her own dark place of self-doubt.
There was nothing either of them could say to comfort one another. Words were the language of reason, which needed no persuasion. Instead Bethan tried to soothe him as she might Rosalia, with the tender warmth of her touch.
It did help.
“Stay with me tonight?” He nuzzled her neck with his cheek. “Not in the way you did before. I only want to be near you. You make me forget the troubles of my past. At least you make it hurt less to remember them, which is even better.”
“I wouldn’t leave,” she replied in a fierce whisper, “even if you told me to.”
Easing him back down on to his pillow, she nestled in the circle of his arms. The rest of that night, they held and caressed one another in a chaste, tender way that felt more intimate than their earlier night of passion. It fed a hunger within Simon that went even deeper than his desire.
Bethan woke in the pearly glow of dawn to find herself in Simon’s bed. She did not feel strange or taken by surprise. She knew why she was there and it felt perfectly natural.
She didn’t know what she would say to him when he woke. No doubt it would be more awkward between them when she had to meet his penetrating blue gaze in the unsparing light of day, rather than exchanging whispers and caresses in the darkness. But for now she would savour the chance to watch him at the only time he was completely unguarded.
There was nothing severe or forbidding about his face when he slept. His strong jaw was no longer clenched tightly. Gone was the stern crease between his brows that deepened when he scowled. The resolute line of his lips was relaxed enough that it might easily arch into a smile without danger of breaking.
In his peaceful face, she glimpsed the boy who longed to make his mark in the world and perform a thousand heroic deeds so that someone might love him. How she wished the man he’d become could learn to recognise and accept love when it was offered, rather than settling for a heartless exchange that would only cheat both parties.
She yearned to trace the jutting ridge of his chin with her fingertips and graze her lips over his brow until she washed away all his painful memories. That wish reminded Bethan of something he’d said in the night about her making it hurt less for him to remember. It
touched her to think Simon believed she had that power. She recalled the events of last night—Simon’s brush with danger, the deep secrets he’d confided in her and the need for her he’d confessed. Taken together, they made her realise the true nature of the feelings for him that she’d been trying to resist.
She understood now why he’d needed to put up such daunting defences around his heart. But the walls that protected also imprisoned, robbing him of the freedom to trust and love. Though they shielded his wounded heart from further injury, they also kept it locked away from the fresh air and sunlight it needed to heal properly.
If she’d accepted the grudging proposal of marriage he had made out of guilt, he would always suspect and resent her. He would never permit himself to care for her. Though honour would compel him to remain with her in body, any hope of love would be abandoned. That would be far more painful than if he simply went away, as her father had. She would be constantly tormented by his presence—near enough to touch, but with his heart a thousand miles away.
If instead, she freely gave herself to him, without expectation or conditions, it might lull his suspicions and set his heart free to reach out in love.
It was not an easy decision to make. She still had her doubts—fears of rejection and abandonment, conflict between her desire to be honest with him and her desperate need to protect her brother. She knew that sharing his bed, perhaps one day bearing his child out of wedlock, would make her question her worth in his eyes and fear for the future. Yet it was a risk she must take if she ever hoped to win his love.
At that moment Simon’s eyes opened.
For an unguarded instant, Bethan glimpsed a promise of what she might gain if she succeeded in what she’d resolved to do. Then, as it dawned on him that she’d been lying there watching for some time, an invisible shield went up between them and his features tensed. Bethan told herself she must not let the sting of his mistrust deter her.
