by Anne Gracie
If the doctor were here, he’d dust it with basilicum powder, but she had nothing like that. She’d heard cobwebs were good for stopping bleeding, but spiders made her flesh creep and there was not a cobweb in the house. All she had was honey. Honey was good for burns and small cuts, and it was the one thing she had plenty of. Gently she began to smear honey over the wound.
It felt like a bosom.
His body was like ice. And like fire. He throbbed unbearably from his head to his heels. He tried to move.
“Don’t move.” Soft voice. Bossy. Female.
He tried to open his eyes. Pain splintered through him. Nausea.
“Hush now.” Cool fingers pressed him against something warm and soft.
It was definitely a bosom. Whose?
A cool hand cupped his cheek, held him still against the bosom. “I need to tend to your head wound.” Her voice was soft, gentle. Low.
An excellent thing in a woman, he finished the quote in his head. A spurt of ironic laughter racked him. He bit back on the pain. Fool. He tried again to move. Agony.
Head wound? Was he going to die?
If he was, this was the way to go, his face buried in the fragrant depths of a bosom, gentle fingers soothing him, a soft voice murmuring.
This bosom, these fingers, this voice.
Whoever they belonged to.
He felt her shifting. Pain speared through him, nausea, then . . . blackness . . .
Two
Maddy, Maddy, we found a horse!” The cottage door flew open and her eight-year-old half brother Henry rushed in, followed by his brother, John, three years older.
“It’s a magnificent thoroughbred, Maddy, a stallion,” John told her. “A bay with the most powerful shoulders and hocks. I’ll wager he can jump anything—”
“We caught him!” Henry interrupted excitedly.
“I caught him,” John corrected.
“Yes, but I helped. You couldn’t have done it without me, you know you couldn’t!”
John turned back to Maddy. “I had an apple core in my pocket and he took it like a lamb.”
“I fed him, too; I gave him some grass,” Henry told her.
“And then I took him back to the vicar’s—well, where could we keep a horse? And the vicar said he didn’t mind. I’m sorry we’re late, but the horse was wet and so I had to unsaddle him and dry him off—”
“We both dried him off,” Henry said.
“Hush, hush, not so loud,” she said, laughing. “And where are your sisters?”
“Coming,” John said vaguely, looking self-conscious. “They were behind us when we left.” As the man of the family, even if twelve-year-old Jane was his elder, he was supposed to escort his sisters. “But they’re so slow, Maddy, and fussing about the muddy path and their shoes and I wanted to tell you about the horse.”
Maddy’s lips twitched. “I know, love, and they’re deplorably uninterested in horses, too. Now I have a surprise, as well, but—ah, here are the girls.” Jane, Susan, and Lucy entered.
“Sorry we’re late, Maddy,” Jane, the eldest said, unwrapping small Lucy’s shawl as she spoke. “But the rain delayed us, and then the boys found a horse and they would have to catch it and then take it back to the vicar’s and fuss over it, and then the path—”
“It’s all right, Jane dear,” Maddy assured her with a hug. Twelve-year-old Jane, as the oldest child, took her responsibilities very seriously. She’d been the most obviously affected by the change in their circumstances; with no other help, Maddy had no alternative but to rely on Jane for much more than she wanted to.
She hated doing it. She knew what it was like to have your childhood drowned by responsibility. She was desperate to let Jane become a carefree child again but she couldn’t manage it. Yet, she reminded herself.
“The boys are not the only ones who’ve had a surprise today,” she told the children. “They found the horse. I found the rider.”
There was an instant babble of questions.
“Hush, hush, you must be quiet and not disturb him.”
“But where is he?” asked Susan, looking around.
“In the bed over there. He was badly injured.”
“Can we see?”
“Yes, but you must be very quiet. The poor man has hurt his head very badly and loud noises will give him pain.”
The children solemnly tiptoed over to the bed, and Maddy drew back the faded red curtains that covered the alcove, screening the bed from view, as well as protecting the occupant from draughts.
“How did he hurt his head?” Jane whispered.
“It was an accident.”
“Why is he in your bed, Maddy?” Lucy asked.
“Shh. We must all speak very quietly because he’s very sick,” Maddy told her. “And that’s why he’s in my bed.”
“But where will you sleep?” Lucy persisted in a gruff little voice she imagined to be soft.
“We’ll talk about that later,” Maddy said, having wondered about that already.
“He looks nice,” eight-year-old Susan said in a loud whisper.
“Is he a prince?” Lucy whispered hoarsely. “He looks like a prince.”
“Are you sure it’s his horse that we found?” John sounded disappointed. No doubt he’d entertained the fantasy that the horse would be finders keepers.
“Yes, I saw him fall and the horse run off.”
“He fell off his horse?” John’s lip curled slightly.
“Everyone falls at some time,” she reminded him. “And the reason this man fell was because his horse skidded on an iced-up mud slide some boys had made.”
“Oh.” John and Henry exchanged guilty looks.
“Yes, ‘oh’ indeed, and now you’re going to have to run to fetch the doctor.”
“Now?” John brightened.
“Yes. You can have something to eat first. I’ve made some soup—”
“I’ve already eaten,” John said.
“Me, too. Sausages and mashed potatoes! And pudding to follow!” added Henry with glee.
“Mrs. Matheson gave us all supper, Maddy,” Jane said apologetically. She, alone of the children, sensed how Maddy felt about receiving the charity of her kindly neighbors. They were none of them well-off.
But Maddy didn’t want to burden the children with her perceptions. “Sausages? How lovely,” she said warmly. It might be charity, but Maddy also knew that were she ever-so-wealthy, the vicar’s wife would still feed the children. She was a motherly soul with no children of her own.
Besides, Maddy didn’t feel ungrateful, just uncomfortable at having to receive when she had so little to give in return.
“If you’re all fed, I want you to run back to the vicar’s and ask him to send for the doctor. No, it’s too far for you to go to the doctor’s, John. By the time you get there, it’ll be dark. Just tell the vicar and he’ll send someone in the gig.”
“Jenkins,” Henry said. “He’ll send Jenkins.”
“Yes, so give the vicar this note to give to the doctor and then come straight home.”
John hesitated. “Can I take another apple for the horse? One of the really old wrinkly ones?”
Maddy rolled her eyes. “All right, but only one.” She used the old wrinkly apples for pies.
“I want to go, too,” Henry declared. He eyed her hopefully. “You always say two heads are better than one.”
She grinned and ruffled his hair. “Go on then,” she conceded. “But come straight home afterward.”
She put the children to bed early that night. They were fascinated by the stranger in the bed, and it was all she could do to keep them from checking on him every three minutes. They’d tiptoed round the cottage and spoken in hoarse, exaggerated whispers, but she wouldn’t put it past any of them not to secretly try to wake him up.
The doctor had been, examined the man’s head wound, and pronounced her treatment of it excellent. He applied basilicum powder but had no quibble with her use of honey as a healing salv
e.
“Been used for generations,” he said. “As for that ankle, all swollen up like that, I can’t tell if it’s a minor break or a sprain. Leave it bound. We’ll know more once he wakes up.”
“He will wake up, then?” She’d been worried he might simply fade away. It happened, she knew.
The doctor shrugged. “Hard to tell with head wounds. At any rate he can’t be moved until he does, and so I’ll tell the vicar.” He saw her look of surprise and explained. “The good reverend wasn’t happy with him staying here. He didn’t like the look of his luggage.”
“His luggage?”
The doctor explained. “He examined the contents of the portmanteau that was strapped to the horse—in search of the identity of the owner, you understand. It contained everything of the finest quality, which suggests the young man is a gentleman, and I concur. But there were no documents or any clue as to his identity. The reverend was, however, shocked by the lack of a certain item, which he claimed revealed the character of the man.”
“In what way?” Maddy asked, fascinated. “What item was lacking?”
“A nightshirt,” the doctor said drily. “According to Rev. Matheson, a young gentleman who travels without a nightshirt is a rake.” The doctor snorted. “But I can see his point. An unmarried girl, such as yourself, should not have an unknown man billeted in her home, unchaperoned. However, it’s my considered medical opinion that to move the fellow now would endanger his recovery. Best to wait until he’s conscious and able to sit up under his own power.”
“I’ll be all right,” Maddy assured him. “As for chaperones”—she gestured to the children—“I have five. Not that I worry about such things anymore.”
The doctor nodded. “Didn’t think you were the missish sort. You’ve done a fine job so far. If the fellow lives, he’ll have you to thank for his life.”
He closed his bag and moved toward the door. “If you wake in the night, could you check on him? I don’t think you need to sit up with him, but keep an eye out for any change. If anything worries you, anything at all, send for me. He’s not out of danger yet.”
“What should I do if he wakes?”
“It depends. If he’s calm, treat him as you would any individual. But if he’s restless, fevered, troublesome, or in pain, give him this.” He handed her a small vial of clear liquid. “A few drops in warm water. Keep it away from the children.”
Maddy nodded.
The doctor paused at the door. “We’ll make enquiries about him. With any luck someone will claim him and take him off your hands as soon as he’s fit to go. Let me know as soon as he wakes.”
Maddy had promised. She had no interest in keeping the stranger any longer than she had to. As it was, he was going to put her out of her bed. She’d have to sleep with the girls and it’d be a tight squeeze.
Now the children were asleep, and Maddy made one last check on the stranger. He’d barely moved. She changed into her nightgown in front of the fire, then hurried upstairs.
Cold draughts lifted goose bumps on her skin as she stood beside the bed where her little sisters slept. Earlier, she’d thought it would be a squeeze, but possible. Now, she wasn’t so sure.
Children didn’t sleep in straight lines. They sprawled—Jane and Susan on the outside, little Lucy in the middle. There was very little room.
But with a strange man in her bed, there wasn’t any choice. Maddy slipped in beside Susan, where there was the most space. She wriggled and pushed and the little girls grumbled in their sleep. She had one leg in when Jane woke, with a half scream.
“Jane, what is it?”
Jane, grasping the bedclothes in fright, said in sleepy confusion, “I don’t know. I think I was about to fall out of bed. But I never fall out . . .”
“It’s all right,” Maddy assured her, getting out of the bed. “Go back to sleep.” She tucked them back in, kissed Jane good night again, and tiptoed downstairs. The boys’ bed was even smaller, there was no chance of her fitting in there. She’d have to sleep on the floor by the fire.
Two hours later, Maddy was still wide awake and getting crosser by the minute. She was freezing.
All that was left of the fire were a few pale coals. Fuel was so hard to come by she couldn’t afford to keep it burning all night. Besides, the woodpile was outside, and she’d freeze if she went out there. Flurries of sleet beat against the windows.
She’d made a bed of hessian sacks then wrapped herself in a patchwork quilt and two blankets. But the stone floor was icy and every draught in every crack in the old cottage seemed to find a way directly to her skin.
And all the time the steady, rhythmic breathing of the man in her bed taunted her. She could hear it in the lulls between the rain and wind. He was warm. She was half frozen. He was sleeping—it didn’t matter why. Broken head or not, he wasn’t lying awake, cold and tired and miserable and cross. She was.
He was unconscious, for goodness sake. Insensible. Oblivious. What harm could he do? She sat up, seized the patchwork quilt, rolled it into a thick snake, then stuffed it lengthways under the bedclothes of the bed, against the body of the sleeping stranger.
Her own little Hadrian’s Wall, to keep her safe from the barbarian. The unconscious barbarian with his beautiful mouth and dark bristles and his clean, well-kept hands.
He didn’t move or make a sound, just kept on breathing steadily. She smiled. Some barbarian.
She slid into the bed. Heaven. It was warm from his body. Nobody would ever know . . .
Maddy slept.
In the bleakest hour of the night, the man in the bed woke. He lay in the unfamiliar surroundings, trying to make sense of his situation. He had no idea where he was, no idea when he was, for that matter, except that it was nighttime. But what day, and what place—it was a mystery. His mind was a blank.
Not a blank, he corrected himself, more like a swirling fog, with people and events half glimpsed and then vanishing. Taunting him.
His whole body ached. His head felt as though it had been split open. He lifted a hand to it and frowned as his questing fingers discovered the bandage. He’d been injured then. How? And by whom? And been bandaged by . . .
A woman. At the heart of all the swirling thoughts and fleeting images, he knew there was a woman. With gentle hands and a soft voice. And the smell of . . .
He turned on his side and breathed in. He could scent her. Like a hound, he could scent that she was close.
He wasn’t alone.
Who was she that she shared his bed? He closed his eyes. So many questions. So few answers.
He didn’t care. She was there and that was enough. He moved closer and found something else in the bed. A long lump of cloth. Why?
He pulled it out and tossed it aside, then returned to the woman. She lay curled on her side, facing away from him, warm and soft. He slipped his arms around her and drew her close against him, curling his body to fit the curve of hers.
Her foot brushed against his leg. It was cold. He tucked her feet between his calves and felt them slowly warm.
The nape of her neck lay exposed on the pillow. He lowered his face to the soft skin and breathed in her fragrance.
It felt right. His hold on her tightened. She was his anchor, the one solid thing in a shifting sea of taunting ghosts. The questions hammering at the inside of his skull slowly faded.
He lay with his aching body curved against hers, his mouth just touching the fragile skin at the nape of her neck, breathing in the scent of her. Gradually the rhythm of his breathing slowed until it matched hers, and he slept.
Morning dreams were the nicest. In morning dreams, Maddy woke slowly, letting her deepest wishes run riot, spinning fantasies . . .
Her fantasy lover . . . Warm, strong . . .
Skin to skin with nothing between them. The heat of his body, the hard, relaxed power of it curled around her protectively . . . possessively. The warm weight of his arm . . . Legs entwined, his brawny, a little hairy, pressing her calve
s between his . . . His breath, matching hers, in . . . out . . . in . . . out.
She lay entwined with him in a soft, soft bed, sharing warmth, skin against skin, sharing dreams and plans for the day, after a splendid night of making love . . .
That part of the morning dreams were always a bit vague. She had only the haziest ideas of what making love entailed. From barnyards, she knew the mechanics and it didn’t appeal in the least. It looked ugly and brutal.
Mama said for men it was a necessity; for women, a duty to be endured and the pathway to endless, heartbreaking child-bearing. Which was even less appealing.
But from Grand-mère she knew it was a source of joy.
Grand-mère had discovered it late in life. She’d been widowed for fifteen years, with no thought of taking a lover or a husband until Raoul Dubois, a handsome peasant with broad shoulders and strong hands, had set her in his sights.
Maddy was thirteen and had witnessed the whole thing with amazed fascination.
To Grand-mère’s embarrassment, Raoul had pursued her relentlessly, undeterred by her lack of encouragement, their difference in station, or even the difference in ages—all of which Grand-mère used to try to drive him off.
Raoul would simply shrug those big broad shoulders of his. And Grand-mère would eye them, sigh, then renew her defense. Her increasingly halfhearted defense.
“Non! It’s unthinkable! You are a woodcutter, and I—”
“There was a revolution, remember? In France now we are all equal.” His grin was ironic; he knew, everyone knew, that the class differences were the same as they’d ever been.
“My father would roll in his grave.”
Raoul shrugged. “Fathers roll. It is their fate.”
“But I’m years older than you!” Grand-mère would argue. “It’s inconceivable!”
Grand-mère was born in the same year as the poor, martyred queen, Marie Antoinette, of whom they must never speak. In ’93, the queen had been cruelly guillotined. She’d been eight and thirty, which made Grand-mère well past fifty.
