Those days were gone. Now her days were filled with solitude. Best not to dwell on something which would only intensify her lonesomeness.
She picked up the axe she kept inside. One never knew when a being might come to her door. Best not to leave it outside, giving them a weapon to use against her.
Slipping to the corner of her dwelling, she scanned the trees, searching for any sign of movement. Satisfied no creature stirred, she made her way to the chopping block. The small pile of brush and tree limbs she’d gathered last week had dwindled. She’d need to gather more, soon. The sun heated the ground during the daylight, but at night the air grew chilly. Only a meager amount of wood was used for cooking, for quite often she had nothing to put in her pot.
Dragging a limb, she hoisted a branch upon the block. She lifted the axe and brought the blade down with a thud, splintering wood. Again and again she wielded the blade. After some time, she brushed a stray curl behind her ear and gave a satisfied smile. The pile of timber should last her a few days.
She carried her axe back inside and checked on her patient. Asleep. The rise and fall of his chest indicated he still breathed. She padded to her wash bowl and splashed in cold water. Another item she needed to replenish. Best go now.
Sweat ran in rivulets down her back. Her mother’s words rang in her ear. A lady does not sweat.
Well, this one did. A trek to the lake would no doubt produce more.
She plucked her husband’s knife from the wood box and stuck it in the band of her breeches. Grasping a pail, she headed out the door.
Mindful of her surroundings, she noted the distance with every step. Even though she’d grown accustomed to the country, lack of awareness risked mistakes. Miscalculations presumed doom. Being alone, she could not afford to be careless. Most of the animals kept to themselves, but she steered clear just in case.
When she reached the water’s edge, she lowered her bucket. How nice it would be to take a dip and refresh her sweltering body. How unfair the cool water beckoned, and she stood here roasting. The more she thought about it, the more oppressive the scorching heat grew. Reckless yearning battled within her. She searched every direction. Throwing caution to the wind, she quickly shed her wilting clothes and skipped in.
Cold shock impaled her. She kicked her feet hoping to generate some warmth. Closer to the surface, the stream held less of a chill. Her body temperature adjusted quickly. Soon she reclined on her back and enjoyed the swirl saturating her limbs. Sun warmed her face. Water kneaded her muscles making her body weightless. Caught up in the moment, she allowed precious minutes to slip by unheeded.
When she stepped onto the grass, a movement caught her eye. She froze. A snake suddenly appeared next to her clothing. Her knife lay in the pile. No matter how many times she’d been careful, she let down her guard today. Logic divulged no benefit in retracing her steps back to the stream. A snake could swim far faster than she. The creature would swiftly overtake her. She’d drown and her body would be found naked in the grass. What was she to do?
Blood drained from her face. She hoped she wouldn’t retch. She dare not move a muscle. She closed her eyes and prepared to meet her maker. A perfect time to renew her faith.
Arrow prayers. Short prayers sent to heaven in a spearing fashion. Growing up, she’d launched a number of those.
Dear Lord. Blessed be thy name. I beg your forgiveness in forsaking your name. It was not you who brought me here. My own foolish choices landed me in this country. But it was you who gave me the strength to go on after my husband’s death.
If it be thy will, restore me in your grace. When I feel the snake’s bite, help me to be strong once again. When the poison takes the breath from my lungs, I ask you will allow me peace. Peace and joy of knowing you will accept me in your loving arms. Comfort in knowing you will grant me a place in your kingdom.
A single tear coursed down her cheek. Who knew it would come to this? When she fashioned the end, she never envisioned the embarrassment of someone finding her body bereft of clothing. She choked on a sob, desperately swallowing. Not allowing a sound to escape from her lips. Any sudden movement or gasp would make the creature strike sooner.
Mother. Father. They would never know what happened to their daughter. At least they would be saved the disgrace of how she died. Or how she’d be found.
The shiver that struck her body derived from a mixture of shame, cold and dread. Her thin shoulders drooped in misery.
Seconds ticked by. The longest seconds of her life.
Reluctantly, she opened her eyes to slits. Seemingly uninterested, the slimy form slithered away. When he’d gone completely from her sight, she dropped to the ground. Tears spilled from her eyes while gulping sobs tore from her chest.
Chapter 5
He was dead.
He had to be. For serenity enclosed him. Fresh air cloaked him. A cloud of softness wrapped him. Comfort would mean he’d gone to heaven, when he had been destined for hell. Slowly, Stephen became aware of soreness, then stinging, then blinding pain. Sure signs of hell.
The lilting voice of an angel drew him to an unbelievable place of calm. The honeyed sound soothed his mind to a state of ease. Alleviating his anxiety. Diminishing his pain. The most enchanting dream he’d ever held.
He opened his eyes with excruciating sluggishness. The first glimpse of light splintered his skull with a sharp stabbing. He slammed his eyes closed with a long groan. He’d been denied sunlight for so long, he thought never to see the light of day again.
His insides still stuck to his backbone. He breathed as deeply as his broken ribs allowed, then grounded his teeth over the agonizing ache. Slashing pain shot through his jaw stirring more memories. Oh yes. That had been broken too.
A bed? He took a moment to grasp his surroundings. Unfamiliar hands. Gentle hands. He thought he’d felt movement at one time, dreamed he was in a wagon.
Flashes of torture penetrated his skull—men with curved knives and jeweled handles, shackles, a pit for a prison cell. He struggled with the bonds squeezing him when the sweetest sound pulled him from the dark fog. Reassuring hands swabbed a wet cloth over his feverish skin and coaxed him to swallow. Blessed relief to his parched lips. Now he lolled in a bed.
With a sense of unease he pondered his situation, wondering what state of play brought him to this consequence. He inhaled, taking in pleasant air. No stench. No slimy creatures. Where was he? At this point he didn’t care. As long as he no longer suffered the Raj’s torture.
Slowly, and more cautious this time, he lifted one lid to a narrow slit. The swelling around his eye had gone down considerably. He glanced down to find a hand-sewn quilt, like the ones his mother made. Definitely a bed. Which also resembled his English heritage. Had he somehow been transported back to England?
He rolled his head against the pillow’s softness. His mind wandered restlessly through a mirage of shadows. His ribs were on fire. He searched the room. A window stood open and the thin covering wavered as if the wind blew gently to make it dance. He saw a crude piece of furniture beyond the bed with items scattered about. Then, to the right was a door. He wondered who was on the other side. Friend or adversary? He closed his eyes for a moment, seeking relief. Ignoring the pain in his skull, he turned his head to the right and saw the delicate creature in his dream. An angel of mercy, with dark hair falling about her shoulders. Long sweeping lashes brushed velvety cheeks. Instant awareness surged through his body. At least the devils hadn’t killed that part of him.
On the heels of that thought, he wondered if she were a maid or the wife of some possessive husband. If she were his wife—perish the thought—he would never leave her alone in any room with a strange man, incapacitated or no. Especially not in close proximity of a bed.
And he was naked. Bare as a new baby’s bottom.
He studied the sleepin
g woman. How long had she slept in that chair? Was this the only bed? How long had he been here? Where the deuced hell was he? When he drew an agitated breath, his ribs reminded him they had not yet healed. He glanced down at the bindings covering his chest. Running his hand down his torso and onto his thigh he found more compresses. His left thigh burned like the very devil. He wiggled his toes and found his ankles twice their normal size. More bandages.
How low the mighty have fallen. He hated weakness. He hated his loss of time. While he’d been unconscious, any number of things could have happened, and he’d had no control of the events. Huh. Face it. He’d had no control of anything for a long time.
The bed’s softness drew him like a flower drew a bee to its pollen. He relaxed in comfort and clean linen. He turned his head to the side and sniffed. Hmm. He smelled better too. Relying on intuition, he calmed. Things had taken a definite turn for the better. He needed rest for now. Take this time to regain his strength. When the time came, he would figure out his location and circumstance. Couldn’t be too bad. Not if he’d traded the Rajput prince for a guardian angel.
Jennifer jerked awake. She sat straight in the chair and glanced at the man’s still form. Something woke her. She thought she’d heard a noise. Her ears strained listening for any sound. Nothing. Maybe just her imagination.
While one hand rubbed the bones in her neck, she placed the other at her waist and arched her spine. Good Lord, sleeping on the floor would hold more comfort. The kinks in her back were many. She dragged herself up and padded to the main room. The fire had died, so she added more wood, stoked the fire, and set the kettle for heating water. She performed her morning duties, then gathered some broth which had become her routine. She took a hunk of bread, also. If her patient couldn’t chew, she would sop small bits in the broth for him to swallow.
Entering the smaller room, she placed the bowl on the stand, then stood beside the bed looking down at him. Lying on his back he’d flung one arm over his forehead. The cover had slipped to his waist. Russet, springing curls covered his chest and arms. So far, the special herbs purged the infection. Scooting a chair closer, she lifted the blanket to the side, keeping his lower middle hidden. Purple, green and blue splotches covered his torso. She wondered if his ribs still pained him in his sleep.
She ran her hand down his thigh, tracing the jagged line generating new red skin. The blanket slightly moved. The area around the lower middle of him formed a lump. Quite a large lump. She knew what a man wanted when that part of him grew big like that. Her eyes darted to his face finding his lids still closed. Her shoulders sagged in relief. She shouldn’t be thinking about his manhood. But she had been married. She knew what went on in the bedchamber. Thinking about this man in that way sharpened her unsettling awareness.
Her hand hovered over him. This was absurd. She was just about to recover his leg when a rough, callused hand grabbed hers.
Her gaze flew to his in shock. Green sparkling eyes pierced hers. A wicked smile graced his full lips.
Her stomach lurched.
“I don’t mind so much the direction of your hand, my lovely angel, but am I to be at the mercy of a fallen angel?”
His raspy voice knocked the breath right out of her lungs.
“Might I know your name while you have your way with me?”
“I intended no such thing,” she gasped.
His eyes creased at the corners and he gave a slight chuckle.
“I do not find the situation as amusing as you. I don’t know how you can joke after what you’ve been through.”
“Ah, and you know what I’ve been through?” His words muffled from the bandage tied firmly under his jaw.
“Well no, not exactly.” She bit her lip. “I do know someone horrible has done this to you.”
The humor left his face abruptly.
“You must have a strong will to live, for your injuries were severe. We thought you would die.”
“We?”
“The people who brought you here.”
“Where exactly is here?”
Her eyes darted where his fingers held her arm.
“I’m sorry.” He let go. “I’m not used to kind words or caring hands.”
She swallowed avoiding the image his words brought.
“What is your name?”
“Jennifer.”
“A beautiful name for a beautiful woman.” The cocky grin was back. “Might I trouble you for a drink of water?”
Good Lord. Her surprise, and his husky voice, not to mention his tropical sea green eyes, had addled her wits. She twisted to get the bowl of soup.
“Is that a cup of coffee I spy?”
Hesitating, she grasped the cup instead. “It’s tea.”
“Tea?” His bushy brows rose to a slant.
“Yes. I keep a supply on hand.” She held the cup forward, with a spoon to his lips.
“I can sit up.”
“No!” She soothed her agitation and lowered her voice. “I spent a lot of sleepless hours sewing you back together. I don’t want you to reopen your wounds.”
The corner of his mouth lifted in a masculine grin sending heat clear down to her toes. His eyes held the look of a lion that had just cornered a deer.
“So you sewed me back together, did ya? I’m mighty grateful.”
“Here. Take some of this.” She spoon-fed him the warm tea.
“Mmm. Good ole English tea. You haven’t told me where I am.”
“And you haven’t told me your name.”
“Stephen. Stephen Radbourn.”
He studied her as he said his name. With her gaze on the cup, she gave no reaction. Slim delicate fingers, strong in their ministrations. He’d dreamed of soft hands. Her hands. On his skin.
She brought the spoon to his lips again, and when he didn’t immediately open, her gaze locked with his. The most beautiful lavender eyes stared back at him. Their color reminded him of the morning hours just before sunrise. When the sun’s rays streaked above the ocean’s horizon announcing the coming of a new day. Trepidation filled their impeccable depth.
Fear? Worry?
No.
Uncertainty.
“You have me at a disadvantage.” He lifted his good arm drawing attention to his person. “At my present state, I can do you no harm. Even if I were completely whole, I would not harm a hair on your lovely head.” He gave her a smile that had won many a fair maiden in many ports. And his chest lifted when she smiled in return.
“Drink.”
At the moment, the clear liquid tasted better than any ale in any pub. Although the cloth tied around his head impaired the opening of his mouth.
“How long will I have to wear this blasted thing?” His voice unrecognizable to his own ears, he managed to coax words between his teeth.
“Your jaw is broken. It will be weeks before it is entirely healed.”
“So I have to sit here and let you spoon-feed me,” he asked, his voice curt with anger.
“Unless you’d rather go hungry.”
The imp. Days of her attendance sounded divine to him. It just might be worth the confinement to see her rousing smile. She switched the cup for a bowl. Then added a few bits of bread, and offered him a bite.
The bread dissolved in his mouth. “This is good.”
“I’m sorry I must give you small amounts.”
“Lately, I’ve consumed much smaller portions.”
“I’d say hardly no portions. The way your clothes hung on you . . .” Her face flushed and she quickly dropped her head.
He knew what she was thinking. He wondered if she blushed so prettily when she removed the strips of cloth from his body. He swallowed the chuckle in his throat.
“We’ll see what you have to say once
I regain my appetite. I’m a big man with a big stomach. I’ll eat you out of house and home.”
“You’ve got a long way to go.” She brought the spoon to his lips.
As she leaned nearer, he inhaled. Other than the stew, he whiffed no trace of perfume. No scent of woman, other than clean and fresh. Which he liked.
“Where are the others?”
“Others?”
“Earlier you said we.”
“Oh. You were brought to my door and left. There is no one else here but you and me.”
He gave a soft whistle through his teeth. It took a lot of guts for a woman to admit to a man she didn’t know, she lived alone. “This is your house?”
She nodded.
“Where is here?”
She held the spoon in midair. He crooked his head to the side. “I think my eyes are bigger than my stomach these days.”
She set the bowl on the table beside her and stood. He watched as she rubbed her upper arms and paced to the doorway. He thought she would leave without answering. She turned.
“Who are you?”
“I told you my name. I captain a ship. Mostly, I live on the sea.”
“You’re English.”
“So are you.” Her eyes flashed with surprise. “Your voice. I recognize my homeland.”
“You are on the Malay Peninsula.”
“Then I’m still in India.” Damn. So much for wishing he’d somehow managed to get home.
“Y . . . yes. Did you sail here? To India, I mean?”
The True One (One and Only Series Book 2) Page 5
