by Lynsay Sands
“I wish I had not been,” he assured her, concern eating at him as her shoulders sagged and her head drooped. Her eyes had grown sleepier and sleepier for the past several minutes, and she looked quite done-in now.
“The draft I gave you is starting to take effect,” Robert commented guiltily.
“Yes.” Maggie roused herself enough to nod and say, “I should go home and . . .” She paused, a frown plucking at her brow as it occurred to her to wonder if she had a home anymore. She had no idea how much damage the fire had done.
“The servants are preparing a room for you here,” Lady Barlow informed her.
Maggie glanced over with surprise. “But my staff—”
“I had Meeks send one of the footmen to wait for and collect your servants. When they return from the fair, they too will stay here tonight. If necessary, we can make alternate arrangements on the morrow, after we see what is what.”
Maggie felt gratitude rush over her at the matron’s firm announcement. Such decisions were quite beyond her at the moment; she was more than grateful to leave them up to someone else. It was nice not to be the responsible one for a change. She had missed that since Gerald’s death. Responsibility could be a heavy weight when one was alone.
“I shall just go see if your room is ready; then James can carry you up.”
“There is no need. I am sure I can walk,” Maggie protested.
“But why bother when I am here and can carry you?” James asked gently as his aunt left the room.
“James is right, you should save your strength for mending,” Lord Mullin concurred, getting to his feet. “And I suppose I should let you all be and head home.”
“No, don’t leave, Robert,” James said. “Johnstone should be returning shortly, and we are going to discuss . . . things. I’d appreciate your input.”
The other man nodded and sank back in his seat.
Maggie knew she was the “things” James had alluded to; she hadn’t missed the way his glance had dropped meaningfully to her as he’d said it. She supposed he wished to discuss how to find and capture the scar-faced man, but she remained silent, her gaze dropping to where her fingers were entwined with his. She was vaguely surprised at the sight, unsure when she had taken his hand, or if he had taken hers. She watched as his thumb brushed over her knuckles. Oddly, she felt safe and comforted.
“The room is all ready,” Lady Barlow announced, returning.
Determined to get there on her own, Maggie quickly gained her feet, then paused, swallowing as bile rose in her throat. The room spun. She made no protest when James scooped her into his arms; instead she caught her arms around his neck and leaned her head wearily against his shoulders, breathing in the scent of him as he followed his aunt out into the hall.
Maggie stayed silent as he carried her up the stairs to the second level, the feel of his strong encircling arms reminding her of the intimacies they had shared that day in the country. Remembering his arms around her then, his hands moving cleverly over her body, his lips warm and demanding on hers . . .
Reaching the top of the stairs, James glanced down, his face lowering as he did, so that their lips were a bare breath away. For one brief moment, Maggie thought he might kiss her. She felt her heart speed up a bit, some of the weariness dropping away from her, but then he lifted his head again and nodded at a comment from his aunt.
Her breath coming out on a small sigh, Maggie turned to see that they had arrived. Lady Barlow was holding the door open for James to carry her into the room that was to be hers. He crossed the room to the bed—pausing as his aunt rushed forward to pull the coverlets back—then bent to set her gently down on its soft surface. The moment he released her and stepped away, Maggie missed his arms around her.
“Out you go, James. Go talk with Robert,” Lady Barlow ordered as he straightened. Lord Ramsey left the room without protest, pulling the door closed behind him. She turned back to Maggie and smiled. “He thinks I am put out with him and is walking softly now, else he would have resisted leaving.”
“Why would he think you are angry at him?” Maggie asked curiously.
The older woman moved to the bedside and urged her to sit so that she could set to work at unfastening the back of her dress.
“Your buttons are mismatched,” she announced with a chuckle, undoing them quickly. She helped Maggie to her feet to remove the gown, then answered her question. “He thinks I am angry about the faux tea party. I just learned of it tonight.”
“You do not sound very angry with him,” Maggie said when Lady Barlow paused to consider her in her shift. It had gone undamaged in the fire, but carried the distinct odor of smoke. Both women wrinkled their noses.
“I am not. In fact, I am delighted,” Lady Barlow admitted, then she said, “I think we had best remove your shift as well, my dear. That smoky smell might give you nightmares.”
When Maggie nodded in agreement, James’s aunt helped her remove that last article. The older woman clucked in dismay as the various bruises Maggie had gained during her struggle were revealed. While her face had taken the worst damage, her hip was not far behind, and there were several other contusions across her body. The moment the shift was gone, Maggie slid into the bed, self-consciously pulling the sheets up to cover herself.
“Wait here, I shall fetch you something to wear,” Lady Barlow began, then paused at Maggie’s weary face and hesitated, before saying, “Well, perhaps you can do without tonight.”
Maggie felt relief course through her. She didn’t think she had the energy to don anything. She was having difficulty even keeping her eyes open. She watched the caring woman bustle about, collecting the discarded clothes, then asked the question that had been nagging her for several moments: “Why are you delighted that James tricked me into coming to tea?”
“Because I want grand-babies.” Lord Ramsey’s aunt frowned then added, “I mean grand-nieces and nephews.”
Maggie stared at the woman, unsure what one thing had to do with the other. None of this was making sense to her, but she was far too weary to figure it out. She closed her aching eyes.
“My room is just next door,” the older woman said quietly as she prepared to leave. “Just call out if you need anything.”
“Thank you,” Maggie whispered on a yawn.
“You are very welcome, dear. Sleep well.”
Maggie didn’t answer. She was already asleep.
It was an extremely rough night. Plagued by nightmares of being beaten and burned alive, Maggie struggled toward consciousness several times, only to relax as she dreamed she was held in strong, protective arms, and that James was murmuring comforting words to her.
A soft weeping drew her out of sleep the following morning. Opening her eyes slowly, she peered around the soothing green room she’d slept in until she spotted the source of the misery. Her maid Mary sat in a chair by the bedside. Obviously Lady Barlow’s footman had brought her staff last night as promised, Maggie realized. But that didn’t explain why the girl was sobbing.
Concern overtaking her, Maggie struggled to sit up, drawing the girl’s attention. “Oh, m’lady, ye should rest,” Mary cried, leaping from her seat at once and trying to force her mistress back down.
“Nay, let me up. What is the matter? Was someone hurt? James? Lady Barlow? Banks?” She started to run through the names of everyone on her staff, but Mary shook her head for each.
“Nay, m’lady. Everyone’s fine. Except for you, o’course,” she added, biting her lip and turning away.
Frowning in confusion, Maggie tried to understand what had the girl crying, then nearly kicked herself when she realized it must surely be the town house itself. It had been home to all of Maggie’s servants too, of course, and every last possession they had had been destroyed in the fire along with her own. In fact, she realized as she noticed Mary wearing the same gown she’d donned for the fair yesterday, they had been left with only the clothes on their backs.
“Do not worry, Mary. Ther
e is no need to cry. I shall see that your clothes are replaced. In fact, you can all go today and purchase what you need. Just have everything put on my account.”
“Thank ye, m’lady, but that isn’t why I was crying.”
“Then why are you crying?” she asked in exasperation.
The girl hesitated, her eyes returning reluctantly to Maggie’s face. Then she cried mournfully, “Oh, m’lady, yer beautiful face!”
Fear touching her at the girl’s horrified expression, Maggie struggled out of bed. Stumbling to the dressing table, she let a gasp slip from her lips as she saw herself. The entire right side of her face was a swollen mess of mottled red, black, and blue. If the left side of her face were not nearly untouched, she wasn’t sure if she would have recognized herself. Her own eyes brimming with tears, she sank to sit on the dressing table chair.
She stared at herself for several minutes, her hands raising to touch her injured face, then Mary stepped up behind her holding out a robe. “Lady Barlow sent this up for you to use.”
Maggie met the maid’s reflected gaze in the mirror as she slipped the robe on. Her expression was pitying, her eyes full of sympathetic tears. The girl was about to burst into loud sobs again, Maggie realized and stiffened her spine.
“Well, that shall teach me to use my face for a club when next I fight off an attacker,” she said with determined cheer. All it managed to do was cause Mary to lift the skirt of her apron to cry into it. Heaving herself up from the bench, Maggie moved to her side. She patted the girl’s shoulder soothingly. “Oh, Mary, do not cry. It will heal in time.”
For a moment, Maggie thought her words had worked. Mary paused and lifted wide eyes to her, but then she wailed, “Oh, m’lady, ye’re so brave!” Then she set to sobbing even harder.
Maggie was still trying to soothe the girl a few moments later when the door opened and Joan and Nora entered carting a chest between them. Their sister’s sobs brought them to an immediate halt, and they both stared with alarm.
“What’s the matter with . . .” Nora paused mid-question as she spotted Maggie’s face. Her eyes widened in horror, then, and she dropped her end of the chest with a thump. “Gor!”
“Blimey, he pummeled ye right ugly,” Joan said as she, too, caught sight of her mistress. Letting the other end of the chest drop to the floor as well, she followed her sister over to get a better look.
Maggie shifted with irritation. There was just some bruising and swelling. It wasn’t as if she were permanently disfigured. They were all overreacting terribly, she thought impatiently.
A rustling made all four women glance around.
“Is there something wrong, Banks?” Maggie asked with concern when she spotted the old retainer dithering in the doorway.
“No, my lady. I just thought to have a word with you . . . If you have a moment?”
“Of course.” She glanced at the three maids who promptly started for the door. Maggie called out, “Collect the others together please, Mary. I should think the sooner you get the trip to the shops out of the way, the better.”
“Aye, m’lady,” the girl answered as she followed her sisters into the hall.
Banks waited until their voices had faded before crossing the room toward Maggie. “I wished . . .” He paused, wincing as he got near enough for his old eyes to focus on her brutalized face. Then, he drew himself up and said, “I wished to apologize.”
“Apologize?” Maggie asked with confusion. “Whatever could you have to apologize for?”
“You. Your face.” The butler’s expression was tragic. “Your beautiful town house. All your—”
“Banks,” Maggie interrupted gently, closing the last few feet between them to clasp his hands. “You have nothing for which to apologize. It is hardly your fault that someone broke in and—”
“But it is!” he protested. “I never should have left you alone. The only thing Master Gerald asked of me before he went bravely off to war was that I look after you, and—”
“You, too?” Maggie exclaimed, bringing confusion to the butler’s wizened face. “Good Lord, Gerald put everyone in charge of me. He must have thought me a complete ninny . . . or dicked in the nob.”
“My lady! Nay!” Banks cried. “Master Gerald did not think you crazy. He loved you and wished the best for you.” The man’s shoulders slumped, then he forced them back up. “I failed him, and I failed you. But I vow to you here and now, I shall not fail either of you again. I shall look after you as I promised.”
“Banks,” she began, torn between affection and concern. “I do not—”
“Maggie?”
Margaret stiffened at that voice. Banks stood between her and the door, but she didn’t need to see James to know it was him; she would recognize that voice anywhere. Her stillness ended when Banks started to turn to face the door. Recalling Mary, Joan, Nora, and even Banks’s reaction to the sight of her face, she turned the opposite way, instinctively hiding her hideous bruises.
“Maggie?” She could hear the concern in his voice as Lord Ramsey drew nearer, and found herself glancing around in a panicky fashion, seeking an escape. Her earlier thoughts that it was “just bruising” and that it would “mend with time” flew out the window at the idea of him seeing her. But there was nowhere to hide, even were there time to do so. Trapped, she dropped her head, letting her hair drape down to obscure her face, and waited.
Banks excused himself, and Maggie heard the soft rustle of clothing as he left the room. The quiet click of the door being pulled closed told Maggie that she and James were alone. Then, he touched her shoulder, urging her to turn.
“Are you all right?” he asked when she kept her head bowed. “I know you had some nasty nightmares.”
Maggie glanced up, her eyes wide. “You know . . . You mean I wasn’t dreaming?” she asked in surprise.
Confusion covered his handsome face. “About what?”
“I was having nightmares, but I also dreamed that you were holding me,” she admitted, before she could think better of it.
He smiled at her words. “Yes. For a little while. It seemed to soothe you.”
She gave a shy nod, then stiffened as she realized he could see her face. She whirled away, ducking her head again. “Was there something you wanted?” she asked.
He was silent for a moment, then his feet came into view as he moved around to stand in front of her. “There is no reason to hide,” he said quietly, forcing her face up with one finger.
“I look like a monster,” she complained, trying to turn her back to him again. “Just the sight of me had Mary in tears.”
“You do look pretty bad,” he agreed honestly. When she lifted her face to glare at him for such an unchivalrous comment, she found his eyes twinkling.
“It will heal, Maggie,” he assured her, then leaned forward to press a tender kiss to the corner of her lips.
Maggie inhaled, breathing in the scent of him as his lips brushed hers. The smell and taste of this man were familiar and exciting and took her right back to their passionate moments in the library at Ramsey. It seemed like a century had passed since then, and Maggie couldn’t hold back a moan of protest when he started to draw away. His mouth returned at once, and she could feel his smile before his tongue slid out to lave her lips.
Maggie moved closer, her arms creeping around James’s neck as his slid around her waist. He pressed her tight against him until there was no space between their bodies, then he drove his tongue into the moist depths of her mouth. Pleasure rippled through her, and Maggie groaned. All her aches and pains, all her worries and fears dropped away. She felt safe and warm. She felt as if she had come home. Then he eased their embrace so that his hands could slip between them. He undid her robe with one tug at the sash and eased it open, then paused.
“Oh, Maggie,” he breathed, and the regret in his voice made her peer down. She had been so horrified at the sight of her face, she had not even noticed her other bruises. Now she gazed at herself with amazeme
nt. There was one on the side of one breast, another on her ribs, and then a rather nasty one on her hip. There were more contusions on her legs, but Maggie was suddenly self-conscious standing there revealed and tried to draw her robe closed.
James caught her hands to stop her and bent to give her another kiss. It was unlike the ones they had shared in his library. Where those had been carnal, this one was sweet, slow and gentle; his lips and tongue were soothing her rather than invasive. The kiss stirred a lazy desire and sent a sluggish warmth flowing through her.
Maggie sighed into his mouth and relaxed in his embrace, then opened her eyes as his lips left hers. She watched his head duck, and caught her breath as he pressed a light kiss to the bruise on her injured breast—a feathery caress she barely felt as his hand closed over the other. Biting her lip, she watched him palm then squeeze that breast before shifting his hand to a more supportive hold as his mouth closed over her nipple.
“James,” she breathed as he drew the cinnamon-colored flesh into his mouth and suckled. He barely seemed to have started, when he stopped and moved down to brush his lips over the angry discoloration on her upper ribs. The caress began as light as a butterfly’s wings but ended with an erotic lick of the underside of her breast. Then James sank to his knees and his mouth whispered over the angry wound on her hip.
Maggie sighed again, then gasped when he moved his lips to the inner curve of her other hip. Her stomach jumped at the action, and she gripped the top of his head, as her legs went suddenly weak. His mouth moved to her stomach and he pressed a kiss there, his tongue delving briefly into her belly-button. He started to move lower, but his hands shifted to the back of her hips, and Maggie couldn’t keep from crying out in pain.
James’s head lifted at once, then he moved her robe aside and shifted on his knees to peer at her injury there. It was nearly as bad as her face, and she saw his sympathetic wince, then he stood, drew her robe closed and took her into his arms.
Holding her tenderly he said, “I am sorry. I didn’t mean to add to your pain.”
“You didn’t. Well, I mean, I know you didn’t,” Maggie sighed.
