by Lisa Kleypas
She would never forgive West Ravenel for depriving her of the last few minutes of Ethan’s life.
Moving like an old woman, she eased out of bed. Every muscle and joint was sore. Every inch of her skin hurt. She went into the connecting toilet room to make use of the facilities and wash her face, taking her time. There was no need to rush.
An unfamiliar dressing robe made of green flowered fabric had been laid out for her on a chair, with a pair of slippers on the floor. She had a vague memory of two housemaids helping her change into a nightgown and taking down her hair. Her clothes were nowhere in sight, and there wasn’t so much as a hairpin on the dresser. She wrapped the robe around her front and tied the drawstring at her waist. The slippers were too small for her feet.
She padded barefoot from the room, toward the chasm of grief that awaited. She would keep walking over the edge, into an endless fall. Ethan had blazed through her life and disappeared before she’d even fully come to comprehend all there was to mourn.
Sunlight pierced the windows and shot across the floors. The sounds of servants going about their daily tasks made her flinch. Now she understood why people shrouded the house in times of grief: any kind of stimulation was jarring.
Her footsteps slowed as she heard the sounds of conversation coming from the sickroom. West Ravenel, with his usual irreverence, was chatting casually with someone in a dead man’s room.
But before rage could assert itself, Garrett reached the doorway and saw a figure sitting upright on the bed. Her body went as taut as umbrella wire. One of her hands fumbled at the door frame to secure her balance.
Ethan.
The air exploded into sparks that showered into her eyes and filled her lungs. For a moment she couldn’t see, couldn’t breathe. Her blood rushed with wild fear and joy. Was it real? She couldn’t trust her own senses. Blindly she turned in West’s direction. She had to blink and blink before she could see him, and even then he was a watery blur. Her voice came out in a croak. “His fever broke and you didn’t wake me?”
“What would be the point? You needed sleep, and I knew he’d be no less alive in the morning.”
“You’ll be a damned sight less than alive by the time I’m through with you!” she cried.
West lifted his brows, looking smug. “Am I going to begin every day of your visit being showered by death threats from the two of you?”
“It seems likely,” Ethan said from the bed.
There was the sound of his voice, familiar and wry and lucid. Trembling, Garrett brought herself to face him, terrified he might disappear.
Ethan was sitting up, propped on pillows, clean-shaven and washed. He looked unreasonably normal, considering how close to death he’d been a few hours earlier. His gaze moved over her, taking in her unbound hair, the velvet dressing robe, the tight knots of her bare toes peeking from beneath the hem. His blue eyes, the farthest edge of sky, the darkest ocean depths, were filled with warmth, concern, tenderness . . . all for her . . . only for her.
She made her way to him as if she were wading through hip-deep water. Her legs would barely support her. When she reached him, he grasped her arm and gently tugged her closer until she was perched on the edge of the mattress. “Acushla.” His hand came up to cradle the side of her face, his thumb caressing the crest of her cheek. “Are you all right?”
“Am I . . .” Amazed that his first question was about her, Garrett felt herself begin to crumple like a ball of fragile paper.
Slowly Ethan drew her across his body, guiding her head against his good shoulder. To her self-disgust, she had broken into tears of utter relief, when she would have liked so much to muster a semblance of dignity. It didn’t help that Ethan had closed an arm around her and had begun to smooth her loose hair and murmur softly near her ear. “Aye, you’re in for a hard time of it now, love. You wanted me, and now you’ll have me.” The comfort left her as weak and exposed as a newborn thing.
“You’re holding me too close,” she said when she was able, trying to pull away from him. “I’ll cause a s-secondary hemorrhage—”
His arm tightened. “I’ll decide when you’re too close.” A gently exploring hand moved over her back. She melted against him while he crooned softly and cuddled her. Soothering.
“I feel superfluous now,” West announced from the doorway. “I suppose it’s time for my exit. But first, Doctor, you’ll probably want to know that the patient’s wound was dressed and the bandage changed this morning. Still no signs of suppuration. We gave him some barley water, which he refused, and then we tried toast water, which led to increasingly violent demands for actual toast, until we finally had to humor him. He also made us give him tea to wash it down with. I hope that won’t cause any problems.”
“Has he harmed you in any way?” Garrett asked in a muffled voice.
“No,” West replied, “but he threatened me with a spoon.”
“I was asking Ethan.”
A faint smile curved Ethan’s lips as he looked down at her, his fingers twining gently in her hair. “I’ve no complaints, save for the barley water.” He looked over her head at the man in the doorway. Although his tone wasn’t what anyone would have called affectionate, it contained a note of cautious friendliness. “Thank you, Ravenel. I’m sorry for the way I behaved when we met before.”
West shrugged casually. “There’s family for you: ‘more kin than kind.’”
The quote snared Ethan’s attention, the motion of his breathing pausing beneath Garrett’s head. “That’s from Hamlet, isn’t it? Do you have a copy of it here?”
“There’s a complete set of Shakespeare’s plays in the library,” West said, “including Hamlet. Why are you interested?”
“Jenkyn told me to read it. He said it was a mirror to a man’s soul.”
“God. No wonder I hate it.”
Garrett drew back to look at Ethan. He was pale and exhausted, the lines of his face set in a way that she knew meant he was in pain. “The only thing you’re going to do for the next week is lie still and rest,” she told him. “Reading Hamlet is too much excitement for you.”
“Excitement?” West repeated with a snort. “It’s a play about procrastination.”
“It’s a play about misogyny,” Garrett said. “Regardless, I’m giving Mr. Ransom an injection of morphine now, so he can sleep.”
“‘Good night, sweet prince,’” West said cheerfully, and left the room.
Ethan closed his hand over the shape of Garrett’s thigh through the folds of her robe and nightgown, preventing her from leaving the bed. “No morphine just yet,” he said. “I’ve been out of my head for days.”
He was pale and exhausted, his cheekbones standing out in sharp relief, his eyes shocking blue. He was beautiful. Alive and breathing, and hers. The familiar private energy was coursing between them again, the invisible connection she had never felt with anyone else.
“Ravenel told me some of what happened,” Ethan said, “but I want to hear the whole of it from you.”
“If he made me out to be an evil-tempered shrew,” she said, “I’m not sure I would disagree.”
“He said you were as valiant and wise as Athena. He has a high regard for you.”
“Does he?” That surprised Garrett. “I’ve never doubted myself more than I have these past few days. Nor been so afraid.” She stared at him anxiously. “After you heal from the surgery, you may be left with slightly less strength and range of motion on that side. You’ll still be more fit than the average man. But it may take months before you stop feeling stabs of pain when you lift your arm. I know you’re not accustomed to any kind of vulnerability. If you should end up in a fight, and someone strikes the site of the wound—”
“I’ll be careful.” With a wry twist of his mouth, Ethan added, “The devil knows I won’t be seeking out any fights.”
“We’ll have to stay here until you’re stronger. You can’t go anywhere for at least a month.”
“I can’t wait that long
,” he said quietly.
They both fell silent, aware of all they had yet to discuss, but agreeing tacitly that it could be set aside until later.
Tentatively Garrett slipped her hand into the front opening of Ethan’s nightshirt to make certain the bandage was secure. He covered her hand with his, trapping it against his warm, lightly furred chest. The silky-coarse hair, to which she’d given no notice during his fever, now felt acutely intimate as it brushed her knuckles, awakening a flurry of butterfly-tickles in her stomach. His free hand cupped the back of her head and drew her toward him.
Mindful of his condition, Garrett kept the kiss careful and light. His lips were dry, hot, but not from fever . . . it was the clean, healthy male warmth she remembered so well. She couldn’t help opening to the softly urgent pressure, detecting the hint of sugared tea and the beguiling taste of him . . . oh God, she’d never thought to have it again. His mouth slanted more firmly over hers, dark erotic pleasure wrapping around her senses like velvet. She tried to end the kiss, but his arms wouldn’t loosen, and she didn’t dare risk hurting him by pushing at his chest. One minute swooned into another, while his lips caught at hers with soft, seductive bites.
Flustered, Garrett twisted her mouth away long enough to gasp, “For heaven’s sake, you were near death a matter of hours ago.”
His lashes half lowered as he stared at the base of her throat, where a frenetic pulse beat. A leisurely fingertip investigated the slight hollow and stroked tenderly. “I’m on a bed with you. I’d have to be dead not to rouse to that.”
Garrett darted a quick glance at the partially opened doorway, mindful that a passing servant might see them. “Raising your blood pressure could literally kill you. For the sake of your health, any and all sexual expenditures are forbidden.”
Chapter 20
It took Ethan approximately a fortnight to seduce her.
Garrett had written out a precise schedule for his recovery. On the first day, he would be allowed to sit up in bed, propped on pillows. On the fourth or fifth day, he could leave the bed and sit in a chair for an hour, once in the morning and once in the afternoon. It would take a month, she informed him, before he could walk about the house unassisted.
The two of them were, for the most part, left to their own devices, as West was occupied with problems that had gone unaddressed during his stay in London. He was busy with tenants and their land improvements, as well as supervising the use of some newly purchased machinery for haymaking. Usually he left the house at sunrise and didn’t return until dinner.
In the absence of Garrett’s usual responsibilities, there was more leisure time to fill than she could remember having even in childhood. She spent nearly every minute with Ethan, who was recovering at an astonishing rate. His wound was healing and closing without any trace of infection, and his appetite had returned in full measure. The delicate invalid offerings sent up from the kitchen—beef tea, blancmange, jellies, and puddings—had been roundly rejected in favor of regular food.
Ethan slept a great deal at first, especially since the opiates Garrett administered for pain made him drowsy and relaxed. During the hours he was awake, she sat by his bedside reading Hamlet aloud, as well as the most recent editions of the Times and the Police Gazette. Garrett found herself bustling about in a state of barely contained joy, doing small things for him, straightening the covers, monitoring everything he ate and drank, measuring out tonic in neat little cups. Sometimes she sat at the bedside just to watch him sleep. She couldn’t help it—after having nearly lost him, she took intense satisfaction in having him safely in bed, clean and comfortable and well-nourished.
Ethan must have found her attentions smothering—any man would have—but he never said a word. Often she caught him watching her with a faint smile as she busied herself with little tasks—reorganizing her supplies, rolling freshly sterilized bandages, misting carbolic spray around the room. He seemed to understand how much she relished—needed—the feeling of having everything under control.
During the second week, however, Ethan became so restless from confinement that Garrett reluctantly allowed him to leave the bed and sit outside on a small second-floor terrace overlooking the vast estate gardens. With his shirt removed and his wound lightly covered with gauze, he lounged like a tiger, dozing and stretching in the sun. Garrett was amused to notice a few of the housemaids gathering at an upstairs parlor window that afforded a view of the private terrace, until Mrs. Church came to shoo them away. One could hardly blame them for wanting a glimpse of the half-dressed Ethan, with his dark good looks and superb physical build.
As one lazy sun-washed day followed another, Garrett was forced to accommodate the relaxed pace at Eversby Priory. There was no other choice. Time moved at a different pace here, where the manor’s thick walls had once housed no less than a dozen monks, and the fireplaces in the common rooms were large enough to stand in. The clamor of locomotives on railway tracks, omnipresent in London, was rarely heard. Instead there was the sound of chiffchaffs and warblers in the hedgerows, the chiseling of woodpeckers in the nearby forest, and the whickers of farm horses. Distant bursts of hammering and sawing could be heard as carpenters and craftsmen worked on the south façade of the house, but that was a far cry from the tumult of London’s public construction works.
There were two daily mealtimes at Eversby Priory: a hearty breakfast and a hedonistic dinner. In between, an artful miscellany of leftovers was arranged in a sideboard buffet. There was no end of cream, butter, and cheese made from summer grass milk. Juicy, tender bacon and smoked ham were served at nearly every meal, either on their own or chopped into salads and savory dishes. There were always abundant vegetables from the kitchen garden, and ripe fruit from the orchards. Accustomed as Garrett was to the quick and Spartan fare at home, she had to force herself to eat slowly and linger at the table. In the absence of any schedule or responsibilities, there was no need to rush.
While Ethan slept in the afternoons, Garrett fell into the habit of taking a daily walk through the estate’s formal gardens. The summer-flowering beds had been beautifully maintained but intentionally left just a bit disheveled, lending offhand charm to the otherwise disciplined design.
There was something about being in a garden that made thinking easier. Not just regular thinking, but the kind that went a few layers down. This, she mused on her walk one day, was why Havelock had advised her to go on holiday.
As she passed a bronze fountain of frolicking cherubs, and a bed of chrysanthemums with curled and tangled white blossoms, she recalled something else Havelock had said on that occasion: “Our existence, even our intellect, hangs upon love—without it, we would be no more than stock and stones.”
Now she had done both things he’d advised: gone on holiday—although it certainly hadn’t started that way—and found someone to love.
How extraordinary this all was. She had spent most of her life running from the guilt of having caused her mother’s death, never slowing enough to notice or care what she might be missing. This was the one thing she’d never bargained for. Love had appeared mysteriously, taking root like wild violets growing in the cracks of city pavement.
Havelock would probably caution her that she hadn’t known Ethan long enough to be sure of him, or of her own feelings. Most people would say it had happened too fast. But there were a few things about Ethan Ransom that Garrett was absolutely certain of. She knew he accepted her flaws as readily as she did his: they could do that for each other when they couldn’t do it for themselves. And she knew he loved her without condition. They had each arrived at a crossroads in life, and this was their chance to go in some new direction together, if they were brave enough to take it.
On the way back to the house, Garrett took a detour on a winding path that led to the estate’s kitchen gardens and poultry house. Instead of the standard shed with an attached wire pen, the Eversby Priory chickens lived in a poultry palace. The central brick-and-painted-wood structure was topped w
ith a slate roof and openwork parapets, and fronted by a colonnade of white pillars. Two wings curved outward from the main building, encompassing a paved court and a small pond for the birds’ use.
Garrett walked around to the back of the building, where the wire exercise pens had been planted with fruit-bearing trees. At one of the corner posts, an elderly gardener was standing and talking, while a younger man sat on his haunches to mend a fencing panel.
The younger of the two was big-framed and very fit, his hands deft as he spliced broken wires together with a pair of pliers. Even before Garrett saw the face beneath the battered hat, she knew it was West Ravenel from the deep resonance of his voice.
“God help me, I don’t know what the damned things need,” he was saying ruefully. “Try taking them out of the cold frame and putting them back into the glasshouse.”
The gardener’s response was muffled and fretful.
“Orchids.” West made the word sound like a profanity. “Just do what you can. I’ll shoulder the blame.”
The older man nodded and shambled away.
Noticing Garrett’s approach, West rose to his feet and made a motion of touching his hat brim respectfully, pliers still in hand. Dressed in work trousers and a rumpled shirt with the sleeves rolled up over his forearms, he appeared far more like a salt-of-the-earth farmer than a pedigreed gentleman. “Good afternoon, Doctor.”
Garrett smiled at him. Despite West’s high-handed act of dosing her tea with valerian, she grudgingly acknowledged that he’d been well-intentioned. Now that Ethan was recovering so well, she had decided to forgive him. “Good afternoon, Mr. Ravenel. Please don’t let me interrupt your task, I just wanted to have a look at the poultry house. It’s quite spectacular.”
West ducked his head to blot his perspiring face on his upper shirtsleeve. “When we first took up residence at Eversby Priory, the poultry house was in far better condition than the manor. The order of precedence around here clearly favors hen over human.”
