Bewitching the Baron (4 page)

“Oscar, this is the new baron. You remember his great-uncle, do you not? The old baron?”

“Eee-diot!” Oscar squawked.

“No, ‘Baron,’ ” Valerian corrected, biting the inside of her lip to keep from smiling.

“Eee—”

“No! He is the baron, Oscar. Baron.” Valerian chanced a peek at the baron’s face, and was gratified to see that there was open interest there, the mocking, arrogant mask at least temporarily at bay.

“Baron!” Oscar repeated. “Baron Ravenall!”

The baron’s eyebrows shot up in surprise, and Valerian explained. “He learns phrases, not just words. Give him the first half of a phrase he knows, and he will add the ending himself.”

“Remarkable! I once heard a parrot speak, but never a raven. How ever did you teach him?”

Valerian smiled at his childlike interest. His eyes were sparkling, and she could feel the curiosity coming off him in waves, with no trace of anger. He seemed to have forgotten the mangled tricorn as well as his air of superiority. “I caught him when he was still a baby. It was then mostly a matter of repeating words and phrases until he could say them himself. Something like teaching a child to speak, I should imagine. He is quite intelligent, although his manners leave something to be desired.”

The baron raised his hand, as if to touch the bird, and Valerian noticed for the first time that he was bleeding. She grabbed his large hand in both of hers, turning it to examine the small gash. “Did Oscar do this to you?”

“What? Oh, it is nothing.” He was still staring, mesmerized, at the bird on her shoulder.

“I will clean it for you, and bandage it.” She turned her head towards her pet. “And as for you, Oscar,” she scolded in a deeply disapproving tone, “You have been a very naughty bird. You ought to be ashamed of yourself.”

Oscar buried his head in her hair, and began to make the loud wails of a baby with colic. “Waaa aaa aaa aa, waaa. . . .”

“That is right, you naughty raven. You should cry. Did you see what you did to his hand? Did you?”

The wails grew louder and more lifelike, and the baron began to protest, “Really, is that necessary? It is just a scratch, no harm done, really. . . .”

Valerian tried to keep from smiling, and stroked Oscar’s back. “There now, he forgives you, which is more than you deserve.” Oscar’s head emerged from her hair, and the crying stopped. The bird’s eyes were as beady and dry as ever. “Go on now,” Valerian told the bird. “Leave me to my work.”

“Baron Ravenall!” Oscar said, looking at Nathaniel, then bobbed once, as if bowing, and leapt into the air. They watched him go, and then Valerian picked up her basket.

“I suppose I should see to your hand now, and to my other patient as well,” she said briskly. She found it was herself who wanted to retreat behind a facade of politeness, now that the distraction of Oscar was gone. She was reluctantly finding his interest in Oscar, and his silly attempt to protect her, rather charming, and the one thing she did not want was to be charmed.

Despite Aunt Theresa’s sentiments on the subject, she did not believe that this man could ever have any interest in her. Aunt Theresa claimed that the reason she had never had a suitor was that all the men were afraid of her, but she knew the truth. She had no suitors because no one wanted her. So, it was better not to let herself become interested in men she could never have. It saved a lot of heartache.

Her tone appeared to recall him to himself, and he offered her his arm. No man had ever done that for her. Embarrassed, made nervous by the unfamiliar gesture, her instinct was to reject it. She fumbled with her basket, pretending to check its contents until his arm dropped back to his side. She glanced at his face, and saw that he was watching her carefully.

“May I carry your basket for you?” he asked.

“No, thank you. I always carry it myself.” She clutched the handle tightly, scared of exchanging its worn familiarity for the baron’s arm.

One dark eyebrow quirked upwards at her refusal, and she had the uncomfortable suspicion that he knew he was making her nervous. He probably thought her funny, the ignorant little country virgin. The thought stiffened her backbone.

“You know, I met your pet yesterday just south of town,” the baron said as they began to walk back towards the house, through the formal gardens. “He called me an idiot then, too. Paul thought him an omen that I would never leave Raven Hall.”

“There would be a surfeit of males in Greyfriars if that were the case. Oscar calls all men idiots.”

“Indeed?”

“He is a most perceptive bird.”

The baron snorted. “And was it chance alone that I met a raven upon my arrival, or would you agree with Paul that the sighting augured an attachment that I would soon develop?”

She did not understand the suggestion she sensed in his tone, and chose to ignore it. “I would have found it far more peculiar if you had seen no ravens whatsoever, than that Oscar or another sought you out, in your bright clothes. We do not see much similar here.” She thought his rich clothing made him look something like a flower against the soft greens of the garden.

“No, I do not suppose you would.” His tone was coolly casual.

Valerian set her jaw. No doubt he thought her hopelessly provincial, living her life in a small town in the back of beyond. “Besides which, the ravens were here long before the town or the hall. It is not as if the hall bears its name for no reason. And come to think of it, why would God bother to send
you
an omen in the first place?”

It was out before she knew what she was saying, and she grimaced, appalled at her bad behavior. This was not the way to stay in his good graces, not to mention being inexcusably rude. She peeked up at him from under her brows, her mouth twisted in distress. Supercilious hazel eyes met hers, and then the mask slipped and he laughed.

“Why indeed? You are perfectly right. It would be sheer arrogance to assume God had any interest in the likes of me.” He paused, and the next words were so soft and darkly said, she almost missed them. “No doubt if there is a god, he has already given me up for lost.”

Before she could comment on that, they had reached the bottom of the stone steps to the terrace that overlooked the garden, and the baron had his hand on the small of her back, pushing her forward. She could feel the warmth and strength of his wide palm through her clothing, and stepped quickly up the stairs to avoid the sensation.

She had been to Raven Hall many times, for the old baron had had a fondness for both Aunt Theresa and drink. His indulgence in the latter had resulted in a need for frequent visits from the former, although Valerian suspected that he’d exaggerated his illnesses in the hopes of luring Theresa to his home. Many times Theresa went alone, but just as often she would bring Valerian, who would receive permission to borrow books from the library and to explore the house while the baron received his treatment. In the end it was his heart that failed him, despite Theresa’s foxglove teas, which had perhaps given him a few more years than he would have had otherwise.

She was pleased to see that the drawing room had not been changed since the baron’s death: heavy, ornately carved wooden furniture with deeply colored upholstery was scattered about the room, mismatched with the delicate harpsichord that stood near the windows so that its music stand caught more light. A fire blazed on the hearth, sending a cheery glow into the somewhat medieval-looking room, with its stone floors and scattered woolen carpets.

It was a friendly room, with arched, leaded glass windows left over from the days when the hall had been an abbey. They faced west, and more than once Valerian had amused herself with her own creations on the harpsichord, then turned to sit and watch the colors of the setting sun in the skies above.

The old baron had never seemed to mind her presence, and she felt a familiar pang of loss at the thought of him. While he had been no hero, and had had his share of human frailties, he had exuded a vague goodwill toward everyone, and his tolerance and occasional generosity had set the easygoing atmosphere of the village. These past few months of waiting for the arrival of the new baron had sent a thread of anxiety running through Greyfriars, as if the inhabitants were children suddenly orphaned and awaiting the arrival of an unknown uncle to take charge.

“Let me take care of your hand,” she said, setting her basket on a table.

The baron pulled out an expensive-looking handkerchief and dabbed at the blood. “It is hardly worth the bother.”

“Better safe than sorry.” She took his large hand in both of hers, tilting the back of it into the light from the windows. It was indeed little more than a scratch, and she tried to concentrate on that rather than the texture of the skin beneath her fingers. Her hands looked delicate and white against the brawn of his own, her capable fingers fragile. His was not a soft hand, for all that she might have expected an aristocrat’s to be so. She wondered how he spent his time, to put the calluses there.

“I will put a little ointment on it. Wash it frequently, and do not let a scab or any crust form. It will heal more quickly and cleanly without them.” He was silent as she worked, and a tension grew within her as she felt his eyes on her. She could hear her heart loud in her ears, and each rustle of her own movement seemed magnified under his scrutiny.

She finished with relief and released his hand, and then they both heard faint footsteps from behind the blackened oak door that led to the front hall.

The baron strode through the room to the door that was arched at the top like the windows, and stuck his head through. “Paul! Good, I do not need to send someone to hunt you down. Your healer is here.”

Valerian heard incoherent protestations from the other side of the door, and could only make out a few words. “Poison” and “teeth” she definitely heard. She made her way to where the baron stood, and pushed the door all the way open. A very worried Paul Carlyle stood on the other side, his brow wrinkled in distress. He grimaced when he saw her, then caught himself and tried to cover his anxiety.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Carlyle,” Valerian said softly, trying her best to look harmless. It was never easy to work with a frightened patient, and if she had known she would be examining his buttocks today, she would never have bared her teeth at him yesterday.

“Miss Bright.” He swallowed, then continued. “Nate here—the baron, I mean—exaggerated things to you, I am afraid. I had my wound treated before leaving London, and there is really nothing further that needs to be done. It is healing quite nicely on its own. Sorry he dragged you all the way out here for nothing.”

The baron opened his mouth to speak, but Valerian cut him off with a glance, then took one of Paul’s trembling, moist hands in her own, and began to softly stroke the back of it. Startled, Paul stared at his own hand as if it belonged to someone else, but did not pull away.

Valerian led him into the drawing room, and over to a couch, where with a gentle tug she got him to sit down. In a soft, measured voice she asked him questions about his general health, his eating and drinking, what exercise he got, and gradually lulled him into relaxing, stroking his hand all the while. He brought up his wound on his own, in reference to riding, and explained the details of the damage done.

“If you had stitches put in over two weeks ago, do you not think it would be a good idea to have them taken out now?” she asked gently.

“I have been meaning to have my man do it.”

“I would not like to see them become infected, or to have your skin stick to them. A skilled hand takes only a moment to remove them.”

Paul stared at his hand, where it still rested in Valerian’s, then met her eyes. Helpless submission was written there, and she gave his hand a squeeze. “A few quick tugs, and it will be over.”

Seeing his friend’s easy capitulation, Nathaniel found himself a seat and sat back to enjoy the show, intrigued already by the way Valerian had soothed Paul into compliance. He vividly recalled the fuss Paul had made about having the cut treated by the surgeon, and the constant complaining, flinching, and cursing while the stitches were put in place.

In contrast, here Paul was, awkwardly but willingly pulling down his breeches and lying on the couch, meek and vulnerable, allowing this woman he had sworn was a witch to approach his bare buttocks with a small, sharp pair of scissors.

Miss Bright was an unusual young woman, there was no question. And a lovely one, too. Nathaniel examined her figure as she worked. She lacked the corset-grown slenderness of the women of his circle, it was true, but he could not find fault with that. She looked strong and healthy, and he recalled those moments he had held her in his arms during Oscar’s attack, smelling the slightly smoky, lavender scent of her, and feeling the softness of her curves even as he was surprised by the vigor of her struggles to escape him. He was reminded of trying to hold an unwilling, well-fed barn cat as a boy, and the combination of silky softness and strength as the cat twisted free of his hold.

Valerian’s back was to him as she bent over her work, and his eyes settled on the curve where waist flared into hip, imagining his hands holding her steady as he took her from behind, her skirts rucked up about her hips. As if feeling his eyes, she turned and stared at him, her bright blue eyes questioning. He smiled slightly, impersonally, and turned his attention back to Paul’s buttocks and the strip of wounded pink flesh.

Valerian finished her work, dabbing an ointment onto the healing wound to control the infection she saw there. She had felt the baron’s eyes on her, and when she turned she caught that he was paying far closer attention to her hindquarters than to those of his friend. She shrugged off his examination as the idle interest every man showed in a woman, as instinctual as a dog sniffing grass.

She gave an internal sigh. She knew more than enough about the birds and the bees in theory. It was a pity she would never have a chance to put her knowledge into practice.

Chapter Four

The smithy rang with the clang of metal on metal, the roar of the forge a wild backdrop to the heavy blows of Jeremiah’s oversized hammer. The skin on Valerian’s face felt hot and dry from the heat of the shop, and her fingers tingled uncomfortably at the change from the chilly damp air outside.