Jo Beverley - [Malloren] (6 page)

With a rueful smile, he accepted that it was his weakness here that bothered him. He wasn’t used to dealing with amorous women when naked, sick, and half out of his mind.

He heard her return, and watched her shadowy figure fumble across the room. She’d doubtless had light in her own room and had lost her night vision. Why, then, hadn’t she brought the light in here? Did she have something to hide?

“Here you are,” she said, rather breathily.

Their exploring hands connected on the glass, and she started. Then he heard her give it one last stir with a spoon. “It’s bitter, but it works. Get it all down.”

He obeyed, then almost choked at the taste. “Perdition!”

“Will it stay down?”

He lay back and still. “We’re arguing about it. What is that stuff?”

“Mostly willow bark.”

After a moment, he said, “I don’t think the chamber pot will be needed.” He wished she would go away. “You don’t need to hover over me.”

She moved a few steps back. “Very well. Till tomorrow, then?”

Suppressing a groan, he said, “Breakfast and a toothbrush, dear lady, and I’ll be entirely at your service.”

She left and he feared his tone had been unfortunate, but plague take it, he’d nearly died, his brain was scrambled, and he’d just swallowed what tasted like deadly poison.

What did she think he was, a damned sexual automaton?

He drifted back to sleep imagining a scrawny harridan turning an enormous key that gradually raised and expanded his penis to quite terrifying dimensions.

Chapter 4

R
osamunde always woke early, and so she did, even after the most extraordinary and disturbed night of her life. She lacked her usual enthusiasm for the coming day, however. Covering her face with her hands, she wondered how she had brought herself to state her need like that.

Lord save her.

And it was still to do, though her courage had fled with the dark.

She crawled out of bed and drew back the curtains, revived a little by the first glow of a hopeful summer morning. Birds sang their hearts out and distant noises told her the Yockenthwaits were up.

Breakfast and a toothbrush, he’d said, and at the remembered tone, her cheeks flamed again. She’d demanded it as payment! If a man demanded it of her, she’d want to kill him, even if he had saved her life.

It was different for men, though.

Wasn’t it?

Standing straighter, she took a deep breath of fresh air. Of course it was. They often paid for what she was offering.

She dressed herself in her simplest gown, with only one petticoat and a light corset underneath. With just the hooks to be fastened, she went to wake Millie.

The woman opened saggy eyelids. “Wha—? Milady? What time is it?”

“Early, but I need to speak to you, Millie. Do up my hooks, please.”

The maid pushed herself up, shoving her huge nightcap back straight, and set to work. “Yes, milady? Is it that man? Is he worse?”

“No, not worse. Listen. I’ve told him that this is a place called Gillsett, and that my name is Mrs. Gillsett.”

After three fumbling hooks, Millie asked, “Why?”

“It doesn’t matter
why.
Just make sure to keep up the pretense if you have to help me with him.”

“You can’t be taking care of the likes of him, milady!”

“I already have.” Her dress fastened, Rosamunde stood and turned. “He was sick in the night.”

“You should have called for me to take care of that, milady!”

Rosamunde could imagine the performance that would have been. “It wasn’t necessary. But I left the chamber pot outside the back door. If the Yockenthwaits haven’t handled it, you should. The main thing is that you not let him know where he really is.”

“If you say so, milady.” Rosamunde could hear the dull befuddlement in the maid’s voice, but she knew Millie wouldn’t waste energy on questions. Millie worked herself and her many layers of clothing out of bed. “I’ll be up and dressed, and look after that chamber pot, milady.”

Rosamunde headed downstairs, trying to get her schemes straight in her mind. Even if Millie had to attend the man, she wouldn’t chatter, but would she remember not to “milady” Rosamunde?

Well then, perhaps she’d be
Lady
Gillsett. Wife of … Sir Archibald Gillsett. Sir Archibald could be ancient, and spend most of his time taking the waters at Harrogate or Matlock.

That was why she was a neglected wife.

She rather liked this other identity. Lady Gillsett—a bolder, wilder woman than Rosamunde, Lady Overton. Lady Gillsett wouldn’t have butterflies in her tummy at the thought of the man upstairs and what was going to happen. She’d be licking her scarlet lips in anticipation.

When
was it going to happen? After breakfast? Rosamunde froze at the bottom of the stairs, hand over but-terflies. That meant
daytime!

Things that had seemed possible in the night seemed very impossible in broad daylight. She and Digby had never done it except under cover of night. On the other hand, she wasn’t entirely sure she could keep the man for another night. If he was recovered enough for … for what she wanted, he would surely be recovered enough to leave.

She could lock him in.

A captive lover, she thought, hand over mouth suppressing a wild giggle.

Lady Gillsett wouldn’t blink at that. Lady Gillsett probably picked up handsome rogues all over the land and discarded them after use without a backward glance. Rosamunde went forward, trying to walk like Lady Gillsett, head at a saucy angle, hips swaying, pausing by the mirror in the hall to study the effect.

She rolled her eyes. Even from her good side it looked ridiculous. She had always been the wholesome type, and her nut-brown curls and round, rosy cheeks couldn’t look at all wicked. She tried hiding her ordinary blue eyes with sultry lashes, but then she looked half asleep! She supposed if she had a low-cut gown, she could show off her generous breasts. But she didn’t, so she couldn’t.

He’d agreed, she reminded herself firmly. He didn’t need to be seduced into it.

She found the kitchen bustling, steam puffing out of pots, tasty aromas of fresh-baked bread and frying bacon wafting from the hearth. A thin young maid busily cleared the men’s breakfast plates—they’d obviously eaten and gone about their work—and Mrs. Yocken-thwait punched down a huge crock of bread dough with her powerful fist.

“You’re up early, milady. Give us a minute and Jessie can set up the breakfast room.”

Rosamunde sat at the plain kitchen table. “I’d be happy to take my breakfast here, Mrs. Yockenthwait.”

The woman’s brows rose, but as she flung a cloth over the crock and put it back near the hearth, she said, “Right then. Jessie, lay a place with the good china!”

Rosamunde knew better than to insist on using the servants’ ware. She was only trying to save them work, but right and proper order must be maintained.

While the maid was off getting the china, Mrs. Yock-enthwait washed her hands. “Did you look in on that man, milady? I haven’t had time yet.”

“He was sick in the night, and later I gave him a powder for his sore head. Since then, he’s just been sleeping it off.”

“Aye, we noticed the chamber pot. Did you bring that down, milady? You should have woken one of us.”

Rosamunde picked up a piece of bread left from the men’s breakfast and buttered it. “He’s no concern of yours, Mrs. Yockenthwait. Millie and I will take care of him.”

At that moment, Millie lumbered in, swathed in shawls, and went to the back door. She came back quickly, so the chamber pot must have been gone. “What do you want me to do next, milady?”

Rosamunde suppressed a smile at the “next.” Millie made it sound as if she’d already done hard labor. “Sit and eat breakfast, Millie,” she said, only then realizing that she was creating difficulties of etiquette. Young Jessie had just come in with the fine china, and now there was Millie to consider.

The maid laid a place for Rosamunde, then went to get another setting. Mrs. Yockenthwait scowled. Oh, how good intentions led to complex problems.

“Millie,” said Rosamunde, “why don’t you swing the kettle over the heat ready for tea. And help Jessie to make breakfast.”

This seemed to reestablish order in the universe, and the atmosphere in the kitchen became comfortable again.

“Did he say who he was, milady?” asked Mrs. Yockenthwait, preparing a rank of bread trays.

Rosamunde almost told the truth, but then decided that the fewer people who had a name for him, the better. “He doesn’t remember. Not even how he came to be in a ditch by the road.”

“Not surprising, that, dead drunk as he was. And you’d best not to be getting too familiar with the likes of him, milady.”

Familiar! Rosamunde knew she was blushing. “He’s harmless. Really. He was most apologetic and embarrassed Whatever caused him to drink so much, I’m sure it’s not his usual way. In fact he said so.”

“Happen he would,” said the woman dryly. But then she admitted, “His clothes are good enough. Or were. They’re mostly dry, and I’ve had Jessie brush them off and sponge them down.” As the sizzle of frying bacon and eggs started, Mrs. Yockenthwait added, “Happen he’ll want breakfast, too.”

Rosamunde couldn’t let either maid take it up. “I’ll check after we’ve eaten.”

She ate quickly, not having much of an appetite anyway, and being anxious to get back to Mr. Malloren before anyone else. As soon as she was finished, she leaped up, and over protests, assembled a tray for him.

Fried eggs and bacon might stir his stomach again, so she chose bread, well layered with butter and honey. She added a mug of tea with milk, deliberately choosing the servants’ ware and putting a couple of lumps chipped off the sugar into the saucer. “I’ll take this up and see what else he’d like.”

“But, milady—” said Mrs. Yockenthwait.

Millie even heaved herself to her feet.

“I’ll do it!” Rosamunde called with a smile, and hurried on her way.

Once upstairs, however, she paused for courage and for thought. She mustn’t make any silly mistakes. With a start that almost spilled the tea, she realized that she’d nearly made the biggest mistake of all.

He mustn’t see her face!

Only a part of this was because of her awkwardness over her blemishes. He must never know who she was. If for some reason he tried to find her, he’d draw a blank at Gillsett. Then he could search the dales for years, if he were mad enough, without finding this small house. But if he started to search for a lady with scars on her face …

She put down the tray and hurried into her room to find the painted mask she’d worn for the masquerade. She looked at it and grimaced, wishing she’d not played with it. She’d taken the plain, full face mask of shaped silk that Diana had provided, and amused herself by adding arched
eyebrows, pinkened cheeks and a couple of fashionable black patches high on the cheekbone. It had seemed appropriate for a decadent, wicked masquerade, but now … ?

She put it on, and saw what she’d feared: a grotesque doll’s face.

She shrugged. It couldn’t be helped, and it must be done. She carried the tray to his room, balancing it on her hip as she unlocked the door.

The room was bright and the bed was empty!

Almost at the same moment she saw him, turning sharply from the window, a towel wrapped around his hips. It wasn’t a terribly large towel.

Rosamunde didn’t drop the tea and toast, but it was a close thing.

“I’m sorry,” he said, clearly wickedly amused. “Should I plunge back into the bed?”

Eyes firmly turned away, Rosamunde said, “Yes, please.”

Oh dear. So much for Lady Gillsett!

She made herself look boldly at him, watch him as he strolled to the bed and slipped under the covers, discreetly shedding the towel. Lady Gillsett would appreciate every inch, and Rosamunde had to admit that she did, too. She’d thought him well-made when unconscious, but awake and mobile he was remarkable. By the time he covered himself to halfway up his chest, she felt a Gillsettian pang of regret.

Only then did she marvel at how relaxed he seemed, and a knot of worry started. Between his first waking and his second, he’d forgotten the name of the place where he supposedly was. What if this time he’d forgotten his nighttime promise?

Would she have to go through the whole thing again?

Steadying her nerves, she carried the tray over and set it on his knees.

He put a hand to it, smiling up at her. “Better?” He was teasing, yes, but perhaps a little puzzled. Did that mean he
did
remember?

“You startled me.”

“I couldn’t find my clothes.”

“They’re in the kitchen being dried and cleaned—as best we can.” She couldn’t stop her hands fiddling with her skirt. “You were found in a muddy ditch.”

He studied the tray, then picked up a triangle of honeyed bread. “I wish I could remember how or why. But clearly I could have drowned if I’d ended up facedown, and without that, I’d likely have died of cold. You have my eternal gratitude, Mrs. Gillsett.”

Did that refer to their wicked arrangement? She wasn’t sure she
could
start all over again, particularly in daylight. “I brought tea and bread, but if you want, we can provide something more substantial.”

He added sugar to the tea and stirred it. “I’ll admit to being hungry, but I’d better test my innards on this first.” He glanced up. “I do most sincerely apologize for being so foully ill in the night.”

He meant it. He was, she thought, embarrassed, too.

About being sick? Or other things.

“You remember?”

“I think so.”

Rosamunde gripped her hands together. “All?”

He was sipping the tea, but watching her. “I think I remember everything, yes.”

It was clearly a very subtle question. After a moment to gather courage, she answered it. “Good.”

With the slightest twitch of his brows, he settled back to tea and bread.

Was that all he was going to say? Rosamunde wanted to ask if he was
really
going to do it. And when. And how—

“Is the mask necessary?” he asked.

She touched it, strange beneath her fingers. “I don’t want you to see my face.”