Stand and Deliver Your Love (5 page)

Chapter
Five

Outside a bird trilled. Its song answered by another
, the sound telling Sarah it was well past sunup. She stirred, stretching under the warm blanket and opened her eyes. Despite the bird’s cheerful serenade, there was no sunlight streaming in through the bare window above the bed. Instead the sky was dark gray and raindrops trickled haphazardly down the window panes. Her hopes the rain was letting up were dashed as quickly as lightning flashed in the distance.

A firm, warm hand slid into the hollow of her waist and rested there. Sarah stiffened as the events from the previous night came rushing back to her. With a jolt she sat up, tossing the covers off. The lord’s offending hand slipped from her waist onto the warm indentation in the straw stuffed mattress where her body had lain. Standing she turned and glowered at him.

His eyes were closed, his breathing raspy, but steady. Leaning down, she braced herself in case he was pretending to be asleep and touched his forehead. His skin was dry and hot to the touch. She hurried to mix more mustard powder with warm water from the kettle over the coals as Dickie came in from outside looking damp but fresh. With false cheerfulness she greeted him, “Good morning Dickie. Have you been out tending the horses already?”

The boy carried a large arm load of wood across the room and dumped it all
to the floor by the hearth with a clatter. “Yes, mistress.” Sarah spread the fresh mustard paste onto a clean towel and crossed to the bed. Glancing at Dickie she gingerly sat on the edge. The boy was stoking the fire, blowing on the embers with careful breaths to encourage them to burst into flame. She turned her attention back to her patient. It seemed her usually talkative friend was still ill at ease with strangers. Would he ever be the strong confident young man she knew he could be? Carefully she peeled the old plaster pack off Byron’s chest. After placing the fresh towel mustard-side down in place of the old one, she smoothed it flat.

Thinking back, she remembered the day she found poor Dickie. The half-starved lad was discovered lying naked in a feces and garbage-filled alley. He was beaten so badly she feared the boy was dead. He was, upon closer inspection, barely alive. She recalled whispering a
desperate prayer as she scooped his little body up and took him back to the orphanage. The boy had more broken bones than she had ever seen, but with tender and constant care he recovered.

When gently questioned, Dickie had finally been persuaded to tell them his drunken father beat him in a fit of rage when the boy failed to beg enough money to buy another bottle of rum. The man discarded him in the alley like a pile of garbage.

Pursing her lips together she stood on and wiped her hands. It was hard for her to imagine or understand how a human being could be a monster and terrorize a child in such a way. She couldn’t help but feel satisfaction, shameful as it seemed, when Bert went out a few nights later and gave the boy’s cruel father the beating of his life. The man certainly deserved worse than he had received, she concluded. She crossed the little room to the wash basin and scrubbed the sticky mustard plaster from her fingers.

Gathering her hair, she twisted it into a loose knot on top of her head and secured it with a small hair comb. Looking at her reflection in the jagged piece of mirror hanging on the otherwise bare wall, her normally bright eyes were dull with dark circles underneath. Sh
e splashed some cold water on her face and rubbed the sleep from her eyes. Feeling a little refreshed she patted her skin dry with a towel and turned to Dickie. “Could you go slice a piece of meat from the deer carcass so I may make a broth for our guest?”

He added a couple of logs to the crackling fire. “Yes, Mistress Sarah.” He smiled at her, brushed the loose bits of bark off his trousers and went outside to do as he was bid.

Sarah hurried to her clothes chest. After pulling a plain soft blue wool dress and some clean undergarments out, she dropped the lid closed. She studied the figure in the bed, making sure he was still asleep before she undressed. There was nothing to do but leave off the constricting corset as she had no serving woman to help her tie the laces, so she quickly donned on her chemise and drawers. With another quick peek to ensure Byron still slept, she tossed the dress unceremoniously over her head, slipped her arms through and pulled it down into place.

Giving it a last tug, she secured the loose waist with a clean white apron.
Dickie returned and handed her a cloth-lined basket. Inside was a large chunk of liver and a tender piece of flank meat. She smiled her thanks and hurried to put a small blackened pot of water over the fire to heat. Dickie sat at the table, watching as she set the basket on it and began to dice up the meat. “There is a loaf of rye bread wrapped in a towel on the shelf and some leftover cheese from yesterday you may help yourself to, for breakfast.” It was silent for a moment before she heard him get up.

“How long is he going to be here?”

She shrugged, knowing whom he was referring to. “I do not know exactly. Until he is well enough to resume his journey to London, I suppose.” She glanced up.

Dickie didn’t look at her as he set about making himself a sandwich. “You shared his bed last night.”

She kept dicing, pretending not to notice the boy’s tone, laced with childish accusation and jealousy. “I was tired. He is very ill and I needed to keep a close watch over him.”
Why do I feel I have to explain myself to a ten-year-old boy? It is not as if I am accountable to him in any way … am I?

The boy neither looked at her or commented further, but took a big bite of his bread and cheese. He stared past her into the fire with a brooding look on his face.
Setting down the knife, she scooped the meat into a nearby wooden bowl. “Does his presence here cause you worry?”

He shrugged, munching on his sandwich.

Sarah sighed and wiped her hands on her apron. “Listen, Dickie. You know, I would never let him hurt you?”

“I know.”

“The marquis is hurt and I could not in all good conscience just leave him out there in the rain,” she explained patiently, knowing the boy still had a long way to go to get over his fear of men. The only man he seemed to trust in was Bert, and even that friendship had taken months to bud.

Dickie sat up straighter and wrinkled his nose. “I can take care of myself.” He looked quickly at the sleeping man on the cot and gave her a uneasy smile.

Sarah schooled her face into a blank mask as she tried to not laugh. The boy’s attempt to look brave only succeeded in making him look like a frightened rabbit. “I know you can, that is why I told Bert to let you stay with me while the marquis is here. I had to have someone here to protect me and ensure my reputation remains untarnished,” she humored the boy. All the same she a pang of sadness lodged in her chest at the idea she might even have had a reputation to tarnish at one time. It wasn't as if she were a lady of a great house anymore. Living on the streets didn't leave one with much respectability.

“I am big enough to protect you. If he tries to hurt you I shall run him through with my
dagger!” Dickie insisted with bravado.

Sarah grinned and turned back to her unfinished task. Picking up the bowl of meat she carried it to the fire and dumped it into the pot of water set to boil there. “Well, I do hope it should not come to that, but thank you just the same.”

She turned around as Dickie shrugged into his badly worn coat, the sleeves of which did not even come to his wrists anymore. “I should go see to the lord’s horse.”

Sarah nodded, reaching up into the rafters for a bunch of onions hanging there drying. As the
boy left, she reminded herself she still had to finish sewing his new coat. Hopefully, she would have time to complete it before his birthday, the day after tomorrow. The rabbit pelts Bert collected and tanned before he left should be enough to finish the soft liner. If the rain let up by afternoon she could send Dickie out to check the roads, giving her time to cut the pelts to fit and sew them in before he returned.

She peeled the onions, chopping them into fine pieces, the strong odor irritating her eyes. With tears streaming down her face she added them to the boiling pot. With a sniffle she rubbed her eyes with the edge of her apron.

“Why are you crying?”

Startled, Sarah squinted at the bed in the corner of the room. Byron lay there watching her with lazy bemusement. With a flippant toss of her head she began to clean up the mess on the table. “I was not crying,” she informed him icily, “I was cutting onions.”

“Ah, I see. I must say that is a relief.” He gave her a bored look that matched his tone.

Sarah dumped her handful of peelings into a small bucket by the door. Facing him, she lowered her eyelids coyly. “Why is that? Do a maiden’s tears frighten you?”

He smirked. “No. However, they do make you look very unbecoming when your nose is all red and runny.”

“Well, luckily for me I am not trying to impress you then,” Sarah answered stiltedly and approached the bed.

Byron grinned, a wicked gleam in his blue eyes. “I find that hard to believe, since I have never met a woman who did not strive to impress me.”

“My, but you are certainly full of yourself this morning. Makes one wonder though
….”

His brows arched, betraying his skepticism. “Makes you wonder what?”

Sarah gave him a taunting smile. “Well, one who is usually so impressed with himself is often only covering for other, shall we say, inadequacies.”

He threw back his head and laughed, the hoarse baritone reverberating throughout the room. “You must have undressed me, so you should know in my case that is definitely not true.”

Sarah’s face grew hot under his knowing look. How dare he imply she ogled him in his unconscious condition. He was right, she realized. She had ogled him, a little anyway, but not in the way he was insinuating. She wasn't some common trollop from the docks! She crossed her arms across her chest and gave him a insolent look as his guffaws gave way to snickers. “I am certain I would not know since I did not look.”

His face grew thoughtful for a moment then the corners of his eyes crinkled in amusement. “Really? I find it hard to believe you could have managed to un
dress me and not see anything. No matter, you can have a look now if you like.”

Sarah let out a growl of outrage and flipped the blanket down to his waist. With a quick jerk she stripped the dried mustard pack off his chest, grinning with gratification when he winced as some of his chest hair was removed with it. “I may be a thief but I am still above all, a lady,” she pronounced, turning abruptly on her heel and stalking away.

  Her face heated as the marquis snorted and replied in a laughing tone. “I supposed that it is possible, although a true lady would never show her temper. As for my ‘endowments,’ well, you shall be able to look your fill while you help me bathe.” Sarah bit her lip and dropped the soiled cloth onto the pile of dirty clothes on the floor.
The man is insufferable! Why does he persist in toying with me? What have I done to warrant his mockery other than save his miserable life?
He began to cough. When he regained his breath, she chastised him, “I do not think it wise to bathe you in such a drafty cottage until you are feeling better.” She could not resist adding the barbed insult, “I would hate for you to succumb to pneumonia after all the work I went through to save your wretched life, for which you have yet to properly thank me for.”

He gave her a mischievous look, but his tone was serious. “I promise I shall thank you in a
proper manner once I am able. You have only to tell me what you desire.”

Sarah changed the topic, uncomfortable with the idea the man might have easily picked up upon the desires of her body the evening before. “Would you lik
e me to read to you or perhaps we could play a game of chess to pass the time?” Without waiting for him to answer she crossed to the hearth and picked up a book and a small box of chess pieces sitting on the fireplace mantle. “I am a practiced chess player.”

He raised an eyebrow. “I thought most women preferred the likes of those romantic novels they sell at all the bookstores these days.”

Sarah blushed and dropped the book of poetry on the table before she returned to the bedside, thinking of the dime novels she had indulged in, as often as her pin money allowed as a young girl. She paused to pull up a small stool and a chair then fixed him with a haughty stare. “I suppose they do, however I enjoy more intellectual pursuits, too.”

Byron eased himself into a more comfortable sitting position on the bed. “I see.”

She set up the chessboard and moved the first pawn.

He glanced at her and chuckled.

“What is so amusing?” she asked, not bothering to conceal the irritation in her voice.

“I see you took the white pieces and gave me the black. Should I make the obvious connection that you consider me to be the villain here?” He frowned at her with mock irritation.

Sarah smirked. “Make whatever connections you will, my lord.” She intended the selection to peak his ire.

They played in silence for a few minutes.

“You play well,” Byron remarked after she successfully captured two of his pawns in a row. “Where did you learn how to play?” He positioned his knight as he waited for her reply.