Swept Away (11 page)

Florence whacked her cane against the leg of the table.

“I said, shall we have tea or cider? Cider, I think. Much more restorative to the blood, do you not agree?”

Annaleah fumbled for the jug and poured out three glasses of the sweet apple cider for which Widdicombe House was modestly famous. While she did so, Florence encouraged Althorpe to help himself to the heaped mounds of cold sliced ham, mutton, cheese, and bread. At first he protested there being only one plate and one set of cutlery, but at Florence’s repeated insistence, and after the first mouthful of tender ham, he literally attacked the platters and assaulted the hillocks of food until there was not one single crumb left for an ant to carry away.

While he ate Florence casually expanded upon what Anna had told him about his family members, the estate at Windsea, the years he had spent growing up in Torbay. Anna listened intently as well, finding it increasingly difficult to resist glancing across the table. Each time he shifted or moved, the sunlight winked through a lock of his hair, drawing her attention to the slope of his neck or the noble outline of his profile. She tried to compromise by watching his hands, but there too, the movement of those long, strong fingers sent tiny shivers down her spine and made her remember how warmly his fingers had curled around hers the previous day.

Another wink of light made her look up and this time her heart all but stopped in her throat. He was grinning at something Florence had said, and the effect on his face was even more devastating than she had imagined it could be. His mouth evoked sinful thoughts at the best of times, but when he smiled it caused a squirming flutter of pleasure where she should have been ashamed to feel such a thing. She found herself avoiding his glances less and less, meeting and holding his eyes for longer and longer periods of time. She was still not completely at ease doing so, but when she was caught the first time and did not burn up in flames, the second was easier. The third time she even returned his smile with a shy imitation of her own.

“The vicar,” Florence was saying, “is naturally anxious to speak with you.”

“So anxious,” Althorpe said carefully, “that he has left me here, in your care, instead of taking me home?”

“When we first found you on the beach, we had no way of knowing if anything had been broken, most particularly your head. We all agreed it would best not to move you too soon.”

“And that is the only reason?”

Florence’s face remained admirably blank. “Whatever do you mean?”

Emory drained his fourth glass of cider and set the empty goblet carefully aside. “I mean...I may have lost my memory, but I have not lost my sight or my wits. You both look as if you are sitting on broken glass, wary of my asking a wrong question or venturing onto a subject you would prefer not to broach. And this room. It is under the eaves, is it not? Rather a peculiar choice of accommodations if I am, as you say, an old family friend. Furthermore, since I have been here, there has been a guard on the door.”

“Broom? Why, Broom is hardly--”

“I can only assume he was put there for one of two reasons: either to keep me in, or to keep everyone else out. And since he is a fairly large brute, and wears a proportionately large pistol tucked in his belt, I am inclined to believe it is the former.”

“We are not holding you prisoner in this room, Emory. You are free to come and go as you please.”

He searched Florence’s face for the truth, then the dark eyes flicked in Anna’s direction. Obviously not as skilled at concealing her reactions as her aunt, she could feel the heat flooding up her neck again but it was too late to look away. He had laid his trap well, for she could not have broken his hold if she had wanted to. Moreover she was left with the distinct sensation that he had climbed right inside her thoughts and had a thorough look around before he finally relented and turned back to her aunt.

“Fair enough,” he murmured. “If I am free to come and go as I please, you have no objections if I borrow a horse and ride over to Windsea? Perhaps if I see my old home it will jog some memories clear. For that matter, a ride into Brixham, or Paignton, or Torquay might accomplish the same thing. If, as you say, I spent a great deal of time on the docks and in the harbor, someone there might know what happened to me three days ago. I could post a notice, or offer a reward for information.”

The side of Florence’s mouth curled down the same measure of distance that her eyebrow inched upward. “All things considered,” she said on a sigh, “I doubt that would be your wisest course, Rory dear. I should not think you could offer as high a reward as the King’s Bench has posted for information concerning your whereabouts.”

He studied her without moving for several long moments, then slowly folded his arms over his chest and leaned back against the window casement. “Have I committed some crime?”

“You have been accused of committing one,” Florence conceded. “There has been no proof offered, however, and quite frankly, without absolute proof I cannot bring myself to believe any of the charges laid against you.”

“
Any
of the charges?” he asked softly. “Implying there is more than one?”

Florence waved a hand with some impatience, sending one of her gold rings flying off her finger. “All unfounded, so far as your brother has been able to determine. On sheer rumor and speculation alone they are claiming you conspired to help the enemy, committed treason, even that it was your ship that assisted Napoleon Bonaparte in escaping his prison on Elba.”

Emory had started to lean over to retrieve the ring, but at the mention of Bonaparte’s name, he froze. His hands rose to his temples and his fingers squeezed until the veins in his arms stood out like thin blue ropes.

He lowered the spluttering length of fuse to the touch hole and watched the small puff of powder explode against the charge. A split second later the huge cannon reared back in its carriage, the breeching tackle straining against the force of the shot as it was expelled in a huge cloud of white, acrid smoke. He had covered his ears, as had every other man in the gun
crew, but the concussion rocked the deck under his feet and shook every bone in his body, and after more than a dozen such horrendous impacts, he could feel blood beginning to trickle down the sides of his neck. Already the men were loosening the tackle lines, reeling the heavy gun back on board. At his shout of encouragement, one man was there waiting to swab the smoking barrel, another to load fresh powder and packing, a third to ram the charge in place while a fourth lifted a thirty-two pound ball of lead into the muzzle. It was a dance they had done many times before, practising and drilling with precision until they could fire two deadly rounds per minute
.

“What is it Emory?” Florence’s anxious voice cut through the smoke and haze. “What is wrong?”

He opened his eyes. He was on his knees and Annaleah was beside him, her arm stretched out across the front of his shoulders preventing him from pitching forward onto the floor. Her face was only inches from his and without thinking, he reached out and took it in his hands, staring at it, focussing on her eyes, the soft bow of her mouth.

“Emory?”

He heard Florence’s voice, but he dared not take his eyes off Anna’s face, dared not lose his only link with reality.

“Guns,” he rasped. “I saw heavy guns. Cannon. We were on board a ship, we were firing full broadsides over and over. My hands--” he briefly eased his grip on Anna in order to verify the thick calluses on his palms-- “they were scalded. Burned from the heat of the barrel. There were men screaming and shouting all around me, but I couldn’t see through the smoke, it was too thick. Something was on fire...something behind me. We had been struck. A shot had hit some powder cartridges and exploded.”

He stopped and swallowed hard, choking back the words that would have described the bloody horror of the man crushed to death on the deck beside him. That was why he had been manning the gun: because one of his crew had fallen. One of
his
crew. On
his
ship. He had stepped in, as he done before, to take the place of a man wounded or killed. And Seamus had been right beside him...

The burning scent of gunpowder grew less pungent, the acrid white clouds of smoke blew away, and the screams faded until they were only a distant echo. Emory turned his head to try to catch the image before it dissolved completely, but he was too late. The brilliant light was gone, leaving only a strident throb behind his eyes.

“Bonaparte is...
was
the emperor of France,” he muttered. “The Duke of Wellington fought him at Waterloo. And won.”

“How positively extraordinary,” Florence mused. “You can remember that, yet you do not remember your own name.”

Emory seemed to become aware that he was still holding fast to Anna, still cradling her face between his hands. He eased his grip, not really wanting to let go, but he could see that he had frightened her. Hell, he had frightened himself.

“I am sorry, I...” He faltered in his effort at an apology, and once again it was her eyes that saved him. They drew him in, held him, calmed him like a cool hand on a fevered brow, and for one wildly irrational moment, he wanted just to drag her forward, wrap his arms around her, and hold her until neither one of them had to fear anything again.

“Let me help you up,” she murmured.

Feeling as weak and foolish as a child, he was grateful for her support as she assisted him. Only when she was certain he could stand on his own, did she ease her arms away and put a few discreet steps between them.

For Annaleah, a few hundred steps would not have been enough. The heat of Emory Althorpe’s body, the scent of his skin, even the faint tang of cider that clung to his breath had affected her senses, had tightened the skin everywhere on her body and made her feel, for a few seconds at least, she had been as helpless on her knees as he had been. Even worse, he had not been the one able to read thoughts this time. She had read his enough to know he was floundering. He was lost, confused. He was like a drowning man reaching for a lifeline...

CHAPTER 7

It was foolish. Completely and unconscionable foolish to be standing there flushing like a schoolgirl over a man she did not know, and should probably not want to risk knowing. But the awful truth was that Anna could still feel the imprint of his hands where they had cradled her face and she had not wanted him to let go. Her skin was glowing, her knees were wobbling enough to make the folds of her dress tremble and she was grateful for her aunt’s presence; she was not certain what might have happened had Florence not been there to carry on the conversation.

“Do you think you are strong enough to venture down the stairs to the parlor?” she was asking.

“If I had boots and a horse,” Althorpe answered quietly, “I would ride away from Widdicombe House and spare you any further trouble.”

“In your present condition, I doubt you would get more than a mile. As for sparing us trouble, we will hear no more of it. This is the safest place to keep you for the time being. Now then, Anna dear, if your feet have not grown roots into the floor, you may offer me your arm and escort me as far as my bedchamber. I should like to lie down for an hour or so.”

“Are you not feeling well?”

“My dear child, I am seventy-seven years old. I no longer enjoy the luxury of a full night’s uninterrupted sleep. I must snatch it in what increments I may, lest I fall into my cabbage at suppertime. While I am resting, however, perhaps you can use the time to reacquaint Rory with the house and grounds.”

Anna curled her lower lip between her teeth and avoided glancing at Althorpe. “If you think it would help, of course I should be happy to do so.”

“We do not know what will help, do we? But staying in this wretched little room all day can only hurt. I will speak to Willerkins about moving you again. Somewhere you might feel less confined. I believe there is a larger room across from Annaleah that might be more to your liking. No bats, I promise you. Well, not recently anyway.”

Florence’s bedchamber was located directly at the top of the main staircase, and, after descending the narrow passage from the attic rooms, they followed the wide central hallway until they arrived at her door. There, where Anna would have accompanied her inside to see her settled, she shooed the pair of them away with a sleepy yawn.

Emory had said nothing along the way, and he said nothing now as they descended the wide central staircase to the second floor. Enormous life size portraits of ancestors were hung in gilt frames on the walls, and Anna imagined their shocked eyes following her, their glowering silence attesting to the impropriety of her keeping company with a known brigand.

“I presume you have no burning need to see the kitchens or the pantry or the great dining hall, do you?”

“Not if you feel I can survive in ignorance.”

She faltered a bit at his gentle mockery, but saw no point in challenging it or in taking him to the lower floor, where most of the rooms, with the exception of the utility areas, had been boarded up for the past half century or more.

“You might remember the library,” she said, putting on her best touring voice as she led the way toward a large set of double oak doors. “Auntie said you used to spend a great deal of time here.”

She swung the doors open and stood to one side to let Althorpe pass through. The windows were hung with heavy velvet draperies, closed against the air and sunlight. The twenty-foot high walls were lined floor to ceiling with shelves, the shelves filled with row upon row of leather bound volumes that added their own peculiar musk to the gloomy room. There were chairs and settees placed in ghostly groupings, and against one wall, an enormous fireplace with its grate stacked with wood that had gone unlit for so long there were cobwebs linking the iron arms. Set in front of one windowed alcove was a desk and chair, before the other a scrolled brass music stand.