The Beloved One (10 page)

Stop it, Amy!

Somewhat belatedly, she realized that he was no longer quite so relaxed, his body tensing, his mouth going a bit rigid.  Guilty panic filled her.  Oh dear, she wasn't working fast enough; no doubt the soap was bothering him, and he was fighting to keep still.

"Are you finished, Miss Leighton?"

"I'm — I'm getting there," she managed.

"Good . . . I am, er, growing itchy."

Back into the water went the towel, and now Amy drew it down his chest, wiping up stray soap as she went.  Damp gold hair sprang back in the wake of the towel, and she could feel his heartbeat just beneath her fingertips.  Was it her imagination or was it pounding as rapidly as hers?  And was it her imagination, or was he breathing just a little bit hard, like herself?

Hurry up!

Oh, God, it was an effort to make her respirations sound normal!  She glanced up at his face, hoping he hadn't noticed, but he was still staring straight ahead, his firm, sensual lips so close she could easily have stood on tiptoe and kissed them.  His jaw, which needed a shave, was only a few inches away.  And his eyes . . . romantic eyes they were, of the palest shade of blue beneath long straight lashes, the outer corners slightly down-tilted and lending him a lazy, almost sleepy expression — though the clear, crystalline quality of their color banished any thought that the mind behind them was anything but sharp.

Wouldn't you love for him to kiss you again, Amy?  Wouldn't you just love that, you wicked little creature?

Mortified, Amy tore her gaze away, rinsed out the towel, and ran it down his ribs.  Only a few bubbles left, thank God.  Only a few little trickles —

And one of them was going straight down the trail of hair that led from his navel and disappeared beneath the waistband of his breeches.

Amy, her hand and the towel on his stomach, froze at the same moment his hand shot out to grab her wrist.

She might have been imagining his pounding heartbeat.  She might have been imagining the rigidness of his stance.  She might even be imagining that his breathing sounded raspy and harsh.

But she wasn't imagining the huge bulge just beneath the waistband of those breeches, a bulge that swelled and strained the fabric and told her that everything she'd thought was imagination was not imagination at all.

She gasped and dropped the towel, her hand covering her mouth.

"I guess this wasn't such a good idea, after all," he said softly, bending to retrieve it.

"I . . . guess not," she stammered, horrified.

He offered a pained little smile.  "Forgive me, Miss Leighton — I am only a man, and blind as I am, it is far too easy to imagine that your touch is that of another.  I did not intend for this to happen.  I did not mean to offend you."

"N-no offense taken."

For the sake of her modesty, he turned his back on her, quickly and discreetly ran the wet towel beneath his waistband to catch the trickle of soap, and then, turning, held it out to her.

Amy stared at it for a moment, her cheeks burning as she thought of where that towel had just been; then she took it and put it in the bowl, everything inside of her shaky and feverish.

"Miss Leighton?"

She gulped, swallowed, and did not allow herself to look at him.  "Yes?"

"If you would be kind enough to hand me that fine new shirt you made me?"

Her face flaming, she grabbed it and thrust it into his hand before leaping back, careful not to look below the level of his chest.  It took him a moment to get it over his head and once he did, he quickly pulled it down, leaving it loose outside his breeches for reasons that were obvious to both of them.

He smiled, the gesture both rueful and boyishly innocent.  "Shall we forget this ever happened?"

"Yes, C-captain, I — I think that would be best."

His smile broadened and he offered his arm with a casual, yet studied gallantry that melted what was left of her heart.  "Good.  Now, I think I will have some of that broth you promised . . . if the offer still stands?"

Chapter 6

He might've been able to easily forget it, but Amy couldn't.

It was just as everyone had predicted.  She had bad blood.  Hot blood.  Lustful, wicked, wanton blood.  The sins of the father had come back to haunt her.  She, like him, was a carnal savage.  She, like him, was immoral.

She was a horrible person.

Oh, God, forgive me, please.  I didn't mean to do what I did, I'm so sorry, I never wanted for that to happen . . .

"Miss Leighton?"

She led him to his chair, hoping he hadn't noticed her silent tears.

He remained standing.  "Miss Leighton, are you all right?"

"Of course I am," she said briskly, hoping she sounded convincing.  "Why wouldn't I be?"

"I pray you are not upset by what just happened between us."

"No, Lord Charles, besides it was my fault, not yours —"

"Oh, for God's sake, it wasn't anyone's fault!  A man is a man is a man, Miss Leighton, we respond to certain stimuli and there isn't a blasted thing we can do about it.  It's a physical reaction, nothing more, so stop blaming yourself, would you?"  He massaged the back of his head.  "'Sdeath, if anyone's to blame, 'tis me.  I should've known better."

"Please don't be angry, Lord Charles —"

"My anger is not with you.  And please, call me Charles.  Given that you're the poor soul stuck with the tasks of bathing, babying, and all but bottle-feeding me, we damn well ought to dispense with formalities, don't you think?"

He looked annoyed.  Disgusted.  Deciding it was wisest to say nothing, Amy ladled out some broth from the stew, fetched the bread she'd kept warm in the oven, and brought both, together with a mug of hard cider, to the table on a tray.

The captain was still standing.

"Aren't you going to sit down?" she asked.

"Yes, but only after you take your own chair."

"You don't have to wait for me."

"I am a gentleman, Miss Leighton.  I will wait for you whether you wish me to or not."

Amy stared at him as though that terrible blow had robbed him of more than just his sight.  No one ever waited for her to sit down.  Everyone started eating the moment Sylvanus finished saying grace, and if Amy wasn't in her seat by then, they began without her.  And now here was this son of a duke, this English aristocrat who was supposed to be their enemy, treating her with a respect and kindness she had never known.  Treating her as though she were a real lady.  She shut her eyes for a brief moment, savoring the feeling for the precious thing that it was.

Then, her heart beating just a little bit faster, she pulled out her chair and sat down, pressing her hands between her knees.

"Are you seated, madam?"

"I am."

He nodded and then pulled out his own chair.  Amy, still reeling over his chivalrous treatment of her, gazed longingly at him and then, shutting her eyes for a moment, let her mind wander, allowing herself to pretend that she was the lady of the house, and he, her dashing, impossibly handsome, husband . . .

Oh, Juliet Paige, you are the luckiest girl on earth!

She opened her eyes to reality and instantly sobered.  The captain was frowning down at his tray.  His face tense, he slowly felt about until he located the napkin she'd placed by his plate, and unfolded it in his lap.  His uncertainty was apparent, his fear of making a fool of himself, obvious.

"Would you like me to leave you, Captain de Montforte?"

"No, I would like you to sit there and join me."

"But I'm not hungry —"

"Neither am I, damn it, but you asked me to eat and so I will."  He swore bitterly to himself and rested his brow against the heel of his hand, the picture of remorse and self-disgust.  "I'm sorry.  That was uncalled for."

"It's all right."

"No, it is not all right."  His hand went to the back of his head, rubbing the area distractedly; how much pain he was in, she could not even begin to imagine.  "It is unlike me to be such a beast.  I do not set out to hurt people's feelings, especially those of kind young women who are only trying to help me.  Please forgive me, Miss Leighton.  I have not yet come to terms with my fate, and I must confess that, much to my dismay, I am not handling this very well at all."

"You're handling it better than would most people I know," she offered.

"Regardless, I am not handling it to my own satisfaction.  That, coupled with the fact it's my own blasted fault that I'm even in this predicament, is putting me in a very ill temper indeed."

"You blame yourself for this?"

"Of course I do."

"But it was an accident!"

"Regardless."

"You can't go back and change what happened, so why not just forgive yourself and try to make the best of things?  Aren't you as deserving of forgiveness as anyone else?"

"No.  I find it far more difficult to forgive myself for my mistakes, than others for theirs.  They are allowed to make them.  I am not."

He was still rubbing the back of his head.  She watched his fingers sliding up through his damp hair, and wished she dared offer to take over that task for him.

"Your head hurts, doesn't it?"

"As well it should, considering the fact there's a hole in it."

"You'll feel better after you eat something."

"Do you think so?"  He tried to smile.  "I am not so sure about that.  Besides, I rather suspect that feeding myself is going to be the supreme test of what remains of my abilities."  He felt for, and found, his spoon.  "You will not assist me, though.  I will not allow it."

"I wouldn't dream of it."

"Good."

Amy knew that his pride would be better served if she kept silent.  Still, she cringed when he tentatively explored the tray's contents tray with his fingertips, accidentally plunging one of them into the still-hot broth and, jerking back, nearly upsetting the mug with his wrist.

"Don't look," he said gruffly.  "I am about to make a complete fool of myself."

"As long as you eat something, I don't care what you make of yourself."

"Oh, I'll eat all right, if it bloody well kills me."

"It won't."  She grinned.  "Besides, I'm a good cook."

"Then I shall determine to do your efforts justice, Miss Leighton."

"Amy."

He smiled tightly.  "Amy."

And with that, he lowered his spoon.  Hit the side of the bowl and nearly overturned it.  Tried again and this time, found his target.  He raised the dripping spoon, then paused and looked in her direction.  His eyes were so clear, his gaze so direct, that for a moment, Amy thought he could see her.

"You're watching me."

"Yes.  I want to see that you eat it, just as you promised."

"The only thing you'll see is me making a damned mess," he said irately.

"Maybe.  But you'll get it right eventually, I just know you will."

He shook his head, dismissing her faith in him, and brought the spoon to his mouth.  It tipped slightly, and broth trickled down his chin and onto his shirtfront.  A very tight, very strained, very determined smile gripped one corner of his mouth, and Amy knew then that he was not a man to give up on something once he put his mind to it.  He tried again.  Spilled more stew.  Swore roundly.  And got it right the third time.

Amy's shoulders, which had been tight with tension, relaxed.

"This is gorgeous," he said.  "Thank you for keeping it warm for me."

"You're welcome."  She watched him eat, admiring the shape of his fingers against the spoon, the easy, aristocratic grace of his movements, the way his hair, so thick and bright, was now drying in rich gleaming waves around his face.

"What is Juliet like?" she asked, a little wistfully.

He looked up.  "Sorry?"

"Juliet.  I was just wondering what she's like."

"Rather like me, I should say.  Or rather like I was before I got hurt."

"You're the same man you were before you got hurt, Charles."

"Don't be fanciful, child, I'm not, and I never shall be."  He dug his spoon into the broth, more forcefully than he had before.  "As for Juliet —" he paused, as though the subject was a private one and he was unsure he wanted to discuss it — "she's a pretty girl with dark hair and fine green eyes.  Your voices are similar, which is why I must've mistaken you for her when I, uh . . . when I kissed you."

"You must love her very much," Amy said, wishing that
she
had fine green eyes instead of huge, brown, boring ones.

"I do.  And still I got her with child.  Fine way to show someone you love them, eh?"  His face looked suddenly bleak.  "I cannot imagine I'll make much of a husband, now, and even less of a father."  He stopped, surprised at how much he had revealed.

"I think you'll make a
wonderful
husband."

Lord Charles looked up at her emphatic tone, and Amy blushed a hundred shades of crimson.

"And father," she added, lamely.

His unseeing gaze remained on her for a long moment.  And then, with an amused little smile, he looked down and resumed eating.

"I'm sorry," Amy stammered, blushing.  "I — uh — I didn't —"

"Do you know, I think I shall have a second helping, after all," he said briskly, deftly cutting off her lame apologies and saving her from further embarrassment.  Amy's heart swelled with gratitude even as she chastised herself for her impulsive words.  Given what her sisters had said about him being her "pet man," and now the silent amusement in that one long gaze, he must certainly know the secrets of her foolish heart.  Oh, what must he think of her?

"Miss Leighton?"

She nearly jumped out of her skin, terrified that he'd been able to read her thoughts.

"If you don't mind, I would love a bit more of this," he prompted, gently, holding the bowl between his cupped hands.

Warm smile.  Warm eyes.  Warm heart.

Would those beautiful hands be warm as well, touching her in places that no man ever had before?

"Yes — yes, of course."  Red-faced, she rose, fetched his empty bowl and hurried to the kettle that still hung over the dying fire.  "After all, we wouldn't want to send you back to Juliet looking as though we'd starved you.  She'd think we Americans are a horrible sort."