The Merchant and the Clergyman (21 page)

They limped into the church that was
blessedly dark and cool, and empty of any sign of a wedding
celebration except for masses of flowers and ribbons. He slumped
into a pew and closed his eyes.

“Go find out where everyone is, Kip,” James
ordered. “I’ll wait here with Mr. Shaw. You should fetch the doctor
too. Or tell the vicar to send a servant.”

Kip walked away without complaint, his shoes
tapping on the stone floor.

“You’ve become bossy with your old tormentor,
my friend,” Declan murmured without opening his eyes.

He could sense James leaning over him. Declan
breathed in the familiar scent of James and felt a surge of
gratitude that he was alive and could enjoy the smell of the man.
James unwrapped his ridiculous bandage.

Declan hissed with pain when something wet
and cold touched his head.

“Water from the baptismal font,” James
said.

“I’ve been baptized already.” Declan winced
under the careful touch. “And don’t you think that’s a heretical
use of that water?”

“Needs must,” James said. “Stop
wiggling.”

“You dare order me around? Me, your lord and
master?”

“You, my poor battered friend.”

Soft breath touched his face. Declan opened
his eyes when James leaned close enough to brush his lips with his
own.

James pulled away quickly when echoing voices
came from the back of the church.

“…quite the hero, Mr. Darnley. When Joseph
returns with the doctor, perhaps Tarkington should examine your
nose. You were hit by a tree branch you say?” The vicar’s booming
voice made Declan wince. “Might we fetch Miss Emily as well? She
and Mr. Parker accompanied your father and mother back to the hall.
I’m certain she’d like to hear the story of your rescue.” His voice
held a smile. “And a wedding may at last take place.”

“Um. Perhaps I should…” Kip’s words trailed
off. Declan waited for more, but nothing came. The coward wouldn’t
admit he didn’t want to get married to Miss Parker.

Kip’s marital state or lack thereof was not
Declan’s affair. He opened his eyes—the dizziness had faded. He
tried sitting up a little more, and his head remained on his neck
instead of rolling away.

“I want to go to the hall. I need to see my
uncle,” he told James.

“You shouldn’t move any more than you already
have. You might have a brain injury.”

“A beastly headache is all I have.” He rose
to his feet and greeted the vicar, who sailed down the aisle. “Good
morning, Mr. Hollister. The church looks splendid. Pity it wasn’t
used for its intended purpose. I’ve heard this morning was quite
eventful.”

The vicar’s mouth drew into a moue of
distaste, probably for Declan’s frivolous tone. “Mr. Darnley here
has apologized for his part in the excitement and I’ve informed him
that his rescue of you more than made up for his behavior. Still, I
plan to produce a sermon about the dangers of celebrating too much
the night before a solemn occasion. And I’m sure you would agree
with me, Mr. Shaw.”

“I? I was attacked last night. I wasn’t
inebriated.”

The vicar drew back in surprise. “Attacked?
We should summon the constable immediately.”

Declan shook his head and then regretted the
action when the dizziness returned. “No need,” he said. “We are
going to take care of the matter.”

“Oh dear, I’m not sure I like the sound of
that. I cannot condone breaking the law to punish a
lawbreaker.”

“I swear I shall not break the law,” Declan
said. “Note I made this oath inside a church. You know I’ll hold to
it.”

The vicar’s scowl deepened, and he seemed
about to speak when the sound of a cart churning the loose rocks
outside announced the arrival of the doctor.

Dr. Tarkington didn’t appear happy to see
Declan again, but he remained courteous and, after an examination
carried out in the vicar’s office, advised Declan that he would
need a stitch or two.

“I’ll go back to the hall and tell them
you’re safe.” Kip had never liked being around blood. “I expect my
friends are eating the food for the wedding breakfast and making a
nuisance of themselves.”

“Nothing new there,” Declan muttered. He’d
had more than enough of his fellow wedding guests yesterday.

The doctor placed the stitches. Declan had
gotten several injuries in the past that required stitches but
these seemed worse, perhaps because the doctor wasn’t as competent
as the surgeon who’d worked on him back home. To stop himself from
wincing or yelping, he held tight to the scarf James had wrapped
around his head and the doctor had handed to him. He’d rather have
clutched James’s hand.

The doctor finally finished. He wiped off his
tools and gave Declan advice. “You should remain quiet in dark
rooms for a few days and avoid strenuous exercise.”

Declan wanted to grab Aunt Mary and leave as
soon as possible. Did he dare steal James away too? “If I need to
travel?”

“No galloping horses for you, I’d say. I have
something for headaches.” The doctor pulled a small brown bottle
from his bag. “Take a half ounce thrice daily for pain.”

“Half an ounce?” Declan unstoppered the
bottle and took a sniff. It smelled familiar—like the unlabeled
liquid he’d found in his uncle’s bureau drawer. “Is this the stuff
you give to my aunt?”

“It’s a remarkably efficient and versatile
remedy.” The doctor stopped fastening the buckles of his bag and
held out his hand. “Give it back to me if you don’t wish to carry
out my orders, Mr. Shaw.”

Declan attempted his best winsome smile. “No,
no. Thank you for the medicine. I’ll follow your instructions.”

After the doctor had finished bandaging him
and left, Declan informed the vicar he needed to borrow James to
help him walk back to the hall. “I’m still wobbly,” he
explained.

Despite both the vicar’s and James’s
protestations that he oughtn’t walk, Declan insisted. He and James
set off, strolling slowly. Declan could have easily gone faster but
wanted to keep James at his side as long as possible.

“I didn’t know you were in trouble,” James
said as soon as the heavy church doors closed behind them. “If I’d
had any notion that you didn’t return to the hall last night—”

Declan interrupted. “Of course you didn’t. I
stormed out of the mill like a man running from a fire.”

They reached the main road, and Declan
squinted at the bright sunlight. “A pleasant day for a wedding. I’m
glad it didn’t take place. I like your friend Miss Parker too much
to wish Kip upon her.”

James remained silent. He held the scarf, now
decorated with a few bloodstains, in his fist.

“You look sad, my friend. Did you want the
two to be married?”

“No. I’m wondering at what you said before,
that you ran away. I had thought you left quickly, but running
away? I hope you don’t feel you must run from me. I will not cling
to you or beg.”

“Even though I love the picture of you
begging?”

“You know what I mean,” James said with
dignity.

Declan relented. “
You
didn’t chase me
off. My own thoughts did. I’ve been alone all of my life, James. I
couldn’t imagine anyone with me in such a manner as… Anyone with me
all the time. Permanently.”

“Oh,” James said. “Oh. All the time? You had
mentioned a fortnight together.”

“And then I began to ask myself what if I
meant more than a short holiday? What about having James every
day?’”

James’s eyes widened and his mouth opened for
several seconds before he said, “You thought of that?”

“Yes, I did. And I ran away. But here’s the
truth: after the attack, when those same thoughts came back to me
during the rest of a very long night, they served as a comfort. A
balm. I would have run toward them, and you, if I could.”

James’s face went pale and pinched.

“Do my thoughts frighten you too?”

James shook his head. “No, no, I’m angry. To
think someone attacked you! They might have killed you. I wish I
could smash their head in and tie them up and leave them outside
without protection. Gracious, I’m not used to such a violent
response. When we met, you witnessed a rare moment of viciousness.”
As they walked, he mimed raising a knee.

Declan laughed, then winced at the pain.

“Lean on me,” James urged.

Declan didn’t need to lean on anything, but
he didn’t hesitate. He wrapped an arm around James’s shoulders and
pulled the strong slender body close against him. He added a bit of
a limp in case anyone watched.

At the hall, the butler greeted Declan as if
he were the prodigal son and went so far as to make a comment.
“Master Kip told us of how he rescued you, Mr. Shaw. On behalf of
the servants, sir, may I say how glad we are that you’re safe.”
Wenger even gave a shallow bow.

Declan supposed he didn’t mind Kip casting
himself as the hero of the piece. He thanked Wenger and, clutching
James’s shoulder, limped off toward his room.

After he shut the door to his bedroom, he
grabbed James again, only this time with more vigor.

“Your head,” James managed to say before
Declan’s mouth came down on his.

Declan knew his kiss was too urgent, too
demanding. But then James matched his ferocity, and Declan stopped
trying to slow himself. Their kisses deepened, and in a matter of
moments, he’d pushed James against the door and pressed close from
chest to knees. “I need this medicine,” he murmured. “I thought I
would never touch you again, James. I need this.”

In the corridor, someone laughed—one of Kip’s
beastly friends, Declan suspected. He reluctantly eased away from
the focus of his desire.

“Bathe and rest,” James whispered, cupping
Declan’s cheek with his cool palm.

“I’ll bathe, yes, but don’t go anywhere,
please. I’m not going to sleep until I have finished making all
sorts of plans.”

“That sounds ominous. You intimidate me.”

“And here am I, feeling as menacing as a
blade of grass.” Declan kissed James’s jaw, then continued to walk
backwards keeping a stern eye on James. “I shan’t take long. Will
you wait for me?”

James nodded.

Chapter Seventeen

After a fast bath and a check in the mirror
at his appalling collection of bruises and cuts and the bandage
swathing his head, Declan made his way back downstairs. He avoided
the billiards room and the library, where he heard his uncle’s
distinctive braying laugh, and found James in a sitting room with
Kip, who paced back and forth, complaining to James and another
young gentleman.

The hooked-nosed, chinless young man, one of
the more bearable of Kip’s lot, lounged on a sofa, apparently
drowsing and listening to Kip. The gentleman—Pail? Spade? Bucket,
perhaps?— sat up and raised his eyebrows at the sight of Declan,
but Kip didn’t seem to notice Declan’s entrance.

Declan nodded to Kip’s friend, then drew
James aside. “Now what’s the matter with my cousin?”

“Miss Parker refuses to marry him,” James
reported the unsurprising news. “And the fathers of the bride and
groom are closeted together to find a solution. I’m going to go
speak to Miss Parker, who is with your aunt in the upstairs drawing
room. Would you mind showing me the way, Mr. Shaw? I haven’t been
to that part of the house.”

Declan grinned. “Let’s go.”

“Tell Emily she’s a coward,” Kip called from
the fireplace. “Tell her that from me.”

“I don’t think I shall speak for you at all,
Mr. Darnley,” James said coolly.

Kip stopped drooping against the mantel and
folded his arms. “Aren’t clergymen supposed to help?”

“For God’s sake, Kip, don’t be more idiotic
than necessary,” Declan said. “I suppose your pride is hurt by
rejection, but you know you don’t
want
to marry her. This
will save you a breach of contract suit. You should go to her
yourself. Cordially talk to her, shake her hand, maybe say
something like you’re sorry the two of you have parted brass rags,
but you wish her well.”

“He’s right, you know,” the Bucket said in
wonderment, as if Declan had spoken some sort of amazing new
truth.

“But my father…” Kip moaned and buried his
face in his hands.

Declan moved closer to James. “Let’s go. Just
when I think there is hope for Kip, he falls back into old
habits.”

James excused himself to use the necessary,
and while Declan waited near the window, he pulled out his watch
and saw it was later than he’d hoped. He wanted to get to his
aunt’s rooms before she took her midday medicines and became too
drowsy to hear him.

Declan stared out at the slightly ragged rose
bed. A gardener pushing a wheelbarrow trudged up the path toward
the kitchen garden. Clark—Declan remembered the name of the man who
worked in both the garden and stables and who took too many breaks
to smoke his pipe. He was a very large man, almost as big as
Declan. Or as Kip.

Clark’s cap shaded his face, but when he
turned to shoulder open the stubborn and heavy cast iron gate to
the garden, a shaft of sunlight illuminated his features. Declan
might have been wrong—Clark was twenty feet away—but he believed he
saw a large bruise around the gardener’s eye.

“Ah,” he said softly.

James reentered the room and joined Declan at
the window. “Why are you smiling like that?”

Declan pointed at the garden and Clark
vanishing through the gate. “After I take you to see Miss Parker
and my aunt, I’ll have a quick look at the gardener, and maybe a
nice long talk with him about where he was last night.”

“Clark?” James sounded dubious. “I can’t see
him as your attacker.”

“Is there anyone in Bishop’s Hartfeld you can
imagine going after me?”

James gazed at the stone wall and gate of the
kitchen garden as if they might reveal some kind of answer. Kip and
Bucket talked about what they might do for entertainment and how
soon they might return to London.
Not you, Kip,
Declan
thought.