The Colonel and The Enchantress (An Enchantress Novel Book 4)

by Paullett Golden

  Dr. Knowlton visited every three hours, every day, prompting Duncan to lift his legs to reach the physician’s hand. A hopeless effort. Duncan was to the point of telling the physician not to return. The man frustrated him with his arrogant optimism. The physician was of the opinion that Duncan could not move his legs because he was not willing to move them. It was the single most ridiculous thing Duncan had ever heard in his life. Did the man not realize that if Duncan could move his legs, he would? He did not want to be bedridden. He did not want to rely on his valet and footmen for even the most personal of matters. It was humiliating and degrading.

  The daily effort of trying to move legs that would not move was straining. As far as he was concerned, his life was over. He would never be able to walk again. A hollowness settled in the pit of his stomach. Aside from the visits from the doctor and his family, he spent his time staring at the open window, unseeing, focusing on the hollowness.

  When his chamber door opened, he did not look up.

  Wood floorboards creaked, the sound of the steps muffled by the rug. The chair at his bedside dragged across the threads.

  There were not many moments in life as humiliating as being visited while trapped in bed. He had encountered the more humiliating moments this week, to be sure, but it was one thing to be unmanned in front of servants and quite another to be seen as weak by his family. He was not a weak man. He had led battalions into war, faced his enemy with barred teeth, proven his prowess with a sword time and again. He was anything but weak. And yet here he lay, vulnerable.

  “Nothing will improve if you refuse to get out of bed,” his brother said, nonchalant.

  Duncan turned his head. Quinn raised his brows and drummed fingers on his knee.

  “Oh, pardon me. Did I forget to stand in greeting? How discourteous. Leave the room and come back in so I may rise and bow in reverence.”

  Duncan immediately regretted the rudeness of his words.

  His family had been nothing but encouraging. He valued their company, love, and support. Regardless, his speech became sharper with each conversation, his patience worn thin. He wanted them to visit, but at the same time, he wanted them to leave him alone. His brashness was winning the war.

  Quinn did not flinch. “I have a proposition. I want you to take tea with us every afternoon. In the parlor.”

  “And how do you suggest I do that? Shall I fling myself over the side of the bed and crawl on my forearms?”

  “Aw, brother, your acerbic tongue has not gone sweet. Your valet will dress you. The footmen will aid in your transport. And you’ll take tea with us in the parlor.”

  “I’ll agree to it if you agree to be dressed while horizontal and then carried about the house as an invalid. What do you say? Is it a deal?” Duncan’s sarcasm thickened.

  Quinn scooted the chair closer. “‘And he said unto me, my grace is sufficient for thee: for my strength is made perfect in weakness. Most gladly therefore will I rather glory in my infirmities, that the power of Christ may rest upon me.’”

  Duncan scoffed. “If you’ve come to spout sermons, leave.”

  “‘Be strong and of a good courage. He it is that doth go before thee; he will be with thee, he will not fail thee, neither forsake thee: fear not, neither be dismayed.’”

  Turning away, Duncan returned to his philosophical study of the open window.

  “Will you at least see Bernard?” Quinn implored. “He asks for you every day. Mama says he cries himself to sleep because you don’t read him a story. If you can’t do something for yourself, do something for him. You’re turning into the most selfish man of my acquaintance.”

  “Selfish?” Duncan jerked his head to face his brother. Pushing himself into a seated position, he glowered. “I hardly call my condition selfish. I didn’t ask for this to happen.”

  “No, but you’re allowing this to dominate your life. You’ve become a right grump who is thinking only of himself. Not everything is about you, Duncan. Yes, it’s humiliating. Yes, it’s frustrating. But staying here pouting is selfish. There is a little boy out there who depends on you and a young lady who is head over ears in love with you, not to mention the tenants of the baronetcy who depend on the baronet for their employment and are eager to meet you.”

  Duncan threw up his hands in a gesture of helplessness. “What can I offer any of them? I’m a broken man.”

  “‘Count it all joy when ye fall into divers temptations; knowing this, that the trying of your faith worketh patience. But let patience have her perfect work, that ye may be perfect and entire, wanting nothing.’”

  “If God cared a whit about me, I wouldn’t be in this condition. Now, get out.” He pointed his brother to the door.

  Quinn sighed and stood. When he reached the door, he paused. “We expect you for tea tomorrow. Bernard will be there waiting. If you disappoint that boy, I will come in here and personally show you the wrath of God.”

  That same afternoon brought another visitor.

  It began with a knock and entrance by his mother. She marched into his dressing room to summon the valet without a word of acknowledgement to her son. Duncan set aside the book he had been reading, though reading implied an active participation, when in truth, his gaze had been trained on the same passage for the past half hour.

  With hands on hips and chin held high, she said, “You have twenty minutes to dress before your guests arrive.” Her voice boomed, authoritative—the voice of a mother of seven, of a woman who had spent twenty years following the drum with her husband.

  “What guests?” Duncan questioned, not at all liking the direction the day had taken.

  The valet stepped into the room, awaiting orders.

  “The first of your guests for the week. Starting tomorrow, you’ll be receiving callers.”

  “What the devil is going on?” His ire churned his stomach, rising in a burning fury.

  “You are a sought-after man, son. Half the village want to come and offer their good wishes. They all know, it would seem, that something has befallen you. You’re their returning hero, Duncan. You’ll not deprive them of the opportunity to show they care.”

  “Yes, I will,” Duncan insisted. “I don’t want to see anyone. I’m in no state to see anyone. If they knew my condition, they wouldn’t want to see me, either.”

  “I don’t care what you want, young man. These people have watched you grow up, respect and admire the man you’ve become, and idolize you as a hero. You will see them. You will be kind.”

  “Oh, this is quite enough, Mama. I’m anything but a hero. Just look at me! I’m nothing.”

  Georgina nodded to his valet. “Peter has already set aside a handsome ensemble for you to receive your guests. Is that not so?” The piercing look she gave the valet would have sent the most war-hardened soldier to his knees. “If my son balks, you have my permission to flog him.”

  On that, she turned heel and left.

  Duncan gaped at the closed door. What sort of life was this? Since when was a man of five and twenty bullied by his own mother? He was a colonel for crying in a laudanum bottle! He was a baronet!

  Tossing aside the covers, he signaled to his valet. “Well, get on with it. Neither of us wants to be flogged.”

  “Right, sir,” his valet said with a bow.

  No more than twenty minutes later, Duncan was dressed in silk breeches, matching green coat and waistcoat, a simply knotted cravat, and clocked stockings. He was as tidy as a man could be with only twenty minutes to dress. The stubble on his cheek made him feel unclean, though. Normally, he was meticulous about his appearance, but since waking to this new reality, he found it difficult to care.

  Two footmen had aided the valet in moving him to the snug in the front corner of the room. If his mother wanted him to receive guests in the parlor or drawing room, she would have to give him more notice.

 
Duncan picked non-existent lint from his sleeve, annoyed. He did not want to see anyone.

  At precisely twenty after—his mother’s punctuality at its finest—a knock sounded.

  “Enter,” he barked.

  Why anyone bothered to knock was beyond him. They had been barging in all week.

  The door opened to the face of Mary’s cousin, Lady Collingwood, or Lilith as she insisted on being called. She stepped inside, a surprised expression to find him seated by the open window.

  “Excuse my rudeness for not standing,” he said, waving a hand to one of the empty seats across from him.

  She hovered by the door, her hand on the frame, one foot in the room. “I thought for a moment you had good news to share.”

  “Alas, my lady, no.” He enunciated the last word.

  With a knowing smile, she stepped aside, opening the door wide behind her. “I’ve brought someone to cheer your spirits.”

  He frowned, not at all interested in seeing Dr. Knowlton again today. Nothing was more disheartening than that man’s outreached hand, ever expectant.

  Only, it was not Dr. Knowlton who stepped into the room.

  His heart thrummed a Scottish reel when Mary walked in, tentative, eyes a hopeful shade of walnut brown, a half-smile on her lips. Duncan swallowed against a maelstrom of emotions.

  She was the apple in Eden, a sinful delight he could not have. Gooseflesh rose on his arms as he flushed with hot pleasure in the coolness of the room. Her luscious figure was framed in a cream dress with high waist and low neckline, her pale bosom swelling and falling with each breath. There was some sort of woman’s work on the hem of the dress and sleeves, but he hardly noticed when there was such a person as she to capture his attention. Her hair ringleted around her oval face, the darkness of the tresses emphasizing the pearl of her skin.

  All he wanted was to embrace her and set his lips to hers.

  As the memory of their recent kiss teased him, he felt a warring anger. How dared they allow her to come here. She was the mirage of water to a parched man. Never could they be together. He could not even bed her, much less be the man she needed. Mary was a vibrant flame. A woman who spent her mornings riding hell for leather had no business being with a man who could not walk.

  “What are you doing here?” he said in way of a greeting as the two ladies entered the room, leaving the door ajar.

  Mary’s half-smile slipped. “I should think that’s obvious, don’t you?”

  Lady Collingwood hovered behind Mary. Clearly the cousin was here only as a chaperone.

  “You shouldn’t be here,” he said, sinking his fingers into the arms of the chair. “There’s nothing for you here.”

  Mary’s chin raised half an inch. “I’m here to tell you that no matter what happens, I’m by your side. Together, we can get through this.”

  Duncan heaved a sigh, glaring at the rug before looking back to Mary. “There’s nothing to get through. I’m sorry if you’ve waited for me all these years only to meet a broken man, but take it as a blessing. This is your chance for freedom. We’re not married. We’re not even betrothed. We’re in no way promised to each other. You need to leave and not return.”

  Though her chin wobbled and her eyes narrowed, her shoulders straightened. “Say what you like to me, but I’m not leaving. I know your heart. You’re frightened and angry about what’s happened. You’re lashing out.”

  “What do you know about me? Your loyalty is to a fresh-faced boy naïve enough to think he can touch the sun and steal the moon. I’m not that boy anymore. I’m not even a soldier. I’m an invalid. I’m useless. I have nothing to offer you, Mary, not even friendship. Get out, and don’t come back.” His voice rose in anger.

  “Do you think so little of yourself?”

  “You’re coming is nothing short of cruel, dangling something I cannot have.”

  Mary studied him, searching his eyes. “But I’m here. Can’t you see that? I’m here. I want to help you. Think of all the things we can accomplish together once we have you walking again. Dr. Knowlton believes in you, and so do I.”

  “The sooner you face reality, the better,” he snapped. “How do you think this would work between us? Shall I court you from a chair? Wax poetic about the river we can’t walk beside? You can’t come to my bedchamber every few days to talk about the weather. Have you thought about what marriage to me would be like? We couldn’t even have children. Has that occurred to you? You’d be a glorified nursemaid.”

  Hugging her arms, she said, “This isn’t you. The Duncan I know would fight to get out of the chair. He wouldn’t let this come between his dreams or between us.”

  Slamming a fist on the side table, he said, his voice venomous, “Do you even think I want to marry a duke’s daughter? I would always be your inferior. People like you don’t marry youngest sons of military men. You would grow to resent me, just as I would regret marrying above my station. I can never be the man you want me to be. Please, Mary, leave. I don’t want to see you again.”

  Knuckles white as she gripped her upper arms, she said, “You’re right. You can never be the man I want because the man I want is courageous. You’re nothing more than a cold-hearted coward. You can go to the devil, Sir Duncan.”

  Singeing his skin with her words, she about-faced and walked out, taking her cousin with her.

  His heart wept. He fought the urge to cry out for her, to wail that he needed her more than he needed air to breathe. Rational thought convinced him he had done the right thing. He had saved her from a life of misery. This was for the best.

  Chapter 10

  Dark clouds loomed in the distance. Mary leaned against the window frame in the upstairs parlor of Cois Greta Park.

  They had all heard the argument. When she walked into the room with Lilith, his parents and brother were waiting, identical looks of pity on each face. They likely all expected her to cry into a handkerchief. Behind her eyes was the welling heat and tension of unshed tears, but she refused to cry over that man.

  That man was not Duncan. The eyes were muted, the expression menacing, the words cruel. Duncan would never have said such things to her. Whoever this man was, she wanted nothing to do with him.

  “He’s not in his right mind,” Colonel Sean Starrett said. “Being in a room for that long does funny things to a man.”

  The family conversed behind her. She could feel their eyes on her, watching for when she would turn into a watering pot.

  “The villagers’ visits will help,” Mr. Quinn Starrett said. “He needs to see we all support him.”

  Mrs. Starrett voiced her agreement. “We need to remind him of all the things he enjoys. Bring his horse below his window so he can look out on it. Nothing more encouraging than that, I say.”

  The colonel added, “When my leg met a blade, laming me, I thought life was at an end. Over twenty years I had served Crown and country. What was I to do? Just as I did, the boy needs encouragement.”

  “Making plans for the future is the way of it,” his mother said. “We should make plans for the celebration ball in May. He needs to ready his dancing legs.”

  As they talked, Mary’s mind worked. Part of her wanted to run. She did not want to be burdened with that man. But as they spoke, and as the clouds rolled closer, blotting out the sun that had heretofore shined on Cois Greta Park, she realized something.

  The whole time Duncan had looked at her, it was as though he were the sun, watching from behind the storm, that man the cloud. A protective barrier? A guardian? Duncan pushed her away because he was scared. Perhaps this was wishful thinking. Or perhaps it was truth. She had no way to know if she was making the most significant mistake of her life. But in her heart, if she focused on the Duncan she had loved for so long, she knew that now, more than ever, he needed her.

  “No.” Mary turned from the window, curious faces looking ba
ck at her. “I disagree. The last thing he wants is to look to the future. He is focusing only on now, and so should we.”

  “That’s no use,” Mrs. Starrett said. “He needs to think to the future and all the things he’ll be able to do once he’s walking again. That’ll encourage him to try harder during Dr. Knowlton’s visits. The doctor leaves in two days. Duncan has to try harder.”

  “Don’t you see?” Mary walked over and perched on the edge of the chair next to Lilith. “All he sees is that he’ll never walk again. For all we know, it’s true. The more we focus on his future, the more upset he will become. We must meet him where he is. The present.”

  His father rubbed his chin. “What do you propose?”

  Mary thought for a moment, then asked, “What can we do to convince him there is a life to be lived even if he never walks again?”

  “I don’t want this talk of him not walking again,” Mrs. Starrett protested. She removed from the chair and began to pace in front of the hearth. “I won’t hear of it. And I don’t want him to think of it.”

  “Please, Mrs. Starrett. We’re not resigning ourselves to the condition,” Mary said. “We’re only trying to help him see that he has choices beyond walking or being bedridden. He sees only those two choices at present. We need to help him see this condition is not the end of all things.”

  Lilith scooted to the end of her chair. “What about a Bath chair? It would aid in his mobility. I could send for one easily enough. From time to time, we have such supplies made for the foundling hospital.”

  The colonel frowned. “That impossibly heavy contraption they use to move the infirm to the pump rooms in Bath?”

  “I would recommend one of those for outdoors,” Lilith explained. “It would be too large and too heavy for inside, but should he wish to visit the garden or the stables, it would aid in his transport and give a sense of independence. For inside, there’s the smaller and lighter wicker version that could be pushed from room to room and carried up and down the stairs.”