“Bradford,” she whispered. “I love you. I didn't tell you when I could have, and I will forever regret it. When you return to me, I will tell you every day, so we never forget. You are my heart, or part of it, so sometimes it is hard to remember to tell you. To remember you need to hear the words. I love you. I love you.”
She sobbed, leaning forward, covering her face with her hands. The ocean was inside her, a seething tide or unstoppable grief that had to pour forth, or it would choke her soul. She sat in the coach, her hand on Bradford's still, cooling form, and sobbed, and sobbed.
“Dalford house, ma'am.”
“Thank you,” she whispered. The coachman opened the door, his small, pinched face a picture of compassion.
“Eh, milady. He'll mend well. Let me help you with him?”
“Thank you,” she whispered. “You're very kind.”
“No...not at all,” he said, grunting as he pulled the prone form from the coach, then half-dragged, half-carried him up the five stone steps towards the door. “I'll help you in with him, if you need it?”
“Thank you,” Mirabelle said softly. “I'm awfully obliged.”
“Not at all, mistress.”
Hinsley answered the door when she knocked, took one look at Mirabelle's tear-racked face, at the prone form of Bradford, and came to conclusions.
“You bring him in here,” she said to the coachman, instantly assuming motherly organization. “Come, milady. Let's get you up to the parlor. You need a drink of tea.”
“Thank you.”
Mirabelle let the coachman take Bradford into the downstairs parlor, and then sat down, exhausted, on the straight-backed chair opposite the couch where he lay. She was finished.
“Milady? It's warmer up in the drawing-room?”
“I'm staying here,” Mirabelle said distantly. Why was she so tired, suddenly? “I want to be wit him.”
“Of course you do,” Mrs. Hinsley said gently. “Now, you,” she said to the coachman. “Thank you. You can take a bite in the kitchen, if you've a minute.”
“Thank you,” he nodded. “I'm most obliged.”
“Can someone fetch the doctor?” Mirabelle whispered. She would go, but her legs wouldn't let her stand, much less go out into the street and to fetch another coach.
“It'll all be seen to,” Mrs. Hinsley said gently. “Don't fret yourself about it.”
“Thank you.”
When she had gone, and the coach-driver with her, Mirabelle leaned to Bradford. He was sitting as the driver left him, half lolling to his left, head leaned on the russet chair-back. His body was twisted to the side, in utter repose.
“We'll make you well,” she whispered to him. She instinctively felt he shouldn't be lying all cramped up like that, and lay him down on the couch, head propped on one scroll-work arm, legs straight. She was sitting holding his hand when the doctor arrived. She stood.
“Milady,” he said, bowing. “I believe you...ah. Here's the patient. I will examine him?”
He looked at her questioningly, clearly expecting her to leave the room.
“I will stay.”
He said nothing, but the set of his features told her he thought it was entirely irregular, and that she should go. She went to the window, not wanting to get in his way, but also knowing she was not leaving Bradford's side.
I'll sleep here, if I must do. I am not leaving until I know you're well.
She waited, anxious thoughts twisting round within, while the doctor checked his eyes, read his pulses, listened to his breathing. At length, he stood, dusting off his knees from having knelt on the carpet.
“The patient needs rest, milady. I have prescribed laudanum, for when he wakes...few days' dose,” he added, scribbling it into his notepad. “His breath is regular, his pulse strong. For all I expect, he will wake sometime before noon tomorrow. At which time he is to be given gruel. And warmed milk, with a raw egg beaten in,” he added, scribbling more into the notes. “And summon me, when he wakes. I will examine him again.”
“And...if he doesn't wake then?” Mirabelle made herself question.
“Summon me anyway. I will examine him further.”
“Yes, doctor,” Mirabelle murmured.
“Good day, milady.”
She sat back down again, waiting for him to leave. His footsteps, surprisingly light on the carpeted floor, drifted slowly away.
“Whew.”
Mirabelle leaned back on the seat, wishing that she could summon any vitality at all to do something. She could barely move, let alone do anything for Bradford. Not that the doctor had given her many instructions.
“He'll not get laudanum when he wakes,” she said under her breath. She had seen, and heard of, the dangers of that substance. She wasn't having it anywhere near Bradford.
She frowned, surprised at her vehemence. She recalled the way she had roared at the fellow in the street, striking at him with the sword-stick, the sense of threat breaking loose in her suddenly, impelling her to act on it.
In that moment – when she'd finally fought against the threat that would take her freedom and all she loved, she had felt liberated. Nobody could cage her again. She was free. Always.
She was drowsy, suddenly. So drowsy. Her mind whirled, a drifting kaleidoscope of grays and sleepiness.
“Milady?” Hinsley spoke from infinitely-far away, or so it sounded. “The doctor said you should go to bed. Would you take a syllabub?”
“I...I need to rest, Hinsley,” she made herself say. Speech was a long tunnel, and each word must be posted carefully down it. She was so tired!
“Aye, milady,” Hinsley agreed. “Well, let's get you upstairs. You need a lie down.”
“I'm staying here,” Mirabelle whispered. “I'll not leave.”
Hinsley said nothing, and Mirabelle stayed where she was. The last thing she remembered, before dropping into the sleep of utter exhaustion, was Hinsley, gently shifting Bradford so both his arms – one had fallen – were on the couch. Then her world was enfolded in the dark of sleep.
That night, she dreamed again. Again, in the dream, she wandered in darkened streets, lost. She saw another person there – one whom she knew had all the secrets. Who knew the way, and could guide her to the place she'd long been seeking. This time, the figure turned round and looked at her. She stared.
The figure was herself.
The next thing she knew was the sun, shining on her face, and the sound of a chaffinch, at the window, calling her awake. It was morning, and she was sitting in the chair in the parlor, cramped and aching. Opposite her lay Bradford. His eyes were open.
Chapter 18: Waking up
Bradford opened his eyes. His head was sore, a dull throb somewhere in the back of his skull suffusing the whole thing with an unbearable ache. He found himself looking at a ceiling with molding of acanthus leaves around a central sphere. He blinked, startled.
Where in perdition's name am I?
He twisted sharply round, alarmed. The swift motion didn't do anything to help his head. He winced, gritted his teeth as the pain lanced into his skull, teeth bared. Then he opened his eyes again.
“Mirabelle?”
He whispered it in wonder. She was sitting on a chair opposite him, clad in a long white lacy day-dress. Her head was leaning on the head-rest of a chair, eyes closed. She was asleep.
He stared at her in perpetual amazement. Her hair shone in the sunshine, strands of it glowing as the light turned them golden. She breathed in, a soft, steady breath that seemed as if she soon would wake. He stared.
Slowly, her head shifted forward, and she sat up. Her eyes blinked once or twice, then opened wide. She stared at him. Her face transformed into a big smile.
“Bradford?”
“Mirabelle?” he whispered. He tried to sit up, but the pain in his temples was unbearable and he leaned back, feeling his eyes close tight with pain. He lay on the arm-rest behind him. “Where are we?”
“We're at my home, dearest,” she said
, coming to kneel by his couch. Her hand stroked his hair. Those two things – the gentle touch, and the fact that she had called him that – dearest – stole away all thought. He grinned.
“Mirabelle?” he said, turning to look at her, eyes opened now. Gently, disbelievingly, he reached out and touched her face. She tensed, but allowed his hand to rest there, briefly. “How...what?...where?” he was laughing now, and didn't quite know why. Relief, perhaps, or the absolute wonderment at everything that had just happened to him.
I thought Mirabelle Steele was far above me. That I needed to learn poetry by heart to attract her attention. And now, when I have made a fool of myself, got myself knocked out cold, she calls me dearest? Cares for me? It made no sense.
In making no sense, it had its own particular wonder. He laughed, feeling his lips stretch in a smile.
“What is it?” she asked gently. “What's so funny?” She was smiling too, and he reached out and took her hand. Her fingers looped round his, warm and steady. The touch sent ripples of delight through his body.
“It's...it's just all so remarkable,” he finished, lamely. He turned and smiled at her, knowing he was lying there grinning like a zany and not particularly minding.
I thought, when she said nothing in the coach, that she could never return my affection. Not at all. The sadness of that lanced through him anew. And now I find that she can? That she does? It's scant possible!
“Milady?”
“Mirabelle,” she said, making a face at him. He laughed.
“Mirabelle, then,” he said, and saying her name filled his heart with sweetness, as if he'd just drunk nectar.
“Quite,” she said. “Now, what was it you wanted to ask me?”
They both laughed.
“Well, first,” he said, lying back as his head started to pound again, “I'd like to ask how I came to be here. How you came to be here. I thought...” he trailed off as the horror struck him again.
He hadn't had time to think about it, but now the thought occurred: how had she escaped from whatever it was that felled him? Whoever it was? They had clearly meant great harm to them both. And he hadn't helped.
She stood, and drew the chair closer to the couch where he lay. Then she sat down, faced him, and took his hand tenderly.
“My dearest, you were attacked by...that felon Stilton sent. He knocked you out. I was so worried...” she sniffed. Bradford frowned.
“Well, I should have been more worried! How did you escape him?”
“I hit him.”
Bradford stared at her. She had gone pink, a small smile, almost shamefaced, on her lips. He laughed in sheer amazement.
“By all that's green! You hit him! Milady! You are spectacular!”
Mirabelle's blush darkened and she looked at the carpet, modestly.
“I only did what I had to...I don't know what got into me.”
He chuckled. “Well, bless me. I'm glad it did, whatever it was. You are a formidable force, milady.”
She shifted in her seat, looking at the floor. “I...it was probably shocking, but...”
“Shocking?” Bradford shot upright in the chair, hissed as his head knifed like it was being stabbed, but stayed seated. This was important. “Milady, it was not shocking. It was brave. It was right.”
Mirabelle smiled. The grin that spread across her face was bright and lovely in the sunshine. He shook his head, smiling at her.
“You are a wonderful woman,” he said. He felt too shy to say more, still not sure if all this was really happening – that she really accepted him as she seemed to. That she cared for him.
She swallowed hard. When she looked up, she had a melting tenderness in her eyes.
“Bradford,” she said. “I...” she coughed. “I had something to say to you yesterday. Something I wanted to say. Was about to say. I need to tell you this. I love you. I always have, I think. I felt it that day we met. An ease between us, as if you knew me and I knew you, even though we'd never met. I don't know,” she said, shaking her head, a little laugh on her lips. “I suppose I'm talking nonsense. But I love you, Bradford. You are a wonderful man.”
Bradford lay back, stunned. It was just as well he could blame his utter stupefaction on the blow to his head, because he couldn't have been more felled than if someone had cracked his skull. She loved him? Mirabelle Steele, the woman so wonderful he could barely risk talking to her for feeling utterly foolish, meant that? That she loved him?
“Mirabelle,” he said, finally able to get some words to leave his mouth. “You...love me? Truly?”
She was laughing now, her mouth stretched in a grin that matched his own. She was also crying, tears running swiftly down his cheeks. “You silly man, Bradford. I love you. Of course I do. How can you not know that?”
He lay back, a wide smile spreading across his face.
“I can't believe it,” he said. “I love you, too.”
He turned to look at her, and her smile mirrored his, as did the tears, just glinting on the edges of her lashes. He sniffed, afraid his own might fall. He felt overwhelmed.
His hand was still in hers, and he tightened it gently on her fingers. He looked up into her face and she looked down at him. She bent down as he leaned forward.
Their lips met.
This time, her lips pressed to his and parted, sweetly, below them. His hand moved round, drawing her against his mouth and stroking her hair at once. His tongue probed her mouth and suddenly it felt as if a flood of feeling surged through him, all those weeks of desire surging through him like a wave crest. He sat and drew her body to him, pressing his chest to her own, wanting to hold her tight and never let her go. The scent of her – rose and lavender – filled his nostrils as the softness of her body filled his soul.
They kissed for what felt like an eternity. Even so, as he leaned back, sighing, on the couch, he wished they had not broken the kiss then. He could kiss her for a lifetime, and never weary of its sweetness. His whole body ached, as if a fire was lit there.
“Mirabelle,” he breathed.
She smiled, and touched his hand. “Bradford,” she said.
The silence stretched between them, a sweet gentle one. He lay there and let his mind drift in the haze of amazement that filled him.
Gently, the sounds and scents of the surroundings made themselves known. Outside the window a magpie called, insistently. Someone brushed the steps. He breathed in and smelled the scent of roses and furniture-oil.
“I suppose I should sit up sometime,” he said.
She smiled, a sweet smile curving her generous mouth. “I suppose.”
He chuckled. “I can't lie here forever. And be waited on hand and foot.”
She chuckled. “I suppose.”
“Not that,” he added, mischief sparking inside him, “I'd be averse to it. It seems I might like that.”
She grinned. “You might get used to it,” she teased. “And I shall have to protest at something.”
“You will?” he said, in mock reluctance. “Well, I suppose it would be a trifle wearisome to lie here eternally,” he added, shifting on the couch. “I can imagine ways I'd rather spend my time.”
His meaning, as he glanced at her, eyes shining, was apparent: he would rather be doing things – certain things – with her. He saw her read it. To his delight, she smiled.
“Get well soon, Lord Bradford,” she said. She leaned forward and kissed him, gently, on the brow. “I look forward to the day when you can walk again.”
Then she stood, walking to the door. He was about to protest – surprised by how much he wished for her to stay – when she smiled, and raised a brow, teasingly. “You need breakfast.”
Chapter 19: Putting the pieces together
Mirabelle sat at the couch where Bradford lay, a rich warmth suffusing her heart.
“There,” he said, sitting up. “That was delicious. Compliments to your cook. A more excellent dish of stew I never had.”
Mirabelle laughed, delightedly. �
��I shall tell her,” she said. “I'm sure she'll be delighted. Compliments are scant from me. I've become overly accustomed to her skill.”
“Overly accustomed, eh?” he grinned, teasing. “Well! A new outlook on her cooking tells me it's excellent. As are you, milady.”
She blushed, and waved a hand at him. “Oh, Bradford,” she said, feeling her heart flow with warmth. “You flatterer, you.”
“I don't flatter,” he said, swinging his legs off the seat and sitting up. She could see that the motion had exhausted him, as she could see the expression of pain on his face.
“You shouldn't overdo things,” she said.
She was overwhelmed as he looked at her, longing shining in his eyes, matching the growing longing fluttering in her belly.
“I have motivation to recover fast.”
Mirabelle smiled, the compliment, and all he meant by it, setting her body on fire. She giggled. “Well, if you want to recover, the first thing you should do is not overdo it.” She lifted a finger at him, wagging it playfully as if she were a nurse, or a tutor. “The doctor ordered rest.”
“Yes, sir.”
She shoved him playfully, making him laugh aloud. “I might get to like that,” she warned. “Too much obedience could become addictive.”
He grinned, and she could see the thought had its appeal. “Well, then,” he said. “I shall become rebellious, and challenge your authority. Sometimes,” he added.
She kissed him fondly on the temple. “I am delighted to contemplate it,” she said. “But for now, I think you should take it slowly. I recommend a walk about the grounds. Later. To stretch your legs. For now, perhaps you can go upstairs to the drawing-room. It seems a pity for you to visit my house and not see the fine view of the church-tower from up there.”
“Yes, milady,” he acknowledged, bowing. “I think a walk would do me the power of good.”
“Only if it doesn't pain you.”
Her Cool Charms (Brides for the Earl's Sons Book 2) Page 16