Honour's Debt

by Joan Vincent

  “But enough of that. Take my man Joel as your driver,” Cavilon brooked no opposition. “Keep him informed of your every move—before you make it, so we will have, if necessary, a trail to follow.”

  * * *

  Hart Cottage May 25th Early Thursday Afternoon

  Quentin glowered at Maddie who stood beside the bed with shaving mug and brush in hand. “I told you I would see to myself later. What sense is there in being shaven? Who is to see me?”

  His ice blue eyes were anything but cold as Maddie met his gaze. The air between them crackled with a tension as unfamiliar as it was alluring and, she had come to realize, a constant between them.

  What is it, Maddie wondered, that fills me with the strange unreasonable urge to be near him? Her heart unaccountably fluttered beneath his gaze. Perhaps it would be best, she reasoned, to leave be. I only thought to offer because it always made Father more comfortable.

  “Do as you are told. Put it aside,” Quentin commanded.

  A free trader dares to order me? The flash of anger overruled common sense. The intent to make a cautious retreat evaporated.

  “How ungrateful you are. Do you not realize how your unkempt appearance embarrasses and perhaps even frightens Aunt Prissy,” Maddie said sharply.

  Quentin steeled himself against a twinge of guilt that threatened to weaken his resolve to keep Maddie away from him. But when she hurried away regret swept through him. Relief swelled when she strode back to his bedside.

  Maddie thrust a mirror before Quentin’s face. After a glance at his unshaven features in the wavy reflection he conceded the necessity with sour grace. “I will manage. Bring the soap and straight edge to me.”

  Watching his lips thin and his jaws clamp down despite his effort to conceal the pain as he leveraged himself up into a sitting position against the headboard, Maddie resisted the temptation to help. She went to recollect the shaving gear. “I’ll not have you open your wounds because of a man’s pride. Mr. Balfor would have my head after all he has risked to treat your wounds.”

  Quentin watched her approach with a piece of muslin. His heart stuttered when she bent close and tucked it behind his shoulders. His chest ached; someone or something stole his breath. “I’ll not have my throat slit by a female,” he managed weakly.

  Expertly twirling the wet brush against the soap in the cup Maddie met his gaze. “’Tis no surprise to me that you have tempted others to do so before this,” she said and fell silent.

  Quentin forced his eyes from Maddie’s and to the brush and shaving cup in her hands to escape the turmoil her gaze evoked. But the circular motion of her hand as she worked the soap into lather brought a vivid image of her hands on him. His heart somersaulted and despite his best effort not to, Quentin deeply inhaled Maddie’s scent, a mixture of woman and roses that aroused him as no woman’s ever had. He clenched his fists in the sheet and tried to breathe naturally.

  Wordlessly, Maddie brushed the lather across Quentin’s cheeks and chin with the shaving brush. Even though she did not meet his gaze her stomach clenched whenever her hand brushed his face. She was relieved when he closed his eyes and thus could not see her hand tremble.

  Clearing her throat, Maddie set aside the brush and cup and picked up the straightedge razor. Tentatively she placed fingers on the side of his head and drew the razor across his cheek. She had shaved her father often enough to make it routine but with Mr. Broyal it was a vastly different experience. Her closeness to him and the constant contact aroused sensations and thoughts Maddie would not have believed possible before she brought home this wounded free trader.

  With each touch or brush of her hand against Quentin’s face the desire to caress grew. Maddie flicked a tongue across her lips as she carefully shaved above his upper lip. She couldn’t help but think of the sensations his lips had roused. Desire to taste him again rose unbidden. Maddie slowly bent her head close to his. A moment before her lips brushed his she realized what she was doing.

  Jerking back Maddie was relieved to see Quentin’s eyes had remained closed and he seemed not to have noticed her indiscretion. Chagrin and hunger for more lingered. It was all Maddie could do to take the last strokes. The small patches of lather still on Quentin’s face after she finished drew her gaze. She itched to smooth them away but flipped the muslin towel over them.

  “What?” Quentin snorted as the muslin covered his face. He jerked it aside and saw Maddie making for the door.

  “I shall bring you something to eat soon,” she said without looking back.

  “If I have to sup on one more bowl of broth I will—”

  “Will what, Mr. Broyal?” Maddie threw back from the doorway. She was tired, too tired and too upset by the turmoil of emotions and desires that swirled between them to be diplomatic. Besides being undeniably handsome and damned unsettling, her patient had proven insufferable, autocratic, and crabby as a sick infant.

  “I have been free of fever for a full day,” Quentin said as he swiped at the lather still on his face. Maddie was too irresistible standing there with her arms planted firmly on her hips, her forehead wrinkled, her lips turned down in a determined frown. “If you want me to get strong enough to leave, you have to feed me something more substantial,” he teased.

  Quentin’s scowl lightened; his irritation slipped away as she walked slowly back to him. His pulse leaped; he fought the desire to reach out and drag her down upon him. The strength of the desire made him blush like a green youth.

  Maddie hurried the last few steps and put a hand to his forehead. “Is your fever returning?”

  Quentin swore, too aware of the throb in his groin. You would give anyone a fever. “Damme.” He moved his head away from her hand, and began to fiddle with the sheet that had slipped down to his waist. His inability to control his thoughts in regard to Maddie troubled him, turned him waspish. “Send Lundin to me—and send my clothes.”

  His bare torso, the broad shoulders and well-muscled chest with its light covering of soft curling brown hair, evoked an intense desire in Maddie to touch him. She forced her eyes from it. A moment later, she met his gaze and knew she had made a tactical mistake. The cool blue drenched the weak flame of her irritation. “Mr. Lundin is not your personal servant.”

  Lost in her gaze, Quentin reached for Maddie. When he captured her fingers and ran his thumb across the back of her hand, the tremor that ran through her sent his pulse skittering.

  What do you think you are doing? This is Vincouer’s cousin. A lady, clamoured part of his mind.

  Quentin released her hand and groped to recall what they had been talking about and drew a blank. He became very aware that he wore nothing beneath the sheet and light blanket. “I must have my clothes,” he snapped. “If I am to leave,” he added

  “Leave?” Maddie repeated, deliberately obtuse.

  “I must see to my business.” Quentin watched her feigned confusion change into suspicion. Her look prodded his own niggling doubt about why she had not turned him over to Medworth. Contrarily, he wanted to reassure her.

  Why not tell her the truth? he thought recklessly. I will have to in the end. He thrust aside the part of him that screamed caution and took her hand once more.

  “Maddie, I am not who you think I am.”

  A young man burst into the room, hat in hand, his caped cloak covered with dust. He strode around the corner of the bed. “Maddie! Father—” He froze at the sight of the stranger in his father’s bed. A very male and bare-chested man who held his sister’s hand.

  An instant blush rose above Malcolm’s high, pointed collar. His embarrassment flashed into anger.

  Quentin discerned at once the turn of the young man’s thoughts and knew how he would feel if he discovered his sister thus. He slowly released Maddie’s hand.

  Young Vincouer drew himself up to his full height. “What in the bloody hell is going on?” he demanded. “Where is Father?”

  Quentin looked to Maddie, his circumstances overshadowed by his cur
iosity on that particular head.

  Snapping her gaping mouth shut, Maddie went to her brother and laid a hand on his arm. “I can explain everything.” She tried to draw him toward the door. “You must be thirsty after your long ride. Let us get something to drink.” She saw he thought she had lost her mind.

  Malcolm’s gaze swung between his sister and the stranger. He jabbed his hat at the bed. “Who is he?”

  “I will explain.” Maddie tugged on his arm. “Just not here,” she hissed and stumbled when Malcolm veered around her and stalked towards the bed.

  He steadied her, then turned back to the bed. “Sir, I have no idea what cockeyed notion my sister entertained to permit you to stay in our home—in our father’s bed,” he warned. “I will hear your explanation as soon as I finish with her.”

  Quentin sank back against the pillows. He cursed under his breath when the door closed behind them. If only I had some clothes. I do not intend to be bearded by that young cub in this state.

  The ridiculousness of his circumstance prompted a chuckle but the thought of Maddie’s reputation jeopardized by his being here halted it. He stared in the direction of the door, which was shielded from his view by the bed curtains. If only he could be with her, give her support. The door creaked open.

  Maves tottered into view. “Is there anything you need, sir?”

  “Clothes,” snapped Quentin.

  “Miss has said they are to be returned to you on the morrow. Will there be anything else?”

  Inspiration struck. “Can I send a message to Folkestone?”

  “Of course.”

  “Bring me paper, pen, and ink,” Quentin commanded.

  The authority in his voice made Maves attempt to stand straighter. He lurched toward the dressing room door. “I’ll fetch the master’s portable desk,” he said. “He used it often while he was ill, poor man. May he rest—” Maves coughed and hurried into the small room.

  Staring after the elderly butler, an incredulous idea began to take form. Quentin shook his head. He recalled Vincouer’s words about his cousin’s situation.

  It would be impossible, to conceal a death. She would not. She could not.

  But, another voice insisted, you heard her tell the doctor, ‘What choice did I have?’

  * * *

  Maddie sat at her father’s desk, her head in her hands. Waves of anguish washed over her. Her conversation with her brother still rang in her ears. It had ended when he stormed out of the office.

  His disbelief at what she had done, his angry reproaches tore at her heart. His grief renewed her own curtailed sorrow and deepened her guilt at his sudden wretchedness. She had expected telling him to be difficult but not this wrenching.

  Malcolm’s accusations rang in her mind. How could you? How could you be so unfeeling, so unnatural?

  He cannot understand, she thought. It is new to him. I have dealt with this for months—even before that. Lord, it feels like centuries.

  Her brother’s incriminations echoed and took her back to that day in early February, frozen forever in the depths of her heart. She could still hear every word of her father’s last conversation with her sisters. Still hear the death rattle.

  Maddie wrenched back to the present and was surprised to find her cheeks wet with tears. She brushed them away. The fact that Malcolm now knew their father had died four months ago and rested in the mausoleum with their mother changed nothing. The threat of Sanford still loomed, and, added to that, were the dangers of Medworth, the free traders, and Quentin Broyal.

  Yes, Maddie reasoned, I am glad Malcolm knows. She sniffed, and wiped her cheeks again. Nothing had changed. She had given her word to protect them from Sanford. She meant to keep it whatever the cost. Maddie drew in a ragged breath.

  Only one thing has changed, she thought, Jamey will never come back from Spain.

  “Maddie,” Malcolm stood in the doorway of the office. He paused, and then stepped in and closed the door. Approaching with a sheepish mien, he held out his hands. “I am sorry, Maddie. I acted like a bloody fool. You may be a Bedlamite, but I love you more for all your efforts to help us all.”

  She went to him and hugged him. When Maddie drew back she realized he was now as tall as she. Not only had he grown several inches, but there even seemed to be a hint of beard on his boyish cheeks.

  “You’ll never know how much I regret being only six and ten. Tell me every detail so I do not make any blunders,” Malcolm entreated. “I don’t know if it will be possible to continue this charade, but I want to help try.

  “Do not leave out anything about the stranger upstairs,” he ended darkly. “I hope to God he isn’t the scoundrel he appears. How could this Broyal have permitted you to be alone with him? I can see that is how it must have been.” Seeing Maddie bite her lip, he put a hand on her shoulder.

  “It’s not that I blame you, Maddie. I know how good you are. How you could not fail to help the fellow. But, don’t you see how it is?”

  “You cannot think Maves, Henry, or Aunt Prissy would betray me?” protested Maddie.

  “Of course I do not.” Malcolm drew back. “But I saw how you looked at the chap. And he at you.” He scuffed a boot against the carpet. “’Tis my duty to protect you from any—any—designs he may have.”

  Maddie fought to conceal a smile at the blush rising to her brother’s cheeks. “But he is, well, at least was, an officer in the cavalry. Talk with Mr. Broyal. You cannot but think he is a gentleman.”

  “If he was a gentleman he would not have let you tend him in such a state of undress,” Malcolm protested. At his sister’s chagrin an even more alarming thought sprang to mind.

  “I am going to speak with him now. It is plain as a pikestaff to me that you hold him in altogether too warm a regard,” he said, and beat a strategic retreat.

  Glaring after him, Maddie put her hands to her heated cheeks. The tenor of his scold brought a defining clarity to her confused thoughts about Broyal.

  I love him, she realized. While Maddie’s heart skipped a beat her mind reeled with the complications and impossibility of it.

  Chapter Twelve

  Folkestone May 25, 1809 Late Thursday Afternoon

  Jenks scowled as he reread Viscount Broyal’s note. The major had still not returned to his room and a pair of Preventive men watched the batman’s every move. After waiting three days at Cherry Inn, he was at wits’ end.

  “Why would the major want me to bring his clothes to this Hart Cottage? Why in the dead of night?” He read again.

  I am in a first floor bedchamber. It has a pair of doors, which open to what must be a balcony. Scale its supports and enter the room by way of these doors. Do not let the excise men who may watch the place, or the inhabitants of the house, know of your presence.

  “Climb up a balcony? What does he think I am? Why doesn’t he know if there really is a balcony?” Pulling on his tuft of hair, Jenks pondered the note.

  Grumbling under his breath, the batman pulled a valise from beside the dresser and began to fill it with the items requested. The last one concerned Jenks the most. The Manton pistols coupled with the request for secrecy said Broyal was in danger.

  The valise packed, Jenks walked to the window and eased aside the curtain. He spotted his Preventive shadows. One spoke with a large man of indeterminate age whose shiny black suit spoke more of London than Folkestone. The other excise man pointed up to his window. Jenks let the curtain fall back.

  With a heavy sigh, he reread the last half of the note and began to plan how to acquire the remainder of the requested items, especially the one the major was most particular about. A young scallywag might have a use for a pot of two-week old offal, but not a seasoned officer. What madness was Broyal about?

  * * *

  Hart Cottage May 26th Friday Morning

  Miss Benton walked around the bed into the view of the man who scowled at her. She tried to hide a smile. “Good morn to you, sir,” she quipped.

  Quentin ploppe
d the spoon into a half empty bowl of porridge. “Is this pap the only thing your cook can make besides broth?”

  “We improve.” Miss Benton smiled vacuously. She knew exactly when he noticed that she carried his clothes. He smiled. “These are of superior quality,” she noted, smoothing the superfine Spencer jacket after she put the garments on top of the dresser. “’Tis odd that a free trader would wear such a finely-wrought garment.”

  “Are you as familiar with Weston as you are with free traders?” Quentin queried. He thought the grey-haired woman’s sturdy form and naive face were a bit too innocent.

  Pricilla stiffened. “Of course not, sir. It certainly could not be said that I am familiar with you. But what of Madeline?”

  Quentin glared at the mild reprimand. “Where is Miss Vincouer’s father?”

  Smoothing back a grey curl, Miss Benton turned away. “I am certain my niece has told you what she wishes you to know.”

  “Why have I not been turned over to Captain Medworth?”

  “You are acquainted with the captain?”

  “We have met.”

  “You wish him to know you are here?” she challenged.

  Quentin bowed. “The point goes to you, madam.”

  “What ever do you mean, Mr. Broyal,” she laughed. “’Tis a game you play?”

  “No, not a game.”

  Pricilla made a shrewd assessment of his unease. “But not the complete truth either.” She paused. “Are you an honourable man, Mr. Broyal?”

  “On my word—”

  Malcolm strode into the room. “Pardon me, Aunt Prissy, but I wish to speak with this, er, to him.” A squeak in his voice marred his effort at seriousness.

  Miss Benton patted her nephew’s cheek. “Do remember to be polite, dear boy.” She walked to the door and glanced back. “Both of you will do well to remember that. Noise of any sort will probably put you into Captain Medworth’s hands.”