by Lee, Jade
He grinned as he set aside his ale. Calling for paper and ink, he set himself to the task of writing out a plan.
Chapter 6
Sophia awoke to the horrid screeching of some demented bird only to be stabbed in both eyes by a white-hot poker of light. She moaned and buried herself in her pillow, deciding to wait until it got dark before she rose for the day.
Unfortunately, there was some other horrible creature nearby, humming. Loudly. Fit to wake the dead.
"Stop that infernal noise!" she snapped, then immediately regretted it as her head began to pound. It felt like it would explode.
"Oh, I be right sorry, miss," her maid said. "The major told me ye liked humming. Said it was the right proper way to wake up in London, he did. An' him being in all those foreign parts, I thought he knew. But—"
"Be quiet," Sophia begged in a whisper, clutching her head as tightly as she could.
"Oh, miss, but the major said—"
"Shhhh!"
"Oh!"
Sophia gritted her teeth, taking deep breaths as she tried to still the pounding in her head. It did not help. Nothing helped. Certainly not the baleful sight of her maid with a face so woeful it would shame a kicked puppy.
"Oh, go away," she moaned softly. "I am not fit company for anyone today."
"Yes, miss." Tears shimmered in her maid's eyes.
Sophia felt her conscience kicking her and sighed. "You sing beautifully, Mary."
The girl brightened considerably, and she bobbed up and down in a curtsy. "Thank you, miss. But I certainly will not sing in the mornings anymore. I swear. No singing—"
"Mary!" Sophia snapped, feeling the tight leash on her temper strain to near breaking.
"Yes, miss?"
"Do not ever listen to the major again."
"But—"
"Out!"
She was in no mood to listen to reason or explain herself to that chattering magpie for one more second. All she wanted was to lie down and sleep for a thousand years. Or until her death, which she prayed would come soon.
As she by back down, a strange thought kept coming back to her, climbing over the blacksmith and his hammer in her head, stepping up before her sluggish mind and demanding to be heard. It said one thing:
Why is the major still here?
It was a bizarre thought, to say the least. The major was their butler, after all. He was supposed to be here. But the thought persisted, despite all her attempts to shoo it away.
Why is the major still here? He should be halfway to London by now.
Sophia did not know what to make of it. She did not feel capable of sitting up in bed, much less confronting her thoroughly aggravating suitor, but here she was, pulling on a wrap, apparently intent on determining for herself if the major was indeed still their servant.
Clearly, she had gone mad.
Still, that thought was secondary to the primary one. The one that wondered if the major truly could have stayed here, even after claiming such a thorough disgust of her last night. That thought pushed her down the stairs toward the breakfast room. On the way, she had to turn her extremely unwieldy head from the light blazing through the windows. At least it served to push her toward the breakfast room, if only to get away from its uncompromising glare.
The major was there.
Indeed, he was dressed impeccably in his dark knee breeches and starched white cravat. He was banging and clanking dishes like Cook on one of her tirades, but when he looked up at her, his expression was almost amused.
If it were not for the dark circles under his eyes, she would have thrown her slipper at him.
"Good morning—"
"What are you doing here?" She had not meant to sound so abrupt. In fact, she had meant to approach him with elegance and poise. But her throat was dry and her head throbbed, so she opted for expediency.
He merely smiled, an infuriatingly slow, masculine smile filled with smug satisfaction. "I am your butler. Where else should I be?"
She peered at him, trying to both see him and filter out the relentless sunshine. "But I disgust you. You said so yourself." At least she thought she remembered something like that. She frowned, trying to sort through her jumbled thoughts.
"What an impertinent thing for me to have said!" he exclaimed, his voice carrying just the right tone of offended dignity and apology. "I gave my word to remain as your butler until Bowen could return."
"Your word?" She took a half step forward. "Do you mean you will not leave until Bowen comes back?"
"That is what I promised," he responded, his back stiff, his face set. "Honor requires nothing less."
"Honor? But I behaved..." She reached for a chair to steady herself and came up short against the wall. Still, it kept her upright as she tried to think. "But I was appalling last evening."
For a moment, she thought he grinned. But when she looked again, he was as stiff and rigid as ever. "I am your butler, my lady. It would be a gross impertinence for me to comment on your actions, one way or another."
She blinked. She frowned. Her head was still thick and slow, but his words seemed clear enough. He would not leave for London no matter how much she annoyed him. No matter what she did.
He could not possibly be serious. Could he?
"But—" she began.
"Would you care for some breakfast, my lady?" he interrupted. "Perhaps some kippers? They are extra plump and juicy this morning." He lifted the plate's cover off, waving it slightly so the aroma hit her square in the face. "Or would you prefer some eggs?" He raised another cover. "Oh, dear. I am afraid they are a tad runny. I shall have a word with Cook directly. Or do you prefer them this way?" He tilted the dish for her inspection.
Sophia stared at the slimy, pale yellow eggs and took a deep breath, trying to hold off her nausea. Unfortunately, the smell of ripe kippers did worse damage than anything she might have seen. Clapping a hand over her mouth, Sophia ran from the room.
She did not return for another four hours, and then only for a taste of weak tea before retiring directly to bed.
* * *
Sophia was awake. Her head had ceased pounding, her mouth no longer felt stuffed with muslin, and she was completely and totally awake.
And bored.
Too bad it was the middle of the night. Still, she could not force herself to remain in bed one minute longer. She had to go in search of something to do.
Never again would she touch strong drink, she vowed as she sat up in bed. It thoroughly disrupted a body's natural rhythms.
With a sigh of disgust, Sophia pulled on a wrap and wandered downstairs, not even bothering with a candle. She knew her way, and the moon shone bright enough to cast pale shadows through the house.
She wandered about, noting that her friend Lydia's letter still lay unopened by the front doorway. The two had mended their breach, but since Lydia's engagement, the girl's letters were filled with the joys of romance and plans for the upcoming nuptials, not to mention unending speculations about wedded bliss. The very thought of reading another such correspondence filled Sophia with dread—and an aching loneliness that spurred her feet onward.
Finally, deciding she might find something else to read, she meandered toward the library, even though the idea did not truly appeal to her. She did not want to spend her time with some dusty old tome. It was a pity the house was so quiet with everyone asleep.
She had meant to find a taper and scan the book titles, but the darkness was too appealing, the shimmering slivers of moonlight through the windows too mystical. She went to the glass, pushing aside the curtains until a soft expanse of trees and lawn glistened before her.
"Beautiful."
Sophia spun around, shocked and secretly thrilled by the rich masculine voice behind her. She knew immediately who it was. The major had plagued her far too much, day and night, for him to be absent now. This only seemed appropriate.
She spotted him quickly. He reclined in the shadows, his leg propped before him, his rugged f
eatures barely discernible through die shadows.
"I thought the household asleep," she said.
"The household, yes. Me? No. Not when such nighttime visions wander so freely about."
Sophia felt her face heat at the clear admiration in his voice and was grateful for the darkness that hid her features. She ought to go upstairs, she admonished herself. It was not right for any gentleman, much less the major, to see her attired in only her nightrail and wrap. But more than that, she was old enough to know what could happen alone in the dark with this man. It had been intimate enough sitting at his bedside in the hospital in the bright light of day. And the other night, drunk...
She should go back to her bedroom, she told herself. But she did not. Instead, she pulled her wrap tight around her body and settled into a nearby chair. After all, she was a free woman, one who made her own decisions. If she liked, she could do whatever she wished with handsome men in the dark.
"I know why I am about so late," she began, surprised by the husky quality of her own voice. "But why do you sit here in the dark? Does your leg pain you?" She found herself terribly concerned. "Has the fever returned?"
"My leg is healing, and I was merely thinking." His voice was low, his words easy, languorous, but she recalled their conversations in the hospital when pain slurred his speech and fever made his voice thick and raw. Just the memory of that time had her starting out of her seat.
"If you are ill, I shall send for a doctor at once."
He forestalled her words with a low chuckle. "My ailment cannot be cured by any doctor." He set aside an empty brandy snifter. "Do you wish to know of what I was thinking?"
She did not answer. His voice had trapped her, mixing with the moonlight to weave a spell of dark magic around her.
He leaned forward, pulling himself out of the shadows. "Of Spain and war," he murmured. "Of death and angels of mercy. Of you."
She shivered, drawn to him even as she kept a firm grip on the edges of her chair. She closed her eyes, determined to end his strange hold on her, but that only made the memories more clear, the pain more real.
"Do you know what I remember?" she rasped. "I remember sitting like this—in the dark—when you were in the hospital. I told my mother I was going to a musical soiree, but instead I went to you." She stood up, needing to pace away her agitation, but there was nowhere for her to go. So she simply stood, staring into the dark shadows near his shoulders, her words continuing without her willing them. "I remember the smell of blood in the air, the coppery taste of it and the moans from the nearby beds. But mostly, I remember you. I remember listening for your breath, holding my own until I heard yours." She felt a tear slip down her cheek. "Do you know how guilty I felt? Each time you drew breath, I thanked God you were still alive, and yet I knew I was only prolonging your suffering. I knew you would die. We all did."
"But I did not," he said firmly. Loudly. And there was power in each word, enough to ease the ache in her chest, but not take away the fear that it would happen again, the terror that another fever would claim him, that another wound might kill him. Then he stood, his body large and whole before her. "Do not think of it, Sophia," he said. "It is over."
She shook her head, knowing that it would never be over for her, despite his new found strength. She would always remember those days by his side. That last night in the dark. "I had to leave the hospital," she continued. "I could not be out all night." How she wished she had defied convention. How she wished she had ignored the risk of scandal and spent the night by his side. Then she would have known he lived. But she hadn't. "In the morning, they told me you were dead."
" Tis over," he repeated. He touched her then. He reached out and stroked her chin, lifting it until she met his dark gaze. "Think of something else," he urged as he stepped closer. "Think of last night. Of how we kissed."
He made to pull her into his arms, but she shied away, just as she shied away from those memories. She had been drunk, her reason gone, but the experience remained burned in her thoughts. His caresses had seared her skin. His kisses had set her blood afire. And all her resistance had melted away. "I remember that you left," she snapped, using the words to cool the heat he created. "You said I disgusted you, and then you left."
Again he reached for her, and she turned away, choosing to look out the window. Her gaze roved the moonlit night, but her senses focused behind her. On him.
"I have not left," he said. "I am here." He set his hands on her shoulders, and she tensed, half in fear, half in desire. "I want to have children with you, Sophia."
She bit her lip, startled by his sudden shift in topic and distracted by the strange longing his words produced. When she had decided to take the life of a spinster, she had mourned only one thing—that she would never have any children. It was still an ache, one that caught her unawares at times. Times like now, when a man's words conjured the most appealing of images: babies that looked like the major. Little boys with dark curly hair and a mischievous twinkle, and little girls with an impertinent tilt to their smiles.
"I want to marry you," he continued. "I want to make you my wife and bring you to my bed. I want to spread your golden hair across my pillow and kiss you until your skin glows with passion." Her body tensed with a new hunger, one she could not recall having experienced before. His words were as frightening as they were exciting, and she did not know what she should do or how she should respond.
"You—you should not speak so to me," she stammered.
"Then go, for I will not stop."
Sophia pressed her palms flat against the cool windowpane, using it to steady herself. But, before the temperature could do more than sensitize her hands, he pulled her back against him, pressing her intimately against his broad chest.
"You are different," she said. "You seem..." She hesitated, searching for the right words.
"Determined? Forceful?"
"Stronger," she corrected, her body growing inebriated by the word. He seemed so powerful that despite her determination to resist him, she wondered what it would be like to lie in his arms. To feel his force surrounding her body, holding it, invading it.
"I am tired, Sophia. I have played at butler long enough." His words were almost harsh, but his caress was sensual, warming her, molding her to his will. "I should return to London to see if my post has been approved. But I will not leave without you."
She could not answer. Not with him touching her, her back pressed intimately against his broad chest. She could not think other than to turn to face him, shifting so she could feel the width of his shoulders and brush her fingers along the rough cut of his jaw.
"Sophia?" His voice deepened, sounding unsteady as he caught her hand, holding it in his firm grasp. She could not respond except to rise up on her toes, seeking his kiss.
He did not deny her, though she felt his muffled groan as a whisper of heat, tantalizing as it feathered across her mouth. Then he claimed her lips, his touch as fevered as before, as hungry and as demanding. She matched his tongue stroke for stroke, knowing finally the passion spoken of so often by poets. Unlike last night's drunken exploration, these kisses seemed more pure, more intense because the only intoxication came from the major himself. From his touch. And her desire. Together.
It was a heady sensation, and it filled her with a giddy excitement. She was in his embrace, feeling his arms around her, encircling her, and drawing her tight against his body. For a moment she did not think, too absorbed in the wonder of his kiss.
Then he ended it, pulling her away from him, his hands firm on her arms. "You will marry me." It was not a question, and she let her head drop back as she looked up at the ceiling.
Her breathing was ragged, and she still felt drawn to him, the hunger he inspired in her all but overwhelming her. But for all her newly discovered passion, her mind was wholly clear—for perhaps the first time in her life. "I... I like kissing you, Major," she said, shocked by her own brazen behavior. "I wish to do it again. But I will not ma
rry you."
He stared at her for a moment, then his eyes grew wide as her meaning finally became clear. "Sophia..." he said, and the sound was more growl than spoken word.
"No," she said again. But still she remained in his arms, stretching forward, seeking his kiss.
Angrily he set her aside, crossing to the brandy decanter on the opposite side of the room. He stood there, the crystal held in his fist, but he did not pour. Instead he glared at her. "By Heaven, why are you so stubborn?"
"I could ask you the same thing," she responded. "Why do you insist I marry you? For duty? For England?" Her voice rose as her emotions outstripped her control. "You do not respect me. You said so yourself. Why would I marry you?"
The major set down the decanter, shifting until he faced her directly, his arms crossed over his chest. "It is merely the thought that you would value yourself so little as to wish to... to..." He shifted awkwardly as he searched for a word.
"To kiss you?"
He straightened his shoulders, and Sophia wondered for a moment at his odd expression. "Yes. To... kiss me without marriage."
"I am a free woman now, Major. I can kiss any man I choose when I choose."
"You are still unmarried. It is not appropriate behavior—"
"I am a spinster. If I am thought fast, then no one is hurt but myself. I have no dowry, no prospects, and I no longer care about gossip. I will not become married merely to satisfy your notions of propriety or anyone else's. I will never again dance to society's tune."
He stared at her for a long moment, and Sophia did her best to remain resolute. It was imperative that he read her determination in every line of her face and body.
At last he bowed, his movement as formal as it was stiff. "Very well, Lady Sophia," he said in his coldest servile voice. "If there is nothing further, I shall retire. Morning comes early, and I would not wish to be remiss in my duties."