Taffeta & Hotspur

by Claudy Conn

  “No doctor … please … get me Fletcher.”

  “Fletcher? Faith! who is Fletcher?”

  “My brother’s groom.”

  “You don’t need a groom. You are not a horse. You need a doctor!”

  “They fought together in Spain, and he has seen and attended a great many gunshot wounds … he’ll able to …”

  “Very well then, where is he then?” asked Myriah, presently beside herself. This young man would die from loss of blood and infection if something wasn’t done soon.

  “His room—above … our stables,” the lad said, looking as though he were about to pass out.

  “Tabby,” Myriah said, turning round at once, “please if you would be so kind, find this Fletcher. Have him come up at once. And bring some clean water and whatever cloth you can drum up. Thank you, Tabby.”

  “Yes, m’lady.”

  Myriah sank down upon a nearby chair and allowed herself a moment to study the stranger, noting for the first time that he was quite young, in all probability not much older than herself.

  His cheeks were ashen and his brow furrowed with the etchings of pain. His face was angular, his nose straight, his lips thin and well defined. He was, even with his mouth distorted by quiet suffering, very attractive. His hair was a bit longer than neck length and spread behind his head around the pillow. The candlelight displayed the streaks of gold in his hair that framed a face both youthful and good looking.

  “Faith, Myriah,” she said ruefully to herself, “now you’ve gone and done it. Here it is no less than five in the morning, and where are you? At your grandpapa’s, safe and warm, cozily tucked into your bed? Oh, no! Not you, Myriah! Here you sit on a hard chair without the benefit of a fire, attending a man whose fame has bought him a bullet … and you don’t even know his name!”

  ~ Three ~

  A FEW MOMENTS LATER Myriah was poking about at the fireplace grate in an attempt to kindle a blaze. At last she was rewarded with a spark of light, and as she put a weary hand over her head, she gave silent thanks. The hard, heavy strides of a man’s boots taking the stairs came to her ears, and she waited and stared at the open doorway.

  An elderly man, of average height and substantial girth, dressed in disheveled woolens, appeared on the scene. He shook his head, and a long, straight lock of silky white hair fell across his eyes. He glanced darkly at Myriah, strode heavily into the room, and stopped beside the young man’s bed.

  “Wisht, wisht, m’lad! Whet they doon ta yah, m’bonnie?” the newcomer asked, bending low over the wound and examining it carefully. “Ah, the divils! But ye would goa—ye wouldna listen to nobbut yeself! Ah, Maister William, we be in for it now.”

  “Can you help him, sir?” asked Myriah hopefully.

  He didn’t bother to glance at her but continued studying the bullet hole.

  Tabson returned with an iron pot filled with water, and Myriah motioned for him to set it near the fire. She turned to find Fletcher pouring brandy over the open wound.

  His master groaned and gripped his sheets.

  “Aye, lad … ’tis gonna get worse, though thank the saints it ain’t too deep. ’Ere now, m’bonnie, drink up,” he said as he poured some of the brandy down his master’s throat.

  Fletcher then sidled to the fire and began heating the sharp, thin blade and pinchers he had produced from his pocket. This done he returned to Master William and motioned for Tabson to hold him steady. Once again the fiery alcohol was poured over the wound, and then knife met with flesh.

  Master William stiffened with pain, and Myriah silently prayed that he would pass out. However, it was not until the pinchers were inserted into the flesh that the lad was given a reprieve. The mind has a way of doing its own battle with the brave. The lad’s mind detached itself from the proceedings, as though enough was enough—and he was spared a few moments of torture.

  Myriah was beginning to feel queasy, but she continued to watch. Within a moment the offending bullet was produced and removed. The torn skin was cleaned and cauterized before the bandages were wrapped around the battered arm.

  Myriah felt as though a vise had been squeezing her insides. Her back was tense, and her hands were white with clinching at her fingers. She thought it was a wonder she hadn’t bitten her nails off.

  Fletcher covered his master with a clean sheet and blanket, rolled up the bloodied linen, and threw it onto the fire. He turned to Myriah, his features inscrutable. “He’ll wake soon, and more than likely he’ll fever up. You best get some rest afore that happens.”

  “Will he be all right?” Myriah asked anxiously.

  “Thank’ee, ma’am, that he will wit’ God’s ’elp. Yer man can bed doon in m’quarters—I’ve got plenty of room—and ye might find ’is lordship’s room to yer liking. It be jest across the hall.”

  His lordship? Myriah wondered but said, “Thank you, Fletcher. I shall relieve you in a few hours.” She fetched another candle in its holder and lit it before venturing into the hallway, where Fletcher pointed out the room she was to occupy. She smiled at the elderly groom and went inside.

  Once there, she set the candle down and looked around at what was obviously a bachelor’s chambers. Was this William’s father’s room? If so, where then was he?

  She removed her jacket and boots, throwing them negligently onto a nearby chair, blew out her candle, and dropped across the bed. A moment later she was asleep.

  * * *

  With a start Myriah brought up her head. The room was still clothed in darkness, yet a slit between the drapes allowed the morning’s gray light to filter through. The strangeness of her surroundings puzzled her a moment; then as she felt the dawning of memory, a groan escaped her lips.

  She pushed herself up and into a sitting position and became aware of the fact that her body was making known its very strenuous objections regarding her latest escapade. She felt as though she had been brutally beaten, and a longing to shirk her promise and return to sleep did private battle with her conscience. Alas, a conscience is a troublesome thing.

  Berating herself for a fool, Myriah rose from the bed and attempted to stretch. With a groan she pulled on her boots and jacket and then encountered yet another problem. When she attempted to take her first step, she found her legs objects unto themselves. Hold, they cried. Did you, Myriah Whitney, not subject us to cruel and flagrant misuse? The verdict came in guilty, and Myriah’s hands went in sympathy and support to her thighs as she crossed the hall to William Wimborne’s room.

  This feat accomplished (Myriah felt it deserved applause), she took a moment’s respite and leaned against the open door. Bolstering her courage, she walked stiffly toward Fletcher, who offended her sense of justice by looking wondrously comfortable and deeply asleep on the Queen Anne chair beside his master’s bed.

  She gave the groom a rather rough shake, and he grumbled into consciousness. “Fletcher, you are relieved. How did he sleep?”

  “Restless he was—gave him a bit of laudanum.” He stood, stretched, and added, “He should sleep peaceful now.”

  “Thanks.” Myriah sighed, wondering why she had appointed herself the young man’s nursemaid.

  Fletcher shuffled out of the room, turned to advise her that he would have Cook send up breakfast, and warned her not to mention the cause of his master’s indisposition to the servant.

  “Cook?” asked Myriah. “Then there are some servants here after all?”

  “Jest be Cook and her two lads. They comes days, she cooks, they cleans, tends to various things, and then they are off,” Fletcher said and turned abruptly to head out.

  Myriah sucked in air, poured some water into the washbasin, and began setting herself to rights. She would have to ask Tabby to bring her overnight portmanteau to her, for young Wimborne’s comb was nowhere to be found. “Oh, well,” she mumbled aloud as she sank into the Queen Anne chair and gazed ruefully at the patient. Now in the full daylight she could see his hair was dark blonde, streaked with gold. His face had the
appearance of a boy—just a boy.

  There was a knock at the door, and a young, freckle-faced urchin appeared with a tray. “I brung your vittles,” said the wide-eyed boy as he placed the tray on a nearby table. “Fletcher—well … he said … young master took sick and you be tending him.”

  “Thank you,” Myriah said, dismissing the curious boy with a gentle but firm look.

  She swallowed the tea and devoured the buns in a trice, all too aware that some of her aches were due to hunger.

  Boredom set in quickly, and she moved toward the long, diamond-paned window overlooking the estate grounds. The estate was obviously suffering from neglect. The lawns were overgrown, the flowerbeds needed weeding, bushes sadly wanted pruning, and the stables were in dismal need of paint. It would appear the Wimbornes had fallen upon hard times.

  Surely this had once been an elegant home, for the furniture was exquisite, though the material could stand a good cleaning.

  A sound from the bed made her look around, and she discovered her patient had tossed off his covers. She hurriedly soaked some cloth and began pressing it to his head, bringing up the blanket to cover his exposed chest.

  For the next two hours he tossed, fretted, and called for ‘Kit.’ It was all she could do to keep him from tearing off the bandages. At last Tabson came in.

  “I’ve put your bag in the room you took last night, m’lady—thought ye might be needing it.”

  “Oh, Tab, thank you—I do. But would you stay here with him awhile? He is burning up, and I want to go to the kitchen and prepare a tisane to ease the fever.”

  “Yes, m’lady.”

  She went downstairs and cautiously made her way to the kitchen. Once there she found a pleasant, round-faced woman scurrying about with pots and pans and giving orders to her sons.

  “Excuse me?” Myriah called attention to herself.

  The woman was startled into a gasp, but then simply nodded a silent greeting and waited, obviously uncertain what to make of the young woman before her.

  “I am so sorry to interrupt your work. I am Miss …” Myriah hesitated to give away her identity and came up with, “Miss White. I … I was on my way to my family in Dover when we lost our way. I remembered that my cousin’s home was nearby, and so we stopped here for a night’s shelter.

  “Apparently Cousin William”—she hurriedly adopted him—“has a fever, and so my groom and I will remain until he is feeling more the thing. I do hope you will not be put out too unduly by our sudden descent upon you.”

  Cook appeared to like Myriah’s manners, for she smiled readily and replied she was happy her master had someone to look after him.

  Myriah then asked to be given the herbs she needed for the tisane. It didn’t take long to stir and prepare the brew, and soon Myriah was back in Wimborne’s bedchamber.

  Tabby held him up while Myriah attempted to get the potion into him. This accomplished, Tab was dismissed, and Myriah continued applying a cloth soaked in rosewater to his head. He continued to toss for a few moments, rambling incoherent words, and then he drifted off.

  A light lunch was sent up to Myriah, and Fletcher attempted to relieve her, but she would have none of it. For some odd reason she felt she had to care for her ‘new charge’.

  At length his sleep seemed more relaxed, and then suddenly she saw him open his eyes. She was beside him instantly. He scanned her face and smiled feebly as his memory returned, and then his lids closed and he seemed to sleep again.

  For an hour Myriah watched the changes of expressions flit over his face while he slept. She was fairly certain he was out of the woods and that the fever had broken when all at once he began to start tossing again and fretfully calling for Kit.

  Who the devil was Kit, she wondered as she soothed his agitation. His forehead was on fire, and Myriah had a sudden urge to cry. He couldn’t die, she couldn’t let him die, but he had lost so much blood! Again she wiped away the sweat from his face, neck, and chest. She cooled his forehead with rosewater, and she prayed.

  When he seemed to relax and began sleeping peacefully, Myriah wrung her hands, hoping this was a good sign as she sank down on her chair. Weary with physical discomfort and mental stress, she closed her eyes, laid her head back, and tried to compose her faculties.

  “I may be in Hell, but I have changed my mind—you are an angel!” Wimborne croaked out, startling her forward.

  “Mr. Wimborne!” Myriah exclaimed, going to take his hand. “Oh, oh, you do look better—not well, but ever so much better.”

  “Thanks to you.” He grinned boyishly at her.

  She smiled and squeezed his hand. “Oh, no. Thanks to your good man, Fletcher. He has a wondrous skill with a knife. But you lie still now … I shall be back in a moment. What you need now is some gruel.”

  “No,” said the man, horrified.

  “Well, not perhaps right away. First I will bring you some tea and toast,” she said, taking pity and hurrying out of the room.

  Some time later, having plied her patient with buttered toast and tea, Myriah watched him fall off to sleep, feeling extraordinarily pleased with herself. She had herself only dozed for a few minutes when a knocking at the open door roused her and she found Fletcher in its frame ready to relieve her.

  She smiled and dragged herself to her bedchamber, threw off her clothes, and sank naked beneath the satin coverlets, where she fell quickly off to sleep.

  Dreams plagued her peace. They were muddled, lost in time, sending images to taunt and harass her. Sir Roland was there; he grabbed her and held her, and all she wanted to do was run…

  * * *

  Kit Wimborne, sixth Viscount of Wimborne Towers, had arrived at his home well after dinner to find it shrouded in darkness. He unsaddled his horse himself in the courtyard rather than wake his elderly groom and set the horse into the pasture. He was tired from the day’s work and thinking about the future.

  He shrugged off his greatcoat and hung it on the wall rack just inside the kitchen entrance before he poured himself a shot of whisky and downed it.

  Lantern in hand, he moved upstairs to his bedchamber. He was surprised that the drapes in his room had been pulled tight but was too tired to contemplate the mystery. He set the lit lantern on a side table and shrugged out of his clothes. He then picked up the lantern and made his way to his bed, setting the lantern on the nightstand. However, there he stopped short.

  Someone with long, flaming ringlets of hair was lying face down, covered only to her waist—in his bed!

  His first thought made him grin. His puppy of a brother had no doubt brought her home with him, but why would the rascal send her off to his bedchamber?

  Drape mystery solved, and another one to contemplate … in a bit, but first …?

  He sat beside the woman just as she rolled over. He got a full view of her face and a slight view of her full and luscious breasts.

  Damn! He gently and deftly pulled away the thick, fiery tresses from their owner’s face and shoulders to have a better look at her face.

  The object of these ministrations sighed contentedly as he sucked in air and felt a moment’s enchantment. She was ravishing, and he released a soft whistle.

  He pulled a rueful grin as he thought his brother had certainly won himself a worthy piece of muslin—worthy a full grown and experienced man … such as himself.

  His decision to have a better and more detailed look at the creature lying unsuspectingly in his bed was a natural occurrence, given the circumstances, believing as he did that she had been paid for her night’s services.

  Again, his hands worked dexterously as he removed the quilted covering from the beauty’s tantalizing form. His eyes wandered slowly and appreciatively over her lush curves and her tantalizing nipples. Then she moaned and turned once more onto her stomach and gave him a view of her exquisite back.

  She shivered suddenly, and his lordship sought to remove her discomfort by covering her—with his own naked body. He put his arm across her and leane
d over her lithe form, a sudden spark reviving his blood and chasing away all thought of sleep.

  “Now what to do with you, sweet,” he murmured. Grinning, he thought, One shouldn’t infringe on one’s brother’s property—but really, Billy, why the devil did you put her in my bed? This question repeated itself, and still grinning, his lordship decided the only thing to do in such a situation was to wake her—his way!

  His fingers moved sensuously as they stroked her soft, bare arms. He shifted position so he was stretched right up against her silky, naked body, and his hard dick began to dance and play…

  He nibbled at her delicate ears and placed a warm kiss on her throat. She groaned pleasurably. The sound stimulated him, and one masculine calf straddled her outstretched legs as he leaned over her and took her mouth with his.

  * * *

  Myriah felt the sweet pressure, and her dream took on a new force, one that sent a fire bolt racing through her veins. Her arms went around the virile, muscular body, the source of her dream’s acute burning. Dreaming … she had to be dreaming—how else would she be holding a rock-hard, muscular body in her arms?

  All at once Myriah was awake. Unable to speak in spite of the fact that her lips were now quite free, she lay staring in utter disbelief at the stranger she was still holding in her arms. She lay for a moment in quiet astonishment, trying to collect her thoughts as she stared at the stranger’s face.

  He was smiling provocatively, and she noted the ruggedness of his features. Somehow, they seemed familiar. But he was a stranger nonetheless—and he was in her bed, taking advantage of her.

  This notion was followed by the next, that being it was no doubt time to drop her arms and pull out of range, which she did speedily, wondering all the while how the deuce this situation had come to pass.

  Her blue-green eyes glittered angrily as she sought words; a scream seeded itself in her throat and surely would have been emitted had not the stranger had the foresight to put his powerful hand over her parting lips.