“Hmm, I wonder why he would join a French army?”
“All I know is that his father censured him. He was a second son, you know, an earl, thus the title of His Lordship, but there was much more to it than that. I’ve never known the details, but his father gave him a generous yearly stipend to leave and not return. He left all his holdings to his older brother Gerald, who inherited the title. A misbehaving dolt of a young man. It so angered Mr. Blair that he went to France and joined up. He never saw or spoke to his parents again.”
Rowena frowned, thinking of how much she wished her parents had not died when she was young. “I would never deny my parentage, no matter what.”
Marguerite shook her head. “Oh, my dear. We don’t know what we would do under certain circumstances.” Her eyes grew distant and she stared off into space. “I remember him as a child, so sweet and polite. Tenderhearted. Those lovely dark eyes snapping with mischief. A smile so beautiful it would break your heart. And Gerald, hitting him at every turn and always behind their parents’ backs, causing him to get in trouble for mischief he did not commit.” She shook her head, tut-tutted.
“How did you know them? The family, I mean.”
“My mother was a housekeeper for his parents. I was grown then, but I visited on occasion, and she took me to their home, a castle much like the one he built here for your…for Wilda, only it was much more grand.
“He was small, just walking the first time I saw him. While I was there I cared for him on occasion, when his nanny was busy with Gerald, who was a handful, let me tell you. Spoiled rotten. Two were as different as night is from day. Blair fair stole my heart. I met the family off and on over the years, till Mama died. Must be twenty years’ difference in our ages, mine and his lordship’s, but I adored him.” She pressed her lips together for a moment, as if trying to control her emotions. Her eyes gleamed. “Still do. Wish I could do something to help. Poor man. Poor, poor man.”
“He needs help, not pity,” Rowena snapped, then bit her lip. “You must have remained close to him. After all, you brought him to see us at St. Ann’s that first time, when he chose Wilda for a wife. Would you come out to Fairhaven and see him once in a while, try to urge him to put his life back together?”
Marguerite took a bite of biscuit, then sipped at her tea. “Oh, I’m afraid that would never do. Never. I couldn’t possibly insert myself into his person in such a way. And I could not bear to see him as he is now.”
Odd. The woman had not hesitated to direct him toward Wilda as a future wife. Did she not believe that was inserting herself in his person, as she put it? “Well, I am at my wit’s end. I do not know what to do.”
“Perhaps the answer to that is to do nothing. He’s a grown man and should be allowed to live his life as he wishes. If you interfere, he could resent it as well as you. You’re there at his largesse, my dear. What if he throws you and Tyra out? Where will you go? What will you do?”
Rowena could only shrug. “He assures me he will not do that.” Yet she was right. Blair could resent any interference and break his promise. Still, why was Marguerite not willing to help him, since she professed to think so highly of him?
“How is your cousin Tyra?” The china cup clinked into its saucer, accenting the abrupt change in subject.
“Oh, you know. Wild as a March hare. I seldom see her, and she runs free. As soon as she can support herself, I expect she will leave Fairhaven altogether and embrace this western country, she loves it so. The riding, the lingo, the attire, the lack of certain moralities.”
“Oh, dear. I do hope she doesn’t resort to immoral acts. How does his lordship view her behavior?”
“He has given up disciplining her entirely. Shutting her in her rooms does no good. She climbs out the window and down the trellises. Takes that little spotted horse of hers and spends the night riding.”
Marguerite shook her head and clucked her tongue. “The girl needs a mother and father.”
“Perhaps, but she is seventeen, a woman who will soon be of an age to do as she pleases.” Rowena laughed. “As if she does not already.”
The bell in the front tinkled again, this time allowing a stream of women to drift inside.
Rowena rose. “I had better take my leave. It was good to see you. Please do come and visit us at Fairhaven.” Disappointed that her trip had come to naught for Blair’s sake, she embraced the older woman and moved past the customers who turned away when she nodded in their direction.
Lifting her nose in obvious disdain, she swept through the door and out onto the boardwalk. A young man was nailing up ads of some sort on storefronts, and she went to read one. A harvest dinner and dance. Her mind on the possibilities that might offer, she had climbed into the buggy and settled beneath the coverlet before she remembered the bolt of blue silk fabric she had left at Chesshire’s. Just as well. In any case, she probably was not meant to have it.
****
From the window of his chambers Blair Prescott watched the buggy return. The driver hurried to offer his hand, which Rowena took, then stepped down like a graceful dancer. The woolen scarf she wore slipped off her head, and sunlight glinted in her fair hair, creating a halo. She paused to talk to the driver, Grady his name was. A shabby cowboy, but a reliable stock keeper. They spoke for several minutes, the wind whipping her dress and tearing curls from her severely pinned hair, so that she looked younger, her features softer.
What could those two possibly have in common? The thought surprised him since he, of all people, should know that Rowena came from questionable parentage just like this American he’d hired to replace Layton. He cared for the barn animals and drove for him. Yet he’d expect to see Tyra consorting with him rather than Rowena, who to his mind was regal, both in bearing and in thought. Much too gentle to be involved with the help.
Most of these people out here in this wilderness were an odd lot, caring little for their heritage, wandering about taking whatever job came available. Most had left their families and homes behind to come here and start a new life. Like him, they had abandoned hearth and home for one reason or another. Barely able to walk, he’d had little choice when he left the hospital in Paris but to come to this remote outpost on the Kansas plains.
The Duncan girls had chosen him over remaining in St. Ann’s, which should have made him more attuned to their needs. And it had, in a way. But to be needed scared him as much as to need. He wasn’t sure which was worse. Most of the time he cursed the day he’d let Marguerite talk him into bringing three homeless young women into his home. Except on the occasions he unexpectedly caught sight of Rowena when she was unaware he was watching, and something inside him said she was the one. Then, of course, he realized how ridiculous that was. He deserved no woman.
In the shadowy corner of the room, a soldier in the dress of les Zuoaves watched him, white pants and red jacket soaked in blood that poured from a head wound. Saying nothing, just leaning there, eyes filled with accusation.
He swallowed the remainder of the whiskey, refilled his glass. Moved his mind from the apparition back to reflecting on the lovely Rowena.
Where could she have gone in the buggy? Did she have a man in town? He wouldn’t put it past any of the Duncans, considering Wilda’s behavior, not to mention that wild heathen Tyra, who had tried him beyond all endurance.
Doing his best to ignore the soldier who regarded him so darkly, he sipped at his whiskey. The woman he’d feared would be his wife had escaped. That had worked out precisely as he’d wished, but he still blamed her for the way she had left. Though Rowena was pleasant company and would make a better wife for him, could he trust her either? A handsome woman a bit beyond the marriageable age, she was more likely to be grateful for whatever he offered. But it was clear that could not be marriage, for he would only hurt anyone who dared get close to him.
Annie had informed him only the day before that Rowena had begun to help with the housework since the housekeeper had recently fled. He did not much like
that. It would appear that he had brought the girls here to work as servants, and that had not been his intent. Perhaps he would speak to her about it, or maybe not. He had not decided.
He was well into the newly opened bottle of whiskey when a knock came on the door. No doubt Simmons, wanting to fuss over him. As bad as having a wife.
Without rising, he bade him to enter.
The door swung open slowly. “May I come in?”
Rowena. What in thunder was she doing here? Hadn’t his stable boy been good enough company for her this day? Fortuitous, though, considering his recent thoughts.
“What is it?”
“I wanted to ask you something. It’s important.”
“Come in. Sit. I want to talk to you about something that I am quite disturbed about.”
She moved toward him with a certain elegance, her shoes making little scuffing sounds on the carpet. The lone lamp he’d lit after dusk accented her high cheekbones and gleamed on her hair, the color of moonlight on a winter’s night. As she drew nearer, the flame reflected in her blue eyes regarding him with some trepidation. Her tongue darted out to nervously wet her lips, and she lowered herself to the edge of the chair near him.
“What is it?”
“Annie says you are helping with the housecleaning.”
“I, uh, well, yes. I need something to do.”
“I did not bring you here to be a servant.” He finished off the glass of whiskey to tamp down the anger boiling to the surface. “And do you have to dress like that?”
Her face paled, her eyes darted from side to side as if she searched for a way to escape.
“Goddamn it, girl. Stand up for yourself.”
“I do not wish to fight with you.”
“Hell and damnation. Why did you want to see me?”
“I, uh, what about the housework? I would like to continue to help Annie, at least until you can find someone who can put up with your shenanigans.”
He smiled behind the glass. That was more like it. Gesturing with the empty glass, he said, “Do as you wish, but kindly do not complain about it, especially to Marguerite. She would have my hide.”
“Yes, indeed she would. I will not say a word to anyone. It would not be wise for his lordship to get a bad reputation in Victoria.”
Even better. He chuckled, twisted the cap off the whiskey, and sloshed more of the amber liquid into the glass. “Now, what was it you wanted to ask me?”
She jerked a bit but held her ground. “I was wondering… When I was in town, I saw an ad for a harvest celebration planned, at the Manor Hotel. Everyone is invited, and I thought perhaps I…well, you and I might attend. I only ask you because it would not be proper for me to go alone. You would not be required to remain with me.”
“Harvest celebration? Grant’s allowing such an American tradition to be held in Victoria?”
She flushed. “I believe it’s more a dinner and dance to be held before the weather turns bad and shuts everyone up for the winter.”
“Who cares about being shut up?”
“Frankly, I do. And it would not hurt you to see people. You cannot stay here alone forever.”
“I suppose I can if I want to. I like being alone. Cannot stand crowds, and for that matter they cannot abide me. What do you care, anyway?” By the expression on her face, he’d hurt her with the question.
It took her a moment to reply. “I thought we were friends. Perhaps I misunderstood.”
For a full instant he almost capitulated, let down the barriers. Her natural beauty mesmerized him, mostly because she was not aware of it. She was right, they had become friends while her sister was busy betraying him. He closed his eyes and shuddered. “Yes, I am afraid you did misunderstand.”
Again the hurt expression, but she shook it off and replied in a firm voice. “Well, then, perhaps we could get past that misunderstanding. I am not asking you to bed me, sir, just accompany me so I can do something other than wander these empty halls. Besides, I don’t believe you like being alone. If you did you wouldn’t have to drink yourself into a stupor every night.”
The foxy minx. Bed her, indeed. That she would say such a thing shocked him. “It’s none of your business what I do.” He attempted to lunge out of the chair in her direction, stumbled, and fell to his hands and knees, his half-empty glass spraying whiskey as it rolled away.
“Goddamn it,” he said and tried to rise.
Uttering a small sound, she approached him, but he swatted her away. “Leave me be, woman. I do not need your help, or anyone else’s, for that matter.”
Through blurred vision he stared up at her, then rolled over on his back and let the welcome darkness blot out her worried features and the bloody soldier in the corner of the room.
Rowena gazed down at him for a long while, feeling the pity she had warned Marguerite against. “I’m sorry I bothered you. Have a nice night, there on the floor.”
He was out and didn’t hear, his face relaxed and peaceful. So beautiful in repose. She fought the urge to go to her knees and caress his cheeks, push the tousled hair from his brow, kiss him on those lush lips. She hurried out before she could burst into tears, found Simmons, and told him that his lordship needed him, then went to her room.
“Why in God’s name do you care?” she said aloud, before removing several layers of clothing and shrugging into a nightdress.
Explosive ranting awoke her, and she sat up to listen. Out in the hallway, someone shouted curses. It had to be Blair. She ran to the door and opened it a crack. At that moment he stomped past, muttering under his breath. It was so dark in the hallway, she worried he would stumble and fall down the staircase, or worse, tumble over the railing into the floor below.
She hurried to light a candle and carried it into the broad hall. He had reached the end, whirled, and turned back. As he moved into the light, she saw he wore only a nightshirt and swung a sword in savage arcs, his eyes wild.
Simmons shouldered her aside and raced toward him. “Sir, sir. Please, sir.” He just kept shouting the words, over and over, closing in on Blair, who took a swing at him. The steel blade reflected the candle flame and cut through the air with a loud swishing sound. Simmons staggered backward.
Dear God, the man had gone mad. Trembling legs threatened to send her to the floor, but she stumbled toward him, holding the candle so he could see her.
“Blair, come back to bed. Can you hear me?” She kept her voice calm, though inside she was anything but. Her heart beat so hard she could scarcely catch her breath. “Blair, stop, this instant.”
He hauled up short, let the sword point drop to the floor, but he still gripped it. Before he made the decision as to whether to cut off her head or not, she slipped to his side away from the sharp weapon and put an arm around his waist. Beneath her touch, he shook as if palsied.
“Come with me, Blair. Come on, now. Everything is going to be fine.”
He stared straight at her, the dark eyes hard and blank as obsidian. “I killed you all. Why won’t you leave me be? Leave me be.”
The sword fell to the carpet with a dull thud, and he leaned against her heavily.
“Come on, then, let’s get you to bed.” She coaxed him down the hall toward his chambers. He stumbled, then began to move more easily. His body against hers radiated heat and sweat, yet he continued to shiver as if cold.
Simmons approached from wherever he’d fled and opened the door to Blair’s rooms. “I’ll take him, miss,” he murmured.
Blair swatted at him. “Leave me be, you bastard. Just leave me be.”
“It’s okay, I can do it,” she told Simmons.
“It is not proper, miss.”
“To hell with proper,” she said. “I said I will do it. Can you not see he does not want you?”
“While the two of you argue, I’m freezing my ass off here.” His normal tone startled her, and she stared at him.
He sounded sober and aware, but he left his arm draped over her shoulders. She walked
him through the study and into his sleeping chamber, sat down with him on the bed. Never mind propriety.
Before she could remove her arm from around his waist, he turned so their faces were close. An odor of whiskey washed over her, but she didn’t move away.
“I hope I did not hurt you.”
“No, but you scared Simmons out of his wits.”
“I regret that. He has been faithful. Puts up with a lot.” He touched her cheek with one finger, then trailed it under her chin, lifting it a bit so he could kiss her ever so gently. “Thank you,” he said.
The kiss, whiskey and all, hit her like a lightning strike.
“Do not expect that when I am sober.”
“And when might that be, Blair?”
Hands on her shoulders, he pushed her away. “You had better leave, before we both do something foolish that I’m too drunk to remember. That would be a shame.”
Foolishly disappointed, she rose and gazed down at him for a moment, but he refused to raise his eyes. “Will you be all right now?”
“Yes, please do not worry. Before you go, would you mind fetching that bottle of whiskey and my glass? I think I need a nightcap.”
Nightcap, indeed. But she said nothing and did as he bade.
He took the bottle and glass with shaking hands.
Unable to bear the sight, she left the room on slightly unsteady legs. Before she could close the door, he called her name. She turned, stomach clenching with hope.
“What time is that dance?”
Surprise cast a spell and for a moment she could not answer. When she did, her own voice sounded as if it were lost in some huge cavern. “I believe the meal is at eight, with the dance following.”
“Tell Simmons to ready the carriage. I shall meet you in the foyer at quarter-past seven.”
She nodded and swallowed, throat clicking. “Yes, fine. I will do that.”
Elated, she darted from the room and closed the door before he could change his mind.
He could very well do so later, or be so drunk on that whiskey he would not remember agreeing to go, yet excitement and anticipation crept through her, causing small shivers that raised the hairs on her arms. What could cause such a beautiful, intelligent man to destroy himself with such abandon? Certainly the loss of Wilda, whom he’d had no chance to fall in love with, could not be the sole cause. No doubt the war Marguerite spoke of was to blame.
Rowena's Hellion Page 2