Rowena's Hellion

by Velda Brotherton

“Concentrate on getting yourself well. Eating is the first step. Then we’ll talk about his lordship.”

  “He spent the night in the chair beside my bed. He carried me up the stairs. He cares for me, and I can’t let him down.”

  “Pshaw, child. It’s not up to you to cure his ailments, whatever they may be. Only he can do that.”

  “No, I refuse to believe that. You know him—you have known him since he was a child. Don’t you want to see him return to the kind of man he was? If we love someone, we need to care for them in every way, not just the superfluous vocal declarations. Don’t you love him?”

  “Of course I do, but I’m smart enough to know I can’t repair what’s been done to him. He’s broken, child.”

  “Then why in God’s name did you bring him to St. Ann’s to choose us…to bring us here? When he’s with me, he’s the kindest, most gentle man I’ve ever known.”

  “Because then I had not seen him like he can be. Eat your breakfast before it gets cold. How is your head? Still spinning?”

  Gently Rowena turned her head, first one way, then the other. No sense in arguing with Marguerite. “Much better. My jaw is sore and my nose hurts some, but otherwise I’m all right. I should like to dress, after I eat, and go downstairs.” She didn’t tell Marguerite she wanted to find Blair, to make sure he was also all right.

  Marguerite agreed with her stated purpose, and remained with her until she finished breakfast.

  ****

  Blair sat astride the Morgan he called Sarge, after one of the many men who lay dead on the battlefield. The cold wind had cleared his head, and he tried to imagine his life before the war. Before he grew so angry with his father that he fled England to join les Zouaves and take part in the brutal wars of the elite French forces. When he was a young man full of dreams.

  The Franco-Prussian War toppled the empire of Napoleon III. Les Zouaves were bloodied in battles at Worth, St. Privat, Mars la Tour, and finally the Siege of Paris, where he was wounded to near death. Men giving their lives to halt Prussian aggression, all to no avail. In the end they had lost and Napoleon was defeated. Many times Blair wished he’d also given his life. But he survived, barely, and spent six months recovering in a hospital in Paris before Simmons came for him. Rescued him from being locked away.

  From Simmons he’d learned about George Grant and the settlement of Victoria, in America, and so he bought tickets for the two of them. Barely able to function, he fled forever his angry father and brother Gerald, writing off his family as they had done him. His new life began with slow recovery under the tender care of Simmons, during the long voyage to America. In the spring, dear Marguerite wrote, urged him to return to England, meet Wilda, Rowena, and Tyra, and choose a wife. Because he had some business in England, he heeded her advice that what he needed was a wife. Or the pretense of one. Eventually he sent for the young women, as well as Marguerite and her husband. They could all find a new life in the American West.

  Bloody fool. Damnable bloody fool. He should’ve stuck to his plan to drink himself into oblivion and remain alone for what remained of his time on earth. Stay as far away from women as he possibly could. After he’d succeeded in driving Wilda away, there was Rowena, who would not be easily deterred. Especially since he found it so difficult to convince himself he did not want her. Maybe they could marry. She could remain in her own rooms at night, after being warned about his so-called episodes.

  Muttering under his breath, he dug in his heels and Sarge bolted forward into the night. Some time later, he raced toward the dawn back to the castle and his rooms, where he downed a healthy shot of whiskey, took off his boots, and fell into bed.

  The familiar nightmares crawled from every black corner of the room. Attacked like soldiers swarming over a battlefield, bloodied and dying. Accusing him with staring eyes.

  Unable to breathe, he clawed at his throat. Moonlight touched his eyelids, and he tossed, groaned, and tried to escape by waking. In the shadows, something shifted, moved forward. Half-awake, he struggled to make out a white filmy dress clinging to full breasts, supple hips, face hidden in darkness.

  Sitting up, he tried to go to her. Gather her close. Covers tangled around his legs, trapped his arms. No matter how he bucked and lurched, he couldn’t move.

  The woman floated across the room. A voice, one he knew all too well, murmured his name.

  “Rowena?”

  Her cool fingers closed around his arm. “I am whoever you want. Lie still. I’ll come to you.”

  She drifted onto the bed, lifted one knee and straddled him, bare thighs touching his skin. He halted the struggle to untangle himself. Gently, without speaking, she welcomed him inside her warm sweetness, and he settled there. Both hands spanned her waist, and she moved rhythmically, slowly at first. Then when he began to respond, she whispered, “Lie still. I’ll do this.”

  She was all around him, hands holding him, rocking, rocking, until the nightmares receded, like a storm drifting off across the prairie.

  “Stay with me.” His voice thick and hoarse.

  “I will.” She leaned forward, hair brushing across his cheek, and rocked to and fro, gently, till he thought he might burst. And then he did.

  “Oh, dear God.” Truly a worshipful thing.

  She made not a sound but kept moving long after he was finished. When she came, it was with a tiny cry and a gripping of her insides that sent tremors through him.

  He shouted himself awake, head rolling from side to side on a pillow soaked with his sweat, sheets wadded between his legs, groin aching with spent passion.

  Like before, it was a dream, the same damn dream. Not real at all. Certainly not Rowena, though he could have sworn it was. He fought losing control. True, it was the same as all the other nights except, this time, in his heart he had pleasured Rowena. Which wasn’t possible. He wanted her to the point of distraction, and he had no idea what to do about it.

  Knowing what would come next, he closed his eyes in an effort to recapture her, to hold on. Keep his lips against her heated flesh, his arms curled around her. Like always, his dream lover disappeared, leaving his arms empty, fists gripping so tight the nails cut into his palms. She’d promised to stay but had lied to him. Why was he surprised?

  Once more the unholy screams. Smoke and the stench of gunpowder filled the room. The floor shook with the sound of cannons firing. He couldn’t move. Couldn’t escape. Was he awake or asleep? He could never tell. And the fear. God, the fear that he would be trapped in that nightmare forever.

  Startling awake, he fumbled for the whiskey glass on the nightstand. Enclosed it in his fist and, propped on one elbow, belted the liquid fire. His body was soaked in sweat, the nightshirt clinging to him. He shivered.

  Rowena in his bed holding the horrors at bay? A dream or reality? Foolish thought. Of course it was a dream. She would never come to him like that. Never. And even if she did, he wouldn’t allow it. Could not chance hurting her in the process of killing himself. He groped for the bottle, his fingers closed around the cool glass, and he poured himself another healthy swig.

  Next he knew, dawn silvered the sky. Fully awake, he rose and carried the drink to the window, sipped it, and remembered sitting with her in the light of the moon. How sweet she had looked, gazing at him, eyes reflecting the golden glow. Dear God, what a fool he was. Allowing himself to desire someone so delightful, to think he could possibly lead a normal life. Tilting the glass, he downed the remainder and sank into the chair, leaned back, and closed his eyes, head throbbing.

  The child lay in bloody mud, tiny fists clutching the dead woman’s skirts. Had his bullet struck her down? What did it matter who had killed her? He was a part of it. He turned away from the grisly sight and vomited into the bushes before taking up his rifle and moving to follow the men of his regiment to the next killing fields.

  He jerked awake, rose, and fetched the half-empty bottle, turned it up, and drank until he could no longer swallow the burning liquid. Staggering, h
e dropped the bottle to the carpet, stumbled to the bed, and fell onto his face. Could he no longer close his eyes without falling into that lurking world of death and destruction? Maybe he would one day drink enough to drown out their screams, but only death would finally bring that blessing.

  ****

  Rowena finished her breakfast and allowed Marguerite to help her slip into a Balmoral petticoat and a simple frock suitable for the house.

  “You should stay in bed, so promise me you will remain in the parlor and rest.” Marguerite pinned a last curl high on Rowena’s head. “There. You look fine.”

  The reflection in the mirror didn’t look fine at all, though Marguerite had styled her hair so that she looked somehow different. If it hadn’t been for her swollen face and the bruises around her eye, she would have been almost pretty. She stuck out her tongue. Foolish, foolish thoughts.

  If she kept quiet in reply to Marguerite’s request that she remain in the parlor, perhaps the woman would take it for a promise. A promise she had no intention of keeping.

  “I swear, if that man would get a hold on himself…” Marguerite took her arm and walked with her into the hallway, continuing her rant. “This place is a disgrace. Dust and cobwebs everywhere. The kitchen is in total disarray. Where is that housekeeper I hired for him? And the cook? I suppose neither one of them could stand his tirades.”

  “I’m afraid that’s precisely what happened,” Rowena said. “They resigned. Said they were afraid of being chopped up in their beds. Nellie remained, and Annie. I believe I saw a new girl yesterday under Simmons’ tutelage.”

  “Well, he’d better not expect you to do the housework. If that’s the case, I’ll have some words with his lordship. That will never do at all. That wasn’t the arrangement we had.”

  It was a good thing she hadn’t told Marguerite she had been helping out. She would blame Blair, and there was no use explaining that Blair did not request anything of anyone but to be left alone. Simmons ran the household, and that’s who Marguerite should speak with. Rowena wanted so badly to question Marguerite as to precisely what arrangement she and Blair did have when she brought him to St. Ann’s to look over the three Duncan girls for their suitability, as if they were sweets in a store window. But she kept her silence. He had rescued them from a life of drudgery in the convent workhouse. A life so brutal for her she’d never spoken of it. This one had to be better in that respect, but dealing with Lord Blair Prescott was proving to be not only difficult but heartbreaking.

  Before they started down the stairs, Tyra came bounding from her rooms, dressed in men’s corduroy riding breeches, a cropped jacket, and boots. Wherever she’d bought that outfit, Rowena couldn’t guess, but she looked quite stunning, with her tumble of golden-red curls flowing loose down her back.

  “When did you return?” Rowena asked, always happy to see her feisty cousin.

  “Late last night. Lizza is some better, but the doctor wants her to remain under his care a while longer. She won’t eat, so I thought I’d take her something from our kitchen. Annie is such a good cook.”

  “That’s sweet of you. Yes, Annie is indeed turning out to be adept in the kitchen. I may end up in dressing myself without her help, which is not a bother at all.”

  “Oh, child, child,” Marguerite scolded, interrupting their conversation. “Aren’t you a bit too old to wear your hair unpinned like that? And since when do we dress like a gentleman?”

  “Margy, don’t you start on me. It’s too beautiful a morning. Besides, I’m only going to Victoria City to check on Lizza; I’m not attending a ball or dinner with Queen Victoria, now am I? Did you ever try to sit astride a horse in crinolines, laces, and satins?”

  The woman flushed and started down the stairs, arm in arm with Rowena. “I dare say I would never sit astride a horse. Is that something now acceptable in the Queen’s company? I think not.”

  “Well, Margy,” Tyra said, dancing on down the stairs ahead of them, “we aren’t in the Queen’s company here in the American West, now are we? Old Victoria will never know, will she? See you.” She waved and ran toward the kitchen. Rowena envied the girl her ability to walk away from any difficult situation with such ease. And calling Marguerite “Margy”? She would never get away with that.

  Later, having settled Rowena in the parlor, Marguerite bustled away to interfere properly with Simmons’ running of the house. After a few minutes, to make sure the woman wouldn’t return, Rowena rose and crept in silence toward Blair’s den on the main floor, a place he liked to hide out. Though he might still be riding that magnificent horse over the grounds, she hoped to find him there. Perhaps he would be amenable to talking with her.

  At his door, she tapped lightly, waited a moment, then cautiously opened the door. The room was empty, but the fresh scent of the occasional cheroot he liked to smoke hung in the air. He must be up. For a moment, she stood with her hands on the back of his chair, remembering the way he’d cared for her the night before with such tenderness. If only she could uncover that side of him for good and all.

  “What is it?” he said, scaring her so badly she nearly fainted. He’d walked silently from the door, across the Egyptian carpet, to come up behind her.

  Hand splayed over her racing heart, she faced him, scarcely able to remain upright, her knees trembled so badly.

  “Well, what are you doing in here?” He took another step toward her, his features stern, his eyes hard as agates.

  Back against the chair, she had nowhere to retreat. Though his mannerisms were violent, she wasn’t afraid of him. Should she be?

  With an unexpected suddenness her knees went out from under her, and he caught her before she could fall. His chin touched the top of her head, his long body leaned into hers, his arms folded around her. For the briefest time she relaxed into his embrace before he grabbed her shoulders in both hands and held her away.

  “You should be in bed if you can’t remain on your feet.” His gaze chased across her damaged face and he looked away.

  “Blair.” Pleading, like a fool.

  “No, Rowena. No, dammit.”

  “I was only trying to make sure you were all right.”

  “I am a grown man in no need of a mother. Shall I call Marguerite to take you back to your rooms?”

  Stiffly, she backed out of his reach. “No, I too am grown and quite capable of going where I want to go. And it isn’t to my rooms. I’m not an invalid. A man saw fit to beat on me, but nothing is broken, and I don’t intend to retire to my bed.”

  He kept his back turned, his shoulders rising and falling.

  “Thank you for taking care of me last night. I appreciate it.” Her voice caught and she couldn’t continue, so she stumbled from his presence, sure he could hear the sound of her heart cracking apart.

  Behind her, something crashed and broke. She flinched, straightened her shoulders, and strode toward the front door. Don’t turn around. You don’t care what happens to him. You don’t.

  But that was a lie, pure and simple.

  Chapter Four

  Rowena’s Journal, November 5, 1875

  Blair has been absent for several days, and when I ask Simmons about him, he only shakes his head and looks away. I beg to know if he’s all right, but the man is mute. If Blair were actually missing, Simmons would be more concerned. It is clear that I am not to know what has happened to him. Tyra checked in the barn for me, and his horse is also gone. The weather is turning, a north wind howls and I worry that he is out in the cold.

  I cannot ask more of Tyra, as she is concerned about Lizza, who is not recuperating as quickly as we had hoped. Thank God Barton Couch, the man who beat her and attacked me, remains in jail under the sheriff’s watchful eye.

  Marguerite returned to Victoria City this morning. Try as I might, I could not prevail upon her to remain. I have recovered from the incident and only show a trace of the bruises, so she sees no need. If things do not change drastically, I’m going to leave Fairhaven. I have yet to
decide where I will go or what I will do, but it is said that there are positions for housekeepers and laundresses open at George Grant’s Manor House. Neither is beneath my dignity. Living at St. Ann’s taught me those tasks quite well. If that does not work out, I will take the train west.

  Pen poised to write more, Rowena studied that last paragraph for a long, solemn moment. What more was there to say? She needed more of a life than sitting around this drafty castle waiting for something to happen. Writing down her foolish dreams on paper rather than doing something about the conditions of her life. With a sigh, she closed the journal, cleaned ink off the pen, and put her things away in the top drawer of the bureau. Downstairs in the empty kitchen, she prepared breakfast for one and sat all alone at the large morning table, staring out the window across the dreary plains till the food grew cold. The castle was chilly and damp, the day one of low-hanging clouds and a brisk wind that howled and rattled at the glass panes. A lonely forlorn sound that only added to her misery. She drew the heavy shawl closer and shivered.

  Gathering the dishes, she washed and dried them, then wandered through the rooms until she came upon Nellie bent over the cutting table, black curly hair a bird’s nest. The lovely blue fabric Rowena had chosen at Chesshire’s was spread out before her. Delighted to find something to occupy her time, she joined her at the table.

  “I’d forgotten all about my dress.”

  The young woman glanced up. “Ah, Miss Rowena. I was about to call you for some measurements before I cut into this beautiful material.”

  For the next hour or so she stood still for measurements and pattern fitting, chatting with the girl and watching her bring the pieces of the dress together like magic.

  “Could you teach me to sew?” she finally asked. “I need something to occupy my time.”

  “Aye, that I could do,” Nellie said in her Scottish brogue.

  Blair had found her and Annie living on the streets of Glasgow while he was waiting for the ship to sail for America on his second voyage. Both were more than happy to accompany him to this new land and work for him. While the two women chatted, Annie came in with a tray containing a pot of brewing tea. A tiny girl with a heart-shaped face, who couldn’t be more than eighteen, she wore a loose day dress and apron, and her brown hair was tucked under a cap.