Rowena's Hellion

by Velda Brotherton

  “I heard you talking, so I brought an extra cup.” She bobbed a curtsey toward Rowena that embarrassed her.

  “No need to bow to me, Annie. I’m the same as the two of you. There was a roof over my head, thanks to Marguerite Chesshire. She took all three of us girls to St. Ann’s after our parents were killed or we’d have been on the streets just like you were.”

  Annie’s full lips turned up in a smile, her blue eyes sparkled, and she arranged the tea things on a small table in one corner of the sewing room.

  After they were settled, Nellie asked Rowena about his lordship’s whereabouts.

  Peering over the rim of her steaming cup, Rowena sighed. “I wish I knew. I’m worried about him.”

  “You ask me, it’s pleasantly quiet around here without him pacing the halls and ranting half the night away,” Annie said, then flushed when Nellie made a shushing sound. “Ah, excuse my saying so, if you please,” the girl added.

  “And well you’d better be apologizing, child. The man was kind to us, and he has his own problems you’d be wise to be more understanding of.”

  Rowena nodded. “That’s true. I wish I could help him somehow. Dr. Weatherby seems to know little about his ailment.”

  “Do you ken he would consult with a phrenologist?” Nellie set down her empty cup. “Or is there not one in Victoria? In England people are flocking to them to have their heads read. They can advise a person what they should be doing with their lives. They can answer questions about matters of love, business, and life in general. Even children are taken to them to see what path of life they should be groomed for.”

  “My, how did you learn all that, living on the streets?” Annie stared at her, wide eyed.

  “Did not always live the way his lordship found me. Once was a maid for Lord and Lady Barsong. She was a great believer in having her head read.”

  “Posh,” Annie said, blowing the word out through pursed lips. “How in the world could reading bumps on the head tell anyone anything? Sounds a bit daft to me.”

  “No, ’tis true. My lady explained that a man named Gall learned where all one’s beliefs, thoughts, and desires were found in the head. Going by the shape and lumps and bumps, he could say what a person’s strengths and weaknesses were, what they might become, or why they might not become anything.”

  Rowena listened closely, then asked, “Sounds like they are sort of doctors of the mind.”

  Nellie pointed at her. “Yes, that is much what they are. Say, do you suppose they could tell us where in our heads the soul hides?”

  “I would not be surprised. I’m going to find out if there’s one of these—what did you call them?—phrenologists in Victoria. I would think such a doctor could help Blair.”

  “Oh, do you suppose so?” Nellie asked. “He’s such a lovely man. Those eyes, and that head of beautiful thick hair. Did you ever notice his long dark lashes? I would kill for those. And the scar only makes him more enticing.”

  All three laughed, then Annie scolded, “Shame on us. His lordship would be quite displeased to hear such talk.”

  “Well then,” Rowena teased, “let’s not tell him. I’ve found his body to be quite attractive.”

  Annie laughed. “Oh, and just what have you seen of his body?”

  Rowena felt a flush creep up her throat, thinking of Blair standing in front of her in his unmentionables and nothing else, a line of dark hair leading into the belt of the loose drawers.

  “Probably not as much as she would like,” Nellie quipped.

  Rowena picked up the teapot, anxious to change the subject. “More tea?”

  Nellie nodded and watched Rowena pour before speaking. “Well, I do know the Queen, God bless her, has more than once consulted one, though it’s beyond me how rubbing the bumps on one’s head could do much in the way of healing maladies such as his lordship appears to suffer from.”

  “I heard tell of a woman who was ranting and going quite mad after she had her fifth child. They called one in and it wasn’t no time till she was up and suckling that child and taking care of her family right well.”

  “Well, did you ever?” Annie said, helping herself to another cup of tea.

  The idea excited Rowena, and she vowed to speak to Marguerite, who would know if such a person might have come over from England and set up shop in Victoria. The problem then would be convincing Blair to see this phrenologist. But one step at a time would do.

  Annie went back to her duties, housekeeping having fallen on her shoulders since losing the cook and housekeeper. Hired to help Rowena dress and do her hair and keep her rooms neat, the younger woman didn’t seem to mind the extra work or Blair’s rants.

  Rowena remained with Nellie, who gave her the task of hand-stitching the layers of skirting for the blue dress. The seamstress was a demanding teacher and made her tear out any work that wasn’t up to her standards.

  “It might be your frock, luv,” she said with a laugh, “but it carries me name as the maker, and I’ll tolerate no crooked, over-large stitchery.”

  Tea time found them immersed in the sewing when Annie came round with a large tray heavy with roasted wild prairie hen, jelly, wine sauce for the game bird, vegetable pies, and boiled rice pudding.

  The two women were happy to lay down their work and fill their plates.

  “Child, where did you learn to cook?” Nellie asked, wiping grease from her mouth and fingertips. “And why did you just now show a leaning toward it?”

  “From me grandma, before she died and left me alone. I hadn’t cooked here as yet because I thought it might not be proper to use the kitchen. But seeing as how the cook left and I’m to take care of Miss Rowena, I thought it would be right and proper to see she is well fed.”

  “And it doesn’t hurt to make enough for the help, heh?” Nellie laughed.

  Rowena chuckled. The hen was superb, drowned in the wine sauce. “If you let Blair know you can cook like this, you might have another job heaped upon your housekeeping and dressing duties.”

  Annie cut into a bit of crust and dipped up a spoonful of fragrant vegetable pie. “Oh, I wouldn’t mind at all doing all the cooking, but if you’ll not tell his lordship, I mortally hate housekeeping, especially in these castles where dust and cobwebs do so love to gather in every high corner.”

  All three women laughed.

  “Sounds like a party going on in here,” Blair’s voice boomed from the doorway.

  All three turned and stared.

  He leaned against the sill, a wide grin on his handsome face, hair mussed from the wind. He took Rowena’s breath away, cheeks flushed from the cold, coat and shirt open at the throat, riding breeches and boots mud-stained. Whatever had he been up to?

  “Smells wonderful. Would there be enough to share with the master of this castle?”

  Annie blushed and jumped to her feet. “I’d be more than happy to bring you a tray, sir. Would you like some of everything?”

  “That would be fine, Annie. Would you ladies mind if I joined you?”

  Aghast at his demeanor, Rowena was speechless. Who was this man Blair became at odd moments? And what was the cause of his absence and abrupt reappearance looking so self-satisfied? If one could learn that, it might help him be rid of that haunted specter who often burst from out of the darkness to take him over.

  He dragged another chair to their table and seated himself next to Rowena, but he hadn’t yet greeted her directly. She did her best to keep her eyes downcast onto her plate, yet she couldn’t help but glance his way—to find him studying her with a sparkle in his eyes. He nodded, lips moving in a soft greeting that she couldn’t quite hear.

  “Hello, Blair,” she replied. “I—”

  Before she could form the sentence, he put a finger to her lips and shook his head.

  “Later. Now let’s enjoy this wonderful meal. And tell me, if you please, just who cooked such a repast?”

  Nellie glanced at Rowena, then toward the door through which Annie had disappeare
d to get another tray of food, but she said nothing. It was up to Rowena.

  “Annie is quite a cook, as it turns out.”

  “Ah, well. I wonder if I could convince her to change jobs, then?”

  A grin tugged at Rowena’s mouth. “I wouldn’t be a bit surprised. Who then will sweep out all the dust and cobwebs?”

  “Perhaps we could find another housekeeper in town, one who won’t be quite so touchy about her working conditions.”

  “Or even better, perhaps her working conditions could improve.”

  He shot her a stare. Oh, dear, now she’d gone too far. A problem of hers, speaking her mind before thinking of the consequences.

  “Do you think so?” he asked, his voice going deep.

  “I apologize. My tongue often gets ahead of my brain. Perhaps I could use one of those phrenologists, to cure me of being so outspoken.”

  Nellie cast a puzzled gaze her way and took a deep breath that cut through the stillness.

  Annie saved any further declining in the mood by entering with a chirpy remark. “I hope you didn’t have to wait too long, sir. I reheated everything for you. What would you like to drink?”

  “Tea will be fine, Annie, and thank you so much. These ladies have been regaling me about your cooking abilities, and I think I’m about to find they speak the truth.” He tucked a napkin into his shirt front and attacked the plate of food as if starving.

  Watching him eat was sheer pleasure. Rowena had been worried about him for so many months when he failed to show up for meals with any regularity. Now she wasn’t sure what to think. He’d been gone for four days, only to come back a new man, but would it last?

  He glanced up to catch her in the act of staring. “Please, do finish your meal. I can do this alone without help.”

  For a moment she wasn’t sure he was teasing, but then he chuckled before going back to his meal.

  Though she was happy to see him returned all of a piece, and with a healthy appetite to boot, she couldn’t help feeling uncomfortable. Annie and Nellie appeared the same and soon excused themselves.

  “I need to clean the kitchen,” Annie explained, and Nellie added that she would help.

  Rowena started to rise and join them, but Blair leaned toward her. “Could you stay, please?”

  A ripple akin to fearful pleasure ran through her. “Of course.” Now what was he up to? He ran hot, then cold, until she could never guess what he might say or do next.

  He continued to eat until the sound of the two women chattering faded away. Then he put down a chicken bone, wiped his lips and hands on the napkin, and folded it carefully over his plate.

  “I see you have recovered from your ordeal. Any more headaches or dizzy spells?”

  A memory of how he’d carried her from the carriage into the house, her head tucked into his shoulder, and sat beside her through the night, tied her tongue for a moment. “I’m fine, Blair,” she finally managed. “Thank you so much.”

  “You’re quite welcome. It was my honor.”

  What a strange thing for him to say. What was he up to?

  “Is that, uh, man still in jail who attacked you and that poor little girl?”

  “I’m told he’s in Hays in the county jail.”

  “And how is she?”

  “She?” For a moment, she couldn’t think. His questions, spoken so softly, were confusing her. “Oh, Lizza. Tyra is spending time with her. The doctor is mystified as to why she isn’t recovering, but I think a lot of it is terror.”

  He cleared his throat. “Yes, terror can cause a dreadful sickness to come over one. Did you tell her she’s welcome to recuperate here at Fairhaven?”

  That was a relief, for she had told her just that. “Yes, I asked Tyra to relay that message to her, hoping you would not mind, seeing as how she has no place else to go. I haven’t been back to town since…well, since you brought me here.”

  “Brought you home, I thought you would say.”

  “Home, yes, I suppose that’s right.”

  “Of course it is.” He took her hand, startling her.

  “Rowena, I wish I could… I think it might be best…”

  She waited, and waited some more. If only he’d ask her the question she so wanted to hear—simply, would she stay on at Fairhaven. Even better, would she marry him? But he kept her hand and continued to gaze into her eyes in silence, as if he were searching for her soul.

  “What is it, Blair? Is there anything I can do?”

  Then he did something so unexpected it brought tears to her eyes. He kissed the back of her hand, then turned it over and kissed the palm. Murmured against her skin, “Thank you.”

  Without another word, he turned her loose, rose, and stood looking down at her for the longest time. Though she wanted to ask why he thanked her, she couldn’t bring herself to say anything, didn’t expect more from him, but at last he went on.

  “I wish there were something we could do. I am so sorry. The way things are can’t be helped, and I regret it very much. And I will never hurt you. I want you to remember that, will you? No matter what happens, you need not be afraid of me.”

  “I’ve never been afraid of you.” Heart kicking up a storm, she stood, put a hand on his shoulder. Warmth shot through her, leaving a tingling sensation.

  His eyes blinked rapidly before he turned and strode from the room. Tears ran hotly down her cheeks as she watched him go. It wasn’t true what he said. That he’d never hurt her. He just had.

  ****

  Goddammit, Blair. You fool. If you’d stayed away from her in the first place, this wouldn’t have happened. What had he done, bringing those women here? All to suit Marguerite, whom he loved like a mother. That love was the only reason he’d allowed her to drag him to St. Ann’s in the first place. From the moment he laid eyes on Rowena and fallen under her spell, he sensed that if he ever let himself get close to her, he’d be lost. He couldn’t expose her to what he had become. Yet, sure as hell, that’s exactly what was happening.

  He took the stairs three at a time, unbuttoning his shirt and yanking its tail from the waistband of his breeches. All the women in the world couldn’t cure what ailed him. The brothels in Hays City could attest to that. And after four days and nights of pure debauchery, he came home, walked into that room, and there she sat, laughing and so damned beautiful it made his throat ache and his heart shudder. He could not, would not do this to her—or to himself, for that matter.

  In his room, dark from all the drawn drapes, he closed and locked the door, fumbled on the table for matches and lit the bedside lamp, then took off his boots, grabbed a bottle of whiskey, opened it, and turned it up. Drown the monsters before they come out to play.

  Eyes watering, he swallowed and stopped. Someone was rattling the doorknob. Maybe if he kept quiet they’d go away. Another rattle, than knuckles tapped, reluctantly.

  “Go away.”

  “Let me in. We have to talk. Now, Blair. Please.”

  “Rowena,” he muttered, shaking his head. She sure was persistent. That woman didn’t have good sense. She’d seen him at his worst and kept coming back for more.

  He strode to the door in his sock feet, holding the whiskey bottle by the neck down at his side. “What do you want?” Leaning an ear against the thick wooden panels, he could hear her breathing. Sense the softness of her skin, the silkiness of her hair, her gentle touch.

  It was all he could do not to yank the door open and take her in his arms. “No, not now,” he shouted. For God’s sake, not now, not ever.

  “Blair, there’s something we need to talk about. It’s important. I’ll not leave until you talk to me.” She pounded on the door again.

  Muttering under his breath that she might wake the dead, he laughed bitterly. They didn’t need her noise-making to come up out of their graves. He struggled with the lock while still hanging onto the bottle. Whisky sloshed out onto his foot and wet the rug. He turned loose the knob. Slugged down another long drink that ignited a fire a
ll the way to his stomach. Thus fortified, he swung the door open. There she stood, eyes glistening with unshed tears, tresses of pale hair tumbling from its pins, cheeks flushed, eyes beseeching.

  Damn it all! He dropped the bottle to the carpet and opened his arms. She fell into his fierce caress, clung to him, breath hot against his throat. Slamming the door shut with one foot, he found her mouth with his. A savage desire fed his hunger and he drank of her, deeply, longingly. And her going along with him added to that desire. Snatching at his shirt, touching his skin, kissing him as deeply as he kissed her. Hot, warm, sweet, wet, silken kisses that set him on fire.

  Touching her, pulling at her clothing. The bodice ripped, revealing her perfect breasts. He buried his face in their warmth. What was he doing? Dear God, help him, what was he doing? He could stop. Dammit, he could, made every effort to do so. Might have happened, had she not slid the flat of her palm along the front of his breeches until she touched the bulge of his erection. A soft “Oh!” came from deep in her throat.

  As if hit by a bullet, he staggered backward, dragging her with him. Somewhere behind him the bed awaited. There he could peel her out of those layers of clothing. Her mouth remained locked to his, tongues exploring, breaths mixing, moans joining. His legs hit the edge of the mattress and he collapsed, pulled her down on top of him. Bare breasts pressed against his flesh, one hand caressing him through his breeches until a dark passion threatened to consume him in its fire.

  He wanted inside her, clawed at the layers of skirts, crinolines, undergarments.

  He stopped abruptly. He sounded like some sort of animal in rut. Going at her like she was one of his harlots. He couldn’t do this. Not to Rowena, a woman he would die for. She was most surely a virgin.

  Torn between a raging desire to have her and a fear of what he might do at any moment, he pulled her close and held on as if somehow she could save him from tumbling into the bottomless abyss he knew so well.