He rose, helping her to stand. “We’re getting you back to the castle and you are not to leave it again until we have gotten to the bottom of this!”
“I am not your servant to be ordered about!” she protested.
He whirled on her, gripping her upper arms tightly and pulling her to him until they were face to face. “You’re not my servant. But you are mine. Mine, Beatrice! And I’ll not risk losing you… you’ll stay in that castle if I have to guard you myself!”
Chapter Six
Beatrice felt lost in the flurry of activity as they returned to Castle Black. The world had become somewhat fuzzy and indistinct. They’d been halfway home when she’d stopped shivering. He’d spurred the horse faster. She knew, of course, that it was not a good sign to no longer feel the cold. Living at the very edge of the sea, the dangers of falling into icy, chilled waters were known to her.
Graham dismounted, pulling her from the horse with him. She was swept into his arms as he strode toward the house and, yet, she felt nothing. It was as if she were simply floating above all of it, looking down with no real connection to all the bustle about her.
Up the stairs and she could hear Betsy murmuring, making her lists as she was wont to do. More coal for the grate, get the warming pans, hot water, lots of hot water, warm broth or tea, should she have brandy? No? Sherry, then?
Beatrice felt her eyelids drifting, her weighted lashes falling of their own volition to rest on her cheeks. She was so tired.
“Stay awake! Open your eyes, Beatrice!”
His voice was sharp, barking orders, penetrating the fog that surrounded her. She frowned, not wanting to obey him. She only wanted to rest them for a moment. The light was so awfully bright.
A sharp tap of her cheek pulled her out of it briefly. She opened her eyes and glared at him. “You hit me!”
Her words sounded strange to her own ears, muffled and slurred.
“Stay awake or I’ll do it again,” he said. “You cannot sleep, Beatrice. It’s too dangerous.”
She was on her feet, she realized. Somehow they’d gone from the great hall to her chamber in what seemed no more than the blink of an eye.
“How did we get here?”
“I carried you,” he said, spinning her around She felt sharp jerks and heard Betsy gasp. The blade of his knife flashed again, and the weight that had been dragging her down had simply vanished. Her gaze traveled to the floor and she was standing in a sea of wine-colored wool. He’d cut her dress from her.
“You can’t see her this way!” The hissed warning had come from Betsy. As if realizing she’d addressed her own master too sharply, the girl immediately backed away. “It isn’t proper, my lord.”
“It’d be more improper to let her freeze to death while you struggled to untie those bloody laces.” His answer was stiff, his tone abrupt and completely without contrition.
“My lord,” Betsy implored. “When she’s herself, she’ll be so embarrassed!”
“If she’s alive to be embarrassed, I’ll call it a victory,” he replied.
Beatrice felt more layers falling from her. Her stays, her petticoat. She was clad only in her shift, but it was still wet and clinging to her body.
“I’ll take care of her,” Betsy insisted. “She’d want me to!”
“And can you lift her in and out of that tub by yourself?” he asked.
Beatrice wanted to argue, she wanted to demand they stop speaking of her as if she weren’t even there. But then she felt herself falling, tipping forward, the floor rushing up to meet her. It never did. Instead, strong arms wrapped around her again, lifting her up, tugging her close, holding her to him as he crossed the room and placed her in a chair before the fire.
The warmth of it didn’t penetrate immediately. For the first moment she sat there, she felt nothing at all. She could see the flames dancing, felt mesmerized by the flickering tongues of orange and red. It was the strangest of things. But then sensation returned abruptly. Everywhere the heat had touched her was like shards of glass, as if her very skin were being peeled from her flesh. Beatrice cried out and tried to move away from the heat, but he held her fast.
“Stop it! Stop!” she shouted.
“I know it hurts,” he said. “I know.”
“How could you know?” she demanded. The pain had pushed the fatigue back, holding it at bay as she struggled to breathe through an agony she’d never known before.
“Because I’ve sailed the seas for close to two decades and they are not always warm and forgiving,” he answered. “The pain will subside. Just let the fire warm you until it’s gone.”
Beatrice couldn’t hold back tears as the pain engulfed her. She wept silently, tears streaming over her cheeks as it felt like a thousand needles pierced her flesh.
She slumped against him, unable to bear it, and unconsciousness claimed her.
*
“Should we wake her?” the maid asked, her voice choked with tears. “I’ve never seen her carry on so. She broke her arm once, clean through, and never made a peep!”
Graham stroked her hair absently. It was still wet, still clinging to her skin. But the blue tint to her lips had begun to fade somewhat. “No. If she’s warmed enough to feel the pain, she’s warmed enough to be safe from the worst of the dangers. I’ll hold her here in front of the fire for a few more moments. When the bath is ready, I’ll help you to put her in it.”
“And to get her out?” the maid asked, her tone rife with disapproval.
“If need be. If she can climb out on her own, I’ll leave you to it. Otherwise, I’ll be waiting beyond the door,” he answered. Propriety be damned. Wearing only her shift, he could see every scrape and bruise on her skin. Had he not gone after her, she would not have survived much longer. The currents had been too strong. She’d have been battered on those rocks like a broken doll.
“Get a blanket for her,” he commanded.
The maid left for the moment, returning with a coverlet from the bed which she draped about Beatrice’s shoulders. Graham lifted her again, holding her on his lap with the blanket covering her as a bevy of footmen entered carrying buckets of steaming water.
The maid, Betsy he corrected himself, directed them to fill the tub behind the screen. “No,” he countermanded. “Drag the tub here before the fire first.”
They did his bidding. If anyone thought it questionable that he held her in his arms, tucked tenderly against his chest, no one dared speak of it. When they had gone, he stood, lifting her easily as he did so and carried her to the steaming tub.
“Wake up, Beatrice,” he whispered.
She pressed herself tighter against him. “I don’t want to. The pain is gone.”
“There will be more of it,” he said, “But it will be more bearable now, I promise.”
He didn’t give her any more warning or any opportunity to argue. Stripping the blanket that had covered her, he lowered her into the steaming water.
She came up like a spitting cat, clawing at him as she tried to get out of the tub. He held her there, gripping her wrists so firmly that he knew he was adding to her bruises, but there was nothing for it. “The fire warmed your fingers and toes, the parts of you that were the coldest,” he explained, keeping his voice gentle even as she railed against him. “The water will warm the rest of you… your heart, your lungs. It’s the only way to ensure that there’s no lasting damage from the cold.”
Eventually, her struggles ceased and she sat in the tub, sullen and even childlike. He rose then. “She’s still confused… the cold invades a person’s mind, makes them say and do things that are out of character,” he explained. “But the worst of it is past, I think. If you need me, you have but to call.”
Leaving the room, Graham grabbed a small chair and carried it out to the hall where he sat, crossing his booted feet and waited to see if he was needed further.
She’d nearly died. If he’d been even a few moments later, she would have. There was no question of it. It mad
e his heart race and his lungs seize just to think of it. And if she had been speaking truthfully and not simply sharing some delirium she had suffered either from striking her head or from the bitter cold, it had not simply been an accident.
He’d seen men, sailors on watch at night, men who were well accustomed to the cold and to difficult conditions succumb to a fevered brain from being too long in the elements. But she’d been quite lucid then, able to follow directions and do what he asked of her. It was not until they’d been closer to Castle Black that she’d begun to speak insensibly.
Who would have attempted such a thing and why? Edmund infuriated by her rejection? He couldn’t actually imagine that Edmund would have braved the elements to go after her. The man was too civilized to muddy his boots that way. Or was it something more mercenary? Beatrice had been the one to substantiate his claim so far, providing information about the scar on his arm. Lady Agatha accepted him not even on faith but on her own desire to have her son returned. Beatrice was the only person who had provided any actual proof. Had someone opted to eliminate her because of that?
It seemed, of the two, the more likely motive. But who? Edmund or Christopher? He knew nothing of his brother. He’d barely spoken to the boy though not by choice. Christopher rarely spoke to anyone. He flitted in and out of rooms without so much as a by your leave. But could his quiet nature truly conceal something so villainous?
*
As the water began to cool around her, Beatrice shivered. It was time to get out of the tub. Gripping the sides, she attempted to stand and failed. Her body ached. Every muscle hurt. Whether it was from the fall, the constant battle against the crashing waves, the bruising ride to get back to Castle Black before she expired altogether or simply an aftereffect of the exposure to cold was impossible to say.
“Should I get his lordship?” Betsy asked, clearly nervous and also scandalized at the thought.
“No,” Beatrice stated firmly. “His lordship has seen quite enough of me already. Just give me a hand up, please.”
Somehow, between the two of them, they managed to get her on her feet. Stripping off her sodden chemise, Betsy helped her to dry with a warm cloth. A fresh nightrail was slipped over her head and a warm wrapper followed.
Combing out the rat’s nest of her hair was no easy task. By the time it was done, she regretted not cutting it when it had been suggested before. With the heavy mass tucked into a tidy braid, Beatrice felt almost human again. Almost.
“He’s still waiting outside, Miss!” Betsy said, having peeked through the door.
“Tell him he may go. I’m safely out of the tub and going to bed,” Beatrice stated firmly. She couldn’t face him. Not now. Not after everything that had happened.
“I’ll not tell him that. I’ll tell him you’re out of the bath, but he is lord of this castle. I’ll not be ordering him about, Miss!”
Beatrice let out a long-suffering sigh as Betsy disappeared with an armful of wet and probably ruined clothing. She could hear the deep rumble of his voice from the hall and then the door opened again.
She didn’t have to look to know that it was him. His presence filled the room, sucked the air out of it and her. It seemed that her body was completely attuned to his presence.
“I take it you are much improved,” he said, stepping deeper into the room.
Beatrice turned to him with a baleful stare. “I would certainly have to be, would I not?”
His dark brows drew together as he surveyed her with clear disapproval of her snappish tone. “It would appear that nearly being murdered puts you in a foul mood, Beatrice.”
The words were said in jest, but it was not funny. It brought everything rushing back. The dark figure of a man grabbing her, wrestling her to the edge and then sending her over, tumbling down into what should have been a watery grave. She shivered again and it had little to do with the cold.
“Forgive me,” he said. “I should not have spoken to you that way. You’ve every right to be out of sorts with what happened. You do recall what happened, do you not?”
It was her turn to glare at him disapprovingly. “I remember everything. I, Lord Blakemore, am not the one with the spotty memory!”
He ducked his head but failed miserably at hiding his amusement at her affronted tone. When he lifted it again to face her, his smile was contained though not entirely hidden. “Again, forgive me, Beatrice, for saying the wrong thing. You have been through quite an ordeal.”
Yes, she had, and not the least of which was the fact that he’d seen every last inch of her. Her shift, wet as it had been, might as well have left her naked altogether. It was humiliating. Her embarrassment was boundless, but addressing it would only make the situation worse. So she focused on something else entirely.
“I can’t identify him. I can’t even tell you how tall he was because the rocks are so uneven it was impossible to determine! But I did not imagine it… he grabbed me, he dragged me to the ledge and then he forced me over it to drown or be battered to death against the rocks.”
“I believe you,” he answered softly.
“Do not patronize me!” she shouted.
“I’m not patronizing you. I believe you. I believe you because you’ve given someone motive to kill you,” he stated again, more firmly this time.
She paused, a protest dying on her lips. “You believe me?”
“Yes, I believe you,” he repeated again. “But the question remains, why? While I waited in the corridor to see if further assistance would be required, I gave that very thought a great deal of consideration.”
“What possible motive could anyone have for wishing to harm me?” she asked. “I’m nothing… no one, really.”
“You corroborated my claim to be the Lost Lord of Castle Black,” he said softly. “You and you alone knew the story of the scar on my forearm. Even Lady Agatha had forgotten it. And Lady Agatha’s desire to have her son alive and well and returned to the bosom of the family makes her an unreliable witness.”
The reality of that sank in slowly. They wanted her dead because they didn’t want Graham claiming the title. Edmund?
He continued. “Who knew where you had gone this morning, Beatrice? Edmund or Eloise? Christopher?”
Her gut clenched at the thought. It might be nothing, but then again, it could be something very sinister, indeed. “I didn’t see any of them, but as I was exiting through the kitchen door, I passed Eloise’s maid. She was taking Eloise’s breakfast tray up.”
“So it’s very possible that the information was relayed to Eloise and passed along to Edmund,” he surmised.
“I can’t believe he would do such a thing! Edmund is certainly a cad, but murder—”
“He has proven that he is quite willing to be a rapist. Is one really so different from the other?” he demanded, one dark eyebrow arcing up in surprise at her defense of the man he’d had to save her from.
Beatrice felt the blush staining her cheeks. The heat of it crept up her neck and into her face until she had to look away from him. “I could not say, my lord.”
“Graham,” he insisted. “My name is Graham and I would have you use it.”
Another memory came to her then, not of her attacker, not of the pain and fear she had felt when being tossed about in the Cauldron like so much flotsam and jetsam. He’d said she was his. Mine had been the word he used and he’d said it with such force that even in her shocked and injured state it had taken her aback.
“What did you mean when you said that I was yours?” She hadn’t meant to utter the question. Some things, after all, were better left unsaid. But her defenses were down, her natural caution forgotten in the wake of so many traumas suffered in one day. And there it was, hovering between them like a phantom. Whatever strange connection had established itself between them upon his arrival continued to grow stronger with each passing moment. Denying it would not change that.
“You are not well enough to have this conversation,” he finally said after a long
hesitation.
“If we wait until I am well I will not have the courage to ask again. Tell me what you meant,” she demanded softly.
He closed the distance between them until he could crouch before her as she sat on the small, padded bench at the foot of her bed. As close as he was to her, she could see the darker flecks hidden in the depths of his blue eyes and the strange mark that she recalled from their childhood. Graham’s eyes were completely blue save for the left one. There was a small bit of brown that marred the blue. If any doubt had remained, that erased it entirely. How many men could have such unusual eyes? Coupled with the scar, with his resemblance to Lord Nicholas, could there be any doubt? Whatever had resulted in the change of his character from boyhood, it had made him a far better man.
“You really are Graham,” she whispered.
“I’ll have to take your word for that. I have doubts myself on an almost daily basis,” he admitted.
Beatrice reached out, placing one hand along his jaw. The faint shadow of beard beneath his skin was just visible, but she could feel it prickling against her palm. There was a small scar that disappeared into his hairline on the left side of his face. “Your eyes… that small bit of brown that mingles with the blue in your left eye… you bore that mark as a boy. You are Lord Graham Blakemore,” she insisted.
He dropped his head for a moment, breaking eye contact. It was clear that he was somewhat awed by her certainty.
“You said I was cruel to you as a boy,” he reminded her. “How?”
“The way boys so often are,” she stated simply. “Pulling my hair, pushing and shoving when no one was looking, stealing my favorite dolls and hiding them, placing hideous creatures in my bed for me to find. It was, for the most part, harmless pranks though.”
“For the most part?”
She looked away then. “You gave me berries to eat once while we were alone in the woods… but they were poison. I was terribly ill afterward and nearly died.”
Regency Scandals and Scoundrels: A Regency Historical Romance Collection Page 78