The Spinster and the Earl

by Beverly Adam

  The long walking stick she used was one of her father’s making and she always took extra care to carry it with her when hunting. Never once had she imagined there’d come a day when she’d use it to wade into a bog to rescue a strange Englishman. Aye, if she’d had an inkling of what would occur to her this morning, she’d have stayed securely at home in her warm bed with Druscilla attending upon her with hot cups of fortifying tea.

  She stood beside the fallen stranger and visibly swallowed. She found herself staring down at the lower half of his face. A red, puckered scar ran jaggedly down what would’ve undoubtedly been one of the handsomest faces she’d ever seen, if it hadn’t been so badly marred.

  Guessing him to be in his late twenties, the English lord had sharp, broad lines for cheekbones and a fine high brow full of intelligence, which rose above startling, sapphire, blue eyes. But the puckering, white line running down one side of his face ruined the effect. An evident reminder of what, no doubt, had been a violent and most dangerous encounter. Unconsciously, half-afraid, she lowered her eyes protectively away.

  “I see you’ve halted once more,” he drawled, his voice tinged with cool amusement. “Undoubtedly upon espying that little souvenir, which I’ve been branded with, you hesitate.” He gave a half-pained laugh, wincing as he did.

  “’Tis really nothing to concern yourself, ma’am. A mere memento I picked up hastily on the Peninsula. A gift, one of his majesty’s own, a green-horned lieutenant gave me in the heat of battle. The swashbuckling jackanapes didn’t know how to wield his sword and struck me instead.”

  “But . . . you’re English,” she said, protesting at the idea that he’d been harmed by one of his own countrymen. Only the enemy, she’d been taught, was capable of such wanton recklessness. For everyone knew that the French were a cold-hearted, bloodthirsty bunch of butchers. Not worthy to be called part of the brotherhood of men.

  “Just so . . . you’d think he’d have taken greater care around his own kind, wouldn’t you? But alas, no. And as you can see being English made me just as vulnerable as any other man around a sharp swinging weapon,” he replied, dismissing the subject as of no further consequence.

  “Now, if you’ll kindly give me your arm, I’d like to get out of this mud bath before it becomes the next Brighton fashion.”

  Obediently, she stepped forward, leaning down with the support of the walking stick. She managed to pull him up into a half-standing position.

  He towered a full hand above her. This astonished Beatrice. She was considered to be quite tall for a woman. Most of the men in the village were the same height or shorter than she. It was an enjoyable asset she took advantage of when bargaining and trading with them. She winced a little and looked up at him as he tightly gripped her shoulders.

  He leaned heavily into her for support. She straightened her back, feeling his hard male body brush-up against her. She tried to put a little distance between them, but he clung tenaciously to her like a drowning man to a floating piece of buoyant driftwood. His scarred eye looked down at her with what she thought to be a glint of humor, as if he knew how the intimate contact of their two bodies meeting made her feel. However, when he took his first tentative step forward, he grimaced in genuine pain, hissing air between clenched teeth.

  “Agggh. . . .” He breathed, cursing vehemently under his breath.

  Raising her eyes heavenward, Beatrice chose to ignore the roasting language. She assisted him to a sitting position upon a clover bank and walked purposefully to her game bag. Removing a leather wine sack, she poured strong spirits over a sharp hunting knife. She moved towards him, a grim look of purpose tightening her mouth.

  “Are you preparing to polish me off?” he asked sardonically, eyeing the sharp weapon in her hand. “You’re not some sort of Irish druid looking for a blood sacrifice, are you? I think I’ve already spilled enough today to satisfy even the most demanding of goddesses, don’t you agree, ma’am?”

  She ignored his jibe. Dreading the next step, she surveyed the area she assumed had been hit by the musket’s shot. Her hand shook a little.

  “You’d best show me where it entered,” she said, licking dry lips. She tried very hard not to envision what she must do, the digging out of odd-shaped metal bits.

  If he were in pain now, the thought of her digging embedded bits of metal out of his flesh was even less appealing.

  “We, um . . . wouldn’t want to risk your becoming sick,” she added, positioning her knife over the wound, readying herself.

  “If, ma’am, you mean that I might develop gangrene,” he cut in, “you may stop your fretting. By some holy miracle you missed.” He pointedly nodded towards his horse, which stood a few paces off calmly grazing on a patch of green clover.

  “’Twas the damnable fall from my mount, Mercury there, which lamed me most. I must add for vanity’s sake, ’tis the first I’ve ever felt that less than enviable sensation of flying. An experience, I can assure you, that I’d rather have passed.”

  “Well, then,” she breathed, dropping the weapon, “if you’ll pardon me, sir, I best be off to fetch our cailleacha, the village witch. We’ll need her assistance and a pony cart.”

  He stared at her blankly. A dark, bushy eyebrow lifted in a question mark.

  “Did I hear you correctly? You intend on having a witch see to tending my injury?”

  “The cailleacha, to be exact. She’s our best and most learned wise-woman,” she said, straightening up as she heard the challenge in his voice. “Surely you’ve heard of Wise Sarah? She’s quite renowned.”

  “Apparently not,” he replied dryly.

  “Wise Sarah is a gifted healer,” she explained, wondering what the English gentleman actually knew about the parish he’d stumbled upon. “We put our complete trust in her. ’Tis she who’s called upon when we’re either ill or seriously injured. She’s one of the wisest women I know. You can trust her, sir. She’ll do a proper job of tending your wounds.”

  She hoped for some sign of acknowledgment on his part of the healer’s abilities. However, he appeared to be entirely unimpressed, his mouth tightening into an even, firm line of masculine disapproval.

  “Let me assure you that Mistress Sarah has studied the art of healing for many years under Gladys Clogheen of Varrik-on-Suir,” she continued, trying to reason with him. The older, wise woman, who had trained Wise Sarah, had an even more renowned reputation as a healer than the young witch. Many sick came from far flung parishes all over the Emerald Isles to seek her wise healing advice and help.

  “In fact, ’tis well known that ’twas she who brought up the lady,” she added, waiting for a light of recognition to warm his frosty, blue stare.

  All and sundry knew the tale of how Gladys Clogheen had adopted the foundling left on her doorstep and brought her up to become a great healer. It was a tale storytellers relished repeating, because the old crone and pretty child made the villagers wonder if perhaps the foundling was not a changeling in disguise. Perhaps one who had been brought to the witch’s door to learn her magic in order to one day take it back to her own fairy kind?

  “No doubt you’ve heard of her?” she asked hopefully.

  His stoic face gave not the least indication he’d ever heard of either women, nor of any of the other famous healers, which were known to populate the more remote parts of the isles.

  “Evidently not,” she said with finality, dismissing him as an ignorant bore. She had wasted enough time with him. It was time to leave. She stood up, taking her walking stick in hand, preparing to set off for the village and the cottage belonging to the healer. As far as she was concerned, the sooner Wise Sarah took this arrogant English stranger off her hands, the better. She took a purposeful step forward and almost tripped. Something held her back.

  She glanced down at the hem of her walking skirt. The stranger audaciously held it and her tightly in place. His grip, surprisingly strong despite the obvious pain he was experiencing.

  Long lean fingers kep
t her in a controlled reign, his hold worthy of any good whip, well accustomed to maneuvering the ribbons of a high-strung thoroughbred. She doubted not that he could tumble her with a mere yank, if he should so choose.

  The long jaw line of his mouth jutted out at a stubborn angle as he said, “I’d prefer a physician tended me, ma’am, not some witch.” His teeth ground together against the pain that rolled through him as he shifted his body. He tightened his grip, his knuckles turning white.

  “Truly, sir, there aren’t any. At least not in this parish,” she amended, hoping that would at last settle the matter. “And the doctor that is known about here is a worthless drunk of a sawbones. He’d bleed you to death before he healed you.”

  The skeptical look of disbelief the stranger gave her said loudly he thought she was purposely trying to force some imagined storybook character upon him. The childhood vision of a cackling old hag, who’d use frog gizzards and bat wings in innocuous brews clearly clouding his prejudiced thoughts.

  “Upon my word, I am not trying to bam you. We haven’t any need for your so-called men of science here. Wise Sarah, our healer, can properly tend you,” she said once more, tugging at her skirt to see if he’d release her. “Now, if you’ll kindly excuse me, I really ought to hie myself to the village and fetch her.”

  “I don’t want some female witch doctor. I want a man of medicine,” he muttered once more. “During the war, I allowed no one to touch me.”

  “No one?” she asked, skeptically eyeing the jagged scar. Someone had to have at the very least tended that little souvenir of his.

  “Except Davis. He’s my man at arms. I only permitted him to tend to my needs. Thankfully, his mother was an excellent seamstress and taught him when he was a lad how to make a straight stitch.” He glowered at her accusingly. “And now, ma’am, you expect me to submit to some female witch with no real knowledge of medicine. Save perhaps how to cure a few harmless warts. I think not!”

  Her fine eyebrows snapped together. It was becoming abundantly clear that more than just his bones had taken flight. What common sense the Englishman may have had had flown, as well.

  The open wound on his leg looked worse than it actually was, she told herself, having seen and tended to far worse when her father invited friends for their hunts. The dangerous jumps over the usual obstacles of hedges, harrows, and fences, were always bound to produce at least a couple of casualties each year. It was considered part of the excitement and thrill of the hunt to see if one was skilled enough to finish the course still seated, having successfully preserved one’s fragile neck. The fox serving as a convenient excuse for the exhilarating gallop in the open countryside.

  The wound, she surmised, would only need a little sewing up. The lamed leg, however, appeared to be either broken or badly twisted. It was an entirely different matter. It would need to be carefully tended, set back into place, and soon. Suddenly, without any sign of warning, she placed her firm, long, white fingers upon him.

  “What are you about?” he asked, wincing as she firmly grasped his leg, feeling along for any breaks.

  Quickly, she dug deeply into his flesh, felt the torn ligament, and jammed it back into place. He tried to reach her, to make her leave him alone, but it was too late. Stunned, he released the hem of her gown with a loud yelp and promptly keeled over in a dead faint of excruciating pain.

  “The devil take it!” she muttered under her breath and gently pushed him off.

  Chapter 3

  When next the English lord opened his eyes, he thought he had died and gone to heaven. For standing over him was someone who could only be described as an angel. “Soft blue eyes the color of cornflowers and hair the shade of a golden halo. Speak, vision. Tell me, have I passed away? If it be so, then I only desire to lie here and look upon your angelic face.”

  The vision gave a soft laugh, revealing two darling dimples, one on each side of her near perfect, pink, porcelain cheeks. She placed a cool compress on his forehead. “Nay, sir,” she said, a light brogue filling her gentle speech. “You’re not yet gone. Merely come to Brightwood Manor, are ye, sir. The mistress of this grand house, Lady Beatrice O’Brien, she be. Why, ’twas she who brought y’ here.”

  “Ah, I see . . .” He nodded, recalling the events leading up to his swoon.

  He glanced around the room. He glimpsed a simple clothes press, washbasin, chair, and the smiling angel. No dark-haired vixen in sight.

  “I should like to thank the lady of the house myself for bringing you to me.” That and it would give me a sporting chance to throttle her, he silently added to himself.

  “Pray tell, where is this paragon of virtue with whom I’ve had the greatest of misfortunes to meet?”

  “Lady Beatrice,” the vision called to a dark shadow standing by the door. “The English gentleman, he be up now, my lady, and he’s asking after you.”

  He watched intently as the lady stepped into the room. She carried in front of her a fresh batch of bandages and a mixture of poultices filled with pungent herbs.

  “Thank you, Sarah, for calling me,” she said observing the man warily, not certain what to think of someone who looked completely at ease lying in a strange bed, half-undressed, as if it were his own.

  With his leg elevated on a pile of pillows, he reminded her too much of a rajah she’d seen once in a picture book, expecting to be waited on hand and foot by his devoted harem. Sun-bronzed skin peeked shamelessly out of his open starched shirt, the hard-earned muscles he’d developed on the Spanish Peninsula rippling with each gesture, added to the illusion.

  Faith, he really was one of the handsomest specimens of manhood she’d clapped eyes upon since the war against Boney started, despite that nasty looking scar he wore. She had to admit, even if he were a bit of a tiresome bore, he was pleasant to look upon.

  Distracting herself from the sight of his almost bare chest, she nervously recited by rote her planned introductions. “Sir, I am Lady Beatrice O’Brien, mistress of this house. And this delicate beauty standing beside me is our healer, Mistress Sarah Duncan. I must add she’s the same witch who had the kindness to sew your leg up for you.”

  Wise Sarah gave a deep curtsy and smiled warmly at him. Her light blue eyes, the same shade as bluebonnets, sparkled down at him in warm welcome.

  “Indeed,” he said looking in astonishment at the lovely vision. She didn’t appear to be someone who’d choose to seek out the more unsavory parts of life, let alone be seen boiling a cauldron of eye of newt under a full moon.

  “Mistress Sarah, you must amuse our patient here sometime with tales of how you manage to stay aloft at night on your broom,” said the lady of the house with a bemused smile. “I must tell you your patient is vastly interested in such witchery and would be delighted to be instructed about your more unusual practices.”

  “Now, Lady Beatrice.” The pretty healer laughed in feigned indignation. For most of her life Wise Sarah had lived under superstitious peasant eyes. She knew the numerous wild tales concerning her adopted mother and herself.

  “I’ve told ye before that we modern day hexes don’t use those uncomfortable conveyances anymore. Why they proved to be far too drafty and terribly dangerous to ourselves. What with one good gust of wind there’s been many a good hex that’s gotten herself lost over the North Sea.” She laughed and winked impishly at the lady of the house, relishing the silliness of her own tale. She and her adopted mother had never touched a broom, let alone tried to make it fly, except to clean their plain plank floor.

  “Nay, dear lady and lord, we modern sorceresses ride about in smart pony carts these days like the rest o’ ye mortals. It being far saner and safer. Though ’tis true, less romantic.”

  The stranger smiled at her quaint explanation, flashing a row of healthy teeth. “But all the same, ma’am, despite your being a witch. Demme, if I’m not grateful for the service you’ve rendered me by tending to my leg.”

  The pretty healer blushed under the handsome English str
anger’s praise. “It was nothing, sir. Truth be told, it was mostly Lady Beatrice here who did the work, putting your leg back into place and binding it tight like she did. Aye, ’tis she you ought to be looking to when giving your thanks.”

  His arctic blue eyes turned themselves upon his nemesis, the lady of the house, or the “vanithee” as he’d heard the servants refer respectfully of her in whispers. She stood proudly erect wrapping her title as lady of the manor about her like a protective cloak. Her bright green eyes the same shade as new leaves, carefully watching and observing his every word and gesture, her body rigid in anticipation to what he would say. It would be quite easy for him to slight her in front of the wise woman if he wished. But he did not.

  “Tell me, is there no master of the house to greet me?” he asked, wondering if the lady was married, intrigued by her apparent aloofness. It was as if she had no one but herself to answer to for bringing home a stranger. Would not someone, her guardian or husband perhaps, wish to speak to him? To assure himself that such an unknown English stranger would not bring harm or scandal to his household? Surely there was someone?

  “Aye, there be one,” the lady answered. “My father, Lord Patrick O’Brien. He is the master here. He’d like to have greeted you in person, but at present himself is suffering sorely from the gout and begs that you excuse him. In his absence, he requests that you accept his daughter’s welcome.” She then gave a short bob, in lieu of a proper deep curtsy of welcome, which was normally the due she gave to guests in her father’s house.

  His eyes narrowed, he’d not missed the slight. “Ah . . . yes.” He nodded with understanding, his voice liquid cool, chilling the peat-heated room. “Considering that it was a member of his household who shot me off my mount that would be the least one could expect him to do. Don’t you agree, my lady?”

  She gasped, stepping towards the ungrateful English dolt. She clenched her hands at her side, ready to give him a proper show of her famous spinster temper. “If ye’d only taken the time to look before ye leaped, we wouldn’t have had to put ye in this bed. And I’d not be saddled with the obliging care of ye!”