by Karen Ranney
Evidently she was not through with being ill, and how perceptive of him to recognize it.
Lorenzo bathed her face a few moments later. The cool cloth felt wonderful against her skin. What a gentle touch he had. She could imagine all his patients in Italy missed him desperately. When he would have raised her to a sitting position, however, she protested weakly.
“Come,” he coaxed. “Rinse your mouth at least.”
She did so, and when he offered her some wine, she took a sip from the cup he pressed to her lips. She managed to swallow a little of the bitter liquid. Perhaps now he’d leave her alone.
“Is your stomach settling?”
“Not really,” she said, when she lay back again. She reached out, grabbed her pillow, and pressed it to her midriff. He covered her first with a sheet and then the blanket before removing the bowl.
“How long?” she asked. Two words seemed to be the limit of her ability to speak.
“Until you feel better? With each person, it differs.” He shrugged. “A day, perhaps. Maybe two. For now you should not worry how much time it takes, and simply rest. Your body has been through much and must recover.”
“What happened?”
“I think I should let Grant tell you,” he said.
She would have nodded, but suddenly the effort to do so seemed monumental. Had he put something in the wine? Before she could ask him, she drifted off to sleep.
It didn’t matter that he was the 10th Earl of Straithern. If anyone found him here, Grant would be hard-pressed to explain his presence or the fact that he was packing a valise for a woman who was, as the world would see it, a stranger.
The very fact that he’d entered her room would be seen as shocking, let alone his actions of the past five minutes. He’d already carefully folded her four dresses and was now picking her chemises and stockings from the drawer in the bottom of the armoire. He really should have called in one of the maids to do this, but he didn’t want to alert anyone at Rosemoor to what was happening at the palace.
The sad fact was, besides Lorenzo, he didn’t know exactly whom he could trust. Therefore, it was better to trust no one at all.
He lifted the last of her belongings from the armoire. He’d never before invaded a woman’s domain, never packed a woman’s possessions while wondering at the history of them. Did she wear this when she met Robert? Had Robert ever seen this chemise? Had she owned this as the daughter of a prosperous Edinburgh merchant?
She’d gone from being, if not a cosseted daughter, then certainly a privileged one, to being a servant. That, alone, wasn’t enough to anger him. Gillian wasn’t the type of person to inspire pity. He felt admiration, perhaps, for her strength, and empathy for her grief. But her wardrobe made him pause, and think of what the last two years must have been like for her.
Her nightgowns were worn, the embroidery at the yoke faded from so many washings. The hem at the cuffs was frayed and had been carefully mended with small, telling little stitches.
His mother’s clothing could barely be housed in one room, yet Gillian’s belongings were easily packed into half a valise.
That errand done, he left her room quietly, so as not to alert Arabella in the adjoining room. He didn’t know what he would say to her.
“What is this about your stealing one of Cook’s helpers, Grant? And where do you think you’re going with that valise?” His mother moved out into the hall, planted her fists on her ample hips, and glared at him. “Do not frown at me, son, I am your mother despite your age or your rank. I do expect an answer from you, Grant.”
“Are you certain you’re ready to hear it?”
She looked a little less irritated, but she stood her ground.
“Very well, Mother,” he said, halting directly in front of her. “I am moving to the palace.”
His mother paled, and he could well understand why. She’d avoided the structure ever since his father’s death.
“It will not be for long,” he said. “Just until I ascertain exactly who wants me dead, and who’s responsible for James’s and Andrew’s death.”
She took a step backward as if to refute everything he had just said. “What do you mean?”
“Someone tried to poison me, Mother, and they nearly succeeded with Miss Cameron. They did succeed with my brothers.”
Her trembling hand hesitated at her throat. “You cannot mean—” Her words abruptly stopped, and her expression softened for a moment before her face firmed. “I cannot believe you, Grant. These are wild tales, and such things do not happen. James and Andrew died of a blood disease.”
“Talk to Dr. Fenton. Better yet, speak to Lorenzo.”
He brushed past her.
“Who would do this, Grant? If this is true, who want my sons dead?”
He didn’t respond. There were no answers he could give her.
“Is she with you? Miss Cameron? Is she with you?”
He didn’t halt, didn’t turn.
“Have you no care for this family’s reputation?”
He stopped at that.
“Have all my efforts in the past twenty years been for nothing, Grant? Will you join your father in trying to destroy this family?”
He turned slowly, walking back to her in measured steps.
“Do you care more for reputation than life, Mother? Are James and Andrew your beloved sons now simply because they’re dead? They can’t be loud or troublesome. You’ll never get another letter from school about James, and Andrew will never concern you with his choice of bed partners. They’ll never spend money lavishly, and they’ll never bring their friends home, and they’ll never embarrass you again.”
“How can you say such a thing? I mourn them every day.”
“Do you? Or are you simply thankful that they had the good manners to die in a discreet and genteel way? I would prefer to have them alive, Mother, boisterous, and rude, and scandalous.”
“Do you hate me so much that you would say such things?”
“I think you choose martyrdom over life, Mother, and for that, I pity you. I think the living frighten you. Why else would you hole yourself up at Rosemoor as if it’s a mausoleum?”
“Guilt.”
Startled, he could only stare at his mother.
“Guilt, my dear son, and I have no intention of explaining that to you. Think what you will, Grant, and do what you will. I cannot alter your course.”
She turned and began to walk in the direction of her chamber, leaving Grant to suddenly wonder what she was hiding.
Chapter 22
When Gillian woke again, her first thought was that she was being punished not only for loving Grant, but for bedding him. Her second thought was that she was grateful Grant wasn’t in the room, this observation being made after lifting her head and recognizing the room as Grant’s bedchamber in the palace.
How long had she been here?
“Ah, now you are feeling better,” Lorenzo said. He smiled, approaching her with a tray in his hands.
She sat up gingerly, surprised she didn’t feel worse. But before she could wave away the food he brought her, she realized it wasn’t breakfast on the tray, but a treasure trove of items any woman would adore: a silver-backed mirror and brush, a long comb with wide teeth, the better to disentangle one’s hair. A toothbrush, basin, and a small ewer of water sat next to a jar of something called Lady Pomeroy’s Mouth Treatment.
“I think you are the most wonderful soul on the face of the earth,” she said, sitting up fully. “Whatever made you think of all these things?”
“I am married, little one. A man who loves a woman will tell you that a woman’s mood matches how she looks. Or how she believes she looks. You see, I have seen many beautiful women who do not believe they’re beautiful. I have seen women who are, how you might say, plain. But they think they are beautiful, and so they act as if they are the loveliest creatures in all the world.”
She sat back against the pillows and regarded Lorenzo with more favor than sh
e had before. “I suspect you’re very wise in the ways of women. Does it come from a great deal of experience?”
“I confess that I have a great appreciation of women. I do not act upon it, however. I have a beautiful woman of my own at home.”
She would have asked more questions of Lorenzo, specifically what had happened to her, and how long she’d been ill, but he bowed and disappeared, leaving her alone in the bedroom.
How very strange that she could remember nothing beyond yesterday afternoon. Or was it even yesterday? She had come to the palace, to watch the experiment with the marsh gas. Something she probably shouldn’t have done at all. But she’d wanted to, and it seemed more and more difficult to disobey her inclinations where Grant was concerned.
They had loved; she couldn’t forget that.
She arranged the pillows, taking longer at the task than it required, before subsiding against the heavily carved headboard. Slowly she began to comb her hair free of tangles. Why had she gone to bed without braiding her hair? Had she fallen ill? If so, why was she not being treated by Dr. Fenton or Arabella?
The questions would not cease, but she had no way to ascertain the answers.
She laid the comb down, feeling almost too weak to continue with her chore. She disliked being ill. On the whole, she’d been healthy most of her life. True, there were colds and an occasional fever, but she’d never felt as she did right at this moment, as if the strength had been leached from her.
She laid her head back against the pillows, closing her eyes and allowing herself to drift off into a light doze. She was roused some moments later by the sound of a door closing, and then a low voice she recognized only too well. She opened her eyes and gripped the comb almost like a weapon, wishing she had the strength to finish combing her hair. She must look like a disheveled horror. But the task seemed beyond her, and even a smile was a chore.
When Grant entered the room, she pushed aside the thought that her heartbeat escalated, and she somehow felt a little better.
“It is not entirely proper for you to be here,” she said. Her voice was low, but there was determination in her glance. Still, he took another step toward her, only stopping when she held up her hand.
He smiled. “We haven’t been very proper together, Gillian.”
“Yet you are the very one who warned me of your nature,” she said, plucking at the sheet. “Are you not given to an excess of propriety?”
“Did you find me excessively proper yesterday?”
He didn’t back off, or turn and leave the room. Instead he came and sat on the edge of the bed as if he were a predatory animal and somehow knew how weak she was, almost injured by emotion. His smile, however, bore not one hint of triumph. Instead it seemed to be an almost confused expression, as if he were experiencing the same paradoxical thoughts as she. Go away. Come closer.
She wasn’t to fall in love. She had not planned on it. In fact, she had given herself numerous strict lectures, especially upon arriving at Rosemoor. She didn’t want to experience this feeling deep inside her stomach as if she were weightless, as if she had run quite a distance and could not quite catch her breath. Or as if there were a yearning inside for something she couldn’t quite name.
She closed her eyes and shook her head, and she could feel him lean closer. When he spoke her name in that quiet voice, barely above a whisper, she shook her head again.
“Gillian,” he said once more.
Suddenly she wanted to be honest with him, expose every single one of her thoughts, reveal every emotion, allowing herself to be vulnerable in front of him. But to do so would be to also expose the nature of her need, the depth of her potential despair. How very foolish she was to ignore the past. Yet for the first time she felt that she might be safe enough to be weak, to surrender for just a little while. She needn’t be so careful of herself.
But caution held her mute and restraint came to her pride’s defense. What would she do if he repudiated her? What if he was kind? What if he was understanding, but distant?
I love you, Grant. She could almost hear the words she might speak to him. What if he nodded and smiled perfunctorily? What if he patted her hand with an absent gesture, avuncular in his cruelty? What would she do? How could she bear the pain?
Perhaps it was best not to know his reaction. She would remain in blissful ignorance, an inhabitant of this strange and coddled world.
It was her own fault, after all. She had ignored all the warnings.
“How are you feeling?”
“Like someone beat me from the inside out,” she said, and then wondered if she should have been more delicate in her response.
His smile faded. “I expect you will, for a few days at least,” Grant said.
When he reached for her hand, she simply let him take it and cradle it between both of his.
“What happened?” She might have frowned at him if she had the energy, but as it was she simply pointed her comb in his direction.
“Do you remember eating my lunch?”
She shook her head, and then decided that was not wise since it made her unaccountably dizzy.
“No,” she said. “The last thing I remember is the morning.” She felt herself warm.
“The marsh?”
His smile was back.
She did frown at him now. “No,” she admitted. “Later.”
“When we made love.”
She looked away, toward the fireplace. How intricate the carved mantel was, and how strange that she hadn’t noticed it before now.
“I’m grateful you didn’t lose that memory,” he said softly.
How could she?
“I became ill after eating your lunch,” she said, determined to get him back to the subject at hand. “Was it soured milk or tainted meat?”
“No,” he said shaking his head. “I suspect it was deliberate, Gillian, just as I’m afraid that you were an unwitting victim.”
She let her head fall back against the pillow. She knew she was still recuperating, but surely she should be able to reason with more clarity. “Are you saying I was poisoned?” she asked. “And that it was meant for you?”
“Yes.”
She met his gaze. “I hope you’re wrong,” she said.
“I’m not. Even Lorenzo concurs.”
“Dear God,” she whispered.
“I’m keeping you here until you’ve recovered, or until I’ve determined who is behind this.”
“You can’t,” she said. If she felt stronger, she would have countered his announcement with more vigor. As it was, she was grateful to have the strength to speak.
He stood and walked away, hesitating at the door.
“I’m the Earl of Straithern. I can do anything I damn well please at Rosemoor. And do not, I beg you, implore me to think of your reputation. What good is unsullied honor when you’re dead?”
“So you’re going to keep me here for my own good, and let the world go fiddle?”
He leaned up against the doorjamb and folded his arms. The perfect posture for an earl, an aristocrat. Yet he didn’t seem so much an earl at the moment, as much as he was simply Grant.
“Exactly.”
“I’m your prisoner, then?” she asked incredulously.
“If you choose to think of it that way,” he said, his voice low. “I choose to think of it as keeping you safe.”
He took a step toward her, and then hesitated. “I’ll send someone to be with you if that would make you more comfortable. Agnes? If not her, are there any of the other young girls at Rosemoor you’d choose? I’ll have a footman stationed outside your door, if you like. And one in the corridor.”
“Everyone knows I’m here, don’t they?”
“Arabella and Dr. Fenton are both aware. I’m certain the entire staff at Rosemoor knows by now.”
“And your mother?”
“Yes,” he said.
“So, regardless of what is done from this point forward, the damage has already been done.” The da
mage was done the moment she agreed to come back to his laboratory, but she didn’t bother to make that comment.
“This is Rosemoor. I will not allow anyone to say a word about you, Gillian.” As autocratic a statement as she had ever heard from him.
“You cannot rule the world, Grant,” she said softly, the enormity of her dilemma occurring to her. “However much you wish to, you cannot change people’s opinions, and even if they say nothing at all, they will think it. A dozen duennas would be a good thing, and perhaps a witness or two that we did nothing wrong, nothing scandalous.”
She met his gaze. “But we can’t do that, can we?”
“Do you regret it?”
Perhaps she would have been a better person if she could have said she did. No, there was something in her own nature that called out to her to push away the restrictions of the past two years, to become as emboldened as she felt deep inside. Perhaps she was too like the girl she’d been in Edinburgh, the one who’d fallen in love with Robert deeply enough to push aside all the tenets of her upbringing. Perhaps she hadn’t learned anything after all.
If she were truly wise, she would seek the countess’s influence in securing another position. Perhaps she would even go back to her parents’ home, and beg admittance, or room and board in exchange for caring for the little ones. How very odd that none of those opportunities seemed preferable to this moment, staring at the Earl of Straithern and wondering at her wantonness.
How very strange and how very wrong of her.
For most of her life, she’d been sheltered from the privations she might have experienced had her father not been so wealthy or loving. But in the last two years, she’d known hardship and grief. She’d looked around her and seen what other people perhaps had always known, that life was not necessarily pristine or kind. Simply living could be brutal, and joy should be cherished when it was found.
And passion? Passion should be treasured as well because it didn’t often exist. Passion was like a sunbeam on a cloudy day or a shooting star across the heavens. Passion was one of those emotions that should be held tight to the heart and cherished.