by Anne Herries
For a moment his eyes opened. He looked directly at Samantha, staring anxiously up at her. ‘Rosemarie is safe? Thank you. Thank you, my love.’
Samantha smiled and eased him up from the pillows, holding a cup to his lips and helping him to swallow a little of the cooling drink. It was a mixture of lemons and limes with ice and a few drops of the medicine the local doctor had supplied, and after a while he seemed eased, some of the heat leaving his body.
Samantha did not know whether Brock truly knew who she was, even though for one moment he’d seemed to look straight at her. She had nursed him all through the night, when the fever was at its worst and was just wondering if she should ask Captain Cameron to take her place while she slept for a while when someone knocked at the door.
‘Come in, Captain,’ Samantha called out, but when the door opened a woman of indeterminate age entered and stood looking at her for a moment, before surging forward with her hands outstretched.
‘Mrs Scatterby?’ she said in a light pleasant voice. ‘You are the kind angel who has been looking after my son. How shall I ever thank you?’
‘Lady Brockley?’ Samantha was surprised for at first glance the lady did not look old enough to be Brock’s mother. She must once have been a great beauty and was still very attractive. Her smile came from inside and lit her eyes, and Samantha felt that she must have known her even had she not announced herself, for that was Brock’s smile. ‘He seems a little better now. The fever was raging last night, but he does seem easier now.’
‘And you’ve been up with him all night? Yes, of course you have, and you must be so very tired, my dear. You will please go and get some sleep now, and leave me to care for him.’
‘Yes, very well,’ Samantha agreed. ‘I’ve just given him a few drops of the doctor’s fever mixture in lime and lemon, for he does not like it on its own and tries to spit it out.’
‘Harry was always a bad patient, even as a little boy,’ his mother said with a smile and a shake of the head. ‘I suppose the remedy is given no more than every four hours?’
‘Yes, that was the doctor’s recommendation.’
‘Very well. Please do go and rest, my dear Mrs Scatterby. You may return to see how he is when you have slept for a time.’
‘Yes, of course, thank you,’ Samantha said, and left the room quietly after a fleeting look at Brock’s face. He did seem better and she knew that he would be safe with his mother’s care, yet she could not help feeling as if she had been dismissed. Lady Brockley had been grateful and pleasant, but it was clear that she considered herself in charge of her son’s sickroom.
Going down the hall to her own room, Samantha closed her door and leaned against it, fighting the foolish tears that stung her eyes. She wasn’t sure whether it was tiredness, relief that Brock was easier and probably on the way to recovery, or the feeling that she was no longer needed that made her feel so empty.
Oh, bother! She was just being foolish. Brock’s mother would naturally wish to care for her son when he had been badly wounded and she would expect to take precedence over a mere colonel’s lady, who had no claim on him. No claim whatsoever, Samantha reminded herself.
Yes, he’d kissed her passionately in London before leaving to attempt Rosemarie’s rescue; he’d spoken a few heated words that made nothing clear and left much to be desired. Perhaps she’d read too much into them, imagined that he meant more than he truly did. It was all so unsettled in her mind.
Samantha’s heart told her that Brock loved her. He’d called her ‘my love’ when she had soothed his fears concerning Rosemarie, but she wasn’t sure he even knew who he was speaking to. Perhaps in his fever he’d thought he was speaking to Cynthia. They had broken off their engagement, but Brock might still be in love with her.
Was Samantha a fool to believe that he’d regretted it—that he might feel something for her? And if he did have feelings towards Samantha, how could she know whether he meant love and marriage or just a pleasant liaison such as he might have with other ladies in her situation?
Not bothering to undress, Samantha lay down on the bed and closed her eyes. She was very tired and it was too difficult to think properly for the moment. All that really mattered was that Brock was recovering and being taken care of.
With that thought in her mind, Samantha drifted into sleep that was restful and filled with pleasant dreams, which she did not recall when she woke.
* * *
‘Sam, my love.’ Brock woke from a pleasant dream of holding the woman he cared for in his arms and found himself staring into the face of a lady he knew well, but had not expected to see. ‘Mama? What on earth are you doing here?’
He pushed himself up against the pillows, wincing as he felt the soreness in his arm. ‘That butcher, it hurts like hell.’
‘I believe the wound was festering, he had to find the cause,’ Lady Brockley said. ‘I brought some laudanum with me, dearest. Would you like some to ease the pain?’
‘No, thank you. I hate the stuff. I wouldn’t mind some brandy.’
‘I am sure that would be very bad for you. Doctor Morris would strongly advise against it.’
‘To hell with Dr Morris,’ Brock muttered. ‘Where is Sam? I was sure she was with me when I was in the fever. I saw her, felt her touch—heard her voice soothing me.’
‘I sent her to have a rest,’ his mother replied with a small frown. ‘She was very tired, dearest. After all, you cannot expect her to bear the brunt of your nursing. Why should she, after all? She is just an acquaintance—isn’t she?’
‘Mother!’ Brock felt a spurt of annoyance. ‘I haven’t had a chance to speak to Sam yet, but I told Father my hopes and you were there. I believe that Samantha Scatterby is the woman I wish to share my life with. It is my intention to ask her as soon as I am up and about again.’
‘Well, that is for the future,’ Lady Brockley said. ‘It won’t quite do for her to nurse you now that you are no longer in a fever, dearest. I know she has been married—but she is widowed, a single lady in all but title.’
‘Sam isn’t a mere acquaintance. I want you to treat her decently, Mother, as you would any other lady I had intentions towards.’
‘I wouldn’t dream of being anything other than polite to her. I am most grateful for all she did and I told her so. I just feel that now I am here, it would be better if I took charge.’
‘No, dearest Mama, it would not,’ Brock said in a gentle but firm voice. ‘I do not want Sam to feel that she is no longer necessary, because she is. I need her and I would like to see her, as soon as she is ready to visit me.’
‘Yes, of course, dearest,’ his mother said blithely. ‘You never did like being a patient, did you? Indeed, patient is quite the wrong word for you, Brock. Mrs Scatterby will no doubt visit you when she is ready. I do not think I could stop her even if I tried, which I have no intention of doing.’
‘Sam must rest, of course she must,’ he said, a slight note of irritation in his tone. ‘I should like something to eat, if you please, Mama—and a brandy.’
‘Very well, dearest. I will request the chambermaid to carry a tray up at once.’ She moved gracefully towards the door, stopped and looked back over her shoulder. ‘Your father has sent the carriage, Brock. As soon as you feel up to it, I think we should take you home and then our own doctor can look at the wound.’
‘I am perfectly willing to go home,’ Brock agreed. ‘Providing that you invite Sam to stay with us.’
‘Yes, of course, my love.’ Lady Brockley smiled sweetly. ‘Naturally, I should do so. Any friend of yours is welcome to stay.’
Brock swore under his breath as his mother walked gracefully from the room. Had there been anything he might throw at the door as it closed, he might have done so, but fortunately he could not move his arm to reach the jug of lemon that stood on the chest beside the be
d. It was a confounded nuisance, because he knew from experience that it would take weeks of rest and exercise to make his arm strong again. He should have shot that rogue before he got anywhere near with that sword—it was his ridiculous sense of honour again. Had he shot first the man would no longer be a danger to anyone, particularly Samantha.
If his mother said anything to upset Sam... He felt near desperation at being tied to his bed and too weak to get up. He’d lost too much blood. Barchester had come close to closing his account—an inch or two lower and Brock would have been done for.
He wished Carstairs and Harris had managed to finish the rogue off. Unless Barchester was safely out of the way, neither Samantha nor he would be safe. Samantha must not be allowed to return to London until he was up and fit, and ready to go with her to protect her.
Would she trust him to care for her for the rest of her life? Brock fretted because he knew that he had not given Samantha the attention she deserved. His concern had all been for Rosemarie, a girl he hardly knew, but had felt compelled to help.
Samantha was the lady he’d loved for a long time, though he’d banked down his passion and hidden all sign of it both from her and from everyone else. She had been his colonel’s lady and honour demanded that he gave no sign of his feelings for her. How could a mere subaltern expect a lady as lovely and special as Samantha to look at him? And then, when her husband lay close to death, terribly wounded, Brock had almost betrayed them all. He’d held her in his arms and his own need had swept away all else so that he’d spoken words of love as his lips caressed her hair...
The look of revulsion in Samantha’s eyes when she broke from his embrace had struck him to the heart, reproaching him for trying to dishonour her. She could not have despised him more than Brock despised himself. He had behaved abominably! Kissing her, declaring his passion when her husband lay wounded...
He would not have sought her out at her home if it had not been for Rosemarie. Brock had long ago given up all hope of marrying for love, because he believed that his kisses and endearments had given Samantha a dislike of him...but since that night, when she had been there after he was attacked on the streets of London and he’d seen a certain look in his eyes, Brock’s feeling that she did not dislike him, indeed, might return his love, had grown.
His mother seemed to imagine that Samantha was just an acquaintance, might even disapprove since Sam was a widow of no particular fortune. He supposed that the proposed marriage to Miss Langton would have suited his parents better, for she was an heiress and her parents of some consequence in society, but it had never been more than a rash gesture for Brock.
Somehow, his mother must be brought to understand that Brock had discovered that there was only one choice for him. There was only one woman who could make him happy.
Since Barchester was still free, Brock would make sure that the woman he loved was being protected wherever she went until he knew for certain that the Marquis was finished, unable to harm her—or Rosemarie again. And the best way to do that was to make certain she was where he could watch over her himself.
* * *
Feeling refreshed after several hours of sleep, Samantha rose and removed her clothing. She washed in the water a thoughtful chambermaid had brought up for her and then dressed in a clean gown. Her thoughts were clearer now that she had slept and she decided that once she knew Brock was quite over his fever she would go home. It was obvious that his mother did not think her suitable to nurse him and so perhaps she should wait in London for Brock to come to her.
However, she could not leave until she was certain he was well again and so she walked with quick, swift steps towards the room where Brock lay and knocked at his door. His voice answered her, strong and commanding.
‘Come in, please.’
Entering, Sam stood a little uncertainly just inside the room. Brock had been shaved and was wearing a clean shirt, though his right arm had not been coaxed into a sleeve, and the shirt only covered his shoulders and part of his chest.
‘I came to make sure you were better before I return to London,’ she said, because a manservant was standing by the bed.
‘Samantha, please come in.’ Brock smiled at her in welcome. ‘Chalmers, you may go, thank you. I feel better for a shave.’
‘Of course, sir. I shall return later to assist you again.’
The manservant nodded to her and walked from the room. Samantha walked towards the bed, smiling in her relief. Brock was free of fever and in command of his senses once more. For a while she had wondered whether he might not recover and she was filled with joy as she saw the old sparkle in his eyes.
‘How are you, Brock? I fear you were in a lot of pain last night?’
‘It is easier now. Chalmers changed the dressings and gave me a drop of brandy. I shall do. But what of you? Mama said you were tired. I fear the brunt of my illness fell on you for it is several days since the surgeon did his dastardly best.’
‘I am perfectly well,’ she assured him, smiling and moving closer. ‘I have nursed far worse patients, Brock. I am so glad to see you improving. Now that you have your mama and manservant, I shall make arrangements to return to town.’
‘No! Please do not desert me, Sam. I need you.’ Brock held out his hand to her, his smile making her heart beat wildly. ‘If you go, Mama will smother me. She still thinks I am her little boy, you know. We are to go home tomorrow if I continue to improve—and I would like you to come with us, please. I do not need a nurse, that is true, but I do need my dearest friend—the lady I hope will become so much more.’
‘Brock?’ Samantha’s breath caught in her throat. ‘Are you sure? I mean, please do not think you owe me anything. What I have done I would have done for anyone I counted my friend.’
‘Come here, take my hand,’ he commanded, looking up at her with laughter in his eyes. ‘Am I the kind of man who would ask a lady to marry him for such a reason?’
‘Yes,’ she said and laughed. ‘You are chivalrous to a fault, my dear Brock. You know you are. I think it would not be the first time?’ She tipped her head to one side, challenging him to deny it.
‘Well, I must admit I did ask Cynthia to save her reputation, but thank God we both saw sense in the end.’ Brock’s eyes danced with amusement. ‘Please, do not hold that piece of foolishness against me, Sam. I should never have thought of her or any other lady if I’d believed you might have me. You surely must know that I have admired you for some years—since I first saw you, in fact.’
‘Have you truly?’
‘Yes. I saw you first at a ball and thought you the loveliest of women, but when I enquired about you they told me you were Mrs Scatterby and that meant I could never speak of my love. You were married to a man for whom I had the utmost respect, Sam.’
‘You didn’t ask me or court me after Percy died,’ Samantha said slowly. ‘Why, Brock? Most of your friends visited me and at least six of them asked me to marry them—but from you there was nothing.’
‘You know why?’ The laughter had died now. ‘When Scatterby was so ill you were crying. You looked so desperately unhappy and I wanted to comfort you. I took you in my arms and then I couldn’t help myself. I wanted you so very much, loved you, wanted to comfort you—and I said things, kissed you, at such a time! It was no wonder you looked at me with such revulsion. I thought you must hate me?’
‘No.’ Tears stung her eyes as she shook her head. ‘It was my own reaction to your embrace that revolted me, Brock. When you held me something in me responded so desperately. I wanted to be kissed and held. I wanted more, I wanted everything and I was ashamed. Percy was such a good and loving husband, but he was older. He knew that he could never give me the love and fulfilment that a younger man could, but I hated myself for having those feelings when he was so very ill, close to dying.’
‘Oh, Sam, my darling,’ Brock said, his h
and seizing hers and holding it so tightly that she almost winced. ‘I adore you, love you, and want you so very much. I’d planned to court you as soon as I had time, but there was always something in the way. My promise to Cynthia Langton and then Rosemarie’s troubles all got in the way. I wanted to take you out, to bring you flowers and make you happy. It’s wretched of me to ask you when I’m lying here like this—and yet I must. Please, my darling, will you do me the honour of becoming my wife?’
Samantha smiled mistily through her tears as she bent to kiss him on the lips. ‘Yes, my dearest love, I shall marry you, just as soon as you can walk down the aisle with me, unless, of course, you prefer a civil wedding in town?’
‘No, I should not. You will return to my father’s house with me and Mama, and we shall arrange the wedding from there. My mother would never forgive me if she were denied such an opportunity—and I do want you to like my family, Sam, even if Mama is a bit stuffy at times.’
‘Oh, Brock,’ she said, and laughed. ‘It doesn’t matter. I shall love her if she will allow me, as I love you. I want nothing more than to be your wife and travel with you to wherever you wish to go.’
‘You won’t mind if we end up in some far-flung place?’ he demanded as he held onto her hand.
‘I would live in a mud hut on a river in Africa if I could be with you,’ she said. ‘How could you doubt it?’
‘I didn’t,’ he said simply. ‘I just wasn’t sure if you loved me, but now I am the happiest man in the world.’
Chapter Eighteen
The Brockley estate was a large one—even after they had driven through the gateway proclaiming it they still had to travel some twenty minutes or so before they arrived at the front of the house. It was large and quite old with lots of long windows that sparkled in the sun, a wing at each end at right angles to the main house and possibly built at a later period. A new portico of gleaming white marble columns had been added no more than fifty years earlier, making it an imposing residence.