by Hazel Hunter
He almost threw away the letter that came from Thomas’s attorney. Yet when he read that the captain had not, in fact, legally disowned him, grief over losing his parents twice had finally made him weep.
As the sole heir of Thomas’s estate, Alistair discovered he was suddenly and enormously wealthy, thanks to his father's bewildering legacy. Throughout his life he could not recall the captain ever once mentioning his family, their wealth or Dredthorne Hall. Wherever his father had left them, Alistair and his mother had lived comfortably but simply in unpretentious houses staffed by only a few servants.
Major Nigel Robbins, his closest friend in the regiment, had come upon him just after the letter arrived. “I say, Alistair, you look dreadful. Have you been eating the native swill again?”
Without a word he'd handed the letter to his friend, whose eyes widened as he read through the pages.
“Good God, man. You are become Croesus.” Nigel set down the letter and dropped into the camp chair beside him. “What will you do now that your late father has enabled you to purchase any middling-size country on the planet?”
“I defied the Captain when I joined the Army, and he never forgave me for it. I daresay he despised me until the day he died, and drowned my mother with him.” Alistair took up the letter, held one corner to his tent lamp until it caught fire, and dropped it in his washing basin to watch it burn. “I want no part of it.”
“I understand your sentiments completely,” Nigel said solemnly. “Will you give it to me, then? I should dearly like the means with which to buy most of England.”
His friend had gotten him to laugh on that dreadful day, and many more after it, Alistair remembered. When Nigel had been killed during an uprising Alistair had ignored his own injuries to carry his friend from the battlefield. He remembered little of what followed; later he was told he collapsed outside the casualty tents, still clutching his dead friend. Alistair spent the next weeks in hospital, barely clinging to life himself. Yet while in time his bodily wounds healed, he discovered that the grisly battle had robbed him of more than the best of friends. Now he suspected his affliction a punishment that, like his guilt, would only end when his life did.
I should have died in Nigel’s place.
Several thumps on the ceiling above Thorne dragged him out of his brooding thoughts. The green guest room lay directly above his study, which meant Miss Starling was the source of the noise. “What the devil is she doing up there? Rearranging the…”
Thorne fell silent as an image of Meredith Starling's face just before she had fallen over in the grass flashed through his mind. Such violent accidents often inflicted multiple injuries, particularly when a body was hurled through the air to the ground.
He had checked her arm thoroughly, but he hadn't once considered that she might have struck her head as well. “Damn me.”
Thorne ran for the stairs.
Meredith lay on the matted, faded green rug that she guessed had once resembled grass. Its aged fibers crunched beneath her slight weight with every move, but it had cushioned her landing, and spared her hurt arm more damage. What stung was the fact that her skirts had tangled around her legs like swaddling, constricting their movement entirely. With only one arm functioning she then discovered she could not rise under her own power.
“I will simply be content to wait here,” she told the old rug with as much cheer as she could summon. “Someone should come along eventually.”
Behind her the door to the room flung open, and a familiar voice uttered a scalding oath.
“Colonel Thorne.” She turned her head and lifted her chin to smile at him. “Might I ask for your help again?”
He knelt beside her. “Did you faint?”
“No, sir. I slipped.” As he eased her over onto her back, she stared up at the ceiling and tried to think of how she might distract him from this new evidence of her ungainliness. “I had not noticed the lovely painting up there. Such pretty clouds. Oh, forgive me, I think those are water marks.”
“I will take your word for it.” Thorne worked his hand beneath her shoulders and carefully raised her to a sitting position. “I should not have left you alone.”
“The fault is mine, Colonel,” she assured him. “I should not have been traipsing about in my condition.”
The colonel’s eyes looked bluer now. Tiny streaks of white in the irises made them seem lighter than they were. It made Meredith wonder if they changed color, as her own sometimes seemed to do. She found herself breathing in his enthralling scent, which made her head spin as wildly as a weather vane in high wind. This was why the young ladies in the village giggled so madly whenever young men came near. No gentleman of her acquaintance had ever come so close to Meredith, but with her reputation doubtless they regarded proximity to her as more of a personal hazard.
“Are you hurt, Miss Starling?”
His sharp inquiry made her realize how shamelessly she had been gawking at him.
“I’m clumsy but unharmed, sir.” She felt the coils of her hair slipping down her nape and grimaced. “Although my hair pins seem to have abandoned me.”
“I should examine your head,” he said, waiting for her nod before he ran his fingers over her head. “When you were thrown from the rig, did you strike it?”
“No, I landed on my side.” She winced as his fingers touched a sore spot at the very back of her skull. “Ouch. Perhaps I am mistaken.”
“Be still.” He moved around her and parted her hair.
As Thorne went about inspecting her head the lamp illuminated his face, revealing the faint shadows beneath his eyes. She’d assumed the set of his features reflected a natural sternness, but now she saw the signs of true weariness. He’d shown no sign of injury or illness, which made her wonder why he looked so tired.
“You have a small lump here,” he said, his breath stirring the fine hairs on her nape.
She suppressed a shiver of reaction. “I did lose my balance fall back against the bed frame, and then pitched forward. I am prone to such inelegant– Oh.”
Thorne ignored her gasp as he picked her up in his arms and carried her over to the bed. “I’ll have the damned rug ripped out and burned.”
His language did not shock Meredith as much as his anger. As he lowered her atop the coverlet, she thought of how she sometimes teased her father out of a dour mood.
“Do you mean to do the same with my shoes and stockings? For then I would have to return barefoot, which would give my mother the hysterics. If the rest does not,” she added as he bent over her.
His expression remained bleak. “I will never tell your mother.” He took off her shoes and dropped them on the floor before he scowled. “What happened here?”
“An unhappy gift from my seventh birthday.” Meredith couldn’t quite straighten that foot, and saw that the old scars showed through a tear in her worn stocking. “I’ve always been somewhat scatter-brained, and stepped into a poacher's trap. I could not free myself, so there I stayed for the afternoon.”
Thorne stroked his thumb over the section of stocking covering the raised marks. “You must have been terrified.”
The way he touched her made Meredith’s toes curl. “At the time I was playing hound and fox with my cousin in the woods. I was the fox. He assumed I’d found an excellent hiding place, but happily in time he found me.”
Thorne straightened. “I will prepare a poultice for your head, and fetch a tray for you. While I am gone you are not to move from this bed, is that understood?”
“I will not twitch an eyelid, Colonel,” she assured him.
A minute after her host departed Meredith promptly broke her promise and sat up. Carefully she felt the lump at the back of her head, and then eyed her reflection in the mottled mirror across from the bed. “Don't look at me like that. I told him what a turnip-head I am.”
The other Meredith glowered back at her in silent agreement.
She closed her eyes and eased back against the pillows. Making a list
of her present regrets would likely take hours, but she couldn’t resist. How could she have been so hapless as to have two accidents in a single morning? Would this appalling weather abate before nightfall? What must Colonel Thorne think of her now? Never had Meredith made such a spectacle of herself. And why in Heaven’s name hadn’t she worn her new stockings today?
You want to stay at Dredthorne, her conscience scolded her. You would happily impose yourself just so you might wallow in his attentions.
A knock sounded, and when she called “Do come in” Thorne entered carrying another, heavily-laden tray.
Meredith regarded the large pot of tea and the heaping platter of sandwiches, cakes and fruit he carried with alarm. “Do you mean to feed a regiment, sir?”
“It is not all for you. We will have our luncheon here.” He placed the tray on the bedside table, and removed from a small bowl a sodden cloth wrapped around some greenery. “My cook made up this poultice. It may smell peculiar, but I can attest to it working wonders on a sore head.”
“Have you slipped on many rugs?” she tried to joke, and then saw how the line of his mouth thinned. “Of course, you haven’t.”
“I became unseated during a battle, and my horse dragged me across a field,” he said as he brought a chair to her bedside. “I struck my head on a stone. After the fighting I had the headache for almost a week, until my cook prepared this for me.”
He didn’t like to talk about India or his time in the army, Meredith realized, and wondered why. Her cousin loved to regale his friends and family with tales of his adventures while traveling abroad with his regiment.
“I am beyond fortunate to be your guest.” She eyed the food on the tray. “Although the poultice may make dining somewhat awkward for me.”
“I have the remedy for that.” Thorne took out of his jacket pocket another length of white silk. “If you will sit up.”
She pushed herself upright, and bent forward to allow him to bind the poultice to her head. As he secured the ends she caught the scent of herbs and something like boiled onion, but the damp warmth immediately eased the throbbing. His nearness, however, once more stirred her insides with excitement.
Control yourself, her conscience ordered in a voice very much like her mother’s. Ladies are calm and composed.
“It does smell odd, but it feels very good,” Meredith said, tucking a fold of the silk behind her ear. “I might wear it on my next visit to the village. Perhaps I may deflect the gossips, and start a new trend in bonnets.”
“Or turbans for my servants.” The colonel filled a plate with food and offered it to her. “I wager I give them the head-ache more often than not. What do your village gossips say about me?”
“You mean, besides those concerning your unwelcoming behavior, which I can now wholly refute?” She couldn’t believe she’d said that, and quickly added, “I apologize. My mother tells me never to repeat such things.”
Thorne gave her a narrow look. “Just as she warned you to avoid my house.”
“I am a dreadful daughter.” Meredith sighed. “Very well. It’s said that you are an unmarried gentleman who is newly returned to England.”
His brows arched. “That’s all?”
“That’s quite enough. There are a great many unmarried girls in the neighborhood, and very few bachelors.” She held up one finger. “Our ladies do not yet know you are handsome. Once that is made common knowledge, then I fear you are in for the worst.”
“I will have my steward install additional bolts on the doors.” Thorne placed over her lap an artfully-carved bed tray, on which he placed a brimming cup of tea, more food and a small pitcher of cream. “I thank you for thinking me handsome, however. Perhaps I should marry you.”
Meredith nearly choked on her tea. “I am very flattered, Colonel, but I believe you should consider a lady more suited to your situation in life.”
“Why should she not be you?” Thorne persisted.
He was laughing at her again, she suspected, so she would respond in kind. “Marriage holds no allure for me. I am a spinster in the making, you see, and quite determined to stay the course.”
“I thought all young ladies, even spinsters in the making, welcomed the prospect of a good match,” he said. “Do you mean to discourage me, or have you some other reason to avoid the altar?”
“I should not wish to trip and cosh my head on it.” That frank admission made him laugh out loud, something Meredith guessed he rarely did. “If you truly seek a wife, then you have but to go out into society.”
Thorne’s amusement abruptly vanished. “I think not.”
She watched him stand and walk over to the window. “You cannot know what you are missing, sir. I did not exaggerate about the wealth of unattached young ladies of good family around Renwick. In fact, we’ve become rather notorious for producing quite so many. At our assemblies there are never enough gentlemen to serve as dancing partners.”
“Then you should import some younger men.” He folded his hands behind him and gazed out into the rain. “I am too old for such frivolities now.”
“I think not.” When he eyed her, Meredith lifted her hands. “Really, Colonel, you are hardly ancient. A man of the world such as yourself would be held in very high regard by our ladies. Of course, they would have to first actually regard you, which they cannot do if you avoid their company.”
“I have little experience in society,” Thorne admitted. “In the Army there is not much opportunity for any of the decent sort. My fellow officers provided companionship, but soldiers are not inclined to play whist or chat about the temperature over tea.”
Meredith sensed his excuses more polite than truthful. But what would make him wish to avoid society all together? Perhaps his military service had done something to make him feel estranged, and that was why he never cared to speak of it.
“We are not always playing cards, and we sometimes do talk about things other than the weather.” She took a sip from her tea cup before she asked, “How long were you away from England?”
“Almost fourteen years. Too long to make myself agreeable to others, I should think.” He glanced at her, and again she saw his weariness. “You would not understand.”
“Before I crashed my rig on your road. I fell down our stairs, was attacked by a wild dog, and nearly set fire to my skirts. That was just this past month. Despite my unhappy luck I still attend assemblies, at which I do not instigate any chaos whatsoever.” She gave him a cheerful smile. “If a walking calamity such as I can brave the punch bowls and card tables, sir, then surely you can.”
Thorne gave her a sharp look. “You consider yourself afflicted with bad luck?”
“Undeniably so. Mr. Branwen, our vicar, says the Lord never troubles us with more burdens than we can carry,” she said, and frowned at her scarred foot. “He must consider me an exceptionally capable porter.”
“You show good humor in the face of adversity,” he chided. “I should follow your example, but I have no acquaintances here who might be persuaded to introduce me.” Thorne hesitated before he said, “Unless you would be willing to do so, Miss Starling.”
Meredith’s heart skipped a beat, until her sensibility squashed it. “For us to appear together would encourage certain false notions.” When his expression didn't change, she said, “People would presume that you and I had formed an attachment. That would also defeat the purpose of such outings.”
Thorne’s mouth hitched. “Of course, we wouldn't want that.”
“I could introduce you to my cousin Percival,” Meredith said, ducking her head as she felt her cheeks going pink. “He’s very fond of me, so he would not mind the acquaintance. He also served in the Army, so I daresay the two of you might become good friends.”
“Just how fond of you is this cousin?” he asked bluntly.
“Oh, no, nothing like that. Percival is like an older brother to me,” she assured him. “In fact, he has saved me more than once from being badly hurt during one of m
y misfortunes.”
“He is the same cousin who rescued you from the poacher's trap?” When she nodded, he came to her side. “Very well, I will meet him. But if I am to inflict myself on Renwick society, I will do so only under one condition: that you also attend the events.”
His stipulation puzzled her. “We do not have so many assemblies here that you could hope to avoid me, sir.”
“Excellent.” Thorne smiled. “I look forward to discussing the quirks of climate over our first game of whist.”
Chapter 3
“Would you care for some tea, Miss Branwen?”
Lucetta looked up from her embroidery to see her sister-in-law Deidre hovering anxiously on the threshold of the parsonage’s sitting room. “Thank you, no, Mrs. Branwen.”
“Why do you speak so formally?” Jeffrey Branwen, the vicar of Renwick came in through the opposite door from his study to regard them both as if they’d sworn out loud. “You share the same surname, ladies. You need not use it in addressing each other.”
“That is the practice of blood kin, or close friends. With all due respect, your wife is neither to me.” Lucetta stabbed her needle into an unworked section within her hoop and rose to her feet. “I will go to my room.”
“You'll do nothing of the sort. Since you arrived we've had barely ten minutes together to talk.” Indignant now, her brother turned to his wife. “We will all have tea, my dear, and perhaps some of those lovely raspberry scones you made for breakfast.”
Deidre Branwen nodded and hurried away toward the kitchen, reminding Lucetta of a chicken escaping the coop.
“I loathe fruit scones and weak tea, Jeffrey.” She wandered over to the window to look at the puddles forming in his deplorable rose garden. “Go and finish writing your sermon. You may attempt again to browbeat me over the boiled beef and potatoes your bride is presently overcooking for dinner.”