Myriah Fire

by Conn, Claudy

  She tried to ply her patient with another spoon, but he waved a hand at her. “Go away!”

  She put the bowl down on the nightstand and propped up his pillows. He eyed her suspiciously. “What are you doing now?”

  “Making you more comfortable so you will finish your gruel.”

  “No,” said her patient.

  “No?” She eyed him warningly. She brought another spoon to his mouth and was surprised when he took it without a fight. “That’s it, Mr. Wimborne … that’s the ticket.”

  “Billy to you … after all, you cannot be shoving that slovenly mush into m’mouth and calling me, Mr. Wimborne!” He smiled broadly. “’Tis ridiculous, and I’ll not call you anything but she-devil.”

  She wedged another spoonful into the poor man’s mouth and grinned. “My name, sir, is Myriah—Myriah White.” She felt a twinge of guilt; she didn’t want to fib to him, but she had to keep up the pretense.

  “Myriah, you know, suits you. You look like a Myriah.”

  She smiled, thinking he was giving her a compliment, and then he threw in, “’Tis but another name for she-devil after all!”

  She laughed and shoved another spoonful into his open mouth. However, that was the last he would take, and he pointed to her tray of food. “What do you have?”

  She sighed and went to her own platter of sirloin and roast potatoes. He watched her pick at her meal and muttered something incoherent. Myriah laughed and brought her platter to the bed, whereupon the two shared the single meal. Each seemed quite pleased with the other, and Myriah left him resting peacefully, promising to return with tea and biscuits later in the day.

  Below stairs, curiosity drew her to an open door just off the central hall, and she entered cautiously to find a well-stocked library. However, what captured her attention was the far wall, which was covered with portraits. They appeared to be family portraits. She lit a candle since the room was shrouded in the darkness of the day. It was drizzling outside, and although the library housed a wonderful panoramic window, there wasn’t much light to be had.

  With the candle sconce in hand she went to the portraits and held it high to have a good look at one in particular of a young lad and a man. Here was William Wimborne and his lordship, and the painting must have been commissioned quite a few years ago.

  Billy looked to be no more than fifteen or sixteen in the portrait, and his lordship looked fascinating and happier than when she had met him. She put a finger to her lips as she studied the painting. His lordship’s honey-colored hair had been very accurately captured … as had been the strong line of his jaw.

  She heard someone behind her and spun around to stare up at Lord Kit Wimborne. The air she had been breathing suddenly burned in her throat. He was devastatingly handsome, and for a moment she felt like an awkward schoolgirl. He wore a riding jacket of dark blue, cream-colored breeches, and high black boots polished to a fine sheen. His honey-colored hair hung to his shoulders in waves of thick silk, and his gray eyes glittered and reminded her that she had been naked under his touch.

  Her cheeks felt warm as she managed to say, “Oh … my lord.”

  He smiled, and as though he had never treated her like a piece of fluff, had never touched her naked skin, he said, “I trust you slept well in your … er … dusty room?”

  “I did … and it is dusty no longer. Spent a bit of time this morning and set it to rights.”

  “Good. Now if you will, Miss …”

  “White, Myriah White,” she offered hastily.

  “Miss White … I have some questions.” He waved her to a brown leather winged chair and took one up opposite after she deposited the candleholder on a nearby table and sat. “I would like to know what you and your groom were doing on the Pike Road at such an hour.”

  “We were on the way to my aunt’s in Dover. We lost our way … rested the horses and ourselves, and again became hopelessly lost. We hadn’t meant to travel so late, you see, and then I noticed a horse near the ditch and after investigating, found your brother, bleeding to death in the ditch.” There, she thought, that should silence him.

  “I see. Then we have imposed on you long enough. Should you need help finding the correct road to Dover, I will be happy to take you there in the morning.”

  “No.” Myriah frowned. She had quite convinced herself that she needed to stay for at least a week, thinking she was already in so much trouble, what was another week? In fact, perhaps her father would be so worried he would no longer be furious, only concerned and happy to have her back safe and sound.

  “No?”

  “What I mean to say … what I have to tell you … well, I suppose only the truth will do. My father wishes me to marry a man I do not love …”

  “I see, and you … cannot like the match?”

  “I do not wish to marry at all, but unfortunately my father discovered us … kissing … and believes that my honor is at stake, which of course it is not. For goodness sake, why should I be forced to marry someone over a kiss? ’Tis nonsense.”

  “And you think to hide from him here? Eventually, you will need to go home.”

  “Yes, but time … often fixes things … don’t you think?”

  “Time can also work against you, my dear.”

  “Please, my lord, just another week?” Myriah pleaded.

  He frowned and then sighed. “I can’t very well throw you out. You have saved my brother’s life and have played nursemaid to him … right then, one week, Miss White.”

  “Thank you,” Myriah said, feeling wicked about keeping her true identity from him while she remained in his home.

  He got up. “I think I’ll visit that scamp brother of mine.” He inclined his head. “Till later then.”

  She watched him go and sighed. It was time to go to the kitchen to visit with Cook and pick up some more information about Lord Wimborne!

  * * *

  The cook greeted her warmly and asked how the young master was. Myriah smiled. “I am sure he will be calling for a man’s dinner this evening. In the meantime, I thought I would fix some tea and biscuits and take it up to him in a bit.”

  “How kind of you, Miss,” Cook said, beaming.

  “Oh … and I have taken a guestroom and polished it up, but I need some fresh linens and another blanket for the bed. I looked everywhere but couldn’t find them.”

  “Lord love ye,” clucked Cook, “that was a job for m’lads, that was. I’ll have them take up what ye need.”

  “Thank you,” Myriah said over her shoulder as she put a kettle on the fire.

  “Wasn’t expecting his lordship back so soon,” Cook said, obvious looking to gossip. She put a stack of sweet tarts on the tray Myriah had set on the table.

  “Yes, Mr. Wimborne was surprised as well—oh, and those look good.”

  “They be young Wimborne’s favorite.”

  “Have you been with them at Wimborne long?” asked Myriah.

  “M’mother was cook at Wimborne before me … ’tis a shame what hard times will do to a place.”

  “And they have fallen onto hard times?” asked Myriah.

  “That they ’ave … we used to have quite a staff running about … then something went wrong jest this past year—just after his lordship come home from fighting the Frenchies in Spain. All but me and my boys were let go.”

  “How dreadful! Those poor people—did they find work?”

  The cook cast her eyes away from Myriah’s face and suddenly busied herself again. “Oh, as to that … they make out all right.”

  Odd, thought Myriah. Why had the woman become suddenly secretive? She took up the tray, marveling to herself at its weight, and made her way to young Wimborne’s room.

  Without knocking at the open door, she sauntered in, placed the heavily laden tray on a stained wood table, and pulled it to the bed. Exclaiming disapprovingly, she made her way to the long window-hangings and opened them. “There, that’s better!” she said, hands on hips. There wasn’t much light fro
m the dismal day, but it was better than total darkness.

  “Oh God, she’s back!” groaned young Wimborne. Myriah said nothing to this but went to his water pitcher, poured some of the cool water into the basin, and brought it to the bed. Dipping a washcloth in the water she moved it over her patient’s face and neck, then left it in his free hand while she brought him a towel.

  “There,” she exclaimed with approval. “Now don’t you feel better?”

  “She-devil, move aside and let me eat!” retorted her patient.

  She laughed, drew up a chair for herself, and placed a tray of delectables on his knees. “Eat, puppy. I am told the strawberry tart is your favorite.”

  “Aye, so it is.” He smiled widely.

  “Sip your tea first,” she said, placing them out of his reach.

  “Fiend!” He snorted but took up the cup and did in fact sip with a sound of pleasure.

  She sipped her own tea and slid his tart to him. Watching him eat with relish, she thought he was well on the mend. When he had finished, she poured him another cup and handed it over, spilling a bit as she did so.

  “Careful, chit!” admonished Mr. Wimborne, grinning.

  “Ungrateful scamp! Be satisfied it was not dropped on your head!”

  “And is that how you treat your benefactor, Billy my lad?” said a male voice from the doorway.

  “Back, Kit? Have some tea and one of those tarts, and aye, ’tis only what she deserves. She is a fiend.”

  “Would you like some tea, my lord? I’ve brought an extra cup,” Myriah said, feeling for no apparent reason a sensation very much like shyness.

  “Thank you, Miss White,” his lordship replied quite formally. Myriah peered at him, wondering if this tall, honey-haired man was indeed the same one who had leaned over her last evening. He seemed so distant and … cold.

  His imposing figure loomed above them as he came over for the teacup. He took up a chair and sat across from her with the small table between them, and Myriah decided to ignore him by sipping her tea.

  “Drink up,” Myriah ordered, returning her attention to Billy, who was staring out the window, his cup in mid-air.

  “Fire-breather … no need for you to order me about—I was just about to,” returned Mr. Wimborne, grinning.

  Lord Wimborne laughed, sat back, and relaxed as he watched the lively exchange between the two. He wondered about Miss White, as she called herself. She looked and behaved every bit the spoiled lady—certainly her clothes had come from none other than Madame Bertin’s Salon.

  Then, too, there was something in her self-assurance—something that spoke of breeding and exposure to a London Season. Yet he had never heard of the White family name. Then there was her story—it seemed odd and, though he believed it, something in her eyes had hinted of falsehoods.

  It annoyed him and hovered about his thoughts like a fretful child. He watched her get up. Instinctively, his eyes meandered slowly over her body, but his eyelids quickly veiled his appreciation of her form. This was one pretty his instincts cautioned him to pass!

  “If you will excuse me, gentlemen, I am sure you two have matters to discuss, and I would dearly love a quick visit to the stables to look in on my Silkie,” Myriah said, brushing a few crumbs into a napkin and leaving it on the table.

  “But it is raining,” his lordship offered with a frown.

  “Ha! As though that could stop the she-devil,” teased Billy, waving her off.

  With her departure Kit relaxed and chuckled as he watched his brother devour another strawberry tart. “Billy, you and Miss White seem to have progressed into an extremely comfortable relationship,” he said, eying him speculatively.

  “Hmmm … she is a top sawyer! Don’t let her bossiness fool you, Kit. She really is grand, you know!”

  “And how came you to this profound conclusion about a young lady you hardly know?” his lordship asked drily.

  “Kit!” Billy protested. “She saved my life! If Myriah had not found me and brought me home, I could have bled to death on the grass … or worse!”

  “Very well, we will allow her that much. She did indeed deliver you into Fletcher’s hands instead of hauling you off to the doctor’s … which would have been the very devil to deal with.”

  “Aye, but, Kit,” objected Billy once again, “she did far more than that! Lord—ain’t Fletcher told you? He told me … fastened some sort of thing … ah, a tourniquet that slowed my blood from spilling out altogether. And what’s more, she never asked how I came by my bullet! Not one question. Nor does she talk around it like some females do trying to get you to slip up and give over …”

  Kit laughed and put up his hands. “That, of course makes her right ’un!”

  “Yes, it does,” Billy said defensively. “She is plucky—for you must know her father has tried to bully her into marrying some chap she didn’t take to. Up she gets and runs away! How many females do you know have the backbone to take such a step?”

  “She told you that, eh?” His lordship was mildly surprised and asked, “And that step meets with your approbation, Billy?”

  “Now, Kit, come down a leg! Lord, it ain’t like you to get some preachy look over your face. ’Tis humbug you be pitching at me, and I want to know why!”

  “Frankly, I don’t wish for you to become involved with a girl of her stamp—” started his lordship.

  A gusty laugh drowned out Kit’s words. “Involved? Egad, Kit … Myriah is a dazzler! Lord don’t know when I’ve clapped eyes on a brighter flower. But she no more wants my name than she wants that fellow’s she is running away from!”

  “But what do you want, my bucko?” Kit asked.

  “I want a fairy queen with china-blue eyes, corn silk hair blowing soft in the breeze … and I want her ten years from now!” Billy grinned.

  Kit smiled and stood up. “All right, lad. I’ll plague you no more—for the time being. Get some rest.”

  “The devil I will!” retorted his brother. “’Tis your turn now, my brother.”

  “My turn, brat?” Kit’s brow went up.

  “Aye, what I want to know is why are you back … now?”

  ~ Four ~

  MYRIAH MARVELED TO HERSELF at how different the land appeared during the daytime. The lawns, though overgrown, were a lush green and with but a little mending would once again be something pure and soft. The drive led to a winding, deeply etched, sea-green dyke. An apple orchard’s rich blossoms filled the blue sky, and Myriah felt strangely content as she strolled along.

  She liked Billy Wimborne. He was open, honest, and didn’t try to flirt her to death … and all these traits were refreshing after her two seasons amongst the sophisticated London beaux!

  Lord Wimborne was a different thing altogether. He was an experienced man—in many ways. She hadn’t made up her mind about him. His gray eyes held secrets, his manner sophistication … and she had no doubt he was something of a ladies’ man. He had been away fighting the French, which was why she had never encountered him at any of the London balls.

  He had shown himself a dangerous libertine last night. He had taken a liberty without caring who she was, why she had been there … and the memory of his touch still thrilled her body.

  He behaved as though it had never happened. He seemed totally disinterested in her, and Myriah was irritated by the fact. Why did she care? Because, she told herself, there was a mystery here she would enjoy unraveling.

  Why had Billy been shot? Why had the Wimbornes fallen on bad times? And if they had, how did his lordship manage to acquire such superbly cut garments? And the stables—some very prime blood horses were housed there!

  Just as these thoughts flitted about her mind, Myriah’s feet felt the reverberation of horses’ hoofs. Without knowing why, her heart skipped nervously, and she turned and made a dash up the drive towards the house, cutting across the lawns and reaching the front doors just as a group of riders in military uniform appeared on the front drive.

  She rushed in
to the house, went to a mirror, and tidied herself—and something deep in the pit of her stomach told her she would have to keep her wits about her.

  A moment later the heavy knocker sounded. Myriah smoothed her blue silk skirt, took a long breath, and moved slowly toward the door, fixing a becoming smile on her face as she did so.

  Myriah opened the door wide and allowed her charm to play about her eyes and mouth, dazzling the young man standing on the portico. He whipped off his tricorn hat and tucked it under his arm.

  Myriah smiled shyly, allowing him to think she was dazzled by his red and blue uniform. The officer cleared his throat and bellowed in an official tone, “Is this the home of Mr. William Wimborne?”

  Myriah smiled prettily, and it would have been a hard man indeed who could doubt the innocence she portrayed. “Why, yes, sir, it is … but pray, who may you be?”

  Once again he cleared his throat and continued in the same tone, trying not to look her over. “I am Corporal John Stone. Is Mr. Wimborne at home, madam?”

  “Why, yes, sir, he is—but let us not stand here! Do come in,” Myriah said disarmingly.

  Before accepting her invitation, the corporal turned to the handsome collection of military minions astride their horses and ordered them to await his return. Myriah closed the door behind him and turned once again to smile.

  The corporal was not proof against her wiles, and with his men out of sight, he allowed himself the luxury of enjoying her friendly smile. “I regret, madam, that I must ask you to have Mr. Wimborne called,” he said, beginning to open a small leather bag that swung from his wrist.

  She regarded this with interest, and as the corporal produced a somewhat damaged man’s dark top hat, clapped her hands with a superb show of grateful animation. “Oh! That is William’s hat! I am so pleased you found it. You can have no notion how disturbed I have been ever since I was so careless as to lose it.”

  Taken aback, the corporal blinked at Myriah. “You … you say … you lost it?” He hesitated a moment and then looked at Myriah intently. “May I ask how it came to be in your possession and who you might be?”