The Offer

by Catherine Coulter

  He awoke the next morning sweating and stiff. He nearly groaned aloud at the cramp in his shoulder. Then he felt like giving a shout of sheer pleasure when he realized Sabrina was also sweating. Her fever had broken. “Sweat all you like, sweetheart,” he said, kissing her temple. He gently eased himself away from her and out of the bed. She immediately rolled into a small ball, her sleep unbroken. He stood quietly, listening to her quiet, deep breathing.

  “This time I’ve won,” he said aloud to the silent room. He stood a moment longer, watching the rise and fall of her breasts, listening to her breathing. He felt happier at that moment than he had in many a long month. Actually he hadn’t been this happy since Rohan and Susannah had visited Dinwitty Manor and they’d figured out the clues to the treasure. Yes, he was immensely pleased with himself.

  The room was cold. He built up the fire, always one eye on her to see that she still breathed, to see that she still sweated.

  While she slept, Viscount Derencourt heated water to wash his clothes in the kitchen. First though, he bathed himself, sighing at the feel of being clean again. He eyed the pile of dirty clothes, but knew there was no hope for it. Without a second thought, he dumped the clothes into the water and washed them as best he could. He grinned, picturing Dambler’s face were he to see his master scrubbing his fine white lawn shirt in a rather dirty tub of water in front of a kitchen fire.

  He hung his clothes to dry over the backs of chairs that sat around the big block wooden table in the kitchen. He dressed himself in his only remaining clean shirt and britches and went back upstairs to check on his patient.

  She still slept, curled up on her side away from him. Her brow was cool, but her dressing gown was damp with sweat. Damnation, he hadn’t thought to check. He stripped her, hoping she wouldn’t awaken. Because he was a man, because he simply couldn’t help himself, he looked at her, tried to touch her as little as possible because he wasn’t completely lost to good sense, and gritted his teeth. But she was lovely, particularly since there was a flush on her cheeks.

  The hair on her woman’s mound was just a bit darker than the hair on her head. He wanted to touch her, touch her woman’s flesh. He shouldn’t be thinking such thoughts. Very well, he’d think about nonsexual parts of her. Her hands were very white, her fingers long. He imagined she played the pianoforte. There, that wasn’t badly done of him. Not to mention her breasts that were actually very nice and—no, that wasn’t well done of him either. He stared at her feet. Nice feet, arched, probably quite useful, as good feet went.

  Then he laughed at himself, he couldn’t help it. “Sorry, sweetheart,” he said. “I’m trying to do the best I can. Please forgive me when I fall into these lapses.”

  She moaned softly in her sleep, which was no answer, and made him think about sex.

  Phillip straightened the man’s white shirt over her, smoothing it down. It came halfway down her thighs, surely modest enough. He supposed he’d have to wash the two dressing gowns. No, he didn’t think velvet could be washed. He looked down at her quiet face. He knew that face now; it was precious to him. It was odd, but it was true. He had no idea if she was a shrew, a devious liar, a saint. When they’d spoken, she’d seemed well enough, witty even, her voice soft and cultured, but he knew from long experience that she could just as easily be another virago like Elaine. Elaine. He hadn’t thought about her in a very long time. In fact, the only time he ever thought about her was when he came face-to-face with her at a gathering in London. He rather hoped she was miserable, she deserved to be.

  She still slept. Food, he thought, it was time to make something. He made bread. The two loaves of something that could pass for bread, maybe, he eased from the old iron oven. He swelled with pride. It didn’t matter that they were flat and burned on the corners. It didn’t matter that any sort of bread wasn’t supposed to have corners. It was edible and he had made it. He was a fine human being. He could survive. No, it didn’t matter a bit that the two loaves reminded him of the gray quarry stones his workers hauled from the sandstone pit near Dinwitty Manor to repair the ancient Elizabethan watchtower wall. They would use the same quarry stone when he finally managed to get started on his new crenellated tower that he’d spent most of the past summer designing. However, he still hadn’t gotten it built, or even started it, probably because he’d been so shaken up by what had happened in Scotland with Rohan and Susannah Carrington. No, he wouldn’t think about that bizarre experience. He allowed himself to remember all of it only late at night when he was alone, drinking brandy in his own library, staring into his own fire, seeing things no man should even imagine.

  He broke off a burned corner. It didn’t taste wonderful. On the other hand, he wasn’t starving, and he knew from experience that starving indeed made a difference. His mouth was still spoiled from memories of food Cook made him at Dinwitty Manor. It didn’t matter. It was nourishing and it could be eaten, if one was desperate enough, and surely both he and Sabrina were desperate enough.

  She was still asleep. He wasn’t worried, no, sleep was the best thing for her. He carefully wrapped his two loaves of bread in coarse cloths he found stacked on a shelf in the kitchen. Then he shrugged on his greatcoat and went to the stable to see to Tasha. The moment he stepped outside, the howling wind whipped against him, sending snow in his face. But the blizzard couldn’t last for much longer, no storms in England ever did. He looked toward the path that wound its way to the front of the house, a white ribbon. No one would be coming for a while yet, not for at least several more days.

  Tasha whinnied when he stepped into the stable. He rubbed her nose, laughed when she butted into his chest. “Yes, I know you’re bloody bored, but there’s no hope for it. Just a few more days, then you can gallop your way out of here.” He looked down at the nearly empty bin of oats. “Actually, in another couple of days, you’re going to be too fat to do anything except groan.”

  Phillip refilled the bin with hay, scooped up a bucketful of snow that would soon melt in the warmth of the stable into fresh water, sang Tasha a song, then walked slowly back to the house. The snow was nearly to the top of his boots. He shook his head and smiled. Damn, if Sabrina didn’t wake up soon, whole-witted, he would soon be talking to the furniture. He just hoped if that happened, the furniture wouldn’t talk back.

  He’d nearly finished righting the havoc he’d created in the kitchen when he heard a soft thumping sound from overhead. He tore off the white apron in an instant and was up those stairs, two at a time, in three seconds flat, his heart pounding.

  He pushed open the partially closed bedchamber door and stopped cold in his tracks. Sabrina stood next to the bed, clutching the bedpost for support. Her face was white, her breathing harsh, her braid flopped over her shoulder, oily and lank.

  “What the devil are you doing out of bed?”

  She stared at him, her face whiter than the man’s shirt she was wearing.

  “I can’t get back into bed just yet.”

  “Why ever not?”

  “I got up because I need to relieve myself. Do you know where the chamber pot is?”

  “As a matter of fact I do. I wish you’d called me instead of trying to make the journey by yourself.”

  “But I don’t even know who you are. Well I do, but I’d forgotten. You’re a man. I don’t want you to help me relieve myself. That wouldn’t be right. It would be utterly mortifying.”

  “All right then. Let me help you over behind the screen. Call me when you’re done so I can put you back to bed. I’ll bet you have about as much strength as a flea.”

  “That’s just about it,” she said.

  When she was back in bed again, the covers to her throat, he sat down beside her. Out of habit, he laid his palm on her forehead. “Not even a whisper of a fever. You’re just fine now. Now, don’t get me wrong. You’re going to have to rest because you’ve been quite ill, but you will get well again.”

  “You know my name,” she said, those strange colored eyes of her
s on his face.

  He wanted to tell her that he also knew about the small heart-shaped birthmark on her left buttock, but he didn’t. He just smiled at her. “Yes, and I even know that your nickname is Bree. Do you remember that I’m Phillip? I don’t have a nickname unless some enemy calls me a bastard.”

  “I remember now. Where are we?”

  He smiled down at her and began to smooth loose tendrils of hair back behind her ear. “You have got your wits back again, thank the good Lord. Now, as to where we are, I haven’t a clue. I’m a stranger to this particular part of Yorkshire. Do you remember what I told you? I found you lying in the forest in the snow. I’d passed this hunting box and brought you back here. We’ve been here two days now, wherever here is.”

  “What were you doing in the forest, my lord?”

  “My lord? Now how would you know that I was a lord, a merchant, or otherwise?” Had he told her he was Viscount Derencourt? He couldn’t remember.

  Her eyes fell to his left hand, “You’re wearing a signet ring. I’m not stupid or ignorant.”

  Phillip smiled as he looked down briefly at the heavy ruby signet ring passed from father to son in the Mercerault family for nearly three hundred years. Not all that long a stretch of time compared to some of the great families of England, but still three hundred years seemed a powerful long number of years to him. “You’re observant, Sabrina. I remember now. Before, I only told you my family name. Let me give you my best introduction. I’m Phillip Mercerault, Viscount Derencourt of Dinwitty Manor, near Oxford.”

  Phillip thought he saw a flash of recognition in her eyes, but she lowered her lashes before he could be certain. “Now, I know your first name is Sabrina. Who are you?”

  11

  He wasn’t mistaken. She did indeed hesitate before answering him. Was she still afraid of him?

  Finally she said, “My name is Sabrina Eversleigh.” She wasn’t about to tell him that she was actually Lady Sabrina. That was none of his business. He could be anyone. He could even be a friend of Trevor’s. Well, no, not that, but for the moment, she wasn’t about to tell him anything.

  The Eversleigh name was familiar to him. Where had he heard it before? Sabrina’s eyes were tightly closed.

  He touched his fingers to her cheeks. She was cool to the touch. “Sabrina, you can’t go back to sleep just yet. I’ve made bread for you and some soup. You’ve got to eat something to gain your strength back. All right?”

  “Yes,” she said, not opening her eyes. “I’m hungry. Thank you.”

  He looked down at her awhile longer, then rose. He turned at the doorway and said over his shoulder, “Stay in bed. Just call out if you need me.”

  Five minutes later Phillip came back into the bedchamber, a tray balanced on his arms. “Your servant, Sabrina. The best bread and soup available in these parts. Of course there are hay and oats in the stable, but I doubt Tasha would part with any of it.” She cocked her head to one side. “My horse,” he said. “Now, let me help you up on that pillow, my lady.”

  She opened her eyes at that. He wasn’t mistaken. He saw panic. “I don’t have a signet ring,” she said, and he could hear the fear crawling in her voice. “I’m not a my lady. How could you ever think that I was?”

  He wanted to tell her that he’d just been jesting with her, but no, not now. What was going on here? Who the devil was she?

  “No, no signet ring,” he said, looking down at her fingers. “It doesn’t matter. Come now and eat.” He clasped her under her arms and eased her to a sitting position, sat down beside her, and vigorously stirred the soup to cool it.

  “Would you believe that this is a recipe from His Majesty’s own kitchens? Brought to you here in Yorkshire by your humble servant? No, I didn’t think you would believe that. Here, try some.” He placed a spoonful of broth into her mouth.

  To his relief and delight, she closed her eyes in bliss and looked ready to swoon. She downed nearly half the bowl before shaking her head and leaning back. “It’s truly delicious, Phillip, but I can’t swallow another drop. If you weren’t a nobleman, why then, surely you could cook for the king, although since he’s mad, perhaps he wouldn’t appreciate your cooking.”

  “I’ll let you try the bread before making a final decision on my cooking abilities.” He brought out one of the loaves from the cloth. “I know it doesn’t look aesthetically pleasing, but perhaps you’ll be able to get it down.”

  He fed her a chunk of the still-warm bread.

  She got it chewed and swallowed, he’d say that for her. Nor did she change expression. In fact, she smiled at him. “It’s wonderful, my lord. You are indeed a find. Where did you learn how to cook?”

  “If a viscount happens to spend some years on the Peninsula, I assure you that he learns quickly how to keep body and soul together, at least after a fashion. When you are better, I doubt you’ll be so enthusiastic.”

  A shadow crossed her face. “My father was killed at the battle of Ciudad Rodrigo.”

  Eversleigh. Perhaps that was why her name was familiar to him. He tried to remember an officer of that name, but couldn’t remember a face. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Many good men were lost in that battle. I was wounded myself.”

  She opened her eyes wide.

  “Yes, shot through the shoulder. I returned to England then. Sometimes when the weather suddenly changes, as it always is doing in England, my shoulder will ache. But I survived.”

  He saw it in her eyes. He saw how she wished her own father had suffered a simple wound and returned. But he hadn’t. He was surprised when she said suddenly, “That loaf of bread looks like a turtle and I have just eaten off its head.”

  “That’s a repellent thought.”

  Her smiled deepened, and dimples appeared on either side of her mouth. She looked really quite charming. He knew now that she was animated, full of life, full of energy. “I will be ready to eat its feet in just a few hours.”

  “Ah, so you are of a sadistic nature.”

  “What does that mean?”

  He thought of that evil Frenchman, the Marquis de Sade. He just shook his head. “It just means that you think a bit differently. It’s charming.”

  She withdrew. She didn’t move an inch, but she withdrew from him. Why? He’d said nothing untoward. He said easily, “Actually, I was thinking that the loaf reminded me of the quarry stones mined near my home.”

  “Over the years Cook has occasionally taught me things. I do love your bread, my lord, but I would say that just a touch of yeast wouldn’t come amiss.”

  “You’re right. I’ll see if I can find some.” She smiled again, but weakly, and leaned her head back against the pillow. She stiffened when he laid the back of his hand against her cheek.

  “No, no, don’t pull away from me. I must check. There, you’ve no fever.”

  “How long have we been here?”

  “By my best reckoning, about two and a half days. I don’t think you could have been wandering around that forest for too long before I found you or you wouldn’t have survived.”

  “It’s Eppingham Forest.”

  “Ah, now I know you’re an Eversleigh and this forbidding place is called Eppingham Forest. Would you like to tell me where you live?”

  He saw a flash of something in her eyes. Was it temper? He hoped so. She said, “What is the day today?”

  He had to think a moment about that. “It’s Wednesday, I believe.” It felt strange to be living outside of time.

  Wednesday. She turned her head away from him, not wanting him to see her face. She had left Monmouth Abbey on Sunday. It seemed an eternity to her. She thought of the note she’d left her grandfather and blinked. She couldn’t cry. It would do no good. It would only make Phillip more suspicious. But Grandfather knew by now that she hadn’t reached Borhamwood. By now he might think her dead.

  Something was seriously wrong. No more pushing her now. He rose. “We’ll speak later of why you left your home, sweetheart. It’s quite likel
y that your family is at this very moment searching for you. The blizzard will blow itself out very soon now.” He closed his hand over hers. “No, don’t worry just yet. All will be well, you’ll see. Undoubtedly, my friends will be out soon searching for me as doubtless your family is searching for you.”

  She turned even whiter. He held his peace. She closed away thoughts of her grandfather, thoughts of Trevor. She felt weary, incredibly weary. She looked up at him for a long moment and said, “Your eyes. They’re really quite beautiful. It seems so long ago, yet I remember now wanting to see you frown or smile so that I could read your eyes, so that I would know what kind of a man you were.”

  “My eyes wouldn’t tell you whether or not I was a good man. Sleep now. When you next wake up, you’ll be even stronger. I’ll have some more bread and soup for you.”

  Phillip sat quietly beside her until he was certain that she slept. So I have beautiful eyes, have I, Sabrina? He realized that she hadn’t said whether or not she’d found him a good man. He walked quietly to the window, staring out over the white landscape. The snow wasn’t slapping so hard against the window. The winds had lessened. The blizzard was blowing itself out. Where had he heard the name Eversleigh before? Was it from Ciudad Rodrigo?