by Olivia Kelly
At Harry’s aggrieved sigh, Miss Beaumont turned back, her smile bland in its composure.
"Blackmail." Harry was both amused and annoyed by his hostess’s blatant manipulation. The least she could do was hide that she was trying to manage him but she just stood serenely, while she waited for him to decide. "Here I thought you were an angel last night, but you bargain like the devil."
A chuckle rumbled its way out of his chest unwillingly. He could only admire her lack of intimidation when faced with a large, reluctant bear of a patient.
"I will eat the gruel—" Harry started, only to be interrupted.
"Oatmeal."
"What's was the difference? It's slop, plain and simple, fit only for babes and sick horses."
"It is oatmeal, and it’s good for you."
"I will eat the gruel—" He cocked an eyebrow at her but she had nothing to add, merely stared at him with that patient smile that hinted at laughter around the edges. "—but I want my trousers back. And a shirt would be nice."
Miss Beaumont stepped forward and placed the tray in his lap, handing him a linen napkin. She wisely refrained from trying to tie it around his neck, then moved away quickly and sat down on the chair a good half dozen paces from the bed.
She was out of reach, but her scent lingered, teasing him with memories of warm summer days and the wild roses that climbed his cabin's outer walls.
Miss Beaumont cleared her throat, and Harry reluctantly picked up his spoon, looking down at the gruel with a distinct lack of enthusiasm.
"I find myself apologizing, Mr. Connelly. I have washed the clothes I found in your pack, but the ones you were wearing last night have been consigned to the rag bin. Dr. Willis had to cut them off, in the process of making sure he had cleaned all your wounds." She leaned forward, her expression earnest, dark brows drawn down over her vivid blue eyes. "I did try to save them, I assure you, but it is better the clothes ruined then an untreated wound fester."
Harry suppressed a shudder at her blunt words, lying his spoon down again. He knew, of all people, how quickly such a wound could kill a man.
His own father had died from a lack of treatment, after being caught unawares by an Indian raiding party. At only twelve years old and already motherless, Harry hadn’t known what to do for him. There was no money and he could not leave his father alone for the day's walk to the nearest town. Harry had watched as his last parent slipped into illness, dying within days, leaving him to be reared by the local minister and his wife. The childless couple had been glad to have him, had done what they could keep him out of trouble, and give him an education. Although they tried their best with a restless, angry, half-grown boy, they could never replace the family he had lost.
Harry shook off the memory and focused on the woman in front of him instead. She was much more pleasant to contemplate, even though she only regarded him with the cool, concerned professionalism of a war nurse.
"No, ma’am, I need to extend my own apology, for any burden I have caused you and your father, collapsing practically on your doorstep."
"Please do not think on it another moment, Mr. Connelly. It was my pleasure."
Harry sincerely doubted that, judging by the pinched look on her face when she spoke of assisting the doctor in treating his wounds. In that, at least, Miss Beaumont seemed vulnerable. She was brave to have followed through with his nursing, though it had made her uneasy. Clearly, she did not have much of a stomach for blood. He would rather be tied to an ant hill then admit he felt a kinship in that. Even the sight of his own blood never failed to make him a bit nauseous.
Picking up his spoon, Harry gathered his courage and scooped up the grayish slop. Without pausing for breath, he shoveled in as much as he could. It was as awful as he had predicted.
Eyeing Miss Beaumont over his bowl, Harry felt the bite of mischief. His beautiful hostess resolutely kept her gaze on his face or over his shoulder as he ate, hands folded primly in her lap. The sheet had slipped down to his waist when he sat up, leaving his chest bare. She had probably never seen another man in any state of undress. It amused him that she was obviously uncomfortable but too stubborn to make her excuses and leave.
Could he break her concentration? Being male, and not dead, it seemed as though he must try.
Harry casually stretched, his muscles bunching and flexing, and Miss Beaumont's lake blue eyes widened. He sent her an innocent smile.
A smile that abruptly turned to a wince as the stitches in his side pulled sharply in protest.
"Oh, now look what you've done." Miss Beaumont was immediately up and out of her seat, bending over him and closely examining the wound. As she placed her smooth, cool hands on his skin, Harry stopped breathing. He didn’t even feel the pinching in his ribs anymore; he could only feel her touching him. She was only a breath away now. The sensation of her long fingers playing across his skin was both electrifying and disturbing.
Harry willed her not to look up at him. He wasn't sure if he would be able to stop himself from sampling that full, rosy mouth if she moved any closer. Fisting his hands in the sheets, he sat as still as possible and tried not to breathe. Just the scent of her was deadly to his resolve.
She slid one hand along his side, and Harry prayed.
***
"Does it hurt?" Lily asked, leaning forward and peering at his side. He hadn't pulled any of the stitching out. She sat back with relief.
"Yes, and no," he murmured, his gaze searing.
Lily resisted the urge to fan her face. Goodness, it was warm in here. A queer, hot sensation had come over her, watching the play of muscles ripple across Mr. Connelly’s arms and chest. Her face must be beet red. She snuck a quick peek at him through her lashes. They were only inches apart. The golden flecks in his green eyes were mesmerizing. Dangerously so.
She couldn’t remember what they had been speaking of.
Heart thumping at the intent look in Mr. Connelly's eyes, Lily jumped up, but he reached out and took her hand again before she could move away. With slow deliberation, he drew her towards him. Lily knew she could pull away if she tried; after all, he was an injured man. She didn’t want to, though. The promise of pleasure in his beautiful eyes held her fast.
His gaze dropped to her mouth and he leaned forward, gently brushing his lips against hers. When she didn’t protest, he did it again, more firmly. Resting his large hands on her waist, he pressed his mouth against hers and took her deeper into the kiss. Her lips parted, and their heated breath mingled. The tip of Harry’s tongue delicately touched her bottom lip, then traced it with sensual intent.
Lily’s head swam. She could only taste and feel him in that moment, as if he was the entire world. She moaned and pressed closer, throwing her arms around his waist.
With an oath, Harry jerked away, pressing the heel of his hand against the white bandages wrapping his ribs.
Lily shot off the bed in horror and embarrassment, staring down at him cradling his wound and looking a little green around the gills. "Oh my…I’m so sorry! Did I hurt you?"
He attempted to wave her concern away, but the movement elicited another strangled groan, and he slumped back against the pillows. What was she thinking, dallying with an injured man on his sickbed, and her father only three doors down in his own sickbed? Mr. Connelly was a stranger, and she was an unredeemable wanton. Avoiding Harry’s eyes as she hastily gathered the breakfast dishes onto the tray.
"I will leave you to rest now. Perhaps later, after the doctor visits again, we can bring you down to the parlor," Lily mumbled, hot with mortification. Ignoring his halfhearted protests, she backed out of the room and fled down the hallway.
She dumped the tray next to the sink basin in the kitchen and continued straight out the back door, into the dead winter gardens, pausing only to grab her cloak. She wanted to find a nice large oak tree and bang her head against it until she felt sane again. In only moments, Mr. Connelly had unraveled the work of years spent building an impervious composure. It
had served her well in fending off the advances of many young bucks who felt a vicar's daughter was fair game.
Lily made her way to a stone bench and sank down onto it, disturbed and still warm with mortification. What was so different about Harrison Connelly?
Puzzling and picking it over helped place some distance between her and what had just occurred upstairs. Her usual composure began to return as she pondered the incredible spontaneous passion that had blossomed so unexpectedly within her.
He was very handsome, in a rough sort of way, but many of the men before him who had tried to catch her eye were also attractive. Although Lily wouldn't consider herself worldly, she wasn't so innocent that she had not experienced a man's embrace, and a stolen kiss or two. But she was young and healthy, and he was so... so...
He had looked like a young god, sheets pooled around his waist, his muscled chest and arms gilded gold by the morning sun.
Lily worried her thumbnail. Of course, his raw masculinity wasn't the sum of her strange, instant attraction to Mr. Connelly. She was not so shallow as that.
Of course not.
Mr. Connelly, even injured and in his sick bed, wore a confidence that she did not. He had been dressed in the remnants of what looked like a military uniform when he had collapsed in their church. His assurance was one she had seen many times from the men who had left the village as young recruits, to return with characters that had been tempered in battle.
The glimpses of pain and weariness that had nothing to do with his wound were sadly familiar as well. The Peninsular War had released many men from her grip that had been struck down like their fallen brethren, though theirs were wounds of the mind and heart, and could only be healed by time itself. Her very soul froze at the empty gazes of the war veterans who would gather on Market Day, looking for employment or begging for coin.
It was a shameful state of affairs and she wished she could do something about. But even as her station as the vicar's daughter encouraged charitable works, Father's declining health must be her first and most important priority.
Lily shivered, burrowing into her cloak. She was not quite ready to return to the vicarage, though she knew the dough for the bread must be risen by now and the front rooms needed sweeping.
Her gaze drifted to the upstairs windows. Though she sat on the opposite side of the house than Mr. Connelly's room, she couldn't help but think of him again.
Just by being an American in England, his adventures had far out-stripped hers. Why, she had never even left her home county. She wanted to know what he had seen, what he had done. He was not much older than she, but had already been married and widowed, and travelled across the wide, wild ocean.
And soon enough, he would be moving on again.
He was a free man, and free men did not like to be tied down. Lily could enjoy his kisses without fear that he would do anything to compromise her, and entrap himself. She had seen the restlessness in his eyes when he had conceded to her wishes the day before, confining him to bed. It was enough to convince her that his freedom meant more to him then stealing her virtue.
If she dared, his visit would be a lovely memory to pull out occasionally over the years, to remember that once, she had ventured close enough to the fire to warm herself. Lily stood and brushed off her skirts, shaking the dead leaves from her hem. As she slowly walked back to the vicarage, she recalled the hungry look his eyes as Harry drew her in for a kiss, and a queer feeling slid down her spine. It would be a fine line to walk; close enough to the flames to warm herself, but not to burn.
~ 4 ~
Harry eased his way along, careful not to miss his footing on the steep, narrow steps lit by the morning sun. It was his first time navigating the vicarage on his own. As a result of their impulsive embrace, the pain in his side had made it difficult to move well for several hours, so he had forfeited his time in the parlor for a nap. But having been confined to the small room at the back of the house had left Harry restless and itching to get up and move. He was not used to such inactivity.
It was a relief to wear pants again, if nothing else. Lolling around in a nightshirt all day was unmanning.
Somewhere in the back of the house, a light, lilting voice sang Christmas carols, and smell the sweet scent of something baking caused his stomach to rumble insistently. Following the merry sound of his tyrannical angel with the soft, sweet lips, Harry made his way down the hall to the kitchen. He pushed open the well oiled door silently and stopped on the threshold to take in the scene before him.
A fire crackled in the half-moon arched fireplace against one wall. The floor was clean and swept. The whitewash of the walls was softened by age and practical use of the kitchen. In front of the fireplace stood a large wooden trestle table, littered with baking ingredients, and beyond it stood Miss Beaumont. She had her back to him, washing some mixing bowls and utensils in the large, chipped porcelain sink while gazing out the window at the glittering snow covering the ground. The sound of her cheerful, easy song smoothed the ragged edges of his soul, and relaxed some of the tension he had carried across the Atlantic deep inside his chest. Placing the last bowl on the drying rack next to her, Miss Beaumont turned around, wiping her hands on a towel.
She shrieked at his unexpected appearance in the kitchen and staggered back a step, her blue eyes wide. Harry winced, resisting the urge to rub his ears. Lord, for such a small woman, she could certainly set his head ringing.
"You just scared ten years off my life, Mr. Connelly! Please, sir, a little warning might be nice. A shuffle, or a stomp, or perhaps even a sneeze could be justified." Miss Beaumont glared at him, slightly out of breath. She made an obvious effort to settle, and gestured to the table. "Since evidently you are feeling well enough to sneak downstairs for breakfast, sit down and I will make you something."
"I would appreciate that, Miss Beaumont. I apologize if I frightened you." Harry concealed his great entertainment at her suggestions for being less stealthy, as he doubted his amused reaction would serve him well. She shot him a dark look she apparently thought he couldn’t see, so he swallowed the chuckle that was threatening to escape. Harry sat down and she plunked a dish of yellowy butter and some preserves in front of him. They were followed in short order by a freshly baked bun studded with currants and a mug of strong, dark tea.
Harry bit into the bun, enjoying the way the warmed butter and sugar melted on his tongue. This was a treat. He hadn’t anything this agreeable in ages.
He leaned back and watched as Miss Beaumont bustled around the kitchen, pulling eggs and ham from the pantry and heating them up in a cast-iron pan over the stove. Although she looked delicate, she handled the heavy pan with no problem and moved smoothly from one task to another. This woman was no stranger to hard work, and performed her tasks quickly and efficiently. He admired that; it was something he prided himself on as well. Their eyes connected as she glanced over and he sent her a grin, holding up the last bite of his bun before popping it in his mouth.
"This is delicious. I haven’t eaten anything half as good in years. I appreciate you going through the trouble."
"'Tis no trouble," Miss Beaumont stated as she plated the eggs and bacon. With a considering look for the crumbs left before him, she added another bun before bringing his meal to the table. "I'm satisfied you seem to find this more enjoyable then the porridge."
She put his plate in front of him and went back to pour herself a mug of tea. She brought it to the table and sat down across from Harry, breathing the steam in and wrapping her hands around the stoneware cup.
"Foul stuff."
"Pardon?"
"Er. I said, it's just enough." Harry shoved another bite of bun in his mouth as she eyed him suspiciously. "Delicious. Thank you."
"Hmm."
He scooped up more eggs and ham, thoroughly enjoying his meal. The lady was a genius in the kitchen—she made an ordinary breakfast into a true culinary experience. Although it might have something to do with the view. Harry gave h
is head a rueful shake and tucked into his meal with gusto. Miss Beaumont watched him with a faint smile of amused approval on her face.
"You seem like the adventurous sort, Mr. Connelly. I propose we agree on something slightly scandalous." She smiled at him over the rim of her mug, her blue eyes dancing with mischief, and Harry found himself leaning forward in anticipation. Slightly scandalous was good and it was not fully scandalous, something that would ruin his plans. The idea of engaging in anything other than prim and proper behavior with Miss Beaumont was irresistible.
"In the interest of being friends, I give you leave to call me Lily when it is just the two of us. And what shall I call you?"
Oh. Harry deflated a bit. He forgot that unmarried, young misses might have a different idea of what constituted as scandalous.
"Ah, you may call me Harry."
"Harry." Lily smiled as she repeated his name, and he liked the way the word looked on her soft, plump lips. "Now, tell me Harry, what brings you to Danby Castle? It is rare the duke has anyone but his family visit him. He is not known for being... social."
There was something in that pause, but Harry didn't take the time to worry it out. Should he tell her that he was the grandson of the local lord? It was clear she did not believe him any different from her in station, and he wasn't, in truth.
In America a man rose and fell on his own merits, not because of some ancient,, useless title passed down in the family.
Harry chewed and swallowed his last bite of breakfast. No, it didn’t matter one whit to him that his mother was Danby's issue; he was the old man’s kin in name only. They were not family. The duke had wanted nothing to do with him and his parents, and so he wanted nothing to do with the duke. Except to wring a settlement out of him and never look back.
"Unsettled business. It is a long story, and not all that interesting."