Passionate

by Anthea Lawson

  James ducked out of the tent, leaving Isabelle’s muffled crying and the strained murmur of women’s voices behind. The tent fire was out, and he could see the dark shapes of the men he had posted silhouetted against the flickering light of torches. A horse neighed near the paddock.

  If only it were as easy to mend the invisible damage he had done. Despair clawed him as he turned toward the bathing tent. Where was Lily now? Huddled and afraid in the bed he had made them? Was she already regretting everything that had passed between them?

  If not now, then soon.

  Something glinted on the ground near his feet—a small brass box, probably belonging to one of the ladies. It rattled as he pocketed it. He would find the owner later. Right now he had to get Lily properly clothed and back to her family.

  Inside the bathing tent everything was untouched. The water in the tub stood cold and still. His coat, one sleeve darkened with water, sagged in the corner.

  Lily’s clothing was folded neatly. The silk of her chemise sighed against her dress as he lifted it. He brought the cloth close to his face and inhaled her scent. He had touched heaven and stolen a piece of it. It already seemed a lifetime ago.

  What had he gained from his audacity? He had ruined the woman he loved, allowed her uncle to suffer grievous harm, and had shown a complete and utter disregard for his responsibilities. He had lost his chance to save Somergate and win the wealth and respectability he needed to offer for Lily. An ill night’s work, indeed.

  “How can I ever make amends?” Anguish tore the words from him.

  “Handing me my dress would be a good start.”

  Lily stood at the entrance of the tent, barely concealed by crumpled sea-green fabric. He looked away.

  “You could have at least left me with some shoes. What’s been happening? I saw that a tent was on fire.”

  “You didn’t stay.”

  “Of course not. How could I, when my family might be in danger? When you might be in danger.” She folded her arms across her chest.

  His gaze slipped past her to fasten on the tent door. Staring resolutely at the rough canvas, he swallowed. “Bandits attacked the camp and your uncle has been hurt. I accept full responsibility. In the morning we will transport him back to Tunis. I cannot tell you how deeply I regret that my conduct tonight has led to such disastrous results.” He handed her dress out to her. When she took it he stepped back a pace. “I must see to my duties. Go to your family—they are worried about you.”

  Her hands trembled. All color had left her face. How he wanted to take her into his arms, comfort her and beg forgiveness. He crushed the impulse. What right did he have? Hadn’t he already caused enough grief?

  James stepped past her. “I will leave you with the privacy I should never have invaded.”

  They left the meadow at dawn—only the creaking of leather and the jingle of harness breaking the quiet as they headed down the trail they had climbed yesterday with such high hopes. Four men on foot carried Sir Edward, lashed to a stretcher fashioned from tent canvas and poles. Lady Mary followed close behind.

  James pushed them as hard as he dared, but it was not nearly fast enough. Sir Edward remained unconscious. The bright daylight revealed the gray pallor of his face.

  They passed the village, the single street now empty. The locals would celebrate their good fortune when they discovered the abandoned baggage. He wondered what they would make of the folding bathtub. There was no time for luxuries now.

  It was past mid-day when they stopped to water the animals at an ancient stone cistern. James led his mount up and let it lip the cold water. Beside him Richard was doing the same. The young man’s face was streaked with dust and sweat and James knew he looked no better. If only there was some way to make more speed. He wished he could sling himself into the saddle and ride hell-for-leather to Tunis. This slow plodding was maddening when everything in him called for swift action.

  “If only we could go faster,” Richard said, echoing James’s thoughts. “I can’t stand watching father like that and not being able to do something.”

  James looked at the young man. They might not be able to move Sir Edward any faster, but perhaps they could shorten the distance to a doctor.

  “Are you up for a fast ride to Tunis to fetch Dr. Fenton?”

  Richard’s eyes lit. “Yes. Absolutely. I’d do anything.”

  “Your mother has to agree to it. And remember, speed is important, but arriving in one piece even more so.”

  “I understand.”

  Lady Mary was seated on a crumbling stone wall near her husband. Mrs. Hodges had insisted the servants assemble luncheon and light a fire for tea.

  “It’s all very well to press on, but we must remember to maintain our strength,” she said, handing Lady Mary a sandwich.

  Lady Mary took the offering, but made no move to bring it to her mouth, only sat, staring wearily at nothing.

  James cleared his throat. “If we sent a rider ahead, they could reach Tunis far faster than the main party. I’m sure Dr. Fenton would agree to meet us on the road if we sent someone to guide him.”

  Lady Mary looked up. “Anything that might bring aid to Edward sooner.”

  “Richard and Khalil will go.”

  “No. I cannot allow it. I…I couldn’t bear it if anything happened to my son. This place has proven dangerous enough.”

  “Dr. Fenton knows Richard. He would come right away. Even a few hours could make a difference. Khalil has proven himself trustworthy—he will see Richard safe.” James reached and took her hand. “I would not risk him unnecessarily.”

  Lady Mary looked to Mrs. Hodges, who gave a short nod. “Let him go, my lady. It is something the boy needs to do.”

  Taking a deep breath, Lady Mary straightened her shoulders. “Then be careful, Richard.”

  “I will.” Richard wrapped his arms around her and she leaned against him. “I’ll be back soon, Mother. Don’t worry.”

  A few minutes later, he and Khalil were mounted and ready. With a last wave, they spurred their horses and galloped toward Tunis.

  Dinner that night was subdued. The fire seemed less cheerful, the flames struggled to take hold among the branches. Isabelle huddled close while Lily wrapped herself in her cloak, head down.

  James took a sip of tea and glanced at the weary faces around him. He had pushed them to the edge of endurance. They were exhausted from a sleepless night and an endless day of travel. His gaze shifted to the tent where the bundled figure of Sir Edward lay. At least they were all still alive.

  “We should make Tunis in another day-and-a-half if we can continue this pace.” He had meant to sound encouraging.

  Lady Mary looked at him. “You think Richard could be there by this time tomorrow if all goes well?”

  “He will. Don’t worry.”

  “James is right, Aunt.” Lily said. “Richard is a fine rider and the road is straight from here. He may reach Dr. Fenton even sooner than we expect.”

  Lady Mary gave her a wan smile. “I’m sure you are right, my dear.”

  “Too much fretting going on, I say.” Mrs. Hodges marched up to the fire. “This family is made of sterner stuff.” She turned her fierce gaze on each of them in turn, not sparing James. “Too much fretting and not enough resting. Come, my lady. Come, Isabelle. Your beds are waiting.” She planted herself solidly, hands on hips.

  Thank God she had come along—she was keeping the Strathmores together with little more than the force of her will.

  Isabelle rose. “Please excuse me.” Her voice was thin. James realized that he had not heard her speak more than ten words since last night.

  “I too am quite weary.” Lady Mary joined her daughter.

  “Goodnight.”

  James stood. “May I escort you to your tent?”

  “Thank you, James, but we can manage,” Lady Mary said. “Rest while you can. We do appreciate all you have done for us.”

  His throat tightened. All he had done for t
hem, indeed. Dragging them to Tunisia on a foolish quest, exposing them to his dangerous cousin…there was too much, altogether, that he had done. “Good night, then,” he said, but his voice hardly seemed his own.

  They followed Mrs. Hodges, but Lily lingered by the fire. James turned reluctantly to face her. He had wronged them all, but Lily most of all. He had to say something, had to make some attempt to set things right.

  “Lily,” he began, “I am aware that certain things have passed between us. Things that, if known, could compromise your reputation.”

  She turned her head away. How could he begin to make amends? He wanted her to smile at him again. James paced, hoping he could find the words. “I am deeply shamed by my conduct. What passed between us…well, I want you to know that I will do my duty as a gentleman even though I have not behaved as one.”

  The silence that followed his speech hung heavy in the darkness. How hollow his offer had sounded. He shoved his hands into his coat pockets, wishing his words unsaid.

  “I thank you, Mr. Huntington, for your offer and devotion to duty.” Her voice was blank. “I, however, do not believe that shame is the emotion I wish to form the foundation of my marriage. You may keep your shame, and your duty, and your regrets.” She stood and drew her cloak more closely about her.

  “I am weary, sir, and concerned for my uncle’s life. You will excuse me if I do not speak further of your…offer.”

  James stood alone in the flickering firelight. He bent to stir the embers with a stick, then straightened suddenly and hurled it into the darkness. What a fool he was. He hadn’t intended to make his offer until the words were already spoken—and so clumsily. He hadn’t realized how much he had wanted her to accept, until she refused.

  He extinguished the fire and made for his tent. Exhaustion had finally found him. When had he slept last? He couldn’t remember—but he was not sure he would be able to find any rest now. You may keep your shame, and your duty, and your regrets.

  It seemed he had learned nothing.

  The night seemed to press in on him. A gleam of brass on the table caught his eye. The box he had stumbled over last night—he still hadn’t returned it to its owner.

  A weary curiosity stirred as he picked it up. The metal was hammered into raised designs, flowers and leaves twining around the lid. There was no lock—the catch opened easily at his touch.

  Inside lay a gold locket and a creased sheet of thick vellum.

  He took the locket by its chain, lifting it out of the box. It swayed and turned, catching the lamplight. He thumbed it open. A miniature portrait of a pale, weak-chinned man stared out at him, the features unfamiliar. A nephew of Lady Mary’s perhaps? If so, there wasn’t much of a family resemblance.

  He set the locket aside and unfolded the paper. It was a letter.

  “My Dearest Lily,” he read, then continued, a horrible fascination dragging his eyes down the page. The phrases leapt out at him. “Lord Buckley…perfect time of year for a wedding…finish fitting your wedding gown.”

  Bloody, bloody hell.

  Lily was betrothed. Had been all along.

  He was on his feet, clutching the letter. How could it be possible? When he had held her, she had been planning her nuptials. When he had made love to her under the stars, she kept the image of her betrothed clasped in a golden locket.

  He felt sick. He had loved her. He had even offered to marry her. With tight, controlled motions he refolded the letter and placed it back in the box.

  Hollow anguish speared him, the emotion all too familiar. He should have known better. Hadn’t those he had loved always abandoned him? His parents, Amanda…Lily.

  Numbly he lay back on his cot. It took a long time for the morning to come.

  Lily watched James as he rode at the front of the party. He would not speak to her—would not even look at her.

  Was what they had done so terrible?

  It had been wonderful. All she wanted was to be enfolded in his arms again, to know there was some surety in the world, something true and solid. She had thought she had that with James. But now, after his grim and loveless proposal by the fire, it seemed a lie.

  Her uncle was gravely wounded, possibly dying, and the man she had thought she loved had not offered her one word of comfort. James had become so rigidly formal. He had not spoken to her except to mouth empty words about shame and duty. She dashed an angry tear from her eye with the back of her hand. Confound the man.

  It felt as though they were traveling further and further apart with every mile they rode. Yesterday had been dreadful. And today was a hundred times worse.

  Well, this was how it would be. If he wanted distant formality, she would do her best to oblige him. She would pretend her heart was not breaking, take tea and wear a brittle smile. She would ride onward, trying not to be so desperately afraid each time she looked behind her at the stretcher bearing Uncle Edward.

  She could not bear to lose both of them.

  They rode through groves now, and the warm, sweetly perfumed air only underscored her mood—the beauty and pain of the world side-by-side. Lily had thought she would always love the smell of orange blossoms.

  “Stop! Stop the horses!” It was Aunt Mary, her voice high.

  “He is stirring, I swear it. Oh, Edward…” her voice dissolved in tears.

  Immediately Lily was off her horse and beside the stretcher. She took Isabelle’s hand and squeezed it tightly.

  “Make way, now,” Mrs. Hodges said, brandishing a canteen.

  “Give him some room. He has to drink something.”

  Aunt Mary took the canteen and coaxed water into her husband’s mouth. At first it dribbled out, as it had before, only a small movement of his throat marking that he had taken any liquid at all.

  Then, suddenly, he was gulping. She let him drink a moment more then carefully pulled the canteen away.

  “His eyelids fluttered. Oh Father!” Isabelle cried.

  “My love,” Aunt Mary whispered over and over, stroking his face. “Come back to us.”

  A moment later, Uncle Edward opened his eyes. He looked around blearily. “Here now, what’s all the fuss?” His voice wavered, and then gained strength. “Where are we? Did we find the flower? Where’s the specimen jar? I have such a terrible headache.”

  The family erupted with joy. Isabelle clung to Lily. Even Mrs. Hodges was wiping her eyes. Lily could not help glancing at James. He was smiling, his expression full of warmth and relief.

  Until he looked at her.

  Now she was crying too, tears of joy and grief mingling on her cheeks.

  When the party made ready to ride on, Uncle Edward waved his hands in protest. “I can ride, I’m certain. Just give me a hand up, a little boost. I can manage it.”

  “Out of the question,” James said. “We’ll wait until a doctor says you’re fit.”

  Despite her uncle’s brave words, he looked pale as he slumped back onto the stretcher. He did not make any further insistence on riding.

  By late afternoon they crossed the bridge where earlier their way had been barred. It was deserted. The horses’ hooves thudded hollowly over the stones.

  “We’ll make camp in the groves ahead,” James announced.

  “Doctor Fenton should meet us somewhere along the road. And tomorrow we’ll reach Tunis.”

  “High time,” Mrs. Hodges said. “I’m ready to leave this blasted wilderness behind. The steamer back to England couldn’t arrive too soon for me.”

  Lily glanced at the silvery rows of olive trees, the curving river and stone road. It was hardly a wilderness. Though she wanted her uncle to be safe and well-cared for, part of her ached at the thought of leaving. This journey had freed something within her—something lush and open, something that chafed and rebelled when she thought of returning to London.

  But there seemed no hope of recapturing what she and James had shared. She was not sure she knew him anymore—if she ever had. Returning to England, to everything known an
d predictable, was the only course left to her.

  She slept fitfully that night. Just before dawn she heard riders clatter into camp—Dr. Fenton and Richard, accompanied by a half-dozen men.

  “You must have ridden through the night!” She heard her aunt say.

  “Of course, my lady,” Dr. Fenton said, “When I heard of how grievously injured he was, I came at once. Has there been any change, any at all, in his condition?”

  Lily took a deep breath of the cool night air. The breeze rustled the trees reassuringly, like a mother hushing her child. She pulled the blankets up around her chin and slept.

  Late morning sunbeams slanted into her tent when she woke. Lily could hear easy conversation, the clank of cooking pots, all the sounds of a morning camp. No hurried packing or urgent voices. She took a deep breath and sat up.

  When she emerged from her tent she was immediately aware of James conferring with her uncle. Uncle Edward was sitting up, his color improved. James, however, still seemed drawn and haggard, a brittleness about his mouth, a rigid set to his shoulders. His gaze moved impassively over her.

  Anger and hurt warred in her. Anger won. How dare he act as though she were invisible?

  James nodded to her uncle, and then strode to the center of camp. He lifted his voice. “Everyone, gather round, please. I have something to say.”

  Two of the servants lifted Uncle Edward’s stretcher and set him next to James. Lily remained where she was and crossed her arms, watching as the party clustered around James.

  “Dr. Fenton arrived last night. He has pronounced Sir Edward out of immediate danger.” He held up a hand to still the cheering that followed his words. “The party is a half-day from Tunis, and though we did not find the valley or the flower we sought, we can be glad that we are all returning safe.” His look grew distant. Lily caught her breath. “I will be leaving you here in the capable hands of Richard and Dr. Fenton. Thank you, all of you, for coming on this expedition. I wish you an easy journey home.”

  He shrugged off the questions that followed and made straight for Lily. Now he saw fit to approach her—now that he was about to abandon them?