A Summons From His Grace (Regency Christmas Summons Collection 4)

by Kelly, Olivia

  Dedication

  I want to thank my husband and family. Without their support and encouragement, I never would have taken that first step! Thanks also go to my friends; Nikol, Poppie and Debra- who have to listen to me talk about my characters as if they are sitting at the table with us, and assure me with a straight face that they don’t think I’m nuts. Last, but never least, a huge thanks goes to my historical critique group for giving me the opportunity to have my voice heard.

  ~ Olivia

  ~ 1 ~

  December 1812

  The Village of Little Danby

  Yorkshire, England

  Harrison Connolly slumped sideways onto the church pew and let loose a string of curses that would have turned a saint’s hair white. The knife wound in his side had re-opened and the blaze of red-hot agony was slowly creeping its way up his body. He pressed his fist into his side and took shorter breaths to avoid disturbing the gash any more, but it didn’t minimize the pain. He couldn’t seem to control the shivers of his half-frozen body.

  Probably why the damn thing isn’t bleeding all over the floor. It must have frozen shut.

  Harry blearily stared out the age rippled glass window across the aisle. The thickening snowfall looked quite pretty from inside the quiet, warm church. His money had run out three towns back, and he had been lucky enough to catch a ride with a generous soul whose wagon full of potatoes was heading this way. Dropped off a few miles outside of town, Harry had walked the rest of the way, but between carrying his pack and the strain of exercise, he was doing poorly by the time he spotted the little church. It was quite lowering for a man who made a living chopping and hauling timber in the great woods of Illinois.

  Something wet dampened his hand. He had thawed sufficiently for the wound to start bleeding again. Feeling a little lightheaded and distracted, Harry opened his red stained fist and stared at the liquid sluggishly dribbling down his last clean shirt. So much for making a good impression on the old man. Not that it probably would have helped much anyway. It was bitterly amusing that while he was one step above a common laborer, apparently his grandfather lived in a castle.

  When Sergeant Willoughby has finally tracked him down in the Fort Knox infirmary, with the letter “requesting” his presence in time for Christmas, Harry was recuperating from the battle of Tippecanoe. By the time the local militia, bolstered by the English military stationed in the area, had swept through the Indian village, they were in a killing frenzy.

  It wasn’t a battle, but a bloodbath. He received his own wound at the hand of an English soldier. Harry had tried to protect two small children from being slaughtered for simply being in the wrong place at the wrong time. After the soldier ran him through, he’d killed the little girls as easily as squashing a bug. Harry was lucky that the man has been shot down with an arrow in the next instant, or he might have been facing a court-martial. As soon as he could walk again, he had packed his few belongings and headed for the nearest port. He couldn’t put enough distance between Illinois and himself fast enough.

  A light tapping of slippers against the old wooden floors of the church made him look up. A woman stood at the front of the pews, staring at him, her eyes wide with surprise. Her dark hair gleamed in the scant light of the church as she started down the aisle towards him. Harry squinted at her, trying to make out her eye color, but she was still too far away. Be nice if they were blue. He always did have a thing for a woman with blue eyes.

  Christ, he felt strange.

  The woman suddenly appeared next to him and Harry started, causing a fresh jolt of pain to sear up his side. He muffled a groan. There was no warning of her approach. That was never a good thing. The last three years had caused him to become jumpier than usual, but it had only grown worse since Tippecanoe. Damn those memories, threatening to rise up again. Harry shook his head and struggled to focus on the woman in front of him, when he realized his fingers were clenched around the handle of his hunting knife. With deliberate movements, he loosened his grip, letting his hand fall open. Eyes wide, the woman watched carefully, but didn’t run away. In fact she leaned in a little, catching sight of his injured side.

  “Oh! You’re bleeding… Please, sir, try not to move.” She bit her lip.

  The woman looked flustered but made no sudden moves towards him, which allowed Harry to relax minutely. He knew she was no threat to him, but his body sometimes acted ahead of his mind lately. He struggled to remember why he was there, in the little church, and not home in the log cabin he had built with his own hands.

  As the young woman hovered over him worriedly, Harry tried to hoist himself higher in the pew, sending another wave of agony up his side. His heart pounded in his ears and he broke out into a sweat, one image after another flashing through his mind. Tiny broken bodies, their sightless eyes staring at him accusingly…he shook his head, trying to banish the memories that buzzed and hissed, and distracted him. The woman chewed her lip, her clear blue eyes looking even more concerned. He couldn’t let her call a doctor. He had to keep moving.

  “Ma’am, I just need to rest, just a moment. I’m expected at the estate of the Duke of Danby. Do you know the place?” Harry wondered why she looked so fuzzy.

  Fuzzy and warm and alive.

  Using her delicate face as his point of focus, the horrifying memories of battle slowly losing their grip on him and fading away. Yes, she was fuzzy, like a perfect, sweet peach. Bet she tasted twice as good, too.

  Harry distantly heard her gasp and felt her hands as they reached out to break his fall, as he began to lose the fight to stay conscious. The last thing he was aware of, before the swirling blackness swallowed him, was the vague image of a woman bending over him…and then she was gone.

  ~ 2 ~

  Lily Beaumont stared at the large, mostly naked man sprawled across the bed in the vicarage’s spare room. She shouldn’t be there. It was inappropriate in too many ways to count, but she didn’t care at the moment. There was no one to help, with her housekeeper and the two maids given the week for holiday. She didn’t even have Peter, the young stable boy, since he had been home early that evening. When the doctor had arrived it had been Lily who had struggled to help carry the stranger up the stairs of the vicarage, strip him to the waist and bathe away the blood covering his torso. They had cut away his trousers, to make sure there were no unfound wounds that would fester, leaving him in only his smallclothes. The labor of it had left her sweaty and aching, but she remained after Dr. Willis had left, sitting exhausted in the wooden chair in the corner.

  Her father, confined to his bed with chills and a cough that sent a shiver down her spine, had asked Lily to make his nightly rounds of the church for him, and that was when she had found the wounded man. She had never dealt with anything like his injuries, and hoped never to again. The sight of the ragged gash running up his naked ribcage, along with various other scars that mapped his skin, had her praying she wouldn’t faint like a ninny and embarrasses herself in front of the good doctor. She had swallowed heavily and averted her eyes from the blood, doing everything asked of her as quickly as possible, so that the doctor had him stitched and bandaged in very little time.

  She studied the stranger in the soft light. His overlong, curling brown hair was streaked with blond and his skin was tanned, as if he spent a lot of time out of doors. Although his face was relaxed in sleep, both the crinkles of laugh lines around his eyes and the grooves etched in brackets on either side of his mouth were still apparent. Mayhap the lines around his mouth were from his recent wound, but they looked like they had been there so long they had become part of the landscape of his face.

  His cheeks glittered with golden stubble, a few days worth, and his nose was a little crooked, as if it had been broken long ago. The nose didn’t detract from his looks, though. He might possibly be one of the most handsome men she had ever seen -- in a rough, slightly wild sort of way. Her gaze drifted south along his broad shoulders and muscled chest, sprinkled with more golden cur
ls that peeked over the top of the sheet she had laid over him. He was a big man, hard and lean, his body scarred but strong. Pulling her eyes back to his face, she lectured herself on loose morals.

  The man stirred under the sheets restlessly, groaning as he slowly came awake. Lily moved across the room to stand next to his bed, resolutely looking at only his face. Thick eyelashes struggled against his cheeks for a moment, before he opened them and looked straight at her. Eyes the color of new spring grass narrowed, the expression in them puzzled and wary.

  “Where am I? Is this the home of the Duke of Danby?” The man’s voice was deep and gravelly, warming Lily with its strength. Although she couldn’t place the particular drawl in his delivery, the accent was clearly American. She wondered how he had come to be so far from home. Lily smiled at him soothingly, remembering his earlier reaction to sudden movement. She shook her head in response to his question and kept her hands firmly linked together in front of her.

  “No. We are in the estate village, called Little Danby, but it is only four miles due east of the castle. Do you not remember coming into the church? My father, Thomas Beaumont, is vicar here.” The confusion started to clear in his eyes and she continued. “I sent for the doctor. He has come and gone again after stitching you up. The recommendation is that you stay in bed for at least a full day and limit your movements to your room, possibly the parlor, for the next few days.”

  “No, ma’am, I can’t do that,” the man said, shaking his head and trying to push into a sitting position. He stopped abruptly, hissing with pain. Lily stepped forward quickly, putting her hands firmly around his shoulders to help lower him back against the pillows. Her elbow length hair, having come unbound by her earlier labors, swung forward and brushed the man’s face. His breath caught, and she carefully eased him down on the bed, afraid he had done himself damage with his rash actions.

  Americans.

  ~ * ~

  The pretty young woman fussed over him, lecturing him softly in her cool, proper voice. Harry closed his eyes and breathed in deeply. The sweet scent of her reached deep inside him and relaxed muscles that had tightened at the burning, white-hot warning his body had sent him upon he had foolishly trying to leave the bed. Even injured and in pain, his body reacted to her on a very primal level, wanting to draw her down onto the soft bed next to him and not let her leave until she was his in every way. His brain told him he was a fool, and scoffed at the idea he might even think he was strong enough for it.

  Harry opened his eyes again to watch her as she poured a glass of water. She gingerly sat on the edge of the mattress, careful not to jostle him, and slid one hand behind his head to help him sip from the glass. As he leaned forward and touched his lips to the rim, his eyes met hers. Their gazes held as the cool liquid slid down his throat, and color crept into her face. He leaned back with a satisfied sigh, and she stood up, moving briskly to the door.

  “My name is Harrison Connelly. Harry, actually.” His voice stopped her just short of the door frame, and she turned back with a slightly abashed smile.

  “Delighted to meet you, Mr. Connelly, although I wish it could have been under different circumstances.” Lily gave him a small smile, stepping back into the room. “Is there anyone I can contact for you? Family? A…wife?”

  “No. Thank you, ma’am, but it’s been just me for a long while now. My wife died three years ago.” At her sound of sympathy, he acknowledged her with a crooked smile that wasn’t really a smile, and continued. “So, you see, it’s just me now. I came to England, because I have…business…with the Duke of Danby. It’s an urgent matter, which is why it’s impossible for me to stay abed for three days.”

  He smiled at her with what he hoped was his most charming expression. She smiled back.

  “Nonetheless, Mr. Connelly, you will remain in bed, at least until the day after tomorrow. Then we will see what we will see.” As his brows pinched into a scowl, she amended. “Perhaps I can send for the duke’s man. He could convey a message for you, and make the duke aware of your location.”

  “No. No, I don’t want that,” Harry said hastily. He didn’t want to spend any time with the old bastard, just collect what was owed him and leave. “I suppose it can wait a few more days, but only three, no more than that.”

  “After three days, Mr. Connelly, if you aren’t healed sufficiently to make the drive to the duke’s castle, I believe a delay in placing your business proposition before him will be the least of your problems.” Lily smiled once more, and left the room.

  ~ 3 ~

  Harry woke up the next morning stiff and sore all over, but well on his way to recovery. Afraid his wound might become infected, he checked it, but the stitched laceration was healing nicely. It was slightly red and swollen, but clean. That could be managed with no problem. He started to throw back the covers and realized he was practically naked. Remembering the girl from the night before, he scowled. The minx had taken his clothes! He wouldn’t put it past her to have done it purposefully, just to keep him immobile.

  As if he had summoned her with his thoughts, Miss Beaumont stuck her head around the slightly open door, and he hastily yanked the bedclothes over his lap. She raised one dark eyebrow at him as she moved into the room, carrying a breakfast tray. A bowl of porridge rested on it, and Harry scowled again.

  He looked at the tray she held in disgust. “If you think that is for me, think again. I haven’t eaten gruel since I was a babe in arms, and I’m not starting again now.”

  “Really? That’s too bad. I was going to tell you if you managed to eat breakfast, then you might be strong enough to sit in the parlor for a while. I suppose this means you are staying in bed all day.” She pivoted to leave again. At Harry’s aggrieved sigh, she turned back with a composed smile.

  “Blackmail! And here I thought you were an angel last night, but you bargain like the devil.” Harry was amused and annoyed by his hostess’s gentle attempt at manipulation. The least she could do was hide that she was trying to manage him, but she just stood there, her face serene, while she waited for him to decide. He reluctantly chuckled, admiring 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 smoothly.

  “Oatmeal.”

  “What?” he asked, confused. What was the difference? It was slop, plain and simple- made for babies 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 smiled at him patiently. “ –but I want my trousers back. And a shirt would be nice.”

  Miss Beaumont placed the tray in his lap and handed him a linen napkin. She wisely refrained from trying to tie it around his neck. With a faint blush rising on her cheeks, she stepped away quickly and sat down on the chair a good half dozen paces from the bed.

  “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 cleaning all your wounds. I did try to save them, but I assure you, better the clothes ruined then an untreated wound fester.” Harry suppressed a shudder at her blunt words. He knew, of all people, how many ways a wound could kill you.

  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. He 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, and 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.

  “No, ma’am, I need to ma
ke my own apology. I should have thanked you last night for taking such good care of me. I apologize 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, recalling the pinched, slightly nauseated face she clearly was unaware of she had made when she spoke of assisting the doctor in treating his wounds. She was brave to have followed through with his nursing, though must have made her uneasy. Harry admired that sort of courage in a woman, the kind of inner resource that helped her push though just about anything.

  He felt a bite of mischief as his beautiful hostess resolutely kept her eyes only on his face as he ate. 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. Harry wondered if he could break her concentration. Her eyes widened as he casually stretched, his muscles to bunching and flexing. He sent her an innocent smile.

  The smile abruptly turned to a wince as his stitches pulled in protest.

  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 side anymore; he could only feel her touching him. He willed her silently to look up.

  Look up.

  ~ * ~

  “Does it hurt?” Lily asked, leaning forward and peering at his side.