His Saving Grace

by Sharon Cullen

  What if he had never remembered her? What if he had never remembered his own name? What if he had remembered but not loved her anymore? How horrible that would have been, for him to return but having forgotten or lost his love for her.

  “We moved around a lot. Tarik was…I can’t remember the word, but he saved my life.”

  “And yet you never wrote to me to tell me you were alive.” If she sounded accusing, it was because she was. Hurt and anger were a coiled ball inside her.

  “Because I could not write. I had to relearn my letters and numbers, and when I did, I learned them in Russian. Memories are strange things. The oldest returned to me first. What should have been the freshest memories are still missing, and most of the doctors said they might never return. There are whole months that are gone to me.” He stopped to face her. “I can’t imagine what it was like for you, and you can’t imagine what it was like for me—to lose everything and regain only some of it.”

  No, she couldn’t imagine what it was like for him, but she would like to. There was a bond between him and Tarik that she was not a part of. There was a large part of Michael’s life that she didn’t know, may never know about, and yet Tarik did. She could understand Michael’s jealousy when it came to Clayton, because she had her own jealousy when it came to Tarik.

  Michael continued walking and Grace hurried to catch up with him.

  “You said your leg wasn’t injured, and yet you lean upon your cane. It appears to be more than a fashion accessory.”

  “My leg was never injured, but it gives out on me occasionally and I stumble. The cane lets people believe that I was injured, and if I stumble, they mark it up to the injury. It also has helped me not to fall flat on my face on a few occasions. Since the battle, I have had problems with balance.”

  “You appear to be doing well now with your balance.”

  “I’m getting better.” He headed off the road toward a large boulder, where he sat down and rested his cane against the rock. He was pale, and there was a sheen on his brow.

  “Are you feeling ill?” she asked, perching on the rock next to him.

  “Just tired. My…” He squeezed his eyes shut. She was beginning to learn that he did that when he was searching for the right word or when his head hurt.

  “Your…?”

  His eyes opened. “I can’t think of the word I want.” He waved his hand in the air as if dismissing the thought because it took too much effort. “I tire easily. I try to walk to increase my strength.” He looked back at the dower house off in the distance. “At first I wasn’t able to walk a quarter of this distance without feeling as if I would lose consciousness.”

  The breeze was cool, but the sun was warm making it a very comfortable day to be outside.

  “You’ve come a long way, then.”

  He kept looking at the house. From this distance, it didn’t look so bad. An elegant old lady standing tall and proud against the backdrop of rolling hills and blue skies. It wasn’t until one approached that one noticed the age and the lack of tender loving care.

  “You should be well off here, Grace. You receive a third of the income from the estates. The dower house could be a very comfortable place to live. Why is the house not completely opened up?” Michael asked, shooting her a pointed look.

  “At first because I didn’t have the energy to do so. It was easier to open the few rooms Ida and George and I would need and worry about the rest later.”

  “And when later arrived?”

  “I had become comfortable living the way I was. I don’t receive many visitors. Sara and maybe a few women from town.” And Clayton, but she wouldn’t mention him.

  “You eat off chipped plates and mismatched flatware. You are the dowager countess of Blackbourne. You should be living well above this.”

  “Truly, I do not care. Plates and flatware and scores of rooms that go unused are a waste when it’s just me.”

  Michael looked at her closely, the type of look that bore deep into her. He’d always had a quick mind, and it saddened her to think that part of him was gone. “What aren’t you telling me? I know appearances never mattered much as long as you were happy, but there is something not right about this. Has Nigel not treated you well?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “Grace. Tell me.”

  “Nigel is a bit tight-fisted, and the one third due to me as dowager has not been fully paid this year.” Not been paid at all, truth be told.

  Michael said something in Russian that Grace was certain was a curse word.

  “Michael, it doesn’t matter.”

  “It does matter. It matters greatly.”

  Grace touched his arm. She missed touching him. The simple things were the hardest. Not being able to touch him. The strained silences. Weighing her words when she’d never had to do so before. She was tired of it. All she wanted was her old life back, to feel like the old Grace and not this haggard woman who felt so much older than she was.

  “Will you kiss me?”

  He jerked in apparent surprise. “Here? Now?” He looked around as if just now seeing where they were. “We’re sitting on the side of the road.”

  She laughed like she hadn’t in well over a year. “Yes. Here. Now. On the side of the road. Kiss me.”

  When he didn’t move, she took the initiative by leaning forward and pressing her lips to his. Like their reunion had been from the beginning, the kiss was awkward, a meeting of the lips and nothing more. Grace pressed her body against Michael’s, desperately wanting to feel something, anything. He was her husband, and at one time they’d had a very satisfying physical relationship. She wanted her body to remember that. She wanted Michael to remember that.

  She was beginning to despair that even this would not be the same when Michael made a sound low in his throat and grabbed her shoulders, hauling her closer.

  And that was when her body remembered. She felt it begin in her toes, a tingling sensation, a warmth that traveled up her legs, pooled in the most sensitive areas between her legs, making her hot and aching, then moving on to her breasts and her neck and her face. It was as if she were awakening from a long winter nap. Where there had been nothing but cold and darkness, there was now light and heat.

  Her body was awake and aware. Oh, how aware. How gloriously, wonderfully, exquisitely aware.

  She realized now that for the past year, she had not been living. She had been merely existing.

  Chapter Eight

  Once again Grace found herself walking up the steps to Blackbourne Manor. However, this visit was far different from her visit just days ago. She was nervous, very nervous. But Michael was at her side, and she was ready to take back her life.

  Except taking back her life had never seemed so frightening as it did at this moment, because she had no idea what that truly meant. The life she’d had—the person she’d been before Michael left for war—was long gone. The life she’d lived over the past year was also gone, thank the Lord. This was a new life. A different life. A life she was certain would be fraught with peril and obstacles she couldn’t begin to imagine, but facing all of that with Michael would make it less frightening.

  After today, everyone would know that Michael was alive, and from here on out, the two of them would be swept away on a tidal wave they would not be able to control.

  When Alfred opened the door, the look on his face was priceless. He smiled at Grace, and then he saw Michael and his mouth dropped open. For the first time ever, Grace witnessed their unflappable butler, who always knew what to do in every situation, simply stare. His usually straight shoulders drooped and he leaned against the doorframe, visibly shaking. Grace debated whether she needed to stand beside him to make certain he didn’t fall over.

  “My lord? Is it truly you?” He looked at Grace for confirmation, and she smiled at Michael, waiting for him to say something, but the panicked look on his face wiped her smile away.

  He had no idea who this man was standing before them. Never min
d that Alfred had been with the family since Michael had been a wee lad. To Michael, he was a stranger.

  Grace wound her arm through Michael’s and squeezed it in what she hoped was reassurance. “Alfred, it’s good to see you again. I believe Nigel is expecting me.”

  Alfred smiled wide and looked at Michael expectantly. Michael cleared his throat. “Alfred.” To Grace, he appeared to be trying the name on for size, giving himself time to connect the name and the person to a memory.

  Alfred straightened, flustered. He stepped back and opened the door wider. “It’s a pleasure, my lord. A real pleasure to see you.”

  When Alfred tried to lead Grace and Michael to Nigel’s study, Grace said, “I believe I would like to wait in the drawing room, Alfred.”

  His steps faltered, and with a wide smile tossed over his shoulder, he said, “My pleasure, my lady.”

  Nigel would be furious. He always spoke to Grace in his study, but this time would be different. This time Grace—and Michael—would take control of the situation. No longer was she at Nigel’s mercy, arriving at his beck and call, hoping he would give her even some of the money owed to her.

  After Alfred escorted them to the drawing room and withdrew, smiling from ear to ear, Michael took a deep breath. “I couldn’t remember his name,” he said in such a forlorn voice that it broke Grace’s heart. “He didn’t even look familiar to me.”

  “It’s all right, Michael.”

  He spun around to face her, and the anger in his expression took her aback. His face was twisted into something ugly. “No, it’s not all right, Grace. I can’t remember. Does that mean nothing to you? Do you not understand? This…this…injury—this problem—is fickle. I remembered Ida and George, but I could not remember Alfred. I have no idea when my memory will fail me.” He turned and stared at a portrait hanging on the wall, leaving Grace confused and speechless.

  Michael had never been prone to anger. He’d always been even-tempered, sometimes to the extent that she wished he’d been a little less affable. But this quick flash of anger was surprising and a bit frightening. Even though he had warned her that he sometimes could not control his anger, she had not truly believed him until now.

  “You think you can wave all of this away with ‘It will be fine, Michael.’ ” He mimicked her voice, causing heat to rise in her cheeks, but she checked her own anger. It would do no good for them to get into an argument now.

  “Michael—,” she began, but the door was flung open and Nigel stomped in.

  “What is the meaning of this, Grace? Why in the world would you insist on meeting me in the drawing room? You know I always conduct all of my business in my study. This is a great inconvenience.”

  Nigel had not yet seen Michael, for Michael was behind the open door, still in front of the portrait.

  “Good day to you as well, Nigel,” Grace said, standing taller.

  His eyes narrowed. “I don’t recall scheduling a meeting with you.”

  “Something has come up that I believe you need to be aware of.”

  He drew back. “You aren’t thinking of crying off with Sir Timmons, are you? That would be a grave mistake, I assure you.”

  A grave mistake? And why would that be?

  “No, I—”

  “Nigel. It’s good to see you again.” Michael stepped out from behind the door.

  Nigel spun around. He stared at Michael for long moments. Opened his mouth. Closed it. He turned to face Grace. “Is this some sort of jest?” His color was high, suffusing his face and giving him a mottled appearance. He had certainly changed since Michael’s “death.” Before, he had been cool but polite. After, the politeness had dissolved into disdain and very nearly verbal abuse.

  “A jest?” she asked, confused. “No.”

  Michael folded his hands over the top of his cane and smiled at Nigel. “It’s good to see you too, brother.”

  Nigel looked between the two, his head swiveling one way, then the other. “But…you’re…”

  “Not dead. It’s a long story, and I’m certain you don’t want all the gory details. I am here, as you can see. And I’m ready to take over my duties as earl. I want to thank you for maintaining the Ashworth estates in my absence. That was very kind of you.”

  “But—”

  “You have one week to move out of the manor so the countess and I can take our rightful place here.”

  “One week?” Nigel nearly squeaked in outrage. “That is not nearly enough time to find somewhere to live.”

  “I’m confident that one week is six days longer than you gave Grace.”

  Nigel looked chagrined. How Michael had guessed that Nigel had kicked Grace out of the manor house in a matter of hours was beyond her, for she had never said anything.

  “You may have the use of the estate in Scotland until you find a place of your own,” Michael was saying.

  “I have no income,” Nigel sputtered.

  “You are a solicitor, are you not?”

  “Not since becoming earl. I’ve given all my clients to other solicitors.”

  “Then you will simply have to drum up more. I will settle an amount on you and…” For a small moment, a moment Grace was certain only she witnessed, Michael’s eyes widened in panic. No doubt he could not remember Clara’s name. She was proud of him when he quickly rallied. “Your wife. To get you settled and to give you time to resurrect your business. I daresay that was probably more than you did for my wife.” He pierced Nigel with an accusatory look that had Nigel squirming.

  “Lady Grace was given exactly what was owed to her per her dower status.”

  “A rundown dower house?” Michael raised an eyebrow. “And what of the one-third income from the estate? Has that been paid to her?”

  Grace was becoming uncomfortable with the direction of the conversation and even more uncomfortable with the anger she could see building inside Michael.

  Nigel straightened his back. “She spent a large portion of her funds on that silly glass conservatory. If she wanted comfort, then she should have spent her money a little more wisely.”

  Michael’s face tightened, and Nigel, being the selfish goose that he was, didn’t see the signs. He peered closely at Michael with a calculating look that made Grace nervous. “You certainly look like my brother, but how do I know you are?”

  “Don’t be a fool.”

  Nigel stood straighter, his face hard and unyielding. “I have an earldom to protect. I can’t have just anyone waltzing in, claiming to be my deceased brother and duping my grieving sister-in-law. I have proof that you are—or rather he—is dead.”

  Grieving sister-in-law? Since when did Nigel ever concern himself with her grief? And what game was he playing?

  “Proof?” Michael raised a brow, appearing calm and controlled. “And does this proof consist of a dead body?”

  Nigel hesitated. “No, but—”

  Michael slapped his gloves against his palm. “That is enough. You have a week.”

  “This is preposterous.”

  Michael stared his brother down until Nigel looked away. “Good day, Nigel. It was wonderful seeing you, as usual.”

  Michael turned and headed to the door as if Nigel hadn’t spoken at all. He exited the drawing room, leaving a quivering Grace alone with Nigel.

  “I will protest, of course,” Nigel said into the room. He did not look at her, and she wondered if he remembered she was there.

  Could he protest? She was well aware that the title could not pass to Nigel while Michael was alive, but what if Nigel protested? Could someone discover Michael’s true injury? If Nigel got wind that Michael’s mind was not what it used to be then he could petition to take control of the Blackbourne fortune, and that would kill Michael.

  “How long have you known he’s alive?” Nigel spun on her, his face twisted in fury, causing Grace to step back. Apparently, he had not forgotten she was there.

  “I found out three days ago,” she said.

  “You had no i
dea?”

  “That he was alive? None.”

  “And you believe this man is your dead husband?”

  “I know this man to be my husband and your brother. Are you not somewhat happy to learn that your brother is alive? Does it mean nothing to you, or are you only concerned about losing the title?”

  “Of course I’m happy,” he said, rather too quickly. “But I have to protect the interest of the family, and I have to protect you, Grace. You are too grief-stricken to see something other than what you want to see.”

  “I see someone ravaged by war and wanting nothing more than to settle into a life he thought he lost. I see you, Nigel, being selfish and greedy.”

  “Ravaged by war?” Nigel asked, suddenly interested.

  Grace could curse herself for speaking from the heart, and she could curse Nigel for hearing only what he wanted to hear. He didn’t doubt that Michael was his brother. He was just desperately eager to hold on to a title and a fortune.

  “The least you could have done was welcome him home,” she said in disgust. “You didn’t even ask if he was well.”

  Her anger was nearly overpowering, but she managed to control it. She wasn’t angry for herself. She could have fought easily for what she wanted in the last year, but she had chosen not to because her energy had been spent mourning her husband. Her anger was directed at Nigel and his attitude toward Michael.

  “You are despicable.” Grace swept out of the room. She smiled at Alfred as she left, but it was strained. Michael was pacing outside of the carriage. When he spotted her, he wordlessly helped her into the carriage and shut the door behind them, not waiting for George to help them and they immediately rolled away.

  Strangely, she understood Nigel’s anger and fear. Her life had been turned upside down once before. She knew what it felt like to be uprooted, to not know what was going to happen next, and to have to leave your home so another could take up residence.

  “When did my brother become such a bastard?” Michael asked when he was settled on the opposite seat. “He treated you ill, didn’t he, Grace?”