by Mason, Nina
After the housekeeper left her, Maggie made up her mind to submit to Hugh’s authority until such time as she was freed from his thrall, be it by her own wits, her husband’s return, the wrath of God, or all three.
Chapter Nine
Robert came back to himself in a strange bed with no idea where he was or how he came to be there. Had he visited a brothel or picked up a serving wench in a tavern? Strangely, he could not recall the slightest detail of the evening before. He must have been very drunk indeed, he thought, for he’d suffered memory lapses before, but none as severe as this one.
Daylight shone through the cracks in the heavy red-velvet bed curtains. Oh, dear. ’Twas morning and the king would not be pleased when he failed to report for duty as Page of the Bedchamber. As he reached to draw back one of the drapes, the motion detonated an explosion of pain across his skull.
God’s wounds! I must have been deep in my cups indeed.
Raising his hands to his head, he got a shock. Two shocks, actually. The first was a strip of cloth encircled his head, suggesting he’d sustained an injury. The second was his hair was gone. Shaved to the scalp he’d been.
He dredged his memory for aught willing to come forth. The image of a castle rose from the shadows and with it, the strange, vague sense someone waited for him there. But who? He was unmarried and a Page of the Bedchamber for His Majesty the King. His father had sent him from Scotland to London to be of service to the monarch.
He could hardly blame his old man for wanting to be rid of him. Had he been in his father’s shoes, he would have done the same.
Grimacing against the headache, Robert yanked back the bed curtain. The rings made a grating sound that set his teeth on edge. A pine table beside the bed held a bloodletting bowl and a small brown bottle of some sort of physic.
Laudanum, probably.
The only other things within view were a fireplace whose heat had been banked for the night and the closed door to the rest of the dwelling. Silver candlesticks stood upon the mantle along with a pair of porcelain dogs. All in all, the chamber appeared far too middle class to be a brothel.
“Hello there,” he shouted at the door. “I say, is anyone about?”
Moments later, the door swung partway open and a face peeked around the edge. A very appealing face framed by auburn curls.
“You are awake,” she observed.
“’Twould seem that I am.” He forced an amiable smile through the pain in his cranium. “What is this place? Why am I here? And who the devil cut off my hair?”
She came a little ways into the room. She wore a simple day frock of the pale green shade called celadon. Her figure was as becoming as her face.
“I am terribly sorry about your lovely head of hair,” she said. “But we really had no choice.”
“We?”
She nodded. “My father and I. He found you several days ago and brought you here to dress the wound on your scalp.”
A jumble of questions besieged his mind. He asked the first one that made its way to his vocal chords. “Found me where?”
“In an alleyway, clad in naught but a bloodied shirt,” she said. “Somebody had beaten you senseless, deprived you of all your worldly goods, and left you for dead. Leastwise, that is what my father believes happened to you.”
Her account distressed him, both for its dreadfulness and because he remembered naught of what she’d relayed.
“Is your father a physician then?”
She nodded again. “He is Sir George Wakeman, the physician to Queen Catherine. You might know the name because he was acquitted last year after being falsely accused of attempting to poison the king at the queen’s behest.”
He did not know the name, though, were her story true—and why she should invent such a slander involving her own father, he could not comprehend—he bloody well ought to have known of the incident. He worked for the king, after all, and was not always inebriated out of his senses. Only most of the time.
“I should like to speak with your father at once.”
“I am afraid that is impossible.” She wrung her hands. “He has gone to luncheon with Mr. Jones, the apothecary, and will not return for at least another hour.”
This struck him as odd. As did her seeming discomfort at the mention of the apothecary. “We are alone in the house?”
“Yes, apart from the domestics.”
“And your father does not think it improper to leave his daughter unchaperoned with a total stranger? For all he knows, I might be a dangerous criminal. Or worse, a shameless libertine.”
He was a shameless libertine, as it happened. And she looked ripe for the plucking.
“I am quite sure he did not expect you would awaken before his return,” she said. “Besides which, I doubt, even were you the worst sort of ne’er-do-well, you’d find strength enough in your current state to make improper advances.”
She was correct. Whoever had beaten him did more than injure his head. His ribs were so sore he barely had the strength to sit upright—an unfortunate circumstance given how desperately he needed to urinate.
“Do you work as his nurse?” he asked.
“Yes, but I am also his protégé.”
This impressed him, for he favored intelligent, independent women—a breed in short supply in the sphere in which he circulated. Controlling, manipulative women, damn the wretched lot, were plentiful.
“In that case, might I trouble you for a chamber pot and some assistance?” He gave her most self-effacing smile. “I do not think I can hold my water until your father returns.”
Coming toward the bed, she bent over to retrieve the commode from underneath. “My sincerest apologies.” She handed the pot to him. “How thoughtless of me not to realize you’d need to empty your bladder.”
As she drew back the bedclothes, he glanced down the length of his body. He wore only a nightshirt, which did little to hide his embarrassingly obvious engorgement.
Adding to his shame, she settled her gaze directly upon the tell-tale tenting.
He cleared his throat, equally mortified by her notice of his condition and his need of her assistance. “If lending your assistance would not trouble you overmuch, I could use some help. Perhaps you could position the pot whilst I take aim?”
“Yes, of course.” She took the commode from him and, with eager hands, attempted to maneuver the porcelain bowl into the appropriate position. “Will this do?”
He’d rather not expose himself to the lass, who could not have been more than eighteen, but the call of nature outshouted his modesty. He lifted his shirt, took his aching cock in hand, and targeted the bowl. He strained to push the stream through his constricted urethra, and, by and by, hot urine spouted forth.
Ah, what blessed relief!
“Is there anything else I can get you?” she asked with a smile.
Though he did not wish to be a bother, he was quite hungry. “Would a wee bit of broth be too much trouble?”
“No trouble at all.”
Before she left the room, she opened the remaining bed curtains and poked the fire. After several minutes during which he took inventory of his injuries, she returned with a tray bearing a steaming bowl and a spoon, which she set across his lap.
As he sipped the broth, which, though watery, satisfied his hunger, she sat in the armchair beside the fire.
“If only you were a libertine,” she mused with a sigh.
He blinked at her, part puzzled, part intrigued. “Indeed? And why would you make such an odd statement?”
“My father is not merely lunching with the apothecary.” She looked petulant all of a sudden. “He is arranging my betrothal to the odious man.”
“You do not care for Mr. Jones?”
“I cannot bear the sight of him.” Her voice cracked and there were tears in her eyes. “And even if I found his appearance and manners tolerable—which I absolutely do not—he is a relic with a shiny bald head and hands that are gnarled, bony, and covered in ho
rrid brown spots! How can I abide the touch of such repugnant hands? How can I bear knowing such hands will be the only ones ever to touch me?”
With a forceful sigh, she slumped in her chair and dashed at her tears. “Woe is me! I shall never know the great passion of Juliette, Isolde, or Heloise. ’Tis too much to be borne. But, alas, my fate is sealed. I must marry the man my father decrees or surely be disowned.”
He offered her a sympathetic smile. “Forgive me for saying so, but you would seem to be firmly wedged betwixt the proverbial rock and hard place.”
She sat up straighter, her expression brightening. “I might have to marry the man, but I do not have to go to him as a maiden. ’Tis not as if he’d know the difference, assuming he can still get it up.”
The steamy look in her emerald eyes made her meaning clear. Was he up for it? Not in his present condition, but later on when he’d recovered enough to accomplish the deed, he saw no reason not to help her out. God knew, he’d put his tarse up enough petticoats by now to negate any claims of morality or particularity. He only asked for willingness and a wee bit of beauty if the light was good. And this lass, with her long-lashed eyes and dewy youthfulness, met both his criteria.
“How good are you at keeping secrets?”
“Very good, my lord.”
“Obviously, I cannot grant your request at present but may be able to in a few days’ time,” he said, giving her a good, long look. “But before I agree to do you this service, I must ascertain how good you are at keeping secrets. ’Twould not do for your father to find me out and force me to do right by you. I am not in the market for a wife at present and, even if I were…”
The thought trailed off as Maggie York’s lovely image burst like sudden sunshine through the haze clouding his mind. Just like that, he remembered. He planned to marry his sister’s companion, whom he’d been secretly in love with her for an age.
“Are you all right, my lord? All at once, you look pale and peaky.”
“I’m fine. I’ve only just remembered something. Well, someone, I should say.”
“Your sweetheart?”
“Not exactly,” he said. “Just someone of whom I am fond.”
“Someone you are obliged to be faithful to?”
“Nay.” He shook his head and the pain made him instantly regret the movement. “I am obliged to be true to none but myself. And the king, of course.”
“Are you acquainted with the king or merely a loyal subject?”
“I am a Page of the Bedchamber for His Majesty.” Muddled, he added, “Though why I should remember that much and little else puzzles me exceedingly.”
She rose from the chair, came to his bedside, and touched his arm. “Your memory may come back in time. And we will not be found out.”
He set his hand atop hers, which was soft, delicate, and warm, and locked his gaze with hers. “However much guilt you may come to feel afterward, you must never speak of it to anyone. Not your father, not your husband, not even your cleric. If you must ease your conscience, let the confession be to God alone.”
“You have my solemn vow.” A smile brightened her lovely eyes. “I shall never even deign to mention your name.” With a laugh, she added, “Not that I know it.”
He opened his mouth to tell her but, to his astonishment, he could not seem to summon the information—only that he was the first son of a duke and served the king as a page. He decided not to tell her about his father, in case she got ideas. Single ladies, he’d found, could spin elaborate webs to ensnare the heir of a titled nobleman. Even one who lived in Bumfuck, Scotland.
Not knowing his name might prove fortuitous, actually. The less she knew of him, the less shagging her could come back to bite him in the arse. He just hoped the missing pieces would return to him in due course.
“’Twould be better perhaps if I remained nameless.”
“Very well.” She stroked his arm through his shirtsleeve. “But I shall need some name to call you by, for the sake of convenience if naught else.”
“If you must call me something, make it John.”
“John? How common. Why not something romantic, like Romeo or Lancelot or even Lothario?”
“Because they all were unhappy.”
“They knew passion. And thus, I envy them.”
God help him. He’d entangled himself with a die-hard romantic. If he broke her heart, he’d never forgive himself.
“Perhaps we ought to forget the whole mad idea,” he suggested with a wave of his hand.
“Nonsense.” She bent over him to administer a swift peck on the lips. “When you are better, we shall become lovers. And in times hence, when I must see to my husband’s needs, I shall close my eyes, think upon the passion we shared, and be content.”
* * * *
Maggie endured another week of exploitation and servitude before she was able to steal a moment to write the planned appeal for help. Though the window of opportunity was small, she struggled with the task for several minutes—partly because she was unsure how to word such a request and partly because she knew the entreaty would indebt her to someone she’d rather owe nothing.
Much as she wished to avoid the acquaintance on moral grounds, she could think of no one else to contact. And, at the end of the day, she’d prefer to be beholding to an undeserving father than in the dark about the fate of her beloved husband.
Please God, let Robert still be alive and well!
She’d decided not to mention Hugh in the letter. What would she say? “Help, I’m being held prisoner by my husband’s evil brother?” Though true enough, such a claim would sound like the ravings of a madwoman.
Heaving a sigh, she brushed the stiff feather end of the quill pen back and forth across her chin. Now that she’d settled upon what not to include, she needed to decide what she ought to write, starting with the salutation. How did one address such a letter?
Dear Duke?
Your Royal Highness?
Dear Father?
Deciding “Dear Father” was probably the best way to compel his assistance, she dipped her pen in the bottle of ink and began to scratch out the words.
“I am in receipt of your letter,” she wrote below the greeting.
Now what?
I was pleased to receive it?
No, that did not ring true, but she could hardly express what she’d really felt and then go on to ask a favor.
“’Twas good of you to reach out,” she benignly wrote instead.
Why had he reached out? Did he truly wish to be a father to her? Did he truly care? She found it hard to believe either could be the case when he’d not tried harder to find her—if, indeed, he’d tried at all.
She pulled on her lip with her teeth. Maybe Robert was right. Maybe ’twould have made no difference in terms of her material comforts. But knowing she had a father would have made a tremendous difference in terms of her emotional well-being. Had she known there was someone out there who cared about her, she might not have felt so forlorn.
So utterly alone and abandoned.
Now, she resented his desertion. And the lack of moral fortitude that brought her into this world. She did not want to know him and yet, at the same time, she longed to know him. He was her father, her family, her blood.
“I would be happy to call upon you and your wife when next you are in Scotland,” she wrote, then scowled down at the words. Happy was not quite what she would feel, but the sentiment would have to do. For there was no time to start the letter over. In fact, she’d be lucky to finish this one before she was found out.
“In the meanwhile, I hope you will permit me to beg a favor…”
After hurriedly penning the rest of her request, she folded, sealed, and addressed the sheet before looking about for a safe place to hide the communique. ’Twould not do for Hugh to uncover her scheme before she’d had a chance to put her plan into play, especially since she had no back-up strategy.
The thud of approaching footsteps reached her ears
just as she rose from the dressing table. Heart hammering, she raced to the bed, shoved the letter under the mattress, and returned to the dressing table.
She reclaimed her seat before the looking glass just as the door creaked open. A quick sideways glance confirmed her worst fear. The ill-timed intruder was indeed Hugh.
“What do you do in here so secretly?”
His accusatory tone accelerated her already racing pulse. “’Tis no secret. My hands have grown chapped—a consequence of my new chores—and I was applying the salve of comfrey I keep for the purpose. For your sake, of course, dear brother. Surely, you would not enjoy my touch half so much if my hands became rough and calloused from work.”
“How thoughtful you are.” His voice was steeped in a blend of sarcasm and suspicion. “But the salve can wait until I’ve shared my news.”
“News? What sort of news?"
“News of my brother.” He set a hand on her shoulder. “Prepare yourself, Maggie, for the tidings I bear are not of the pleasant sort.” He cleared his throat and took a breath as if preparing to make a public address—or, more aptly, an important monologue in a play. “Moments ago, I received confirmation of your husband’s fate. He was accosted, as I’ve long suspected, by highwaymen en route to London and—now, brace yourself—sustained multiple stab wounds. The result of playing the hero, no doubt, as he was always wont to do.” He shook his head, released a sigh, and met her gaze in the looking glass. “As much as it pains me to be the bearer of such grievous tidings, fate has chosen me for the role. Thus, the long and the short of it is as follows: you are now a confirmed widow and I have taken my brother’s place as duke. So, your vassalage has become a permanent state of being. Unless you’d rather return to the convent or go to Paris to earn your own way on your back.”
“I shall stay,” she said, smiling to hide the smoke of her smoldering inner embers. “For the time being, leastwise.”
If she did not stay, she could not correspond with her father or learn the truth about Robert. On top of which, she had no desire to become either nun or whore. Plus, she had nowhere else to go. Not that she believed for one second Hugh would let her escape so easily. He must know the moment she was free of him she would tell someone about his ill-treatment of her. Thus, his offer to let her go was naught but a game of some sort. A key offered only to be snatched away.