by Jo Beverley
“A bedroom,” she repeated firmly. “Millie and I can take care of him. I don’t want to give you extra work.”
“Her?” Mrs. Yockenthwait said with a scathing look at the snoring maid.
“It’s not her fault. She gets tired. And cold, even bundled in shawls.”
“Aye, her mother were the same. But she can’t be much use to you.”
“She has to work for someone, and I have little need of fancy care.”
The woman shrugged. “Leave him down here, milady. He’ll do well enough on the floor, and it’s warm by the fire.”
“When there are beds upstairs? That seems uncharitable.”
Rosamunde knew her insistence must seem strange, but she was coming to understand her own reasons. He was of respectable origins, she was sure, and not out of place above stairs. More than that, he was hers. Her cause. Her living parable. Down here, he’d be out of her orbit, firmly consigned to the servant ranks. Upstairs, he would be hers to care for, just for a little while.
“Happen he’s not used to a fine bed,” the woman said with Yorkshire stubbornness.
Rosamunde was a Yorkshire woman, too. “Then it’ll feel all the better to him, won’t it?”
Mrs. Yockenthwait shook her head. “You always did have too kind a heart, Rosie Ellington.” But she said it with a hint of a smile, and her use of the familiar, childhood name was warming.
They’d run wild over this part of the North Riding, she and Diana, tumbling into trouble more often than not. The people here were used to picking them up and dusting them off, and sometimes, if they’d put themselves in danger, sending them home to be punished.
Dinah and Rosie in trouble again. Except that Dinah was in Harrogate, doubtless washing her hands of her cowardly cousin.
The men came in, and Mrs. Yockenthwait served them tea and cold pie. Rosamunde shared the simple fare. Once the meal was underway, however, Mrs. Yockenthwait took down the long warming pan from the wall. “I’ll just see to the beds, then.”
Rosamunde leaped up. “I’ll do that, Mrs. Yockenthwait. Millie will help.” She shook her maid until she spluttered awake.
“Did I doze off, milady?”
“Only for a moment. But you must come help me prepare our beds for the night. Mrs. Yockenthwait has her own work to do.”
“Good of you, dear,” said the woman, arching to ease her back. “And I’ll make up more hot bricks, too.”
Millie insisted on carrying the heavy warming pan up the stairs. Rosamunde followed to be sure she didn’t tip it. They went first to the front bedroom Rosamunde and Diana always shared. She tried to let Millie do the work, but the slow, almost snaillike pace broke her in the end and she seized the handle. “Why don’t you get Tom to bring up our bags, and make everything ready. I’ll finish the beds.”
Millie nodded and lumbered off.
Rosamunde ran the warming pan around the bed in the spare room, glad it was summer so there’d not be too much damp and chill. With a few bricks to help, it should keep him cozy.
Then she also ran it around Millie’s bed in the smallest room. The poor woman had such trouble keeping warm in the night, even though she slept in layers of clothes.
Leaving the warming pan in the bed the man would use, she hurried downstairs wondering whether she should send word to Wenscote to let Digby know where she was. She’d planned to stay in Harrogate for a fortnight, however, so he wouldn’t be expecting her. And it was late for a message.
She paused at the bottom of the stairs, accepting that she didn’t want to send a message. If she did, Digby would send servants to help. They’d take him off her hands…
She shook her head. She was thinking of him as more than a drunk by the wayside. They said that clothes maketh the man, but once her parable had been stripped of his ordinary clothes, he’d seemed more rather than less.
Romantic folly! She was busily translating his russet curls and splendid physique into a combination of Hercules, Horatio, and Roland! A noble knight errant—
At that, she froze.
Knight errant?
She’d sought someone like that at the masquerade.
Why wait for another masquerade?
It was such a wicked notion, she hardly dared look straight at it, but it swirled around her, taking shape like steam hitting a winter window and turning to lacy patterns of solid ice.
After all, she had to do something. Doctor Wallace warned that Digby could drop dead at any minute. She’d known it anyway, with his red face and breathlessness.
At any minute.
And then Wenscote would belong to Edward and the New Commonwealth.
On her recent journey, she and Diana had visited an estate that had already been taken over by the sect. They’d found that the tales were true. If anything, the truth was worse than she’d thought.
Members of George Cotter’s New Commonwealth had to give up life’s pleasures in favor of work and prayer, and any infractions were punished. She’d heard that if parents didn’t punish their children harshly enough—punish them for things like a girl taking off her cap, or a boy his collar—then the Cotterite “saints” did it for them, and the blood ran.
Rosamunde had seen some Cotterite children, tight inside concealing, restrictive clothes even on a hot day, looking as if they were afraid to breathe for fear of earning punishment. The only escape for the poor, trapped people was to move, to leave the land their families had lived on for generations, for centuries.
She couldn’t let this happen to Wenscote, especially as she was in no personal danger. With her widow’s portion, she would be free to leave, while the servants, and especially the tenants, would be trapped. She had the means to keep everyone safe, and had failed. Now she had been given a second chance.
A man. A stranger, who’d soon be on his way.
She had to at least try! She’d never be able to live with herself if she didn’t.
So. Though she was already trembling inside at the thought, she stuck the intent in her mind as a fact. She would do it. The only questions were about practicalities.
Such as how to get him to cooperate.
According to common wisdom and warnings, most men, especially young men, were desperate to get between a woman’s legs. In fact, it seemed they often had to be fought off, and some would resort to trickery and even abduction to have their rakish way. Every young woman knew that being alone with a man was sure to lead to wickedness and a swelling waist.
Which was exactly what she wanted. It should be as easy as picking ripe berries. And yet, she couldn’t help doubting…
“Milady? Are you all right?”
At the housekeeper’s question, Rosamunde started, realizing that she’d stood in the hall long enough to have found sheets and made the beds, never mind warm them. Sure that her wicked plan flickered around her like hell-flames, she walked briskly into the kitchen and asked the men to carry her knight, her savior, her potential partner in sin, up to his bed.
Chapter 2
She hurried ahead to give that bed an extra warming. It would never do for him to fall into a fever. She let the men slide his blankets off decently beneath the covers, but then arranged the warm bricks and tucked him in snugly.
“Do you know him, Mr. Yockenthwait?” she asked. For this to work, he had to be a stranger, someone never likely to visit these parts again.
Seth Yockenthwait shook his head. “He’s not from hereabouts, milady. And he’d hardly go unnoticed, a handsome rascal like that.”
Rosamunde looked at the man again and realized Seth was right. She’d been assessing his parts, but now she saw that they went together remarkably well. She was particularly struck by the curve of those smile-shaped lips.
Kissable.
She stepped back from the bed. Oh no! It was one thing to prepare to be a sacrifice, another entirely to lust like a wanton dairymaid for sweet kisses! This wasn’t right. But then she caught herself. You don’t get out of it that way. You’ll do it, my gi
rl, even if he’s a noble knight incarnate!
Tempted to laugh at the craziness of her thoughts, she led the way out of the room. No one must ever suspect that she had a personal interest in the man.
“We don’t know anything about him,” she said, as coolly as she could. “He could be the worst kind of scoundrel, and I won’t put anyone here in danger.” She locked the room from the outside and put the key in her pocket. “There. You needn’t worry, Mr. Yockenthwait.”
“Right you are, milady,” the man said, in the manner of a Yorkshireman who reckons women are daft, but is too wise to make a point of it.
Almost trembling with nerves, Rosamunde watched the men go downstairs, then let Millie prepare her for bed. She sent the maid to her own room and waited. Once she was sure everyone was settled for the night, she took a deep breath—
And faltered.
She couldn’t do this. She really couldn’t!
You’re not committing yourself to anything, goose. You’re just going to check on your patient.
Even so, it took a whole quarter of an hour, as measured by the tinkling chimes of the clock in the hall, before she found the courage to move. Then she forced her feet out of her room and to the door of his. She took no candle, for he might have woken and he must not see her. She turned the key as silently as possible, then slipped into the dark room, closed the door, and stayed there, back pressed to the wood as if glued.
No movement hinted that he might be awake.
Feeling like a sneak thief, she crept forward to draw back the curtains a crack, to let in thin moonlight.
He’d turned over in the bed. She supposed that was a good sign, but when she gingerly touched him, checking his pulse and temperature, he didn’t stir. He was comfortably warm and would likely live.
So, now what?
She carried a chair close to the bed and sat there, considering his shadowy form, bolstering her resolution.
Wenscote was in terrible danger. Everything had been comfortable until the spring, because the heir had not been Edward but another of Digby’s nephews, William. William, a hearty dalesman like Digby, would have taken over Wenscote and cared for it in the same generous way.
William Overton, however, had suddenly died, perhaps because he was so like Digby. At an inn near Filey, he’d eaten a large meal, drunk deep, and suffered a seizure, leaving Edward heir to Wenscote. Edward, born and raised in York, was now devoted to the New Commonwealth.
With William’s fate as warning, Digby was trying to change his ways, to live more moderately, but he did enjoy life’s pleasures. Having Edward Overton paying dutiful visits and lecturing him on the benefit of plain food and drink made him more inclined to indulge out of sheer irritation.
And then there was his belated longing for a child.
Digby had never seemed much interested in marital matters, and in recent years such things had ceased entirely. Driven by the thought of Edward, however, he had tried a few times. Her cheeks heated in the dark at memory of those failures.
Poor Digby.
That was when he’d taken to hinting Rosamunde toward this course.
“You’re a young woman, pet. It’d be only natural if you had an eye sometimes to the handsome young men.”
And: “Perhaps God will be kind to an old sinner and send him a miracle.”
Rosamunde pondered her miracle with a wry smile. It was only fanciful to imagine the man in the bed a gift of the heavens. He’d doubtless been by the road because of folly, and what she was planning was a sin, no matter how worthy the cause.
Did the end justify the means?
Yes, she really thought it did.
But then she stiffened, seeing a problem.
The masquerade had been attractive because she could have remained a mystery, even to her lover. With an inheritance at stake, that was essential. When this man left, he’d know where he’d been, and could easily find out whom he’d been with.
She settled her chin on her hand and tussled with the problem, wishing Diana was here to help. She was a much more devious plotter. What would Diana come up with?
A false name! Both for herself and this place. That would be easy, especially if she kept him in this room and didn’t let the Yockenthwaits near him. In fact, the taciturn couple could probably be relied on to keep the secret if asked. Millie would do as she was bid.
What name? What would throw him well off the path if he thought to find her, but not endanger anyone else’s reputation? With a touch of wicked humor, she chose the name Gillsett. Gillsett was the name of eccentric elderly sisters who ran a remote farm in Arkengarthdale. Anyone who sought her up there would find a dead end.
That left the problem of setting him free without his knowing where he’d been. Of course. She’d simply get him dead drunk again.
Like a tumbling stream, certainty flowed through her, strong and clear. It was right. It would work. It was meant to be.
Anyway, once away from here, he wouldn’t search for her. The world was full of men who ignored the women they had lain with, who ran from the babies they fathered. She couldn’t remember a single case of a man making an effort to track one down.
So—she rubbed her hands nervously down her thighs—it was just a question of getting him to do the necessary. That should be no problem. Men were like bulls and rams, weren’t they? Given a chance at a female, they took it. If he woke up to find a woman in his bed…
Rosamunde’s heart began to pound and she swallowed to ease a dry throat. Could she really do that?
She must.
She wouldn’t be a coward anymore.
She drew the curtains tight again, then took off her dressing gown, placing it neatly with unsteady hands on the chair back. After a frozen moment, she eased under the covers, onto the very edge of the warm feather bed.
If anything, it was too warm, so she removed one cloth-wrapped brick. Then she tried to get comfortable. It was not strange to sleep with someone, for she’d done so since her marriage, but here the man was settled in the middle.
She wriggled as close as she dared—
Mercy me! She’d forgotten he was naked. It shouldn’t make any difference, but it seemed the wickedest thing imaginable to be lying next to a naked man.
No. Not the wickedest.
She was trying very hard to commit adultery.
That was the wickedest.
She made herself prepare her mind for the act. No panicking at the last moment!
It was a simple business. He’d pull up her nightgown, move over her, and poke around until he got it in. He’d push in and out a bit until his seed escaped, then roll over to go back to sleep. Perhaps he’d even forget it had happened.
All she’d need to do would be to let him.
She took some deep, steadying breaths, telling herself again and again that she could do that. Let him. After a moment, to make it even easier, she eased the front of her nightgown all the way up to her waist.
When nothing happened, she made herself edge even closer so her naked thigh was in contact with his.
Then she softly laughed at herself.
What? Did she expect him to wake from his drunken stupor as if she were smelling salts waved under his nose? What an idiot she was! He was dead drunk still, and was probably going to sleep the night away. He could hardly be overtaken by lust until he was conscious.
Blinking back some tears—part laughter, part pain—she decided she might as well go and sleep in her own bed.
She didn’t though.
It was easier to stay with the familiarity of a warm body beside her. And heaven knew when he’d wake. It could be late tomorrow, but it could be within hours. She had to be here when he did.
Perfectly aware that she was behaving strangely, Rosamunde turned to snuggle closer to her unconscious, wastrel knight, her unsuspecting lover, her heaven-sent savior. Gently, she let his warmth and soft breathing lull her into sleep.
Dark. Pain.
Agony!
; He raised his hands to hold his splitting head together, astonished to find that it wasn’t in fact expanding and contracting with every heartbeat.
Where the devil was he?
What had happened to his head?
When he opened his eyes a hink, he saw nothing.
Blind! Was he blind?
But then his frantic eyes caught a slit of lighter darkness. Surely a crack in heavy curtains showing night outside. Please God, let it be so.
Pain in his belly. Cramps. Not as bad as his head, but bad enough. He prayed not to be sick. If he threw up, he’d likely choke because he was never, ever going to move his head again.
Staying perfectly still, he began to notice other things. He was in a bed. Quite a comfortable bed.
He was naked. They wouldn’t put a grievously ill man to bed naked, would they?
Someone was with him.
They lay a little apart, but he could hear regular, sleeping exhalations. A woman? It would explain his lack of clothing, but…
What the devil had he been up to?
It could be a man—a fellow traveler, a fellow drinker, collapsed with him. He risked movement, stretching out an inquiring hand.
Female surely. He picked up the faint scent of flowers that had spoken to his instincts. In a nightgown. Strange, that. He couldn’t remember ever enjoying a woman and leaving her nightclothes on.
Perhaps she was excessively modest, but that wasn’t his type either.
Who was she?
He had no idea.
No idea even of possibilities.
‘Struth, what a mess!
He must have drunk a barrelful to have a head like this, and to not remember the woman. What was he going to say to her in the morning?
Where had he drunk so much? He should know that.
He should remember starting to drink. He scrabbled for a place, a name, a picture—
And fell into a terrifying void. Where his memory should be, lay only emptiness.