by Lynn Kerstan
Jillian curtsied again. “Your Toadship,” she murmured under her breath before stalking out.
Margaret, close enough to read her lips, chuckled softly. “How long will you be gone, Mark?”
“A week at most. Have no fear, I’ll be back in plenty of time to rescue you.”
“Don’t hurry on my account. We’ll do fine without you . . . better, I suspect.”
The Earl kissed her wrist with deliberate gallantry. “You are a brave lady, best of aunts. Good luck.”
“Your confidence overwhelms me. And, Mark . . .” He paused at the door, glancing back over his shoulder. “When you return, be prepared for a surprise.”
Chapter Thirteen
MARK CAUGHT HIMSELF staring at the brandy decanter and he buried his face in his hands. There was no chance he’d start drinking, because he could only risk a drink when he didn’t need one. Then, too, the decanter was on the sideboard, and not even for a drink he didn’t need would he walk over to get it. Nor would he build up the fire, which he sorely wished to do. It hurt too much to move.
This was the first really bad night he’d had in weeks, and he knew from experience that nothing short of opiates would help. Abandoning any notion of sleep, he’d come down to the library in trousers and shirtsleeves, hoping work would distract him from the pain. He’d even given thought to reading Jillian’s letters at long last, but the bottom drawer was stuck and he was unable to apply enough leverage to wrench it open. Just as well. He was in no mood to be jumped on, even by mail.
Lifting his gaze to the clock, just striking eleven, he groaned aloud. There would be no sleep for him tonight, and tomorrow’s journey would have to be postponed. He’d not be able to drive even if the devils in his back stopped dancing in spurred boots. Well, one more day would make no difference, and Jillian would be out of the house in the morning, blessedly dispatched to torment Margaret.
As if his brief delight at being rid of the daemon had summoned her, Jillian knocked lightly and cracked open the door. “Is someone here?” she called.
“No,” replied the Earl, wincing when she took that for permission to enter.
“What luck,” she chirruped, bouncing across the room with a wide smile on her face. The smile vanished when she got near enough to see his face in the dim lamplight and dying fire. “Oh my,” she said softly, coming to an abrupt halt.
Where did she find that peculiar color? he wondered distractedly. It seemed that everything she owned was muddy green, even her voluminous flannel nightgown and equally repulsive robe. “You should be in bed, young lady,” he informed her crisply. “You have a busy day tomorrow.”
For once, she failed to bristle at his patronizing tone and only gazed solemnly at him, head tilted to one side like a bird. There was a clutch of paper in her hand, crunched as her fingers tightened.
What would it take to get rid of her? he wondered, knowing himself incapable of physically ejecting a moth. “Good night, Miss Lamb,” he tried, raking a long disapproving look down her slight torso when she didn’t move. Finally, he picked up his pen and added a meaningless scrawl to the list of instructions he’d been preparing for Barrows.
After what seemed like a very long time, he lifted his head and found her perched on the edge of the wing chair, gnawing on her lower lip and regarding him with that same intent, assessing look.
“I’d intended to leave these for you,” she said, lifting the papers, “but I wasn’t sure of the best place.
Now here you are. They are letters, for my housekeeper and Jock and one or two others. Will you take them with you?”
“Certainly. Place them on that table by the door. On your way out.”
“Yes,” she murmured. “Also, I drew a map for you, of the neighborhood. Things get tricky once you leave the main road.”
He could only imagine what pit he’d stumble into if he followed Jillian’s directions.
“It’s a real map, to the Downs,” she said. “Honestly. No false detours.”
He laughed at that, regretting it instantly as screws twisted into his spine. “Thank you,” he managed to say gruffly. “Some business has come up, and chances are the trip will be postponed a day or two, but that will not affect you. Be ready at ten o’clock.”
“I’m ready now,” she said. “Was there anything else you’d like to say to me? Last-minute orders?”
“Not a one, brat. You are Lady Ramsey’s charge, beginning at this moment. Run along now and let me get some work done.”
“Yes, My Lord.” Subdued, she rose and padded toward the door.
Her uncharacteristic silence was disturbing. “Would you do me a kindness,” he said impulsively, “and add wood to the fire before you go?” Nodding, still without a word, Jillian knelt by the hearth and painstakingly built the coals into a warm blaze. Her little body, swathed in flannel and wool, was limned with red-gold. Her hair, as if caught by the flames, seemed to be on fire. Like a candle, he thought, wondering what was going on in her devious mind.
Jillian was thinking that she must get out of the room before she did something incredibly stupid and embarrassing. The Earl would sooner dive into a pit of snakes than let her touch him. But dear Lord, how he was hurting! She could feel his pain against her own back.
There was nothing she could do. He would never listen to her. It would make him angry if she even brought up the subject, and the last thing he needed was more tension. Besides, it suited her purposes that he would be unable to travel tomorrow. She ought to be elated. Marcel’s carrier would be granted an extra day to get to Choppingsworth Downs, and her staff would have more time to prepare for the Earl’s invasion.
She didn’t dare look at him again as she left. Gaze fixed on the carpet, Jillian remembered to place the envelopes and map on the table by the door and nearly made it into the hall before swinging around. The delay was welcome, but not like this. Not at such a price. She came halfway across the room’ and stopped. “I can help you,” she said.
The Earl didn’t blink. “I don’t know what you mean.”
Jillian moved to the chair and sat with her hands folded in her lap. “Perhaps the pain has dulled your mind,” she said with a tiny smile, “but more likely you are a bullheaded male too bloody proud to accept help.”
“I occasionally have problems with my back,” he conceded, “and they will go away in their own good time. I assure you, Miss Lamb, nothing can help.”
“It is your unfortunate habit,” she mocked, “to object first and think later. Shall we try to reverse that procedure?” Her lips curled. “Did I get it right, My Lord?”
He could not fail to recognize his own stilted words, thrown back in his face with devilish accuracy. And he’d thought the minx never listened to him! “What do you imagine you could do, my dear?” he inquired curiously.
Her tone was as serious as the gaze she fixed on him. “My father suffered with his back all of his life. Everything was tried to give him some relief, but nothing short of laudanum was any real help until he came back from China with Lo Ming. She was a tiny woman, smaller even than I, on her way to join her husband in America. Father paid her passage when she agreed to spend a few months at the Downs instructing Dr. Kinwiddy in her techniques. That stubborn old man was too set in his ways to even try, but An . . . one of the servants studied with her, and so did I. It was a long time ago and I’ve not practiced in years, but I’m nearly certain I’ll remember enough to make you feel better. Probably well enough so you can leave tomorrow, if you truly wish it.”
“Has this anything to do with needles?” he asked suspiciously.
“Dear me, no. But you seem to be acquainted with Oriental methods.”
“Only from books,” he admitted. “Well, then, what was it you learned from this Lo Ming woman?”
“Amma,” she said. “Like all Chinese characters, it
has many translations, but one of them is calm with the hand.”
“Ah. I understand now. As it happens, Foxworth often gives me a good rubdown, but I assure you that would be of no help tonight.”
“This ‘is something else altogether, My Lord. I cannot explain it very well, because Lo Ming spoke little English and we concentrated on practice rather than theory. Amma derives from the belief that something like energy—she called it ch’i—flows like a stream along meridians in the body, passing through wells called tsubos. There are hundreds of those, but I know only a few. They are the places where you can most easily make contact with ch’i, and channel the flow until it runs freely again.”
“Dare I ask how that is accomplished?”
Jillian held out her thumbs. “Mostly with these. The meridians are traced, and pressure is applied to the tsubos.”
“Very interesting,” the Earl said dryly, “but quite impossible. You ought not even be in this house, let alone in a room alone with me. My suebows will have to find their own channels, Miss Lamb. And you must—”
“I knew you would say that, of course,” she interrupted. “While I cannot answer for the theory, the results speak for themselves if you will only let them. Truly, what have you to lose, My Lord? No one knows we are here. We can invite Mr. Foxworth to observe, if you require a chaperone, and perhaps he will learn a few things.”
“Foxworth is out for the evening,” said the Earl, “and a valet is scarcely an adequate chaperone in any case. I do appreciate your concern, Miss Lamb, and your generous offer, although I must say that it astonishes me. We have not precisely been on the best of terms. Why would you even wish to help me?”
Jillian sighed. “For the same reason I would release a wolf caught in a trap . . . if he let me close enough. You should listen to your own lectures, My Lord. The ones about trusting. About trying new things and not having a closed mind.”
He chuckled. Hoist again on his own petard. “Find me a male practitioner of these mysteries, Miss Lamb, and I shall gladly open my mind. But in the meantime, you can best help me by taking yourself off like a proper young lady, and I wish you pleasant dreams.”
“I am not here,” she said calmly. “I am dreaming now and so are you. This is not real. Tomorrow morning, it will not have happened. It will never be spoken of, even with a look.”
The pain must have dulled his mind indeed, because for a brief moment the Earl wanted to comply. His forehead was clammy, and it was all he could do to keep a slight smile on his face and a long moan buried in his throat. He’d even have swallowed laudanum if she spooned it out right now.
Jillian was proceeding as if he’d already agreed. “Stretch out here, on the carpet, facedown. Not too close to the fire.”
Of their own accord, his legs straightened. I must be mad, he thought. Without meaning to, he levered himself stiffly from the chair. “This does not require . . . uh . . . any removal of clothing?”
She bit back a smile. “The technique uses no oil, so fabric is necessary to prevent friction. My father preferred a long swath of silk draped over his bare back.”
“I prefer a horse blanket,” he countered, unable to suppress a grin when she pointed a firm finger at the carpet. “Oh, very well, Miss Lamb. So long as I am dreaming, I may as well do it on the floor.” Flinching as devils skated up and down his spine, he gingerly lowered himself onto the thick rug.
Jillian considerately turned around to spare his pride, and when he was settled she knelt at his waist. “You will be more comfortable if you fold your arms under your head.”
He obeyed, and his white cambric shirt stretched tautly over knotted muscles. Lord, what a beautiful man, she thought. His fawn doeskin breeches fitted snugly from waist to ankle, and even his bare feet were perfectly sculpted. Jillian swallowed hard and counted to ten. This is my father, she told herself, summoning a mental discipline that seemed oddly elusive. This is a helpless creature caught in a trap. This is a wolf. That image was not particularly reassuring.
“Above all, you must relax,” she said, schooling her voice to the mesmerizing drone Lo Ming always used. Lo Ming naturally spoke incomprehensible Chinese, but her tone was compelling. Jillian tried to match it. “Concentrate on breathing,” she murmured. “Breathe very slowly, in and out. Feel your lungs expand. Release the air gently. Find a rhythm that is comfortable and hold to it, because I need to sense that rhythm. The pressure will be applied when you breathe out, while your body is most at rest.” After a few moments, she placed her hands on his shoulders and felt the automatic tensing she’d expected at the first touch.
“For now I will simply rub your back and shoulders,” she said. “As I touch each place, feel it go limp. Let your mind fold in upon itself. Think of nothing but breathing. Tension will flow out of you like a warm stream.”
Her fingers began to knead his shoulders, moving slowly inwards until she massaged the back of his neck with a firm, rhythmic pressure. Always she spoke to him, tuning to his response. He was trying too hard, she decided after a while. He was too aware of her. She sat back on her heels. “My Lord Earl,” she said, “you are a slab of rock. You could be planted at Stonehenge and no one would suspect you hadn’t been there for centuries.”
“This cannot work,” he mumbled. “I was trying. Honestly.”
“You were analyzing,” she corrected. “I can almost hear the gears clicking in your head. Remember, you are not here. You have no part of this. And I am not here. Imagine you are dreaming that you are a feather. Let yourself lift upwards and float. My hands are the currents of a breeze. Float and breathe. Nothing more. You are one with the wind.”
Her voice was a soft breeze at his ear as her fingers stroked lightly over his shoulders. When they moved up he floated upward with her and the wind lifted his hair, caressing his scalp, feeling unbearably wonderful. After a long time, he lost himself in the soft voice and gentle touches, only vaguely aware of her hands until they settled . . . unmistakably . . . on his buttocks.
He jerked up, falling back with a groan of pain. “Very foolish,” she chided, still kneading his taut derriere. “You know better than to move suddenly. And remember, I am not here.”
“But your h—hands,” he choked, “very definitely are . . . there. Stay above the waist, Miss Lamb.” The hands moved lower, to the backs of his thighs, and her palms pushed hard against the long muscles. “There are no hands,” she insisted, still in the constant, soft tone that allowed no objection. “Only light and heat. Feel it. Yield to it. Let it carry you away.”
“I cannot,” he gritted.
“Light and heat,” she repeated. “The back is yang, carrying energy from the heart, outward, down your legs, and through your arms, and up to your head.” Her hands moved with her voice, softly, slowly. “There are only three centers I know of that are yang. They must all be reached with the light and the heat. Nothing else can touch you.”
Minutes later, when she was certain her long gliding strokes had soothed him into a mindless acceptance, she began to apply the steady pressure with her thumbs—first to the points low on the sides of his buttocks, holding while she counted to fifteen, alert for any sign of pain. Then, with a rolling motion of her hands against his spine, she moved to the point between his back and shoulders and pressed hard, counting again; The third point was at the base of his skull. She used her forefingers there, repeating the whole series three times.
The technique was usually energizing, and because she wanted him relaxed, Jillian followed by rhythmically kneading his back and shoulders for several minutes. Then she massaged his neck and scalp for a long time. Much longer than was strictly necessary, because from his steady breathing she knew he’d fallen asleep.
Sitting back on her heels, she regarded him in the flickering light. How beautiful he. was, soft with sleep. Once more she let her fingers settle on his ruffled hair, the light b
rown almost golden in the firelight, and gazed somberly at the handsome profile of the man she was going to find it very hard to despise from now on.
What a terrible mistake this had been. She had eased his pain for a time, but the consequences for her were disastrous. Likely he’d be able to travel in the morning, so she’d sacrificed the advantage of his delay. But worse, so much worse, was that she could never look at him again without remembering.
She had lied when she told him there would be no tomorrow. She would never forget the agony in his eyes, the reluctant, almost desperate yielding, the final acceptance, the sweet peace of his quiet sleep. Was anything as irresistible as a strong man in pain? Or as beautiful as his face when the pain was gone?
Jillian came to her feet and stared down at him. “How dare you do this to me?” she murmured. The Earl of Coltrane had been nothing to her. An obstacle. A great rock draped in impeccable clothing. An enemy it gave her pleasure to confound. And now the dratted man had the nerve to become . . . a man. A very handsome, disturbingly masculine, vulnerable, brave, flesh-and-blood man.
Carefully, she added a log to the fire and risked one more glance at his long body stretched out on the carpet. The feel of him was imprinted on her hands. The scent of him was in her nostrils. And the pain that had been in him now resided near her heart.
Unlike Mark Delacourt, she would not sleep well tonight.
Chapter Fourteen
MARK SET OUT AT dawn, making his escape before Jillian was up and stirring. Dear Lord, the things she’d done. The things he’d let her do. He must have been mad. She’d actually put her hands right on his no, he wouldn’t think about it. Like she said, it was all a dream. None of it happened. Never mind that the debilitating pain was nearly gone and that he’d slept better on that library floor than he’d slept in weeks. Whatever she didn’t do worked very well, and he’d have thanked her if he could have brought himself to face her.