by Cheryl Bolen
Chapter 12
Fully dressed, Harry stood before their bed the following morning, offering Louisa a cup of hot tea.
She opened first one eye, then the other.
"Good morning, my dear," he said.
She rubbed her eyes. "I'm not your dear."
"I expect you have the headache from the wine you drank last night." He handed her a glass. "Here, I've made you an elixir that has served me well when I've . . .shall we say, over imbibed?"
She shot him an angry look, pulled herself up to a sitting position, and took the proffered drink.
"How's the head?" he asked.
"Quite as awful as you think it is." She drank from the glass, then made a face of disgust. "That odious concoction had better work."
"You have my word on it that it does." He continued to watch her, thankful her woolen night shift climbed up to her throat.
She swung her leg over the side of the bed, and to his surprise she began to lift the wool to reveal her knee -- with not a shred of modesty on her part.
Then he saw that her knee was bruised and swollen, and he moved to her, kneeling at her feet. He gently moved her calf down, then back up. "I don't believe it's broken," he said. "Since you did not scream with pain at movement, I'm guessing it only hurts when you put weight on it."
She nodded solemnly.
"Stay off it for a couple of days, and I believe it will mend," he said.
She frowned, then reached for the cup of tea he he'd brought and took a sip. "The chamber's far colder now than it was last night."
He got up and walked to the hearth where he picked up a poker and stirred. "The fire's died, and I asked that the maid not disturb you to lay a new one."
She nodded appreciatively. "Also, I believe it's turned colder outside."
"To be sure," he said, his back still to her. "I just came from the stables, and I can attest to that."
A moment later he sat in a wooden chair facing her and watched silently as she drank her tea.
She set down her cup and gave him a quizzing look. "Why is it you know so much of wounds and of other things a gentleman of substance is not supposed to know? What is it you did those twelve years? How did you really make your fortune?"
Good God, did she know? Why would she be thinking on it if she had not already guessed? A concerned look sweeping across his face, Harry went to her, dropping to one knee at her bedside. "If I tell you the truth I will lose any respect I have worked hard to earn from you."
Her indigo eyes looked into his as if she could see through to the soul he had long ago lost. "You were a pirate, weren't you?"
He closed his eyes and muttered an oath, then got up and walked to the hearth. He bent low and attempted to stir the embers once again.
"I see I've hit upon the truth," she said somberly.
He merely nodded, then moved to the door. "I'll go down and order your breakfast."
* * *
Because of the injury to Louisa's knee and the wetness of the weather, walking was out of the question. Harry carried her to his coach. The rain which had continued throughout the night had left the roads soggy.
The farther south they went, the cooler the temperature became. It was as if the heavy white mist followed them inland. Louisa lifted the curtain and pressed her face into the foggy glass. Progress was slow the first hour of their journey southward as the coach rattled sluggishly along the hilly terrain. Once the hills were behind them, the somber landscape leveled out, and the carriage picked up speed.
In the midst of the barren land that now surrounded them, Louisa beheld a most peculiar natural phenomenon. At least, she assumed the towering, cylinder-like rocks were natural. Though, for all the world, they rather resembled giant candles jutting up from the soggy earth.
"Pray, Harry, what are those things?"
He scooted across the seat opposite and inched his face closer to hers. "I've never seen them before, but I believe they're tors."
Her brows drew together. "Tors? Like tornadoes?"
He sat upright and shrugged. "Don't know where the word came from."
She continued peering from the window. "I suppose these vast stretches of wasteland where no trees are growing must be the moors."
"The Bodmin Moor," he said.
She let the curtain drop, and she straightened up, her spine touching the back of the seat. "A light mist is beginning to fall. I do feel so sorry for the coachman."
"I assure you, your worries for him are greater than his own. He's well used to physical discomfort."
She frowned. "What is the name of Lord Blamey's abode in Bodmin?"
Harry answered without consulting his notes. "St. Alban's Abbey."
They rode along in Harry's coach, and for mile after mile through the Bodmin Moor, villages were scarce. Harry peered through the foggy window for any sign of habitation.
Though it was early afternoon still, a charcoal blanket covered the skies, and the wind whistled alongside their vehicle. Harry knew Louisa must be cold and tired, but not once had she asked that they stop nor had she complained of hunger.
The second time he had to brave the weather and help the coachman dislodge a wheel from the muddy mire, Harry knew further progress would be impossible until the rain that had begun an hour ago let up -- most likely not until tomorrow.
He grew impatient to learn the identity of the mysterious lord who had orchestrated his father's downfall. More than anything, he wondered why someone would hate his father with such vengeance. Except for his squandering of the family fortune, his father had been an amiable, well-liked man.
Could his father's political views have made such an enemy? Harry thought back but could remember nothing that his father could have done that would have warranted such punishment. Perhaps the elder Lord Wycliff had angered a foreign power through his fierce patriotism to England during its war with France. He remembered the sacrifices his father had made in order to purchase weapons for soldiers in the Peninsula in 1808. He had not only bought the munitions with his own money, but he had spent considerable time searching for qualified men to take the supplies from Portsmouth into Portugal -- all using his own funds.
But if his father had angered a foreign power, why would Godwin Phillips's mysterious benefactor be a lord from Cornwall? Perhaps Louisa had been wrong.
He watched Louisa as she rubbed the fog from the inside of the coach window. They had barely spoken all day. He knew she would never be able to condone the manner in which he had amassed his fortune.
The woman was far too fine to be sitting with the likes of him.
While one side of him was sorry that his silence had confirmed the truth, and in so doing had lost Louisa's respect he'd only just won, the other side of him was somewhat glad that he'd told her the truth. For some inexplicable reason, what they had gone through the day before brought them as close together as two people could be. She had even let him probe on her leg without a blush hiking up her smooth cheeks.
He decided to cut through the barrier that had once again been erected between them. "Are you sure the benefactor was addressed as a lord? Could he have been a count or a marquis or one of those titles the bloody French like to use?"
She shook her head. "Oh, no, I'm certain. And that's what Williams said, too."
Harry frowned. So much for that theory. At least she had spoken to him. He dwelled for a moment on the melodious, childlike quality of her smooth voice. Was there nothing about her he did not find admirable?
Oh, yes, he told himself. She was a bloody do-gooder.
If the woman would not hold a civil conversation with him, perhaps she would at least discuss her bloody causes. Anything would be preferable to sitting across from her do-gooding self scorning him with every turn of the wheels.
"Tell me," he began, "What are your feelings about penal reform?" He crossed his arms across his chest and settled back to smugly watch her leap to life.
"If I were a violent person -- which I'm not," she
said, throwing him a haughty glance, "I would be violently opposed to the practice of depriving persons of their lives for minor infractions like stealing a day's food to feed one's family. I think, perhaps, the death penalty should be reserved for only the most heinous crimes."
He sat straighter and uncrossed his arms. "Like murder."
Her eyes flashed with satisfaction. "Yes. And I am completely against transportation, too."
Her opinions exactly reflected those imparted in the essays he had read by Philip Lewis. As he said the name in his mind, something sparked. Philip Lewis. Louisa Phillips. Quicker than the flash of lightning, he knew they were one and the same.
He knew Louisa's secrets as well as she knew his. The knowledge afforded him great satisfaction. He slid into the corner of the coach, a cocky arch to his brow and a mischievous smile playing at his lips as he watched her.
A puzzled look flashed across her face. "Whatever do you find so amusing, my lord?"
"Yesterday I was Harry."
"That was before I knew that you were a thief."
"I admit I stole. I stole from ships owned by men who had profited by my father's loss."
Her lower lip worked into a pout. "It was still stealing."
"I do not deny it." He watched her sulk for a moment before renewing his banter. "Have you never done anything for which you have been ashamed?"
She thought for a long moment. "I have certainly many regrets over how my life has been lived, but I have none over actions which I controlled."
"Have you ever lied, Louisa?"
"Mrs. Phillips."
"I'm not going to call you by the despicable man's name, Louisa. Answer me, have you ever lied?"
She refused to answer.
"Perhaps it was not a lie but an omission," he said. "Something like purporting to be a man. Say a man like Philip Lewis."
She went rigid. Her lips parted, and her eyes grew round. "How did you know?" she asked.
He got up and moved to her side of the coach and drew his face close to hers. "I know you as well as you know me, Louisa. You guessed correctly about my secret as I guessed about yours."
"Will you tell?" Her voice was thin and frightened.
He stayed there in the darkened coach nose to nose with the most beautiful woman he had ever known. He peered into the depths of her frightened eyes and spoke gently, like a whisper of the night. "I will never hurt you, Louisa."
Then the coach came to a stop.
"What the deuce is going on?" Harry demanded, scooting to the door and opening it.
There the coachman stood, his oilskin dripping, his hat nearly covering his bearded face while all the while rain beat down on him and thunder spiked the air like the clashing of cymbals. "There's no inn in this village, my lord."
"Mr. Smith," Harry mumbled, wiping the water from his face.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Smith."
Harry uttered another oath. "Well, man, go to the tavern and make inquiries. I will pay handsomely for a room for my bride and myself for the night."
The coachman nodded, his sweeping hat scattering water, and he walked off toward the town.
Harry, by now completely wet, slammed the coach door and took his usual seat across from Louisa. It had grown so dark, he could barely see her.
"Will we go on to the next town if we don't find a room here?" she asked.
"My good woman, you know little of traveling country roads if you think these passable, and you know little of a man of wealth if you don't realize there is little that cannot be bought, given that one has enough money."
She straightened her shoulders and shot him a defiant look. "I mustn't forget that your plundering has made you a most wealthy man, my lord."
"Louisa," he said, his voice soft and pleading.
They sat in silence until the inside of the coach became completely dark. The only sound was the dripping of rain on the roof and the scattered boom of thunder in the far-off skies. It grew colder, too. He was bloody miserable in these wet clothes.
A half an hour passed before John Coachman returned, hopped up on the box and drove them to a farm house a mile from the village.
Harry did not wait for the coachman to open the door. He was bloody tired of being cooped in the blasted coach and bloody tired of Louisa's refusal to speak to him.
He was not so angry, though, that he did not hold open the carriage door for her and give her his hand as she climbed down. Then he remembered her knee. Uttering yet another curse, he scooped her up and stormed up to the house, ignoring Louisa's protests.
As they drew near the house, his voice lowered. "Remember, my dear Louisa, these kind persons who have opened their home to us believe us to be on our honeymoon. Act the loving wife."
If she glared at him, he couldn't see it as he swept through the opening door, putting Louisa down and charmingly greeting the farmer's matronly wife. "Harold Smith, ma'am, and my bride, Louisa." Removing his hat, he said, "I do thank you for providing us shelter."
The woman extended her hand. "I'm Millie Winston." She turned to Louisa. "Are you unwell, my dear?"
Louisa shook her head. "I've just injured my leg is all."
"You'll want to get dry, I'm sure," the woman said. "Then you'll be hungry. I wasn't expecting anyone, so our fare is quite simple, but there's plenty. Now, let me show you to what used to be our daughters' room -- before they got married and moved to homes of their own."
They followed her up a simple wooden staircase.
"Our girl Meg married the blacksmith over in Penwick. She's increasing now with her fifth babe. I'll be going to her soon."
"How many children and grandchildren have you?" Louisa inquired.
"Three daughters, and our son helps with the farm. He and his wife live just next door. Altogether, Mr. Winston and I have sixteen grandchildren."
"You've been blessed, indeed," Louisa said.
Harry fleetingly wondered if Louisa regretted that she had borne no children. Though he did not like to think of her bearing the seed of Godwin Phillips.
Their hostess walked across the room and, using her own candle, lighted a tallow beside the room's only bed. "It's not been dusted nor cleaned in here in a good while, but the bedclothes are clean though most likely damp."
Louisa began to unbutton her pelisse. "I'll come down and help you with dinner, Mrs. Winston, while my husband changes into dry clothes," Louisa said, as Harry helped her out of her pelisse and hung it on a peg on the wall.
My husband. The words had tumbled naturally from her lips. Harry liked the way they sounded.
"I can't allow that," Mrs. Winston protested. "Not on your sore leg."
"She's right, my dear," Harry said. "You need to stay off that leg."
My dear? Why did the endearment not offend her?
Chapter 13
As soon as Harry closed the door to their chamber, Louisa spun around to face him, anger flashing in her eyes. "Have you no shame? Telling that nice couple we're on our honeymoon?"
He shrugged from his wet coat and hung it on a hook a foot from her pelisse. "You know little of human nature if you do not realize the Winstons are delighted to be of assistance to us. I fear their glee would vanish if they were to be apprised of the truth."
"I suppose you're right," she agreed, hands on her hips as she watched him standing there facing her, a look of sheer devilment in his black eyes. "But how am I to get into dry clothing with you standing there gawking at me?"
"I shall turn around and gaze at the wall until you notify me you are dressed."
"Very well," she snapped, "turn around." She watched as he presented his back to her. Why did the man have to have such broad shoulders? His size intimidated her. Looking at him, she backed away but was still not able to undress, even though she trusted him. Though the man had his faults, she had to admit forcing himself on a woman was not one of them.
She slowly unbuttoned her dress.
"If you need assistance, I shall be happy to oblige," he said misch
ievously.
"Just keep looking at the wall." She took a dry worsted dress from her portmanteau, then began to slip out of her wet travelling dress, clutching its skirt over the personal parts of her anatomy. Throwing one last look at him to assure herself he was not watching her, she quickly stepped into the dry dress and buttoned it.
"I am dressed now," she informed him. "I shall sit on the bed and turn my back so that you may don dry clothing."
"You can look if you like," he said teasingly.
"I don't."
Once they both were dry, Harry moved over to the bed and picked up Louisa. "I'll carry you downstairs. Taking stairs is the worst thing you can do for a bad knee."
She could not argue his point. Her knee was already throbbing from the weight she put on it while dressing. Though she allowed him to lift her, she vowed she would not put her arm around him. Which really was awkward, keeping her arms pressed against her sides.
When they got downstairs they found the Winston's linen-covered table set in Sunday finest and spread with an array of steaming bowls.
Louisa fleetingly thought of the warmth and privacy of the dining parlors she and Harry were used to and vaguely missed them.
But as soon as they sat at the kindly couple's table, her misgivings vanished. This little farmhouse possessed more warmth and feeling of love than any impersonal inn could possibly offer.
Mrs. Winston could not have been more hospitable, and her quiet husband, dressed in Sunday wear that had become faded and shiny at points of use, was amiable.
"They're on their honeymoon, Jonah," Mrs. Winston informed her husband. Then, turning her attention to the presumed newlyweds, asked, "When did you get married?"
Louisa looked at Harry to answer.
He put down his fork, looked up at the farmer's wife with a smiling countenance, and said, "We married at my wife's home in Trent on Saturday and are now journeying to Penzance, where we shall make our home together."
"You are from Penzance?" Mr. Winston asked in a surprised fashion. Had Harry's lack of a local accent raised warning flags?
Harry nodded as he buttered his roll.