by Carrie Lomax
Layers of wool, cotton and metal gave way with a thunderous shredding sound. Harper screamed and clutched at the slick roof with desperate, glove-encased hands. She fought the fall in sheer terror as she hurtled over the edge into thin air.
A sickening sensation of falling fast, then a large hand attached to a muscular arm came into view. If she’d had any breath to spare, it was slammed out of her a second later by a wall of muscle. An asylum inmate had once swung a side of beef at her in the storehouse. It felt like that, only warmer.
A crushingly strong arm encircled her waist. The world stopped spinning as quickly as it had begun. Her palms clutched at rumpled linen smelling of salt and wind. Harper wrapped her arms around the awkward arrival with desperation. Harper’s head swam. She squeezed her eyes shut so tightly that she might never open them again.
Edward.
Lord Northcote.
Metal screeched and gave. The falling sensation resumed. “Ohhhh….”
“I have you, Miss Forsythe. You’re safe now.”
Through her terror, the feeling of Lord Edward’s voice vibrating against her chest calmed Harper just enough for her to breathe. Then, there was another shriek of metal, and a jerk, followed immediately by another fall.
“Hold on, Doctor. We are about to crash.”
Harper clutched at him, too panicked to scream. With a great shuddering thud, they stopped. Both nearly lost their grip. Panicking, Harper grabbed anything she could get ahold of. With a sudden stop that nearly yanked her shoulder out of its socket, she realized that both arms were wrapped about his waist. Slowly, she was slipping down, taking his trousers lower and lower as she fell. Her face was inches from his—
“Doctor. Unless you wish to see me in the altogether you must take my hand.”
She shook her head fractionally.
“Fall, then.”
Harper squeaked and jerkily released her death grip. One hand slapped onto Lord Edward’s arm. It was taut and muscled and distracting even here, suspended precariously above the earth. Her arm wrenched as he hauled her up.
“Ow!”
“Take hold of the drainpipe.”
Harper grasped the metal with terror-strengthened fingers.
“Good. Now, two inches above your toes there is a small crevice in the tree. Wedge your toes in there.”
Panicked and trembling, Harper’s feet scrabbled against the bark of the oak tree. Edward’s arm anchored her waist with a firmness that told her that she would not fall. As much as the sight of the ground below frightened her, the feeling was counterbalanced by Edward’s confident instruction.
“I can’t hold on like this.”
“The drainpipe is securely braced in the crook of the tree. If you pull yourself up, you’ll be safe.”
With little pride left to swallow, Harper tried—and failed.
“I can’t,” she whimpered.
The big man sighed.
“Hold on with both hands.”
He forced her arm to let go of him and placed it on the drain pipe. Then he kicked one leg and swung his body up to straddle the narrow pipe. Bracing one hand on a tree branch, he reached for Harper’s arm.
“When I say go, dig your toes into the crevice. Go.”
Harper braced her foot against the tree as Lord Edward hauled her upwards. With a scramble, she found herself tucked precariously between the pipe, the tree trunk and a branch. Relief and a sudden rush of oxygen left her giddy. Enraptured by the fact that she was not going to fall to her death, Harper leaned forward and impulsively bussed Lord Edward on the cheek.
“Thank you,” she gasped. Immediately, Harper clapped a shaking hand over her mouth. “I am sorry. That was completely inappropriate. It’s only…I am speechless with gratitude to you for saving my life.”
Edward’s expression went from startled to guarded.
“We aren’t out of the tree yet,” he pointed out.
His comment struck Harper as absurd. Laughter bubbled up uncontrollably. To Edward’s consternation she laughed so hard that she nearly tumbled out of the tree.
“What’s funny?” he demanded.
“You mean—” She tried again. “I’m not only not out of the woods, I am not even out of the tree!”
And once again she dissolved into giggles, though it didn’t make any sense. Lord Edward simply stared at her as though she was the one who had lost her mind. Perhaps she had.
“Miss Forsythe!” the earl’s voice called up from the ground.
Immediately, Harper collected herself.
“Yes, your lordship?”
“You appear to be in quite a predicament.”
“That is an understatement, sir.” Embarrassment flooded hotly through Harper’s body. “I confess that being suspended on a broken drainpipe propped up by an oak tree is not the beginning that I had in mind.”
“You appeared to find the situation quite entertaining just a moment ago.”
“A reaction to my perfectly natural fear, your lordship. Do you have any thoughts on how we might get down?” Harper glanced at Edward. “I don’t suppose it’s any difficulty for you, is it now?”
The wild lord scowled. He leapt to a lower branch, then a lower one. From there, he dropped easily to the ground and headed for the house without a backward glance.
“Stay there, Miss Forsythe. The footmen are fetching a ladder.”
With her feet back on terra firma, Harper dusted her maimed traveling dress and made a show of restoring her appearance. The earl took her elbow in an overbearing clamp. Harper stumbled awkwardly along, clutching the torn fabric of her skirt. Of course, she had to go and ruin the new one.
“Your room has been prepared. I’ve asked one of the maids to show you the way and help you settle in.” At the top of the step where just hours before Harper had approached the grand residence with no few doubts, the earl turned to face her.
“You may stay, Miss Forsythe. For now. But if I ever see you kiss my son again, I will personally turn you out of the house with a reputation so black that no respectable home will ever receive you again. Do I make myself clear?”
“I—” Harper hung her head in humiliation. “I beg forgiveness, your lordship, and plead the peculiarity of the circumstances for my transgression. I intended nothing but gratitude.”
She had come here to do a job. An hour ago, she had convinced the earl to overlook her femininity. In the space of one small gesture she had undermined her entire purpose. The knowledge burned like acid.
The earl relaxed. “I understand that, Miss Forsythe. I only hope that my son does as well.”
Chapter 4
The next morning, Edward stared at the strange woman across the breakfast table with frank curiosity. It was the first good look he had had at her face, when it wasn’t contorted with mortal terror. The doctor was as drab as a tinamou, the mountain hens in Brazil that laid pretty, iridescent eggs. She was younger than he'd initially thought. Her hair was some nondescript midpoint between blonde and brown in color, neatly braided and pinned up on top of her head.
She returned his aggressive perusal with politely detached curiosity and helped herself to toast. Despite this, Edward knew she observed his every move with those lively hazel eyes of hers. They were the only interesting thing about her, a pretty green flecked with gold and blue.
The truly interesting thing about her was that she was here at all. A woman doctor. Who knew the British could be so open-minded? Particularly his father. Edward stabbed a sausage with his fork clutched in his fist and lifted it whole. He bit the end off, ignoring the earl’s frown.
His father had not been an earl. Edward didn’t know the man in stiffly formal worsted and starched linen sitting across the table. Forsythe caught him glowering and tilted her head, inviting him to speak. Edward kept his thoughts unvoiced.
At least there was one woman in England who wasn’t terrified of him—yet.
"What do you intend to do today, Edward?" she asked casually. "Do you have p
lans?"
“I do.” He had no rebellious response to being spoken to like an adult. Never mind that he didn’t have plans, not really. He didn’t need her making any for him.
“Would you care to share them with me?”
“No.”
“How disappointing,” she replied with equanimity. “I had hoped you might show me the grounds today. I thought we could get to know one another better.”
Was it his imagination or did a faint blush stain her cheeks?
“After all, we will be working together for some time,” she continued hastily, with an uncertain glance at the earl.
“I don't need a governess.”
"Miss Forsythe is a great deal more than a governess," Charles interjected sharply. “She is a professional with expertise in the art of healing mental illness such as yours. I have had a letter from her employer just this morning attesting to her abilities.”
He thumped his elbow onto the table. The dishes clattered. Edward knew his behavior, combined with the fact that he wore neither jacket nor cravat, made him look both uncivilized and threatening. He just didn’t care.
“Where were you educated?” he demanded.
At last, a crack in the chit's composure. “I had no formal university training. None would have accepted me. I have been apprenticed to Dr. Patton, England’s most prestigious asylum director, for ten years. Under his guidance, I have had a thorough education in anatomy, physiology, physiognomy, and the treatment of mental disorders. I am, if you will, his protégé.”
“You're a quack's apprentice.” Richard had few uses, but he did have a way with words. Edward wasn’t above borrowing the insult he’d overheard. She stiffened visibly, as though he'd slapped her.
“I am a highly-trained professional, Lord Northcote. My record of success speaks for itself. Fifty-two patients over six years have found themselves under my exclusive care, primarily melancholics on the verge of self-destruction. Of those, I have successfully treated thirty-six, who have returned to their families and to productive lives. The rest are managed in the greatest possible comfort to ensure that they will never harm themselves, or anyone else.” The woman spoke feelingly, as though the sheer weight of numbers could convince him.
He grudgingly admitted that her success was impressive—if it was true.
“And which fate do you see when you look at me?” he demanded, shoving back his chair. It tipped backward, hitting the breakfront cabinet behind him. China shattered. Edward fled. There was no other word for it. He was exhausted from the number of syllables he had expended. In a moment he was outdoors, running across the lawns toward the fields.
Running was good, the solid sound of his of his bare feet striking hard earth. Physical motion was a release for the frustration and anger he felt for everything, everyone. He settled into a steady lope, wishing he could outrun the unwanted issue of his inheritance as easily as he avoided the woman who would decide his future. His direction was the apple orchard at the edge of a sparse patch of forest. His heel smacked into a patch of mud and slid out from beneath him. Edward went down, hard.
When he got up again, there was rotten fruit and dirt in his hair. Mud seeped wetly through his clothing into his skin, but apart from a throbbing soreness in his posterior where he’d landed, Edward found himself unhurt. Well, that would teach him to look where he was going.
He glanced around and discovered no witnesses to his clumsiness, but oh, the hand-wringing he would endure if he returned to the house in this state. Edward removed his dirty, damaged shirt and tossed it over a tree branch as he followed a deer path into a strip of forest. A simple solution to his predicament presented itself in the form of the creek running through the property. There was a small waterfall just a few steps into the woods. He swam it in regularly, preferring the cool, natural water to the scalding hot tub of warm water he’d been nearly drowned in upon arrival. The reek of rose-scented soap had followed him for days after, until he’d found this little outcropping in the creek bend.
Edward stripped and ducked under the bracing water. It wasn't much more than a trickle of water, perhaps twelve feet from the top of a ledge to the pool below, which barely covered his waist. Edward's ears filled with the sound of sluicing water, his heated body cooling rapidly.
Too rapidly. The water in England was cold. He stepped out of the little trickle of water and shook water out of his hair. Minus the smelly soap, he might reconsider his stance on warm baths in the near future.
For a moment, he felt peace. Memories like half-imagined fantasies arose in his mind, of the needle-thin falls of the Amazon, of thick foliage and the calls of macaws and howler monkeys. Of children’s laughter as they played among the trees. England was so bloody silent, louder with human noises than with natural sounds. How strange that he had once longed for it, desperate to return to luxuries like hot baths, plentiful food, and his mother tongue. Now, he longed for his people and the adopted language he’d painstakingly acquired over years of effort.
There were things Edward didn’t miss, however. For example, the dangers of hunting in the jungle. He bore scars from an encounter with a large cat, caught unaware. Starvation, while it taught endurance and strength, was something he was generally happy to avoid. Watching the women and children suffer during lean times had been especially hard.
Then, there were the insects. Edward did not at all miss walking into clouds of invisible biting or the throngs of ants attacking his legs. Nor did he have any lingering fondness for the foul-smelling oil his people had used to deter pests.
He stretched his arms toward the sky as he began wading back toward the shore, grateful for his moment of solitude—only to discover that he wasn't alone, after all.
“Oh!”
Edward froze halfway out of the stream. His attention arrowed to the gray-clad woman standing a few feet above him on the trail. Forsythe looked like a deer that had stumbled across a jaguar, waiting twitchily for him to pounce. Given his sudden fury at her intrusion, he was half inclined to do just that.
“Pardon my intrusion.”
She coughed and whirled away, but not before he caught sight of a wrinkled expanse of white linen that poked through the top of her jacket and observed that her skirt hem was spattered with mud. Her chest rose and fell from recent exertion, adding a breathiness to her normally low and calm voice. Her braid had come unpinned. It had fallen over her shoulder and was coming undone, an effect that verged on seductive.
Edward shook his head. Drab little Miss Forsythe, seductive because she had run after him through a muddy apple orchard and looked disheveled for her pains? How...frightening.
“Yes, well,” she continued when he didn’t respond. “Once you've dressed again, I'd like to have a word with you about this habit you have of running away. Your father is very hurt by it.”
She met his gaze coolly, as though men bathing naked was part of her ordinary experience. Perhaps it was. Yet Edward detected a slight shiver, a tremor of nervousness as she tucked an unruly strand of hair behind her ear.
He wasn't stupid. It was impossible not to know the effect he had on women. His was not a typically English physique, all paunch and gut and stringy limbs. He’d inherited his father’s height—along with, eventually, an unwanted earldom—and life in the Amazon had molded his body into hard, lean muscles. The emotion he provoked most was fear, followed distantly by curious attraction among the bravest specimens of the fairer sex. The only maids who remained at Briarcliff were the ones whose curiosity outweighed their fear.
Forsythe kept her eyes glued to his face, refusing to look at him below the neck. Equally unwilling to look away. Standing her ground as respectfully as she could, under the circumstances.
It made him want to force her to see the rest of him, to see him for what he truly was.
He wanted to terrify her into going back to her little hospital or asylum or whatever it was and leave him alone.
Edward turned to face her fully, his smalls clinging
like a clammy second skin. The water came up only to his mid-thigh. Every contour of his muscles and the conspicuous bulge of his cock were visible through semi-transparent linen that revealed more than it concealed.
“Are you accustomed to casual conversation with naked men?” he inquired with deliberate menace. Her face faltered.
“It is an unfortunate hazard of my job,” she replied cautiously.
“A hazard." He laughed. "I dare you to look. Really look."
After a long moment, the infuriating woman shrugged and did as he asked. Her gaze drifted down his body, a leisurely perusal but a medical one. The experience was no different from being examined by a doctor—dispassionately conducted at a properly scientific distance.
Foiled, Edward stood there with his feet going numb in the mud of the creek bed.
Then, just when he thought he'd lost this strange battle, her eyes snagged on the significant and barely concealed bulk of his manhood. A subtle flush touched her cheeks, almost unnoticeable, but present, nonetheless.
His own response caught him off-guard. Instead of recoiling, he responded. Visibly.
Edward swore at seeing the oddly affecting mix of shame and desire that tinged Miss Forsythe's expression. They each turned away in a rush.
“I'll wait for you in the apple orchard,” she called as her footfalls scrambled up the trail as fast as her feet would carry her.
* * *
Stupid stupid stupid. Harper paced the ground beneath the apple trees, reaching up to rip off leaves and tearing them into tiny bits. She had heard, in Edward’s demand to be looked at, a desire to be seen as a human being. Not as an heir, not as a usurper of estates, not as a half-civilized animal, but as a human being whose life had been upended in ways that most people could never comprehend.