Carolly stepped closer. "No, you don't understand. We've had an accident—"
"Git on!"
Carolly stopped moving and turned to Margaret to see if the child knew why the woman was acting so strange. But the girl was still in the midst of her preteen sulks, which left Carolly to navigate unfamiliar waters.
She turned back to the peasant woman, who had now stepped out from behind her huge pot while her children clung to her skirts. "Look, we're not beggars," Carolly said. "We're staying with the earl—"
"Wait a moment. I know 'er." The woman stared at Margaret, who simply lifted her chin and tried to look disdainful. "Yer the by-blow. Git out! Go git yer high-and-mighty earl to 'elp."
"I am not a . . . a . . ." Margaret was flushed with anger, her hands bunching into fists.
Carolly stepped forward, coming between the two combatants and trying to redirect things before matters got completely out of hand. "There must be some mistake. Look, we've had an accident and—"
"And you be the new earl's fancy-piece. Git out!" To make her point, the peasant grabbed a large and very sharp ax off a tree stump and started advancing.
"Wait!" Carolly cried, appalled that the word came out more like a squeak than a command. "I'm not a—"
"Wot's cracking up 'ere?"
Carolly turned, thankful for any interruption, even in the guise of a grizzled old man stomping out of the hut.
"They's from uphill. Come to steal more from us."
"What?" Carolly took a deep breath, trying to take control of both the situation and her fraying temper. Why wouldn't these people listen? "Look. We've had an accident—"
"Git on. Ain't we suffered enough from the earl?"
"But—"
"Git!"
Carolly wanted to argue, but the woman was still brandishing her ax. Clearly, neither she nor the man had any interest in helping them, let alone listening to anything Carolly could say about economics, lung disease, or child labor laws. So, with a frustrated glare in the woman's direction, Carolly grabbed Margaret and beat a hasty retreat.
It wasn't until they'd reached the road again that Carolly trusted herself to speak. "Some time very soon, Mags, we're going to talk about what just happened here. But not right now. Right now, I'm much too angry."
Typically, Margaret said nothing. She just sulked.
Great.
Fortunately, the next place they came to was a small coaching inn. "Wonderful." Carolly breathed in relief. At least they could freshen up somehow, and with any luck the innkeeper and his wife would be of a higher, more educated, less judgmental caliber.
"Come on, Mags. They're sure to help us here." She practically had to pull the increasingly reluctant child along with her. But once they reached the relatively empty courtyard, she released the girl's arm, stepping over to one of the younger boys there, presumably a stable boy, who lounged against a barrel of some sort.
"I'd like to speak with the innkeeper, please," she said, trying to make her voice sound aristocratic.
Her answer was a loud hoot of derision from another boy and a small, squat man. "We ain't got nothin' for ye."
Carolly tried again through clenched teeth. "We're not looking for a handout. We've had a carriage accident along the road."
"An' I be the queen o' England."
"Then, your highness, be so good as to fetch the innkeeper so that I may send a message to the earl."
That got their attention. The man stood up and squinted at them. “The earl?"
The small boy gasped. "It's the fancy-piece and the by-blow!"
"I am not his mistress!" Carolly snapped.
"Don't matter." The grizzled man spit contemptuously into the dirt by her feet. "We ain't got nothin' to say."
Carolly ground her teeth in frustration. What was the matter with these people? She could understand anger at beggars, but they knew Margaret. Shouldn't they be falling over themselves to help? Did they hate James so very much?
"What's going on here?"
Carolly heaved a sigh of relief as the innkeeper bustled out of the inn, wiping his hands on his apron. He was quickly followed by a large, red-faced woman carrying a broom, and a couple of early customers, all very old, still holding their ale.
"Finally," whispered Carolly as she stepped forward. "Excuse me, sir, but my carriage has met with an accident—"
"From the manor, Durbin," interrupted the old man.
The innkeeper subjected Carolly to a thorough and insulting inspection, taking in everything from her muddy clothes to her missing corset. Then, with a snort of disgust, he turned his back. "So theys can go on back there."
"Wait!" Carolly was becoming desperate. Humiliation rarely bothered her much. In fact, it had become almost routine in her last few lives. But that was her. Mags, on the other hand, seemed to be shrinking into herself more as each second went by. The girl wouldn't stand up to much more of this. Thus, Carolly took recourse in the only thing left. "I'll pay you," she cried.
At last she was rewarded. The innkeeper stopped and turned, silencing the hooting crowd with a wave of his fist. "Show me," was all he said.
Carolly flushed. "Or at least I'm sure the earl will pay you when he learns of our predicament."
She had barely gotten the words out when the crowd renewed its laughter. Carolly ignored them, reaching instead for the oldest line in the book. She turned to the only woman in the group and let herself look as desperate as she felt.
"Please. In the name of Christian charity . . ."
The effect was immediate. The woman puffed herself up with righteous indignation and stepped forward, brandishing her broom. "Charity? Christian charity, you say? An' why should we 'elp the likes of you when it's because of you and 'er"—she made a vicious stab at Margaret with her broom— "that our babes are starving at our breasts? Our children are crying for milk, an' we ain't got a roof over our heads."
Carolly stared at the woman, feeling totally confused. "How are we responsible for your situation?”
"My situation! Did you hear that, Bob? My sit-u-ation. When it's 'er who's been tossed out on 'er ear. Well, good riddance to bad rubbish, I say." A cheer echoed through the courtyard.
"But we haven't done anything to you," cried Carolly. She scrambled for a way to deal rationally with these people.
"You took our jobs," they cried. "You seduced the earl to yer evil ways."
The insults were coming fast and furious, led by the shrewish woman. Carolly tried to shout them down, but couldn't. Her tenuous hold on her temper was slipping, and she was thinking about slugging the woman when she got hit in the face with a gob of mud. It didn't hurt, just surprised her. But some experiences—like being stoned to death—tended to stick with a person. Carolly knew exactly what was happening even as her mind reeled with the honor of it all.
She raised her arm as more mud sailed with painful accuracy right toward her face. Whipping around, she tried to shield Margaret from the crowd. "Run!" she screamed, knowing that the throng would soon progress to throwing stones along with mud.
She was almost too busy ducking and running, her skirts slapping about her legs, to hear the oncoming rush of hooves. Glancing up she saw James, his powerful body astride Shadow galloping into the courtyard. His face was twisted in rage.
If ever she felt grateful that he could look so incredibly terrifying, it was at that moment. The crowd quickly dropped back as he clattered into the yard.
"Stop it this instant! Stop it!" he bellowed. The mud bombs stopped, but James did not. He glared at the people around him and continued to shout: "These people are under my care! Anyone who touches them again will answer to me! Is that clear?"
His only answer was a sullen, angry silence, and Carolly looked back fearfully. True, the people were cowed for now. A furious earl on horseback was a little much for seven unarmed people to fight. But the inclination remained. Hatred and resentment simmered in the afternoon heat.
"Get up."
Carolly blinked
, only now realizing James spoke to her, ordering her to climb onto his horse. Margaret, she noted, had already scrambled up in front of her uncle. After one last glance behind her, Carolly quickly grasped James's outstretched hand and swung herself up behind him.
"Are you sure Shadow can carry us all?" she whispered.
"Just hold tight."
He didn't have to tell her twice. She buried her face against his hard back and wrapped her arms so tight around his middle, a hurricane could not tear her loose. She felt the horse's powerful haunches bunch and release as they rode away.
"Are you hurt?" James called back to her.
"No," she said, coloring her voice with false bravado. "I'm an old hand at stonings, remember? But Margaret—"
"She is fine."
Carolly sneaked a peek at the girl in front of James. Mags was curled tight against her uncle, her face tucked out of view, but she didn't seem to have any cuts or bruises. "Thank God," she said.
Carolly took a deep breath. Even though the child was unhurt, she could tell by James's rigid body and stony silence that she was in serious trouble. She wasn't surprised. In fact, she was in serious trouble with her own conscience. She had acted stupidly again, putting herself and an innocent child at risk without thinking. Whatever dressing down the earl intended was nothing compared to what she was telling herself right now.
But then again, knowing James, he'd probably find a way to make her feel even worse.
She was almost looking forward to it. She certainly deserved it.
Chapter Nine
"So. Aren't you going to yell at me?"
"I beg your pardon?" James settled into his favorite leather chair, and, out of habit, stretched his feet toward the cold library grate. Carolly sat beside him, her hands folded demurely in her lap, her head bowed as though a great weight compressed her shoulders. She sat properly, refraining from her usual sprawl. And if he wasn't mistaken, she wore a corset.
Carolly in a corset. What had the world come to?
He let his gaze travel the length of his strange guest. For a moment he allowed his senses to linger on the golden highlights in her hair, on the sweet curve of her neck, and the soft scent of lemon clinging to her luminous skin. She was beautiful, and she contained a fire that defied God and man alike. An angel, indeed. And yet, if anyone could be what she claimed, it would be Carolly.
Except she was not an angel—or a pre-angel, as she so delicately put it. She was a madwoman. And he had come to care deeply for her.
He turned away, pushing his thoughts toward this afternoon's trauma. At least Margaret seemed unharmed. After a long hot bath, the child had gone straight to bed, not even bothering to eat. He knew Carolly had spoken with her, and he intended to check in on the child later, but for right now, he was content to let her be. The afternoon's events were shocking and frightening, especially for a young child. But she had survived and would be much more wary in the future.
Right now, his attention was drawn to the strange woman at his side.
"Carolly—"
"I was stupid, irresponsible, and idiotic," she whispered. "I didn't think my actions through, and I could have gotten Margaret killed."
What could he say to that? She would not even look at him, her customary directness somehow stripped away. It pained him to see it.
"So, go to it, James," she continued with utter defeat in her voice. "Yell. Scream. Throw me out. Hit me."
He stiffened in his chair. Did she honestly believe he would strike her? He took a deep breath, then carefully made his voice its most gentle. "Will you ever go to the village alone again?”
She didn't hesitate. "No."
"Will you ever take Margaret exploring without speaking to me about it first?”
"Absolutely not."
He paused, wanting to make sure she understood. If only she would meet his eyes. It was hard to be gentle when all he could see was the top of her head. "I do not act without good reason. You are aware of that, are you not? And for Margaret to again—"
"You don't have to worry about it." Her voice was dark. "We're not going anywhere. At least not without an armed escort."
"Then," he said, kneeling down before her and lifting up her chin, "I shall not lecture you. I have the impression you have been censored too much in your life."
Carolly blinked, and he caught the distinct shimmer of her unshed tears. "You're not throwing me out?"
"I cannot allow a Bedlamite to wander lost and alone about my lands. What would the neighbors think?"
She pressed her lips together, but he saw the betraying tremble of a silent chuckle. She said, "Don't make me laugh, James. I feel too rotten."
He touched her cheek. Her skin was soft and pliant beneath his fingertips. "Please do not leave without telling me again."
"I won't. I promise."
He could not explain the relief he felt. He only knew it washed through him like a breath of fresh air, easing muscles he did not know were clenched. But when he looked at Carolly, he did not see the same ease. If anything, she looked more miserable, more anguished than before.
"Carolly?"
"I'm all right. Really. It's just that . . ." Her voice trailed away as she struggled for the words to express her thoughts.
"Tell me," he urged softly. He took hold of her hands, not to comfort her, but to keep her near him. She always seemed on the verge of running, and just this once, he wanted her to stay. He had come too close to losing her this afternoon to want to risk it again.
"What are you thinking?" he asked.
"I . . . I'm not ready to leave yet." She looked up at him, and he was startled by the pain etched in the fine lines around her eyes and mouth. Had it always been there? She shrugged, twisting her face away when he would not release her hands. "Can you believe that? I don't want to go. There's so much wrong here that I'm not even sure where to begin, but I want to fix it all." She laughed, a short bitter sound. "I'm not ready to die."
Her words left him mystified. There were times when she seemed completely rational. Other times, all he could do was pretend to understand. "Most people do not wish to die," he said gently. “That is perfectly natural."
"Not for me." She clenched her hands, but he held them effortlessly, letting his fingers gently circle her fists. "In all my other lives, I couldn't wait to leave. Everyone thought I was crazy, pretty much. No one really cared, even the people I tried to help. Especially them." Her bitter laugh returned. "In the end, death was always a huge relief."
"But not this time?”
She shook her head. "Not this time."
"Good." He had no special knowledge of the mentally ill, but he felt sure this indicated progress. She wanted to live. He almost shouted with glee. Instead, he pressed her for more details, more understanding. "What makes you not want to leave?”
"You." Carolly turned back to face him, her gaze meeting his. And for the first time ever, she did not fight his touch. She did not seek to sever the connection to reality or to him. "It's because you care."
He started, surprised by her comment. "Is that so rare a thing?”
She quirked her eyebrow, her expression wry. "You tell me. How many people would do what you have done for me? Who else would let me invade his home, disrupt his life, and endanger his ward—then not throw me out or turn me over to someone else?”
He shrugged, beginning to feel uncomfortable with the shifting emotions she so readily embraced. How could he keep pace with a woman who moved so quickly from guilt to humor to madness to sudden warmth? It disturbed him even as it fascinated him. "Perhaps I am the better candidate for Bedlam," he mused.
She smiled, and her eyes reflected the colors of the fading sunset. "Or perhaps you're just a nice guy."
His breath caught in his throat. He knelt before her, their eyes level, their mouths a scant inch apart. Moments before, he had tried to understand her, tried to ferret out her secrets in an effort to help her. But not now. Now, he wished merely to touch her. To hold h
er. To kiss her.
And so he did. Without extra thought or planning, he merely leaned forward and claimed her lips. She responded slowly, as if reluctant to give in to the force that seemed to surround them constantly, pushing them inevitably together. But he had no more strength to resist; and as he added his own encouragement, nibbling gently along the edges of her lips, her reluctance seemed to melt away.
He did not press against her, though his entire body urged him on with a power that made his legs shake. Instead, he held himself back, leisurely tasting her mouth, exploring the dark recesses behind her lips while she sighed sweetly, opening herself up to him. And then, guessing her to be a virgin unused to such attentions, he forced himself to withdraw. He did not wish to. Indeed, were her mental state solid, he would have pressed her down onto the carpet. But he feared pushing her into madness, and so he pulled away, his body protesting every inch that separated them.
She spoke, then, her words confirming his worst fear: that his attentions overwhelmed her so much as to further unbalance her mind. "Angels aren't supposed to kiss like that," she whispered. He looked at her eyes, saw the shimmer of regret within them.
"Oh, James, angels shouldn't even think of kisses like that." She swallowed, obviously pulling her thoughts about her. Unfortunately, they were disordered thoughts, steeped in madness. What else could they be? "We must think about what you'll do to help the villagers."
He slid away from her, returning to his seat, while inside his heart sank. He should have known better. He did know better. One could not dally with a madwoman. For her stability, not to mention his own. Obviously, his attentions had disturbed her so much she'd run straight for her madness, using it as a shield against him.
And yet, even now, he wanted to touch her again. To taste her again. To introduce her to love with the sweetest, most gentle of caresses.
"James,' she repeated, as if trying to get his attention. "We have to help the people who lost jobs because you turned them out."
He sighed, the evening soured, his thoughts buried in defeat. "I will not rehire them, Carolly. I am wealthy enough without having to make money off the sweat of women and children."
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