by Jane Feather
“But are we not to go to London?” Henrietta looked at Daniel with the enormous, desperate eyes of one pushed beyond the limit of endurance. “Do not leave me here…Please do not leave me again, Daniel.”
He was sitting beside her, her head clasped to his breast, almost before the forlorn plea had left her lips. “Dearest love, I do not intend leaving you ever again, not for so much as a minute,” he promised with instant comprehension. His wife was at breaking point. The fear and desperation subsumed for so long under the need to plan and to act was now taking its toll, rendering her more vulnerable than he could ever remember seeing her. “Tom will go to London and bring the children here.”
“Aye, that I will, Lady Drummond,” Tom agreed hastily. “I’ll be off within the hour and bring the little maids to ye. Now don’t ye worry about a thing,” he added awkwardly, scratching his head before turning and stomping out of the parlor.
“Come, elf, I will take you abovestairs, and Nurse will put you to bed.”
“’Tis a peppermint caudle she’ll be needing, I shouldn’t wonder,” the woman said. “Always was partial to them, was Miss Henrietta. Come along, m’dear. Master Will says y’are with child. Ye’ve more than yourself to take care of, these days.”
Henrietta yielded the dikes of self-determination. She was aware of being undressed, of warm water laving her skin, of soft linen covering her body, of sweet-smelling sheets and the deep embrace of a feather mattress, of hot, thin, wine-spiced gruel spooned into her obediently opened mouth. And all the while, she was aware of Daniel, who never moved out of her line of vision, who spoke gently to her, caressed her cheek with his finger, brushed her mouth with his, held her hand until she slipped into merciful, healing oblivion.
Daniel gazed upon his sleeping wife and wondered how such a wondrous, magical creature had been shaped, how such a loving and giving spirit could have emerged from the arid soil of her childhood. And he wondered what he had done to deserve the gift of her love, the immeasurable joy of her self to inform his life.
“Did Daddy really dress up as a lady, Harry?”
“Most definitely not a lady, Lizzie. A veritable crone in print and calico.” Laughing, Daniel came into the sunny bedchamber, where his wife lay propped upon pillows in the big bed and his daughters were sprawled in most indecorous fashion across the quilt.
“What an adventure,” Lizzie said wistfully. “I wish I could have an adventure.”
“I don’t,” Nan said, clambering off the bed and going to hug her father’s knees. “Daddy was wounded, and he hasn’t let Harry get out of bed for a week. I do not think adventures are at all nice things.”
Daniel bent to hitch her up onto his hip, awkward because of his one sound hand. “I think ye have the right of it, Nan. I have certainly had enough of adventuring. Mistress Osbert and Julie and the babe are arrived. Why d’ye not go and greet them?”
“You just want to be alone with Harry,” Lizzie observed, sliding off the bed.
“Impertinent minx,” her father said, but there was a chuckle in his voice. “Off with you!” He set Nan on her feet, pointing with an imperative finger to the door. The girls followed its direction, Lizzie casting both adults a mischievous grin over her shoulder.
“Do you think that child is taking shameless advantage of my reduced mobility?” Daniel inquired, mildly curious, as he turned the key in the door.
“I shouldn’t be at all surprised,” Henrietta replied, smiling.
“Mmmm…well, she’s going to be in for a shock one of these fine days,” he said amiably, sitting on the bed. “I must find them another governess. Unbutton my shirt, will you, love. ’Twill be quicker if you do it.”
Henrietta chuckled in mischievous comprehension and her fingers moved nimbly, pushing the shirt off his shoulders, easing it over his bandaged arm. “Am I to understand that matters between us are now to return to normal, husband?”
“You are,” he answered with a complacent smile. “I have been restrained quite long enough. ’Tis time you resumed your conjugal duties, madam wife.”
“Anyone would think I had been neglecting them through choice,” she murmured, aggrieved, lying back on the pillows and kicking the bedcovers aside. “I thought ’twas your wound causing the difficulty.”
“I do not make love with my arm.”
That was certainly true, reflected Henrietta some considerable time later, stroking the dark head resting against her breast. “Will we go home now, love?”
“Aye,” Daniel said, pressing his lips into the soft curve of her bosom. “’Tis time for the peace of surrender, my elf. The world we knew is defeated. We must fashion a new one from the materials given us. England is still for Englishmen, be she a Puritan commonwealth or no.”
“And a man can still tend his land, care for his children, enjoy his wife,” she said with that same mischievous chuckle. “And this wife would like to be enjoyed again, if you please.”
About the Author
Jane Feather was born in Cairo, Egypt, and grew up in the New Forest, in the south of England. She was trained as a social worker and, after moving with her husband and three children to New Jersey, pursued her career in psychiatric social work. She started writing after she moved with her family to Washington, D.C. Her other Avon Romances include Bold Destiny, The Eagle and The Dove, and Silver Nights.
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Praise
“Rare and wonderful…An accomplished storyteller.”
Los Angeles Daily News
Nationally Bestselling Author
JANE FEATHER
“Ms. Feather is one of the best historical romance authors to date who knows the treasures of the heart and how to convey the messages.”
The Paperback Forum
“Jane Feather is incomparable. Her stories shimmer with emotion and adventure, and her characters really do leap off the page into the reader’s heart.”
Affaire de Coeur
“Jane Feather expertly captures the era. She has a fine hand for merging historical detail with a tender love story and charms readers with her enchanting characters.”
Romantic Times
“Spirited.”
USA Today
“Delicious.”
Detroit Free Press
Other Avon Books by
Jane Feather
BOLD DESTINY
THE EAGLE AND THE DOVE
SILVER NIGHTS
Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
RECKLESS ANGEL. Copyright © 1989 by Jane Feather. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
Adobe Digital Edition February 2009 ISBN 978-0-06-188318-7
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