by Ruth Axtell
He had asked her the same thing yesterday. Perhaps he didn’t remember. She blushed once again, more at his obvious concern and the discreet way he was asking her than from the indignity of the act itself. “No . . . that is, he . . . behaved in a . . . a gentlemanly manner despite being a . . . brigand.”
His eyes met hers as if to assure himself that she spoke the truth. “Good.” The word was curt. “They were French.”
Once again, he’d managed to throw her off balance. “Who?” she asked carefully, realizing MacKinnon had now had time to think about the holdup and its significance. She would have to tread carefully.
“The ‘highwaymen.’” The way he said the word sounded as if he didn’t believe they were.
She rubbed her chin, pretending to consider his statement. “Yes, yes, they were, weren’t they?”
“Don’t you find that odd?”
His scrutiny was relentless. Her pulse quickened, finding the trick of eluding his questions challenging and strangely exhilarating more than frightening. She pursed her lips, tilting her head as if giving his question more thought. “I don’t know. There are so many émigrés about, many as poor as their fellow Englishmen. With the war, times are hard.”
Finally, he nodded. “Yes, I suppose. So, you think they were merely highwaymen looking for valuables?”
She widened her eyes. “Why, yes, who else could they have been?”
“Someone from Hartwell House?”
She brought a hand to her mouth. “From Hartwell House? Could it be possible? You think someone would be so dastardly as to think he could get away with robbing my coach?” She shuddered. “Oh, it’s infamous. The Comte would be so distressed over such a thing.”
“Perhaps they didn’t mean to rob you. Perhaps you have an enemy there.”
She met his relentless gaze, realizing she could not treat him like an imbecile. He knew. Perhaps he even knew who had pursued her.
At her silence, he added, “I would imagine there is much intrigue in a place like Hartwell. It is, after all, a royal court.”
“Yes,” she whispered. Reminding herself that he could do nothing to protect her, and in fact, would probably do everything in his power to betray her, she finally stood and smoothed down her skirt. “I mustn’t tire you. Try and get some more rest. I shall bring you the reading material from my library. Thank you for the Scripture.”
“Perhaps you can read me another tomorrow.”
She nodded, glad of another excuse to sit with him. “Yes, I should like that very much. Well, I shall leave you. Please, if you need anything, ring for a servant to attend you.” She looked around, realizing he had no way of calling a servant. “I shall bring you a bell.”
Aware of his gaze still on her, she left the room. If she were not careful, she would betray not only herself and the French cause but her friends. She must think of Gaspard and Valentine.
Rees sat looking after Lady Wexham, his heartbeat only gradually subsiding. Was it his imagination or was she as affected by his presence as he with hers? He shook his head. It couldn’t be.
He remembered their earlier conversation. He didn’t know what to believe. Did she really not suspect that the highwaymen had been sent from Hartwell? If she was lying, she was well practiced in the art.
He punched a fist at his bedcovers then immediately regretted the movement. Lady Wexham had told him not to get up. How was he to get word to Bunting? How soon before word of his accident reached someone at the Home Office? If he didn’t show up soon, they would wonder what he was about. They would have to send someone, and that could prove more dangerous for him than bleeding from his wound.
His head fell back on the pillows, his thoughts in a coil. What was he to do? It was the worst possible time to be laid up. Someone else knew of Lady Wexham’s role, and the French monarchists would perhaps be less forgiving than the British. Either way, all he could see in her future was a noose.
He glanced over at the Bible and remembered Lady Wexham’s words. His heart contracted remembering how her voice had broken. Her words and emotions had seemed genuine. She had been afraid for him. Could she be that good an actress? Or did she care something about him? Enough to reach out to God?
Ignoring the stab of pain, he reached over and picked up his Bible. Only God could get them both out of this dangerous mess.
As he opened the book, already he looked forward to Lady Wexham’s next visit when she would read the Scriptures to him again.
17
Virginia informed Céline when the surgeon arrived—as she’d been instructed to. Céline made her way back downstairs, pausing at a mirror in the entry hall to glance at herself before proceeding down to the basement.
Her color seemed high. She patted her hair. She wore a flimsy lace cap over her dark curls. Did it make her look too matronly? She didn’t think so. Her pale green morning gown enhanced her coloring. Adjusting the sheer muslin fichu around her neck, she finally turned away.
When had her appearance become so important in regard to MacKinnon?
She entered his room to the murmur of voices. The doctor was tying the new bandages around MacKinnon’s shoulder and chest. Both Virginia and William stood behind the surgeon, watching the proceedings.
The doctor finished and stood back. “That should do for a day, if you don’t go making any unnecessary movement.” He glanced at the two servants, ignoring MacKinnon’s thanks. “The two of you can take turns changing the dressing. Remember, keep it clean, sprinkle the wound liberally with the basilicum powder the way I showed you, and wrap it with fresh linens each day. If you see any change—if it reopens or looks putrid, send word. Think you can manage that?”
“Yes, sir,” they murmured, Virginia bobbing a quick curtsy.
Céline moved into the room. “Good afternoon, Mr. Simmons, how is our hero?”
They all turned toward her. “Doing fine,” he said, putting away the tin of powder in his bag. “As long as he behaves himself until the wound is good and closed.”
Céline’s gaze finally went to MacKinnon. She felt shy after her display of emotion earlier in the day. But he nodded to her. “We shall have to ensure that he does,” she said, approaching the bed.
“I shall be on my way then, unless any of you have any other questions for me?” When the surgeon was satisfied that his instructions would be heeded, he shut his bag and turned to leave.
“William, please show Mr. Simmons out.”
Before Céline could give any instructions to Virginia, the young maid curtsied to MacKinnon. “Is there anything I can get for you, sir? Gaspard made a batch of ham-filled pasties for our tea. I could fetch you some with a cup o’ tea, if you’d like.”
MacKinnon shook his head though he smiled at the girl. “No, thank you, Virginia. Perhaps in a little while.”
She bobbed another curtsy. “I’ll check in on you later then.”
“You mustn’t trouble yourself about me.”
“Oh, no trouble at all, sir. I’ll see you in a bit.” With a quick glance at Céline, Virginia skirted around her and left.
Céline smiled at MacKinnon, though inwardly she experienced an unfamiliar annoyance with the young maid. “You’ll have every house and kitchen maid fetching and carrying for you.”
“They needn’t,” he said stiffly. “I’m not helpless.”
She laughed. “What, and deny their pleasure?”
His eyes widened in what seemed genuine disbelief.
Her irritation at Virginia’s solicitous manner dissolved. “Confess—you know how popular you are among the female servants.”
“I know no such thing!”
She chuckled at his outrage. He truly seemed unaware of his allure. “With all except Valentine, I suppose.” Deciding to continue teasing him a little, she drew closer to his bedside. “Whatever did you do to earn such dislike from her?”
His eyebrows drew together. “I assure you, I have done nothing to her.” But he was watchful now.
“Don’t worry, it is probably nothing personal. She dislikes all British on principle. Your being handsome and aloof undoubtedly gained her immediate rancor. You didn’t by chance spurn a flirtatious advance of hers?”
A flush covered his face and ran down his neck and shoulders, but he remained silent.
She let out a triumphant sigh even as she admired him for keeping silent. “I thought so. You must forgive her. She cannot help herself.”
Settling herself in the chair, she couldn’t resist drawing out more from him. The relief she felt at the doctor’s optimistic report was enough to forget for a moment the dangers that still lurked. Resting her chin in her hands, she couldn’t help running her gaze over the breadth of his bare shoulders. “Why haven’t you married?” She narrowed her eyes, pretending suspicion. “Or are you a womanizer?”
His blazing eyes threw her aback. “I assure you, I am not!”
She smiled, his words mollifying her, and persuading her that perhaps his kiss had revealed his true feelings for her.
As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Rees realized Lady Wexham was teasing him, and once again he felt only the impropriety of their positions, particularly in his state of undress.
She continued to watch him, amusement dancing in her eyes, even as he remained silent. After a moment, she said, “Is she very pretty?”
“Who?” he answered more brusquely than normal, still irritated by her assumption that he would engage in flirting with the female servants.
Her lips curled upward though her eyes lost their humor. “Your sweetheart.”
“I have no sweetheart.” But he looked away, thinking of Jessamine.
“Now you are acting coy, Mr. MacKinnon.”
He fiddled with his blanket. “I assure you, I am doing no such thing.” Why was he denying his friendship with Jessamine?
“Well, then you are behaving as one who is not being wholly truthful. Are you secretly engaged?”
His gaze shot up to hers. “No—that is, I have not declared myself to . . . to any woman.”
She arched a brow. “I am surprised. How old are you, Mr. MacKinnon?”
“One-and-thirty.”
She gazed at him, a speculative look in her eyes. “Most men are married by your age.”
“It takes money to set up a household,” he said shortly.
“Oh, dear, I am sorry. Does it take so very much?” she asked softly.
A lot she would know about money. Immediately he remembered she and her mother had come from France impoverished émigrés. He grimaced, remembering her marriage at eighteen to a wealthy earl some thirty years her senior.
Glad for a reason to hold onto his anger, he added, “I am also supporting a mother and sister,” then immediately became irate with himself for not being able to hold his tongue.
She looked down at her clasped hands. “Of course. I could help you, you know . . .”
His anger was real now. “I need no such assistance. I am quite able to manage for myself.”
“Forgive me, I didn’t mean to offend you.”
He didn’t know how to answer. Her sincere tone disarmed him.
“So, you have held off your own happiness for the sake of others.”
“It has been no sacrifice.”
He said nothing more—for how could he explain about Jessamine, when he himself no longer understood his own feelings? All he could think of at that moment was the kiss he had shared with Lady Wexham.
“I see.”
Was she, too, thinking of their kiss? Or didn’t she realize he had been the pirate who had ravished her lips?
Her next words dispelled any such thought. “You must bring her one Sunday when you are better. I should like to meet her.”
How did she know . . . ? Was she clairvoyant, as well? He scrambled around for a reason. “Uh—that’s not possible.”
She lifted a graceful brow. “Why is that?”
“She lives . . . too far.”
“Oh, dear, I’m sorry. I . . . I could pay her fare—please don’t take offense.”
“Th-thank you,” he managed, making a valiant effort not to lose his temper again. Did she think it was only about money? “I—she could never accept that. It . . . it is not the expense. She . . . she dislikes travel.”
“If I had a gentleman such as you, I would travel across Europe.”
Gentleman. Is that how she saw him? She sounded as if she meant what she said. And the way she was looking at him, he could almost believe she meant him. Or . . . the thought crept in like an unpleasant odor, permeating everything . . . was she referring to someone dear to her? “Would you?”
“Once.” It was said in so low a tone he almost missed it. She was no longer looking at him but down at her clasped hands.
She had meant someone else. He swallowed, not sure if he wanted to know more. He thought of her words earlier. Someone she had deeply loved had been taken from her. “Was he young and handsome?” He kept his tone light, part of his mind suspended to receive the answer, the other part working furiously. Who was he? Could it be possible there had been someone besides the late earl?
Had she met and fallen in love with a young Frenchman in Paris during her brief sojourn there?
His gaze hardened as he continued regarding her. Or, had she fallen in love with someone after she’d been married? Had she been unfaithful to the old earl? It happened all the time in her circles—and being French!
Her answer, when it finally came, startled him because he’d been so deep in conjecture. “Yes.”
Rees struggled to remember his original question. So, Lady Wexham’s lover had been young and handsome. He felt something shrivel up inside of him, some hope or ideal he’d harbored about her. He made an effort to keep his tone detached. “What happened to him?”
“He died.” The words confirmed what she’d mentioned in the morning. She had lost someone she’d loved—a man. Their impact on Rees was all the more devastating because of their simplicity. All anger and suspicion fled and only a profound sadness remained, as if he shared her grief.
Had she been only seventeen? Or, had it been a forbidden love while caught in a loveless marriage? He wanted to know who had captured her heart.
“He was a French soldier.”
She’d caught him off guard again. Before he could think what to say, she offered more details. “It was during the Peace of Amiens. My mother had wanted to return to France . . . to try and reclaim our family’s lands.” She laughed dryly. “Needless to say, she didn’t get very far. She was sorely disappointed in all she found there.”
So, his first supposition had been correct. Impatient now to hear about the young recruit, Rees tried to figure out how to maneuver the conversation back to him, but he needn’t have feared.
“When I met him, he was but a cadet in the military academy, but when I left France, he’d received his first commission as a sous-lieutenant—I believe that’s second lieutenant in your army—and joined a division of the light infantry.”
Rees waited, hardly breathing, for more.
“We fell in love.” She spread her hands as if in appeal and gave a shaky laugh. “What else does one do at seventeen?”
“Fight.” The words came out unbidden.
Her amber eyes regarded him a moment. “Like you and Stéphane.”
Stéphane. He hated the name already. The next second, shame filled him for his pettiness.
“You and Stéphane, both fighting at the same time yet on different sides. If you had been in the army, perhaps you would have met on the battlefield . . . one of you killing the other.” She shuddered, holding her arms together. “What a mad world we inhabit.”
“A fallen one.”
She took a deep breath as if leaving the past behind her. “You have a certain bearing of a military man . . . Stéphane had it too.” She nodded her head slowly, as if seeing the resemblance.
They fell silent. What was she thinking? About Stéphane? The name was branded on R
ees’s memory, its syllables seared into his brain.
Or was she thinking of the things he had told her, detecting the fallacies in his story? From stable boy to navy midshipman to footman. Did she see how absurd the facts sounded? Or was she thinking solely of her lost cadet?
To distract her, he asked, “Why haven’t you remarried?”
Instead of putting him in his place for his impertinence, she merely pursed her lips as if the thought was a distasteful one. “One marriage was enough.”
She stood abruptly. “I have tired you enough for one day and had better leave you to your rest or Mr. Simmons will scold me. Do you need anything before I go?”
Clearly, the topic of marriage distressed her. He shook his head, still dazed by her revelations.
“Please ring your bell if you do,” she said with a nod to the bell she had had one of the servants bring him earlier. “I shall bid you good afternoon for the present.”
With a haste contrary to her previous lingering, she quickly turned and left the room.
The next afternoon, Céline used the excuse of bringing the books she had promised MacKinnon to go down to him again. Although she’d regretted telling him about Stéphane, something drew her back to his side. It was as if she couldn’t keep away from him, like a moth drawn to its destruction.
No one except Valentine and her mother knew about Stéphane. Only Valentine knew about Stéphane’s death.
She shook her head to shake aside the memories. It was only when MacKinnon had asked her why she had never remarried that she’d come back to her senses. He knew too much about her now, making her feel more vulnerable than she had since she was eighteen.
She turned instead to analyze his own words. She’d brooded over them for the rest of the day and evening.
A man truly in love didn’t kiss another with the passion he had exhibited to her. Nor did lack of money stop a person head-over-heels in love . . . which meant Mr. MacKinnon had never been in love . . . which meant he wasn’t in love with the young lady he stammered over. Her conclusion helped alleviate the terrible jealousy his words had caused her.