When a Stranger Loves Me

by Julianne MacLean

He lowered her skirt and covered her leg, then led Thatcher down the wooded path. “When we reach the palace, I’ll send the housekeeper to see you. She’s very good with cuts and scrapes.”

  “How do you know that?” Chelsea quickly asked. “Do you remember things about her?”

  He felt his eyebrows pull together with surprise. “Yes. Somehow I do. I know this one thing.” A flicker of hope alighted in him. Perhaps in time he would remember more.

  He reached into his pocket and pulled out the watch. He looked at the gold hands and black Roman numerals, but still, it was unfamiliar. He slipped it back into his pocket.

  “Have you seen the Italian Gardens yet?” she asked. “Because I believe that is what you pictured in your mind that day on the beach. You mentioned mud puddles and a fountain and statue. When I looked out my window this morning, that is exactly what I saw.”

  He shook his head. “I have not seen it. The garden is below your window, you say?”

  “Yes. Your sister mentioned it to me last night. She said your father moved all the flowers and shrubs to higher ground because he believes the palace is cursed and a flood is coming. It is a symptom of his illness. So that explains the mud puddles you saw in your mind, and why you thought it was depressing. It was a true memory, Blake, and that is good news.”

  Indeed it was.

  They made their way through the woods to where the river widened into the lake.

  “Did you sleep well last night?” she asked.

  “Not a wink. I woke up in a cold sweat again.” He glanced over his shoulder. “And you should be thankful you were not there, because if you had been, I probably would have thrown you to the floor in typical fashion and attempted to strangle you. It would have felt quite good, too, I suspect.”

  The horse plodded along slowly. A blackbird fluttered out of a leafy tree as they passed.

  “Was there no candlestick handy to bludgeon me with?” Chelsea asked. “Because that is, after all, your weapon of choice in such situations.”

  “There’s only a rather cumbersome lamp next to my bed.”

  “Well, that wouldn’t do at all.”

  He found himself chuckling, and was quite certain it was the first time he’d smiled since he arrived at the palace.

  “Did you have another dream that caused you to wake up in that state?” she asked.

  He was glad he was walking ahead of her, and therefore did not have to look into her eyes.

  “Yes.”

  “What was it about?”

  “I wish I knew. All I remember is waking up in a rage and wanting to brawl. And then I recalled that strange emblem I drew on the beach that day.” He glanced behind him. “Do you remember? You asked me about it.”

  “Yes, I remember exactly. Do you still have the sketch?”

  “I do.”

  “You should show it to your brother. Maybe he will recognize the symbol.”

  “I will do that when we get back.”

  They walked around the lake and crossed over the bridge, then started up the lane toward the palace at the top of the hill.

  “You have an extraordinary home, Blake,” Chelsea said. “I do believe there is nothing in England to compare.”

  “I am a fortunate man.”

  “Yes.” She was quiet for a long time. “But I must ask…Have you given any thought to what I said to you at the coaching inn?”

  He felt his insides seize up, but fought not to let it show. “Which part?”

  “The part where I told you I was sorry. I am, and I hope that one day you might be able to forgive me and believe that I do care for you. No matter what happens between us, whether I am with child or not, I want us both to at least have fond memories of each other.”

  He kept walking, and wished she were not in the habit of speaking so openly.

  “I’m not very good at memories,” he said.

  “Not the old ones, but maybe the new ones will have a better chance of staying with you.”

  He looked down at his boots while he walked. The horse ambled along behind him, his head bobbing as he clopped up the lane.

  “I predict they will,” Blake finally said, for he could not imagine he would ever forget those early days of this new life.

  They passed under the entrance archway that led to the cobbled courtyard, and reached the front steps at the main door. Blake reached up, put his gloved hands around Chelsea’s tiny waist, and assisted her off the horse. Her skirts billowed as she landed softly on the ground. He stood for a moment, not quite ready to let go.

  “Thank you,” she said. Her voice was quiet and vulnerable.

  “I’ll send the housekeeper to your room.”

  Still, neither of them made a move to step apart.

  “Blake,” Chelsea whispered. She wet her lips and gripped his forearms. “Please believe that I regret what happened. And I miss you. I want what we had before. I can’t bear this.”

  An enormous part of him wanted to speak the same words to her in return—I miss you, too—but he could not do it. He could not bring himself to trust that what they’d had in Jersey was real, or that any of this was real. This world around him still felt like a fiction, because he did not feel it. The only past he had was with her, but that had been a sham.

  He lowered his hands to his sides and backed away from her, and without another word took hold of Thatcher’s reins and headed back to the stables.

  Chapter 21

  Chelsea sucked in a breath and bit her lip the instant the cloth touched her bloodied thigh.

  The housekeeper, Mrs. Callahan, drew back and tilted her head to the side. “I’m very sorry, my lady,” she said. “I know it’s painful. It’s a terrible scrape, but I must make sure there is no dirt in the wound. We wouldn’t want it to fester.” She dipped the cloth into the bowl of water and squeezed it out. “I’ll try to be gentle.”

  “And I will try to be brave,” Chelsea replied.

  Sitting back, she squeezed the mahogany arms of the Chippendale chair and remembered how brave Blake had been that first night, when he watched her stitch up his wound, which had been far worse than a silly scraped leg.

  A knock sounded at the door. Mrs. Callahan stopped what she was doing, rose to her feet and crossed the chamber to answer it. “Lady Charlotte…”

  “I hear our guest took a tumble,” Charlotte said. “I came to see if there is anything I can do. It’s not life-threatening, I hope.” She peered in at Chelsea, who was sitting in front of the unlit fireplace.

  “Please, come in,” Chelsea said. “You can distract me from the perils of my treatment.”

  She had met Lady Charlotte the night before, at dinner, and afterward they spent time chatting in the drawing room when the family gathered to read and play cards. At twenty-three, Charlotte and her twin brother Garrett were the duke and duchess’s two youngest children.

  From what Chelsea had gathered, the entire family, except the duke, now knew the actual reason for her presence here—because Blake was waiting to establish her condition in order to determine if a wedding would be necessary.

  Now, Charlotte entered with a friendly countenance, and Chelsea found it oddly disconcerting that the members of the family were so at ease with the circumstances. They appeared perfectly content to wait for her courses to begin—or not begin—as if this sort of thing happened at Pembroke all the time. They might as well have been waiting for a simple change in the weather.

  “May I ask what happened?” Charlotte laid a hand on the back of her chair. “I heard you were walking by the river. It’s very dangerous in certain places this time of year, with all the recent rains. You really must be careful.”

  “Don’t worry, I learned my lesson,” Chelsea replied, trying not to wince as Mrs. Callahan washed the dried blood from the most tender part of the abrasion. “It was foolish of me. I became lost, and crossed over a ridge that turned out to be a river of mud on the other side.”

  The color drained from Charlotte’s face. “Oh
. I know the spot, exactly.”

  “You do?”

  “Yes, there was an accident there three years ago. A young woman died when the horse she was riding slipped and plummeted down the hill.”

  Chelsea was aware of Mrs. Callahan’s noteworthy pause. The housekeeper lifted her eyes briefly, before continuing to wash the wound.

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Chelsea said. “Blake didn’t mention anything—” Then she realized what she was saying and looked down at her lap. “But no, I suppose he wouldn’t remember it.”

  “Well,” Charlotte said in a more cheerful voice, “I’m just glad you were not seriously hurt. How is she faring, Mrs. Callahan? Will she suffer any permanent damage?”

  The housekeeper sat back on her heels and dropped the bloodstained cloth into the bowl. “By the looks of things, she’ll recover. It’s a bad scrape, to be sure, but not deep. Nevertheless, you’ll be sore for a few days.”

  Chelsea tossed the hem of her skirt over her leg. “I believe I can tolerate a little pain. Thank you so much for your kind assistance, Mrs. Callahan.”

  The woman spoke with caring. “You must let me know if there is anything else you need, my lady. Anything at all. I will do my best to make sure you are well taken care of.” She picked up the bowl of water and left the room.

  “She likes you,” Charlotte said after the door closed behind her.

  “I can’t imagine why,” Chelsea replied. “I’ve done nothing extraordinary, outside of falling on my backside and giving her more laundry to do.”

  She chose not to mention the fact that she had deceived Blake when he was most vulnerable.

  Charlotte walked to the window. “I’m afraid I must disagree.”

  “How so?”

  She pointed outside. “Just look out there. What I see is my brother Blake, sitting on a bench in the garden, drawing a picture. A picture!”

  Chelsea stood also, and limped across the room. She looked out at the famous Italian Gardens, which could hardly be called “gardens” now, since the duke had dug everything up. She realized that Blake must have gone there immediately after he delivered her to the palace door.

  “And drawing a picture is remarkable…why?” she asked.

  “Because he has not sketched anything since he was a boy. It used to be a wonderful pastime for him, and he took lessons from some established artists. He had a distinctive talent. We all knew it.”

  “What happened?”

  She shrugged. “He simply grew out of it. When he was sixteen or so, he took on more responsibilities here on the estate, and Father came to rely on him and appreciate his assistance. Blake became the shining example of what the others should aspire to. We all began to forget about his creative talents. Whatever did you do to make him feel artistic again?”

  Chelsea looked outside. “I don’t know. I gave him a piece of paper, I suppose.”

  “It must have been more than that. He’s had access to a great many sheets of paper over the years, but he has never drawn a single thing.”

  Chelsea sighed as she remembered those lazy days on the beach and in the woods, when she wrote her romantic stories and he drew pictures of their surroundings—and of her. “Perhaps it was because, while he was convalescing, he had nothing better to do.”

  Charlotte looked at her profile. “I think it was your artistic spirit that inspired him. You were contagious, in a good way. He tells me you are a writer, and that you like it best when you can write outdoors.”

  “Yes,” she said, “that is true.”

  But she hadn’t been able to write a single sentence this morning in these strange surroundings. All she’d managed to do was get herself lost.

  “I think what my brother needed to do,” Charlotte said, “was simply break out of the confines of this place we all call home. Despite its many rewards, it can be oppressive sometimes.” She smiled warmly at Chelsea. “Maybe one day he’ll discover that getting washed up onto your beach was the best thing that ever happened to him.”

  Chelsea laughed bitterly. “I doubt that.”

  “Why?”

  She paused, wondering how much she should say, then decided she would say what she wanted, because Charlotte and everyone else already knew what had happened between them and why he brought her here.

  “Because I lied to him,” she replied. “I know you know it, Charlotte. I pretended to be a woman of loose morals when I was in fact quite innocent, and now I have stolen his freedom to choose his own future.”

  “To choose to marry another woman, you mean.”

  “Yes.”

  Charlotte frowned at her in dismay. “But Blake is not like my other brothers.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He is not a Don Juan or a Casanova. Vincent, on the other hand, has had many women, and recently when he was forced to become betrothed, he simply chose a lady he knew Father approved of, but jilted her in the end to marry his mistress, who had already born him an illegitimate child.”

  “Really? There must have been a terrible scandal. How did he avoid it?”

  “He didn’t. It’s the talk of the town at the moment, as he married Cassandra less than a month ago.” She lowered her gaze. “I don’t think my brother and his wife will be accepted anywhere for quite some time.”

  “I’m very sorry,” Chelsea offered. “How dreadful for them. Where is she now?”

  “She is at the house they just purchased in Newbury, settling in and choosing furniture. But it is not dreadful for them, not at all.” Charlotte spoke with optimism. “And that is my point, you see, and the reason I am telling you this. They don’t care one way or another if they are accepted in society. They are deeply in love, and thankful just to be together, when it had seemed impossible not so long ago.

  “Besides,” she added, looking out the window again, “Cassandra had already been an outcast after bearing his child out of wedlock, so it truly makes no difference to her. They are talking about going abroad for an extended honeymoon—possibly to Egypt or the Orient—until the dust settles.”

  “If it ever does,” Chelsea warned. “I’m afraid I have some experience in that regard.”

  “Oh, yes,” Charlotte replied, speaking with some fascination. “I heard about your shocking elopement seven years ago. What a daring woman you are, Chelsea. I quite admire you.”

  More than a little surprised by the young lady’s liberal mind-set, Chelsea felt inclined to speak responsibly. “That is very kind of you to say, Charlotte, but don’t be too quick to mark me as a hero. I’ve been hiding away in exile on the other side of the English Channel for the better part of my adult life. My experiences these days are hardly what I would call daring. My life has been very quiet and dull.”

  “Until my brother arrived.”

  She sighed despondently. “Yes, until your very handsome brother arrived and upset everything.”

  “Do you have any regrets?”

  Chelsea looked down at Blake, still sitting on the bench in the devastated garden, sketching the statue of Venus in the center of the fountain.

  “No,” she replied. “No matter what happens, I will never regret those weeks we spent together.”

  “So you are in love with him, then?”

  There was no point in trying to hide the truth. She had already ventured outside the lines of propriety in so many ways.

  “Yes, I am. And I would do anything to earn his forgiveness. I’m just not sure it’s possible.”

  “Oh, anything is possible,” Charlotte replied. “I’ve just witnessed the nuptials of two very rakish brothers—both of whom no one ever believed would succumb to marriage, much less love—and they are happier now than they ever imagined they could be. Vincent especially. So do not lose heart. Think of what he overcame, by marrying his mistress, and consider that your circumstances are no worse. Just continue to be the woman you are, and win him back.”

  Chelsea looked out the window. “I just wish I knew how to go about it. Whenever I ap
ologize, he walks away from me. If you have any advice…”

  Charlotte thought about it. “I wish I could offer you some, but it’s been a long time since I’ve had any personal experience in such matters. One thing I can share with you however”—her voice became animated—“is a marvelous Pembroke secret that has resulted in numerous marriages over the centuries.”

  “What is it?”

  Charlotte took her by the hand. “Come with me.” She led her across the room, pulled the corner tapestry aside and pointed down at a small door cut into the wainscoting. “This will lead you into a network of passages, some of which go straight down to the ancient foundations of the old abbey.”

  “What old abbey?”

  “The building was a monastery before my ancestor accepted it as a gift from the monarchy and transformed it into its present grandeur. The east courtyard was the old cloister.” She reached down and flicked the latch. The door swung open.

  “This looks like another good way for me to get lost,” Chelsea said.

  “Yes, it most certainly is, but you will not lose your way this morning, because I am going with you, and I will show you exactly how to get to Blake’s rooms…” She grinned mischievously. “…in case you ever decide the time is right for a private conversation.”

  She took Chelsea by the hand and led her through the secret door.

  Blake looked up from his sketching when, out of the corner of his eye, he saw the butler coming down the stairs from the house, his gait swift and determined.

  “Good morning, my lord,” the butler said, slightly out of breath when he stopped in front of the bench.

  Blake lowered his sketch.

  “You have visitors, my lord.”

  “Visitors,” Blake repeated. It seemed strange that he would have guests, when he still felt like a guest here himself.

  “They are waiting for you in the green drawing room.”

  Blake slipped his pencil into his pocket and stood. He crossed the garden and climbed the stairs energetically, taking two or three steps at a time to the top, while the butler followed at a distance. When Blake walked through the door, however, and found himself standing in the back hall, he looked uncertainly left and right.