“Can you drive?” Mr. Severson asked.
“I’ve driven a pony cart.” A high-perched phaeton was no pony cart.
She heard the hint of a smile in his voice as he said, “Courage, Isabel. The horses know their job. Keep your hand steady.”
They reached the brick pillars. Isabel held her breath as she turned the horses onto the road. A phaeton looked sleek and fashionable from the ground, but it felt absolutely unstable when one was driving it.
“Are they following?” Mr. Severson rasped, referring to Mr. Wardley and Richard.
“No,” she answered.
He released his breath and slumped against her. “Doctor. Not much time.”
Isabel fought panic. “Of course, a doctor,” she said. “There isn’t one in Glaston. Or, at least, not most days. We send to Uppingham if we need a physic. I don’t know if you could make it to Uppingham.” She was babbling.
Worse, Mr. Severson appeared beyond caring. “Whatever…you…think,” he managed to say.
One of the horses stretched its neck, tugging at the reins in her hands, a sign of the animals’ impatience to be on the way, and she knew she must make a decision.
“We’ll go to Mr. Oxley,” she said half to herself. “He’s the rector at St. Andrew’s, only a mile or two away. He was in the military. He’ll know what to do.”
Mr. Severson did not answer.
Isabel feared driving the well-sprung phaeton and Mr. Severson’s very responsive horses. She feared overturning them.
She feared that Mr. Severson was going to die.
Her heart in her throat, she clucked the horses to start moving.
They’d traveled less than a mile when, his weight too heavy for her shoulder, his large body fell into her lap.
Isabel grabbed for him, afraid he would tumble to the ground. The horses did not like her sudden jerk on the reins. For one wild moment, she feared they would bolt.
They didn’t. She shifted her weight, trying to balance Mr. Severson better.
“Please sit up. Can you sit up?” she begged.
He didn’t respond. His forehead felt clammy to the touch. Fever would set in soon—if he didn’t die of blood loss first.
She debated turning back, then thought of the hardness she’d glimpsed in Mr. Wardley’s and Richard’s eyes.
There was only one direction to go—forward. She went, praying every foot of the way.
Five
Michael did not dream. His was the sleep of the dead. He knew because he was in Death’s presence.
He felt the presence of others, too. He recognized them without seeing their physical forms. They were companions he’d known, companions who had crossed over into the Darkness. They hovered on the edges of his mind, as real to him as they had been in life.
His first visitor was the young lieutenant he’d gambled with the night he’d arrived in French-town. The lieutenant and his friends had entertained themselves by scaring the wits out of a very green Michael with tales of Indian torture, stories Michael dismissed as too incredible to be true. A week later, Michael had been with the party of men who found what was left of the lieutenant’s body in a clearing where he had been scalped and burned at the stake.
The Widow Coffey, who had cooked for so many on their journeys, was still her laughing self in this afterlife. She’d died of blood poisoning, but now she and her lover, a burly sergeant who had been the victim of a lightning strike, hovered close by his bed.
And his parents were there, too, silent and disapproving as always…
Most disturbing was Aletta.
His mind remembered her as she had been—vibrant and beautiful, with just the hint of dissipation around her eyes. She’d lived hard. Death had not freed her.
She knew who had murdered her, who had ruined his life. He wanted to know. Now, when earthly cares should no longer be his worry, he still needed the answer.
But Aletta would not share her secrets. Instead, she drifted away, teasing him to follow, just as she had done to every man who’d crossed her path.
He surged toward her, calling her name over and over. She couldn’t leave him, not when everyone thought he’d killed her. She must tell the truth!
However, his body was not made of mist and air. Sharp pain ripped through him—
He fell back on the straw mattress, his shoulder throbbing in anger.
Gentle hands urged him to relax. “Please,” a woman’s voice begged. “You must lie still.”
Another woman asked, “What happened?”
“He tried to rise from the bed,” the woman holding him down answered.
“He’s healing,” a male voice said. “Makes them restless. Let’s give him that draught Maribelle made. It will ease the pain.”
But Michael didn’t want a draught. He welcomed pain. It meant he was alive. It meant he had another chance at justice.
In the end, the choice wasn’t his. Whether he wanted it or not, the draught was poured between his lips, and he swallowed it.
Then sleep came.
Now he dreamed, alone. There was no comforting presence, no companionable Death, no Aletta with the secret she’d taken to her grave…
Forrest Oxley did know what to do for Mr. Severson, although he warned they might be too late since he’d lost a great deal of blood and would lose even more when he dug for the bullet. Isabel had to leave the room because the rector searched with his finger, poking it into the wound. Mr. Severson was unconscious the whole time, but she felt pain for him.
When the rector had finished his doctoring, he told Isabel that Mr. Severson’s fate was in the hands of the Lord. She was thankful that neither Mr. Oxley nor his wife questioned her decision to tend to Mr. Severson, although the rector’s wife handled the more personal aspects of his care. They’d accepted her murmured claim about his being betrothed to her…although she sensed they had to know better. St. Andrew’s was a small parish.
For three days, she had rarely left his side. They’d set up a cot for her in the other room, but after they went to sleep she would sneak in and lie on a blanket on the floor by his bed. There was a bond between her and Mr. Severson. She wasn’t certain what would come of it, but she’d recognized that, like her, he was an outsider.
Her empathy manifested itself in a fierce protectiveness toward him. The coldness she had seen in Richard’s eyes haunted her. He’d fired the shot. She knew it…and wondered why the others had lied for him.
Isabel tried not to worry. Mr. Severson appeared to be regaining strength and might soon return to consciousness, and when he did—then what?
She was uncertain of the answer.
However, she was taken aback when inflammation and fever had made him delirious, and he’d called out Aletta’s name.
The rector’s cottage was little bigger than a mousehole. Mr. Severson’s room had space enough for the bed and a chair. Beyond the sitting room was a kitchen, then the Oxleys’ bedroom. Hardly anything could be said in one corner of the house without every occupant overhearing.
So, Mr. and Mrs. Oxley heard Mr. Severson call out another woman’s name, not once but over and over again.
Isabel had backed away from him when he’d shouted, going to a corner and crossing her arms. The despair in his voice had made the hairs on the back of her neck stand.
Nor had she been prepared for the sharp jealousy that had cut through her. She might pretend her motives were chaste and innocent. They were not.
Isabel didn’t understand why God and Severson’s enemies had placed him in her care. All she knew is that she had to give him time to rebuild his strength and keep him safe from Richard…and the ghost of Aletta Calendri.
Michael woke in stages to a dark world. It was night, and no candle burned anywhere.
The sheets smelled fresh, yet they lacked the cottony smoothness of his own. The air was close, but damp and cool, and he was glad of the heavy covers.
His legs felt like leaden weights, and his body seemed molded to the mattress. He lay on
his stomach, and he, a man who never wore anything to bed, had on some sort of nightshirt that felt several sizes too small. It took him several moments of consciousness to remember being shot.
In the darkness, he slipped a hand along his arm to his shoulder and felt the bandages. The wound was tender to the touch, and he marveled at having been hit so close to his heart without bleeding to death.
“Mr. Severson? Are you awake?”
The hushed woman’s voice gave him pause.
There was movement beside the bed. He sensed more than saw the figure stand. There was a scraping, the strike of flint on steel, then a flickering of light that grew as the candle on a table beside the bed was lit.
The brightness hurt his eyes. He turned his head away, giving himself a second to adjust before looking back. The first thing he noticed was the woman’s silky black hair and, for the briefest moment, fear blocked his throat.
Aletta.
He silently mouthed her name even as she bent over him, and her face came into view.
This woman was not Aletta. She had the same glossy hair, but her features were more refined and lacked Aletta’s Latin sultriness.
He recognized the governess just as she started to speak. “How do you feel? Is your fever gone?” She pressed a hand against his forehead, and it soothed away the inkling of a headache.
She smelled of the night air and roses…English roses. His memory came alive. He knew her touch, the taste of her kisses, and the way her body fit his. Isabel. Miss Halloran.
He remembered them arguing on Wardley’s drive—he offering marriage; she refusing; he winning her over. His reasons for making such an offer exploded in his head. She was Elswick’s daughter.
The upheaval of memories he was experiencing must have shown in his face. She started to pull away. He caught her arm at the wrist, amazed at how weak he was.
She hesitated. He held fast. At that moment, she was his only link to his surroundings, the only one he thought he could trust. She could have broken his hold. Instead, she lowered herself to sit on the edge of his bed, letting him hold her wrist as tight as he wished.
Yes, she was Elswick’s daughter. Hers was a feminine version of his straight nose and high cheekbones. She even had his arching brows—only hers were tempered by compassion, an emotion he doubted Elswick had ever experienced, and they gave her face character.
“Miss Halloran,” he said, in acknowledgment. His voice sounded rusty, and his throat was dry.
“Mr. Severson,” she replied as quietly, and he couldn’t help but smile. He had nothing to fear.
“How long have I been here?”
“Almost a week. We feared we’d lost you.”
“I thought you’d lost me, too,” he rasped, and was rewarded with her shy smile. He swallowed, finding his voice. “Where am I?”
“St. Andrew’s rectory in Glaston. Mr. Oxley is the rector. He used to be in the military, and I’d heard he had some surgerying skills. He and his wife took us in.”
Michael nodded, not having the strength for more questions. He would sort it out later, when he was strong and could make decisions again.
She leaned over him, her expression anxious.
“I will live,” he assured her.
“Someone wanted you dead,” she whispered, as if revealing a great secret.
“Someone does,” he agreed, sensing his hold on consciousness slipping away. He relaxed his grip on her wrist. “Thank you.” He said the words on a sigh and wasn’t certain if he had spoken them aloud or just imagined he had. Either way it didn’t matter. He’d returned to the sweet oblivion of sleep.
Isabel sat beside him on the bed, waiting until she was absolutely certain his breathing was regular and normal. She rubbed her wrist where his hand had held her. Her skin was still warm from his body heat.
A sound came from the door, and Mr. Oxley poked his head in. “I thought I heard voices.”
“He woke,” she said. “He is going to live.”
“I knew he would,” he assured her. “He’s a strong man. He should heal rapidly now.” There was a beat of silence. He asked, “And what of you, Miss Halloran? You told us you were promised to each other?”
“Yes.” She didn’t elaborate. She wondered if Mr. Severson remembered their argument. He hadn’t said anything.
The rector studied her a moment, and she wondered if he could see her doubts. He did, because with a frown he said, “Mr. Severson and I will talk when he is better. I will see he carries through with his responsibilities.”
Isabel didn’t know whether to be grateful or alarmed. She was infatuated with Mr. Severson but knew better than to trust him…especially when he called out another woman’s name.
The next time Michael woke, it was daylight. His room was little larger than a corncrib. A window was cracked open to allow for fresh air. A bird called to another, a call that went unanswered.
Miss Halloran was not there.
He listened for signs of life beyond the half-open bedroom door and heard voices in quiet conversation. The smell of baking bread made his stomach rumble. He also caught the drift of pipe tobacco and a hint of roses. Miss Halloran was close by.
His mind was clearer, and he wanted to move. He tested his body by attempting to lift his left arm. Thank God, the shot hadn’t hit his sword arm, and he was pleased that he had less pain than when he’d first come to his senses.
He wondered if he dared sit up. He leaned his weight over on his good arm. The bed was narrow. There was a braided rag rug on the floor. He focused on its bright, optimistic colors, his body complaining as he strained in an attempt to push himself up—
“Here now, don’t do anything foolish,” a man’s voice said from the door.
Michael rolled back on his stomach, frustrated. The man walked into the room, his pipe in one hand. He was thin and short, with a bald pate and a tuft of gray hair sticking out over each ear. His eyes missed nothing.
“I’m Mr. Oxley, the rector of St. Anthony’s.” He closed the door behind him and took the step to the bed. “You’ve had a rough time of it, sir.”
Michael nodded. He knew. “You took the bullet out?”
“Yes. It came easily enough. May I?” he asked, setting his unlit pipe on the table. He didn’t wait for an answer but lifted the nightshirt, unwrapped the bandages, and began inspecting his handiwork. He grunted, a pleased sound. “The wound is clean. You should heal quickly now. I was worried about the inflammation, but you’ve come through the worst of it.” He straightened. “I put a stitch or two in, but you know how it goes. You’ll have a scar to go with the others. You’ve lived an adventurous life, Mr. Severson.”
“Out of necessity,” Michael answered. “Sometimes I wasn’t smart enough to dodge the bullet.” The rector chuckled, as Michael knew he would. He liked this man. He was honest. “Do I have you to thank for saving my life?”
The rector rewrapped the bandage, and Michael pulled down the shirt. “I did the doctoring, but you’d not have made it through if not for Miss Halloran. She stayed by your side.”
Michael remembered waking in the dark and her being right there. “I know.”
“Do you, sir?” Mr. Oxley questioned, his expression grave. He picked up his pipe. “We are a small parish. Little escapes notice. Now, something like the Wardleys’ governess snagging herself a husband, especially from one of the scoundrels her employer entertains, is fodder for the gossips for months.”
“I imagine it would be,” Michael said carefully.
Oxley studied him a moment before saying, “Yes, I believe you do. Miss Halloran is a member of our small church. She hasn’t been among us long, but my wife and I are fond of her. We lost a daughter who would be about her age right now. She was our only child.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Michael murmured.
“Yes, well,” the rector said, “it was years ago, but the pain is always fresh. Miss Halloran brings out the father in me. She is a fine young woman, a clever one. Sh
e’ll make a good wife. I don’t mean to take advantage of your weakened state, Mr. Severson, but you must marry her. She has no father or brother to speak for her. I helped her bring you back from the dead for that reason alone.”
“I appreciate your plain speaking, sir,” Michael said. “I have every intention of doing what is honorable.”
“Good,” Oxley replied. He hesitated a moment, and said, “I know your name. I’ve heard the rumors about you. I didn’t know what to expect. I think I like you.”
He could have no idea how much those words meant to Michael.
A quick knock on the door interrupted them. Without waiting for an answer, someone opened the door. “What is going on in here?” Miss Halloran said.
Mr. Oxley faced her, blocking her view from Michael. “We are having a men’s discussion. Go wait with Mrs. Oxley. I believe she is preparing a broth for our guest’s lunch.”
“I will do nothing of the sort,” Miss Halloran returned roundly. She entered the room and moved to the foot of Michael’s bed. The three of them filled the space. “If you are discussing me, then I will be present.” She dropped her voice to add, “And I thought I made you agree not to discuss any thing until he was stronger?”
“Some things can’t wait,” Mr. Oxley said, putting his cold pipe into his mouth.
She turned to Michael, and he was struck anew at how lovely she was. However, her character transcended her beauty. He had not needed the rector to tell him all she had done. Such steadfastness was a trait he valued, one he’d not witnessed since returning to this shore and civilization—
He caught himself on the last thought. England was far from civilized, and he had a bullet in his back to prove it.
“I will not have you listening to a word he says,” Miss Halloran instructed Michael. “You need time to heal.”
“He needs to get his affairs in order,” Mr. Oxley interjected.
Her answer was a scowl so dark it made the rebellious clergyman smile. And Michael, too.
He decided to speak for himself. “I have made an offer to you, Miss Halloran, and you said yes, didn’t you?”
Temptation of a Proper Governess Page 6