He removed only her scuffed boots. There was a hole in her stocking on the outside of her left foot. The skin was reddened and chafed. He didn’t like the looks of it. He covered her and snuffed out the single candle.
Coombe was waiting outside the Pink Oval Room. “Is the young lady all right, my lord?”
“She’s asleep. We’ll see just how all right she is tomorrow.”
“The, er, chamber, my lord, it showed Mount Hawke to advantage?”
“Yes, the maid, Timmy, did a fine job. Oh yes, Coombe, you will ensure that the breakfast Polgrain serves tomorrow is magnificent. You will ensure that the dishes used don’t have a single crack and that they’re sparkling clean. There will be a spotless tablecloth on the table. There will be linen napkins. Do you quite understand me?”
“Aye, my lord. Of a certainty. We are not stupid. Since she is leaving immediately after breakfast, we have determined it our duty to see that her young lady’s stomach is well filled for her journey to where she belongs.”
And just where, North wondered, did she belong? He wondered when Mr. Roland Ffalkes would be arriving, for arrive he would, doubtless with poor Owen in tow. He supposed that since she was young and a female and didn’t know the way of things in this man’s world, it was up to him to see that she was protected from her erstwhile guardian. What it was he would do, he hadn’t the faintest idea.
He quietly closed the door. He was frowning. Coombe said, “You require my services, my lord?”
“Oh no. It’s just that she’s—no, it’s nothing of importance, really. Good night, Coombe.”
“Good night, my lord. We will survive this.”
“Survive what? The temporary visitation of one single female?”
“You forget that she was armed, my lord.”
“Go to bed, Coombe.”
“She looked vicious, my lord. She could have shot me.”
“You deserve to be shot. Go to bed.”
“Yes, my lord.”
When he awoke in the dark of the night to a terrified scream, he thought for an instant he was back at the battle of Toulouse, surrounded with cannon belching death at them, and French soldiers shooting madly, piercing flesh with the deadly bayonets, men who had nothing left to die for but glory—surely nonsense to want to die with your guts exploding out of you as you screamed away your life—and for Napoleon, a man who deserved to write himself into history, but without any more deaths for his doomed cause. He could still hear the French soldiers shouting, “La gloire! La gloire!” Even when their comrades dropped dead beside them or in front of them and they had to step over their bodies, they kept up their shouts, over and over again, “La gloire! La gloire!”
He sat bolt upright in his bed utterly disoriented. There was another scream, then another. It was a female scream, not a man’s scream, not a soldier’s scream. A woman? Here? At Mount Hawke? He got his wits in order as he shoveled his hands through his hair.
Yes, the girl who’d taken poor Owen hostage and stolen North’s horse, the girl who had turned up on his doorstep frightened and in tears and exhausted and he’d given her tea that could have felled a field ox and offered her a scone that could have felled the same ox if the tea hadn’t done the job. He raced out of his bedchamber, pulling on his dressing gown as he ran.
8
HE TURNED THE knob, slammed into the door at the same time, and hurtled into the dark bedchamber.
“Miss Derwent-Jones—Caroline!”
He heard her breathing, harsh and deep, and he didn’t think, just rushed to the bed. There was faint moonlight coming through the far window, just a sliver of light really, but it was enough for him to see her sitting up in bed, stiff as the bedpost. She was staring straight ahead, seemingly at the soft pink–lacquered armoire opposite the canopied bed.
“What the hell is going on? Did you have a nightmare?”
He grabbed her without really thinking about why he did it or if it was even necessary, for she was here, obviously frightened, breathing as if she’d run all the way from Mount Hawke village to the castle. He pulled her against him and held her tightly, rubbing his big hands up and down her back, feeling the smooth softness of her beneath her clothing.
She eased against him, slipping her arms around his back, and said in a whisper against his shoulder, “I’m glad you came bursting in here. You see, there’s someone lurking behind the armoire.”
“What?”
Her mouth touched his neck. She whispered again, “There’s someone behind the armoire. I think it’s a man. I woke up and he was just standing there, staring down at me, breathing really hard. I screeched and he kind of gulped and hissed like a snake who knew his time was up, and ran back there.”
He gently pushed her away, saying quietly, “Stay down and don’t move.” He rose slowly, his eyes now adjusted to the shadowed bedchamber. He looked toward the armoire. Nothing. No sign of movement. No shadow that shouldn’t be there. He saw that there was space behind the armoire where someone could hide. A man? In her room? It seemed impossible, but nonetheless, he strode to the blasted armoire, grabbed the handles, and gave a violent pull. The armoire tilted toward him. He released it and watched it teeter back.
A yell. A man’s yell.
“Come out, you bugger! Now, damn you!”
It wasn’t a man who crawled from behind the armoire. It was Timmy, the maid, all of twelve years old, violent red hair, barely a patch of white skin showing through all the freckles on his face. Right now, he looked terrified, his mouth hanging open, ready to yell or scream or cry out in pain if the armoire were to fall on him.
North took a step back, crossed his arms over his chest, and stared down at the maid. “May I ask why you’re here in a lady’s bedchamber in the middle of the night?”
“I just cleaned this bedchamber, milord.”
“That’s very good. Why are you here now?”
Timmy the maid looked wildly about for help. There was none to be seen. He said, his eyes on his shoes, “The girl’s wot’s in bed over there near to broke me eardrums, milord, with ’er shrieks.” He lightly hit the heel of his hand against the side of his head to emphasize his words. “Loudest shrieks I ever ’eard from a girl, near to kilt me.”
“I believe I asked you a question, Timmy. Also, if she shrieked it’s because you scared the blasted, er, stuffing out of her.”
The boy looked up at his lordship, knew doom was near, and struggled to his feet and stared down at them. He just stood there, head down, waiting for punishment that would surely be bad, given what he’d done. Hadn’t he heard enough stories about his lordship’s father, that old geezer who had taken his cane to McBride’s backside when he just happened to say something about the weather and that dark cloud that always seemed to mill over his lordship’s head?
“I jest wanted to see ’er, milord, nuthin’ more, jest see ’er. I ’eard she was purty as them fat-tailed peacocks an’ I wanted to see ’er.”
“You what? Good God, boy, she’s just a girl, a female like any other female who lives around here. What the devil do you mean you wanted to see her? What the devil do you mean she looks like a fat-tailed peacock?”
Caroline said from just behind North, “He was standing over me, holding this candle. It was the heat from the candle that woke me up, and perhaps the shadowy light.”
Timmy sucked in his breath, craning around North so he could see her. “Cor’,” he breathed out reverently, “I ’ad to see ’er, milord. She’s so beautiful, like an angel, like a princess, like a, er, not really like a peacock’s tail.”
“That’s quite enough,” North said, sounding utterly revolted. “She’s just a female, nothing at all out of the ordinary. Now, you scared the very devil out of this angel and princess and peacock’s tail. What the blasted devil am I to do with you?”
“An angel, you say?” Caroline asked, crowding North out of the way.
“Aye, miss. Yer ’air’s jest like spun gold, an’ so bleedin’ thick and smo
oth and jest like silk an’—”
She turned to North. “Surely what he did isn’t so bad, my lord.”
“You’re only saying that because he’s flattering you shamelessly. Angel, ha! Go look in the mirror, Caroline, you’re a fright, an utter mess, your hair’s about your head like sticks and hay straws and—”
“That’s quite enough, North. Be quiet.” She leaned toward Timmy, who, for the first time since being caught, had a gleam of hope in his very green slanted eyes. “Why did you really come in here, Timmy?”
He threw in his hand, hoping for a bit of pity from a female, for surely there wouldn’t be any from his lordship. “It were Mr. Coombe, miss. I ’eard him telling Mr. Tregeagle that you ’ad a gun, that ye’d pointed the thing at ’im, shocked to ’is slippers, ’e were. My pa’s gun is broke and ’e needs it when ’is snares don’t work. Me brothers ’n sisters are hungry, ye see, and they need food.”
“You were going to steal my pistol?”
He nodded his head.
“I see,” she said. Then she shrugged and smiled. “Very well. It sounds as if your pa has far more need of it than I do. However, there is a very bad man who is going to come after me. He wants me to marry him so he can have my money. I might have to shoot him to save myself. Let me take care of him and then I will give you the gun. All right, Timmy?”
“Won’t ’is lordship take care o’ ye, miss? Won’t ’is lordship pop the bad man’s cork?”
“No, it’s up to me to do any popping necessary. Now, after I take complete care of him I’ll give you the gun. What do you say, Timmy?”
“Oh, miss, that’s wunnerful, my pa’ll be grunting with the greatness of yer beauty and yer bounty and—”
“Put a cork in it, Timmy,” North said. “May I ask why you didn’t come to me?”
“Mr. Coombe says we’re never to bother ye, milord. Yer a lordship wot likes ’is solitude and privacy, that’s wot Mr. Coombe says. Mr. Tregeagle says no one ever bothers a Nightingale gentleman, it jest ain’t done. Thus, it’s true. Ain’t nobody to bother ye, milord. Mr. Coombe says we’re all to protect ye and that means keeping meddlesome folk away from ye, like female meddlesome folk.”
“I’m bothered now. Because of you I was jerked out of a very pleasant dream and forced to—”
“That’s enough, my lord. Timmy has apologized. All is well now.”
“Go to bed, Timmy,” North said, giving it up. “You and I will speak more of this tomorrow. Good night.”
Timmy nodded solemnly to North and gave Caroline a cocky smile. North said nothing until the boy had walked through the door and out of the bedchamber. He turned slowly to look down at her. “Your scream did scare the devil out of me.”
“I’m sorry. Timmy nearly scared me into old age. Your hair’s sticking up. It looks quite nice.”
He smoothed down his hair, then said, “That’s silly. Now, about you. Why, you’re a bloody angel, a precious princess, your beauty makes the seas recede, you are a fat-tailed peacock, in short, a—”
She laughed, actually laughed, and lightly punched his arm. “Oh, do stop before I laugh myself silly. Goodness, what a debacle. I’m sorry for awakening you, but he did scare me quite witless.” She looked down and said blankly, “You took off my boots.”
“Yes, but nothing else, as you know, since you’re not standing there naked as the statue in one of the east-wing recesses. Timmy got closer to you than I did. Your left stocking has a hole in it and you’ve rubbed a blister. It doesn’t look good. Do see to it in the morning.”
“All right. You called me Caroline.”
“Miss Derwent-Jones seemed a bit excessive when I was throwing myself headfirst into your bedchamber to save you from a dragon or a thief or that dastardly Mr. Ffalkes.”
“It’s all right. You can call me Caroline. I like the way you say it. It’s deep and dark and really quite exciting. It thrilled me to my female toes.”
“You think that, do you? Very well. Perhaps we haven’t known each other all that long, but I daresay our experiences have gone a long way to breaking down formality between us. You may call me North, though you already did, didn’t you?”
“North what?”
“Actually, it’s Frederic North Nightingale, Baron Penrith, Viscount Chilton, nothing more, really. It took my ancestors long enough to gain anything at all. When my long-ago ancestor became Viscount Chilton and built Mount Hawke, he changed the name of the village down below to that name.”
“What was the name before he changed it?”
He found himself giving her a slow, drawing smile. “Would you believe it was called Pigeon’s Foot?”
“No, I won’t. Come, what was it?”
He just shrugged.
She looked very thoughtful for a long time. Then she looked up at him, smiled, and said, “North Nightingale. That’s a lovely name. It’s very romantic. Did your mother select it?”
“I strongly doubt it.”
“Then your father was a romantic.”
He said nothing. The silence hardened between them, not a good, comfortable sort of silence, but one that was fraught with dark undercurrents. What sort of undercurrents, she had no clue. She said quickly, “Thank you for coming to my rescue so quickly. You were here in a veritable instant.”
“You’re welcome. Come back to bed.”
He helped her climb onto the dais, then into bed. He pulled the covers to her chin, then tucked them securely around her shoulders, as if he were her father or an uncle, or someone who looked at her as one would a child. It was both galling and comforting.
“You know, Caroline, I will see that Mr. Ffalkes doesn’t do foul things to your fair person.”
“That’s nice of you, North, but I really can see to myself. I did before and I will again.”
“That’s fine,” he said mildly. “But don’t think I’m going to walk away from you. I will continue to keep an eye out for him. He will come, you know.”
A thick tendril of hair had fallen over her forehead and he smoothed it back. He lightly cupped her cheek in his palm, then smiled down at her. He then smoothed her eyebrows with his fingertips. It was soothing, it moved something deep inside her. Suddenly, without warning, she burst into tears.
North froze over her, feeling more helpless than he ever had in his life. He sat beside her, fidgeting a moment, then pulled her up against his chest. “It’s all right,” he said against her hair, rocking her back and forth against him. “It’s going to be fine, I promise you. I didn’t mean to frighten you with the talk of Ffalkes.”
“No, no, it’s not him,” she said, her voice low and liquid with tears. “He’s a worm, nothing more. I’ll kill him if I have to. I’m sorry. It’s when you pulled the covers up—the way you did it—it was like my mother did it. And you pushed back my hair and patted my cheek and smoothed my eyebrows. So very long ago. When I was a little girl. So long ago.” She cried harder and he just held her now, feeling the loneliness in her, and now there was more pain and tragedy she had to face. Again, she pulled back, sniffed, and said, “Forgive me for wetting you down. So silly of me. I don’t cry, really, not at all, because it’s a vast waste of time.”
“Don’t be a fool, Caroline. Tears cleanse the mind and the body and make us see the sense of things. Life is chaos, you know. It’s only right that we cry now and then. It brings things back into proper perspective.”
She was silent. Then she said on a sigh, “You’re right. There doesn’t seem to be any way to halt memories when they hit you just right. They simply overwhelm you. But still, I thank you, North.”
“Are you all right now?”
“Quite all right, thank you.”
This time he didn’t pull the covers back up, just left them at her waist when he laid her back down again. He did, however, lightly pat her cheek; why, he didn’t know.
After he had left her, closing the door quietly behind him, Caroline rose and removed her gown. It was hopelessly wrinkled and she didn�
�t have another one. She smoothed it the best she could and laid it over the back of a chair. She lay down again on her back, her arms crossed under her head. She felt tears stinging her eyes and closed them tightly. Just the way he’d tucked those covers just under her chin, it had broken her, brought back her mother, whose face she couldn’t begin to picture anymore in her mind. And those memories didn’t really matter, not in the face of Aunt Ellie’s murder. Who could have killed her? Nothing seemed to make any sense anymore, particularly when she was lying in bed in the house of a gentleman she’d met barely a week before.
What was she going to do?
She knew she looked a fright, but at least she was fairly clean. She’d awakened to find a bowl of still-warm water on the round commode table. She’d stripped off her underclothes and scrubbed herself. Four days without a proper bath was too many. She wished the phantom servant who’d brought the bowl had brought instead a regular tub for her to bathe in. However, after the greeting she’d been given the previous night, she supposed a bowl of warm water was quite a concession all in all.
She walked slowly down the grand staircase, wide enough for at least three ladies dressed in full regalia to walk side by side. There was an immense chandelier that hung from the floor above down two floors to come to a stop some twelve feet above the entrance hall. It looked to have quite a lot of gold in its ornately curved holders that were not only sparkling clean but held candles that gleamed so brightly they looked as if they’d even been polished.
She stopped a moment on the staircase, looking around her. It was a magnificent old house. No, rather she supposed, it was more of a castle that had been reshaped in the direction of a huge manor house over the centuries. But it was still a castle with a castle’s grandeur. Its cavernous entrance hall, which must have been built many centuries before the great hall, was long and narrow, but narrow only in the sense that it wasn’t as wide as an average manor house. She’d never seen its like before. She felt something quite odd as she gazed about her, a sort of recognition, a sort of wistful longing, which surely couldn’t be right. She shook her head, but the feeling didn’t go away as she continued looking around her.
The Nightingale Legacy Page 8