by Laura Parker
She swung around, trying desperately to return to the curb, but others were pushing past her in the opposite direction. All of a sudden she felt the heel of her shoe catch in a crack in the cobblestone paving. A hard shove from behind made the heel snap. Losing her footing, and with a scream of genuine terror, she fell before the approaching hooves of a carriage horse.
Eduardo’s heart contracted at her cry. From the moment they’d been separated, he’d been trying to reach her. She’d been nearly within arm’s reach when she suddenly pitched forward and was lost from sight just as a pair of matched bays drawing a crested carriage lurched forward.
Like a madman, he shoved and roared at the people in a free mixture of Portuguese and English, and they scattered before him more quickly than they had the passing fire engine. Uncaring for his own safety, he lunged at the horse who reared up before him as he reached Philadelphia’s crumpled form. Sidestepping the flash of iron hooves, he caught the bay by the bit to bring its head down.
“Curb your damned animals!” he cried at the driver. The moment the horses were forced into a backward step, he was on his knees beside Philadelphia. She lay so still a sudden sharp pain squeezed his heart.
“Menina!” he cried desperately as he bent over her and gently touched her throat in search of a pulse. It beat strongly and regularly. “Philadelphia,” he whispered softly as he gathered her up against his chest. Her face was ghostly pale except for the bloody bruise on her right cheek, but as he tenderly brushed a strand of hair from her cheek he was rewarded with the flicker of her lashes.
“What’s happened here?”
Eduardo looked up into the beet-red face of the traffic policeman. “Ask him!” he answered with a gesture toward the driver of the expensive carriage. “He nearly killed her!” Then he dropped his gaze back to Philadelphia, who was now staring up at him.
“What happened?” she asked weakly, clutching his arm in the hope that it would stop her world from spinning.
At her touch, he felt himself tremble. “You fell. Are you hurt, menina?”
She started to shake her head but thought better of it. “I fell. My heel broke.”
Heartened by her lucid reply, Eduardo felt his fear for her slipping away. “I’ll take you home.” Wrapping one arm about her shoulders and sliding the other under her knees, he picked her up as he stood.
“Just one minute!” the policeman cried as Eduardo moved toward the curb. “The driver says the girl stepped in front of his horse and there was nothing he could do.”
Eduardo glanced contemptuously at the driver who held a smug expression and then back at the burly policeman. “The man’s a liar and a coward. He should be arrested for having less skill than a heavy-handed ox driver!”
“That won’t be necessary,” said a voice from the interior of the coach. As the crested carriage door swung open a footman sprang down from his rear perch to assist the person stepping down. A silver-haired woman gowned in mulberry crepe stepped out onto the pavement. She was tiny, inches short of five feet, but every spare inch was girded in regal self-respect and importance. She inclined her head to look the great distance up into the six-foot policeman’s face and said, “I saw the entire incident and my driver was to blame for it.”
Raising a silver lorgnette to her eyes, she inspected her driver. “Jack, you’re fired. I’ve always said you were heavy-handed with my animals. Even a wretched foreigner can see it. Get down. Get down at once, man! I don’t intend to wait about all day while you rehinge your jaw. Scat!”
She turned to Eduardo, giving him, too, a thorough going-over with the aid of her lorgnette. “Who is that creature you’re carrying about like a sack of meal?”
Eduardo glanced down at Philadelphia, who was actually smiling at him, and a sudden queer feeling moved in his chest. “This is my mistress, Memsahib Felise de Ronsard.” He’d noted the crest on the carriage and the jewels that adorned the woman’s ears and fingers. She was obviously a Fifth Avenue matron. In other circumstances, he’d have been tempted to capitalize on the moment but now all he cared about was getting Philadelphia to safety where he could reassure himself that she wasn’t more hurt than she seemed. “If you will excuse us, I must take her home and fetch a doctor.”
“I won’t excuse you,” the tiny woman answered and when Eduardo moved to ignore her, he found his path blocked by the policeman. “Best hear the lady out, laddie,” he said.
The lady’s expression was neutral. “Does your mistress reside in the city?”
Eduardo ground his teeth but said civilly. “Memsahib resides at present at the Windsor Hotel.”
“And your mistress knows a good physician, does she?”
He gave the lady a considering glance of his own before saying, “No, memsahib.”
“Well, I do. Put the girl in my carriage. I presume you know how to handle a carriage and pair?”
Eduardo nearly smiled as the import of her words sank in. A woman of quality was offering them her hospitality. Misfortune had a golden lining. “You presume correctly, memsahib.”
“What does it mean when you call me meem sad?’
“Memsahib means ‘mistress.’ It is a sign of respect in my homeland, India.”
The woman made a sound suspiciously like a grunt of satisfaction. “Well, heathen, I am Mrs. Sutterwhite Ormstead. You may drive me home. I’ll send for my physician once we arrive. It’s the least I can do, considering my horses nearly made suet of your memsahib.”
“And so, you say you’re looking for the remaining members of your family?” Mrs. Ormstead mused as she stood beside the bed that Philadelphia occupied. “Why don’t you go home to France? I suspect they’re most likely to be found there.”
“Perhaps I should.” Philadelphia clutched the comforter that lay over her, wincing as the physician continued his examination of her foot. She was in pain, confused and uneasy in the company of this kind stranger, and not at all up to the task of lying vividly and imaginatively. “Where is Akbar?”
“Akbar? Is that the name of the heathen in the head cloth? Well, I never! Akbar. Sounds like the sort of noise one makes when a bone’s caught in the throat.” Her perfectly winged white brows rose speculatively. “Who exactly is this Akbar person?”
“My guardian—ouch!”
The physician looked up with a contrite, “Sorry, miss.” He straightened from his examination and turned to Mrs. Ormstead. “There doesn’t appear to be a break, only a severe sprain. The young lady will need to remain in bed for a few days, until the swelling goes down.”
Mrs. Ormstead glanced at her guest. “You do have a maid?”
Philadelphia held her eagle-eyed stare. “I have Akbar.”
“Indeed, and quite an improper arrangement that is. Oh, I can see that he’s devoted to you. It took my butler and three footmen to persuade him to remain below stairs while the doctor came up to examine you. He’s a remarkably fit person for one of his years.”
Picturing in her mind the scene that must have taken place, Philadelphia didn’t meet the older woman’s gaze but used the excuse of the pain in her foot to shift her attention to the physician who had begun wrapping her ankle in gauze. “Akbar is an extraordinary person.”
“No doubt. But he isn’t a fit nursemaid for a young lady, and that’s what you need. Dr. McNeill says you should remain in bed for a few days. You’ll do so under my roof. Tut, child, I will brook no resistance in the matter. I am old and rich enough to have become quite accustomed to having my way.”
Alarmed, Philadelphia shook her head. “That won’t do! I mean,” she paused, seeking desperately to regain the treacherous French accent that deserted her every time some new emotion surged to the fore. “What I mean, madame, is that I do not wish to disrupt your life. You have been tres gentille to me. Merci, a thousand thanks, Madame Ormstead. But I must go home.”
“You have no home. You have rooms,” Mrs. Ormstead said the word with distaste, “at a local hostelry
. No young lady of breeding should be found on the premises of such a place without the accompaniment of a male relative. This dark-visaged Akbar does not qualify. I’ve already sent my housekeeper for your things. You will stay here.” She smiled suddenly, and it transformed her arrogant features. “You see, I do get my way.”
Philadelphia subsided against the pillows propping her up. Mrs. Ormstead reminded her of her father’s aunt Harriet, who’d died when she was twelve. A kind and busy woman, she too allowed no barriers when she wanted something. “You are most kind, but most difficult to say no to.”
“Mr. Ormstead used to say the same.” For a moment the older woman’s ice-blue eyes softened but then she gave her head a tiny shake. “He’s been gone these last three years. Seems like thirty. Told him he should forego those extra helpings of trifle with cream. But he was a most stubborn man. Never could abide the trait. Can’t think why I married him.”
Impulsively, Philadelphia reached out to touch the woman’s hand. “You must have loved him very much.”
Mrs. Ormstead looked down at Philadelphia as though seeing her clearly for the first time. “I do believe you’re right, dear. So I’ll tell you a secret. Never marry a man with traits you can’t abide. Just about the time you’ve grown accustomed to them, he’ll die and then you’ll have spent all those years of cultivating accommodation for naught.” She turned briskly to the doctor. “Aren’t you finished yet? The girl looks all in.”
The doctor had finished and, after handing Philadelphia a draft for the pain, left the two women alone.
“I want to see Akbar,” Philadelphia said at once.
“No doubt you do,” Mrs. Ormstead replied, “but I think you should rest. A nice nap is what you need and afterward a bit of supper. Then we shall see.”
“He will be most unhappy,” she said petulantly. “And I, too.”
“Good. There’s nothing like a little unhappiness to make a young girl’s day. I was often unhappy at your age and never so pleased as when I was.” With that cheerfully spoken bit of nonsense, she turned and walked out of the room.
Philadelphia lay a long time watching the closed door and straining for the sound of footfalls that would announce that someone was coming to her door. As the minutes accumulated she finally conceded that Mrs. Ormstead was having her way again, and that Eduardo wouldn’t be visiting her anytime soon.
Annoyed, she turned her attention to the room in which she lay. It was furnished in the latest fashion for simplicity and airiness. A simple blue-and-white-striped paper covered the walls. There were several small skirted tables covered in pictures, porcelains, and trinkets. White lace curtains veiled the windows and a matching blue-and-white half-canopy draped her bed. Near the window stood a bamboo chaise lounge with a blue and white silk patterned cushion. An oriental screen stood before the fireplace, closed for the summer months. India matting covered the floor. Behind a large Japanese lacquer screen standing in one corner she spied a toilet service, a stack of fluffy towels, and the edge of a bath pan. It was a lovely room, a peaceful room, and one in keeping with Mrs. Ormstead’s claim to wealth.
Finally her thoughts returned to her ankle. The doctor had packed it in ice but the dull pulsating pain had not completely subsided. Her hip was sore and her cheek burned from the scrape. All in all, she was miserable and tired and hungry.
Hunger was the last thought she had before her eyes slid shut. There was a bowl of fruit on the table near the doorway. The pieces looked ripe, sweet, and bursting with juice. Yet they might as well have been a thousand miles away. Where was Akbar when she really needed him?
5
“Feeling better?” Eduardo stood with his arms folded, scowling down at Philadelphia as she lay on the bamboo chaise lounge.
Philadelphia shook her head, aware of the maid who hovered nearby. “My ankle, it throbs horribly. And my stomach feels hollow.”
Eduardo scowled at the maid. “Memsahib wishes to have her breakfast. You will fetch it at once!”
“V-v-very well, sir!” The maid, fascinated by but also frightened of the turbaned man, dropped a curtsy and fled.
“Ouch! You’re hurting me!” Philadelphia said as he bent a knee and took her bandaged ankle in his hands.
“Serves you right,” he muttered as he began unwrapping the gauze. “Anyone foolish enough to trip and frighten a horse deserves what she gets.”
“You’re just jealous,” she replied, dropping the fake accent now that the maid was gone. “You’ve spent the night in the servant’s quarters while I’ve been here.”
He glanced about the blue and white bedroom of the Ormstead mansion. “It’s quite nice. Still, even the servants’ quarters have their charm. For instance, the maid who just left shares the room next to mine. She and her roommate were quite solicitous of my welfare last evening.”
Philadelphia shot him a hostile look, then realized that he was taking great liberties with her ankle. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“Making certain that idiot who calls himself a physician knows what he’s talking about.”
He hadn’t had a moment alone with Philadelphia since they had entered the Ormstead house the afternoon before. In fact, the only time he’d been allowed to see her had been after she’d had her dinner. Even then, Mrs. Ormstead had stood by his side, her bright eyes taking in every nuance of movement and gesture between them. He’d not been free to touch Philadelphia or even question her about how she was faring in her guise as Mademoiselle Ronsard. Now he was determined to examine her himself.
He rotated her foot first to the right and then to the left, pushed her toes forward, then pointed them.
Watching him, Philadelphia forgot how pleased she had been to see him when he entered the room moments before. She had slept badly, awakening again and again with the uneasy sensation of being watched. But, of course, there had been no one there but her conscience, which plagued her with remorse for taking advantage of the kindness of a stranger. How upset Mrs. Ormstead would be if she knew that she housed an imposter under her roof. They simply had to leave and go back to the Windsor Hotel. Thoughts such as these had contributed to the throbbing in her temples. “Well?” she demanded irritably. “Are you satisfied that my foot is still attached?”
“I am satisfied that it’s not broken,” he answered, not glancing up. “I do think he might at least have left you with liniment. I treat my horses better than this.”
“By all means, I should be treated better than you’re treating me. You’ve managed to make my ankle throb worse than ever.”
“Have I?” He looked up at her in blank surprise. “Then I must make amends.” With slow deliberate strokes he began to massage her ankle, his touch at first light, then deepening in pressure as he worked to remove the soreness from the muscles of her ankle and calf. All the time he held her heel in the firm embrace of his left hand.
Philadelphia sipped in a breath against the first pangs of discomfort as he began to knead her aching muscles. But, gradually the ache departed under the soothing heat of his hands. After a minute, the hypnotic motions of his fingers relaxed even the pain in her head, and she eased back against the pillows of the chaise lounge and closed her eyes.
She’d spent the night in fitful sleep, keenly aware of being in unfamiliar surroundings and plagued by pain. The effort to be both a civil guest and remain in disguise had been almost more than she could bear. Now, she was so relaxed that she didn’t even realize when she began to sigh contentedly. In his hands she felt both safe and at ease.
Eduardo heard her soft sighs of pleasure with mingled feelings of pride and annoyance. He was aware of what her response meant even if she wasn’t. Had she been another woman, he would have assumed that she was encouraging him to take more liberties with her. But he didn’t assume that. He simply understood that she was too untutored in the ways of men to realize the implication of her total submission to his touch. Why, she didn’t even react when his hand
moved from her ankle up under the skirt of her dressing gown to the full curve of her shapely calf. She seemed totally oblivious to the impropriety of his caress.
To confirm the fact, he slowly slid his hand up farther, to her knee. He felt her involuntary start as he touched the ticklish place behind her knee but she didn’t rise up indignantly to demand that he cease. Instead he heard her murmur drowsily, “No fair tickling.”
Annoyed that his caress was taken as a tease, he eased his fingers up to cup her kneecap. What would she say to that? Nothing.
His hand slipped down her leg then moved up once more, and he admitted to himself that his pleasure in touching her was far from one-sided. His self-imposed celibacy was beginning to strain at its bonds. A dizzying kind of heat spiraled down through him with every stroke. As he began to knead the soft and silky skin of her calf, with its warm play of tendon and well-formed muscle beneath, a deep sigh of sensual longing escaped her.
He held his breath, willing himself not to move, not to dare venture his touch beyond the boundary of her knee to what he knew would be the even softer, more compelling flesh of her thigh. He looked up at her, hoping that her expression would forbid him to move. What he saw was not what he sought, but what he dared not seek.
She lay with her head thrown back, her lips softly parted, her cheeks and neck pink with the telltale flush of desire. Her eyes were closed, as if she couldn’t look at him and admit what she felt. He opened his hand and laid it against the tender swelling of her ankle. Through his palm he recorded the quickening throb of her pulse, and it echoed in the throb of his arousal.
Never looking away from her face, he directed his hand once more up under the edge of her skirts, past the delicate column of her lower leg, under the swelling curve of her calf, up to the narrowing joint of her knee and then beyond.