A Night of Angels

by Andersen, Maggi

  The truth of the matter, in its simplest of terms, was that he no longer had a purpose in life at all. Caring for her, even if it was often a battle to do so, had been the thing he’d devoted his life to. And now that was all gone. It was a maudlin thought, one that had plagued him numerous times over the last months. And while it was true, it certainly did no good to dwell on it.

  “Now,” he said, “let’s take a look at that ankle.”

  Chapter Three

  Sarah said nothing as he knelt before her and gently lifted her foot so that it rested upon his thigh. It was a strangely intimate pose for them to be in. She could not recall having ever had as much physical contact with Branson as she had before that night. Aside from occasionally helping her in and out of a carriage, he had never touched her. Not even once. It was curious then, as he lifted the hem of her skirt just enough to untie the garter that held her stocking in place, that her breath caught and a sense of expectation filled her. It was almost as if she’d been waiting for just such a moment between them, even without being aware of it. When his fingertips moved gently over her ankle, examining it carefully, she shivered slightly.

  “It isn’t broken,” he said. “But I daresay you will be limping for a few days. I think there is a walking stick about somewhere that should serve you well enough. I’ll locate it in the morning.”

  “Thank you,” Sarah replied. Her voice emerged breathless and thin.

  If he thought it odd, he said nothing. Instead, he applied the liniment to the bruised area just below her ankle bone and then began winding the bandages around her foot in a slow, mesmerizing manner. She watched every movement, every flicker of firelight as it danced over the harsh planes and angles of his face.

  “There,” he said. And perhaps, it was wishful thinking on her part that he sounded as breathless as she did. “All finished. I’ll help you up the stairs and get you settled into my room for the night. It’s the only one made up.”

  “Where will you stay?”

  “I’ll sleep down here. It’s better that way,” he said.

  Better for who? And why on earth should it matter? “You can’t possibly be comfortable down here.”

  “Sarah, I cannot… it would be best to keep as much distance between us as possible to maintain propriety,” he offered.

  She let out a nervous laugh, more to cover her own embarrassment and discomfiture than because she was amused. “Maintain propriety? Really, Branson! It isn’t as if I’m a young maid and you have designs on my virtue!”

  “Is that so impossible?” he demanded. “Or so laughable?”

  “We’ve known each for ages, Branson,” she insisted, more to remind herself of all the reasons her response to him was something best ignored. “We’re family.”

  “We are not. I am you brother-in-law. Or I was… in truth, that relationship ceased to exist when my brother died. I was the trustee of his estates for the years following. But with Benedict returned, that is gone, as well. In point of fact, Sarah, we are old acquaintances sharing one lodging, unchaperoned, for the night.”

  There was something in the way he said, something that rang with finality. “Branson, we are more than acquaintances. What is it that you are not saying?”

  “I’m leaving England, Sarah. As soon as I can impart enough knowledge to Benedict that he can manage the estates with the help of a trusted steward, I’m leaving for Jamaica.”

  “Why in heaven’s name would you do that?”

  “What is keeping me here?” he challenged.

  Me. I am. Stay for me. It was the height of her own selfishness that she longed for him to remain and be the rock he had been for so many years even when she’d resented his interference in her life so keenly. But he made her feel safe and what on earth would she do without him? Even as she opened her mouth to beg him to stay, she could not find the words to do so. It made her sound weak and needy, grasping and clinging in a way that she despised.

  “I can make it up the stairs on my own,” she said.

  “I don’t think that’s wise.”

  “I think I had best get used to doing things on my own, don’t you?” Sarah asked. Without looking back, she hobbled from the room and toward the stairs. She was panting and her ankle was screaming in protest by the time she’d made it to the top. Still, by leaning against the wall and ostensibly hopping on one foot much to her humiliation, she managed to reach the largest of the bedchambers.

  The warm glow of the fire greeted her as she entered the room. It smelled like him, like leather and the shaving soap he’d used for so many years. As she reached the bed, Sarah struggled to remove her dress. Clad only in her chemise and petticoat, she climbed beneath the covers and refused to yield to the tears that threatened. He was entitled to leave and go wherever he wished. He was entitled to a life. So are you, a soft voice whispered in her mind. She ignored it, just as she always did.

  Branson took the chair Sarah had vacated and stared into the flames that crackled and hissed in the ancient hearth. He’d been toying with the idea of going to the islands. He had many investments there and had little doubt they’d be infinitely more profitable if he was overseeing them more directly. But until that moment, when her foot had been perched delicately on his thigh and he’d touched her skin in ways which he’d only ever dreamed of, he had been undecided.

  She was like a demon to him, tormenting and ever present in his mind, and one that needed to be exorcised. Perhaps, distance would accomplish that easier than anything else. Not for the first time, he thought he should just marry. Find some woman of an appropriate age—old enough to be practical but still young enough to build a life with him—and marry. But his sense of fair play, of honor, would not permit it. Why marry one woman when his thoughts would forever be with another? Infidelity of the heart and mind was as damaging as infidelity of the body, after all.

  Cursing under his breath, he rose long enough to grab the decanter of brandy from a cabinet and fill his glass liberally with it. Removing his boots, he stretched out on the floor before the fire. It would certainly bring regret in the morning but no more so than attempting to fit his too large frame on a too small settee. It would be a very long night.

  Chapter Four

  Sarah was unable to sleep. Her ankle pained her but it wasn’t that which kept her awake. She couldn’t stop thinking of what it would be like without Branson near. Turning over in bed, she smacked her fist into the pillow. It didn’t help. It only intensified the scent of him which was far more enticing than she’d ever before realized. And that was the danger of being alone with a man. Any man. Not just Branson, surely, she told herself. It had been ages since she’d focused on anything other than Benedict and where he might be in the world. Now that the quest for her son was settled, she simply had time to pay attention to such things, to realize that she missed flirtation and even the intimacy of a stolen kiss. Those moments with reckless suitors before her father had arranged her marriage to James had shown her that a man’s touch could be pleasant, that a kiss didn’t have to be brutal and punishing or drunk and clumsy.

  Thinking of kisses brought only more wayward thoughts. What would it be like to kiss Branson? She imagined he would be forceful because she’d never seen him be anything else. But gentle, she thought. And thorough. Heaven knew the man was thorough in everything he did.

  “And those thoughts, Sarah, are the very reason you cannot sleep,” she whispered to herself in the darkness. Any attraction to or romantic interest in Branson was simply a result of her own confusion, she decided. He’d been such a constant in her life when so many things had been uncertain. The thought of him leaving had prompted her to try and create a reason for him to stay. That was all. It was purely selfishness on her part and she ought to feel ashamed of herself for it. But all she felt was panic.

  Outside, the wind picked up. It howled fiercely as it shook the house, rattling shutters and roof tiles. But it was the cacophony of sound coming from the trees that truly had her appreh
ensive. When she’d looked out the window, there had been just enough moonlight seeping through the heavy clouds to glint off the ice-covered branches. It was beautiful, but so very damaging. And now the branches were creaking under the weight of the ice, groaning in protest as they drooped under their burdens.

  Between that and the wind, it was impossible to tell just how many would fall and whether or not they would actually be able to leave the dower house the following morning. It was no longer just her need to be with Benedict that drove her. It was also her need to escape Branson, to escape the shift in her feelings toward him which she was still not fully willing to acknowledge. And he might well leave before you do.

  Frustrated with her own wayward thoughts, with the inner conflict and turmoil which served only to rob her of any chance at sleep, Sarah turned over once more. This time, she lay on her back and stared up at the ceiling, at the same velvet-draped canopy that he would be sleeping under if she were not there.

  The groaning and creaking of the trees altered in rhythm, pulling her from her thoughts. Perhaps, it was some latent instinct that drove her, but Sarah jumped from the bed and moved toward the door. No sooner had she done so than a loud crack rent the air. The heavy weight of a tree falling on the roof made the entire house sound as if it would come down around her ears. Heavy limbs smashed through the leaded glass windows and covered the bed in a shower of glass and glittering ice as the canopy gave way.

  Sarah watched it crash downward. Had she not left the bed when she did, it would surely have injured her gravely if not killed her. Her breath rushed out and she felt panic sinking in. That was twice in one night that she’d managed to avoid being struck by falling objects. Perhaps, she really did need to be hit over the head with something to see what was right in front of her. She didn’t want to die. But she didn’t want to continue her life in the limbo she’d endured for so long either. It was time to seize the day.

  The heavy thumps against the roof and the sound of breaking glass had Branson running up the narrow stairs. He took them two at a time. But he never reached his chamber. The door opened and Sarah stepped out into the hall. Her face was pale and, even from that distance, he could see the tremor in her hands. But she was whole and uninjured.

  “A tree fell,” she whispered.

  “I know. I heard. You aren’t hurt?” If she was, it was his fault. He’d put her up there because he needed her to be as far from him in that small house as possible. Because he needed some semblance of peace and she offered him none. She’d been in harm’s way because of him.

  “No. Something… I got out of the bed before it was struck. The entire thing has collapsed though.”

  He felt sick at the thought. But there were things that had to be taken care of. She was still limping. Given that and her trembling, she could not possibly traverse the stairs alone. “Wait here. I’ll help you downstairs after I see to the fire. It needs to be put out entirely or we may have bigger problems than a hole in the roof.”

  “I hadn’t thought—of course. I’ll wait for you,” she said.

  Perhaps, it was his own wishful thinking that when she said those words they referred to far more than simply remaining in the corridor until he’d secured the house as best as possible. He said nothing, simply moved past her and into what had been his bedchamber. Seeing the destruction of it and knowing that she had only barely escaped with her life was enough to make his own hands tremble.

  Cursing under his breath, he grabbed the pitcher of water from the wash basin and carried it toward the fireplace. Dumping the lot of it on the few flames that remained, he made certain it was completely out before leaving the room. Several branches had fallen near it and while it was unlikely that they would ignite, he wasn’t willing to take any more chances. Returning to the corridor, he opened the cupboard there and retrieved extra bedding. Sheets, a few quilts and coverlets. It would be enough for them to be somewhat comfortable on the floor of the library. He didn’t intend to let her out of his sight again until he could safely deliver her into her son’s care. She would be the death of him, he thought. One way or another.

  Draping one of the blankets about her shoulders, the gesture had as much to do with warming her and preserving her modesty as it did with his own need to hide away that which would never be his. She’d had no night rail and had gone to bed wearing only a fine chemise, so thin it was rendered translucent. It was a special kind of torment to be close to her when she wore so little.

  Once again, she leaned against him as they made their way below stairs and to the relative safety it might offer. They were only part of the way down the steps when the blanket slipped from her shoulders and she stumbled. He caught it, and her, in the same moment. To keep all of them from tumbling to the hard, stone floor below, he pressed her back against the wall. But it didn’t steady him. And if the slight gasp of her sharply in-drawn breath were any indication, it had not steadied her either. Even in the dim light, Branson could feel her eyes on him, her gaze locked on his face, now scant inches from her own.

  But she didn’t shrink from him or draw back. Instead, her chin inched upward, her lips drawing slightly closer to his own. They were so close that he could feel the warmth of her breath on his skin, the weight of her breasts crushed against his chest. And she was not pulling away, not protesting his nearness. The knowledge was there. He could kiss her if he chose. She wouldn’t stop him. It seemed she might even welcome it. But a kiss would never be enough for him. If he made the mistake of tasting her once, he’d drown in her and he knew it.

  Abruptly, Branson stepped back from her. He kept his hands on her arms to keep her from falling, but he needed the distance between them. He needed some chance of maintaining his honor and his dignity. “Be careful,” he murmured.

  “These old houses are treacherous,” she replied softly.

  “Many things are,” he answered just as softly. They stood there for a moment, facing one another in the darkness, a tension and awareness between them that could no longer be ignored.

  Chapter Five

  Sarah shivered as they made their way down to the lower floor and the relative safety it provided. It wasn’t the cold that made her feel safe, but simply the realization of her narrow escape setting in. When they made it to the library, he deposited her on the hard chair in front of the fire which she’d occupied earlier. Then he began pulling one of the heavier wing chairs over along with the ottoman.

  Once more, he helped her to stand, being careful to touch her as little as possible. The weight of their encounter on the stairs hung between them. She lacked the courage to address it just yet. Perhaps, another brandy and she might find the bravery she needed.

  “Put your feet up,” he said. “Your ankle should stay elevated to decrease the swelling.”

  “Is the house sound?” Sarah asked. “What if another tree falls?”

  He shook his head. “The tree that fell was the tallest one near enough to the house to do damage. The walls are solid and made from stone nearly a foot thick. The house is draftier than it was before but nothing more. You are certain you aren’t injured?”

  “I’m certain. My heart may never stop racing but, other than that, I’m fine.” It wasn’t only the near miss with the fallen tree that made her heart race. It was him—his nearness, this new awareness she had of him and the terrible loneliness that threatened to swamp her at the thought he might leave.

  Branson stared at her for the longest time, his expression inscrutable. “Why were you not asleep? You went to bed more than an hour ago.”

  Sarah shrugged, embarrassed to admit that she’d been lying there sleepless, tormented by thoughts of him. “I heard it. It sounded different from the other creaks and groans of the trees. It was just… I just knew I needed to get out of bed. That’s all. It must sound silly to you.”

  He settled into the chair opposite her, refilled the glass with brandy and pressed it into her hands. “You need this… and no, it doesn’t seem silly to me. When
I was in the army, I didn’t go in as an officer. Our father was already dead by that point and it was James who was tasked with paying my commission. Naturally, he refused. I survived the first year, received a small inheritance that was independent of James’ control and purchased my way up to captain. But I learned while fighting in France to heed such warnings. It’s just a sense, really, a prickling of unease that tells you whether to go left or right on the battlefield.”

  His time in the army was not something that had been discussed between them, ever. Though they’d so frequently been at odds, that was not surprising. Most of that was her fault, she thought. She’d spent so much of her time being angry at him, resenting him and his interference in her life. Wasted time. “You’ve never spoken of that before.”

  “You’ve never asked,” he replied.

  There was no censure in his tone. It was a simple statement of fact. She had been so lost in her grief and fear for her son that nothing and no one else had mattered to her. Branson had, more often than not, simply been viewed as an obstacle. She’d allowed herself to forget that he was also a man who had loved her son and who had seemed to care deeply for her welfare. While his highhandedness had infuriated her, she’d never questioned that he always had her best interests at heart. They just did not see eye to eye on what was best for her at any given time.

  “Was it truly terrible, then?” she asked. It was curiosity, but it was also compassion for what he’d endured, and no small amount of shame for her own selfishness in the past, regardless of the pain that selfishness had been born from.

  “Is that really what you want to do?” he asked, obtaining another glass and pouring a healthy measure of brandy for himself. “Sit here before the fire while I regale you with war stories?”

  No. But what she wanted was an unwise thing to ask for, assuming she even had the courage to do so. “I find that I have been remiss. You know everything about my life. While I was so consumed with my own misery, I never thought to learn about yours. I’d rectify that if I could.”