The Offer

  Martine, his languid, glorious mistress, swam again into his mind’s eye. At least she was a warm thought. When he’d told her that he was traveling to the north for a round of Christmas parties and would be gone from London for some time, she’d roused herself, propping herself up on her elbows to gain his attention, and given a lazy laugh. “Ah, my beautiful man, you prefer the dead of winter to a live me. It’s absurd.” He grinned, knowing that he would most willingly part with the bulk of his worldly goods if he could at this moment be warm and naked in her large bed, his face buried in her glorious bosom, showing her yet again his wonderful timing.

  The snow was driving down in earnest now, and he drew up Tasha once again in an effort to get his bearings. It was the absence of thick snow that caused him to look again upon a large splash of crimson. He hooded his eyes with his gloved hand.

  What the devil was that mound of red? In another few minutes it would be completely covered with snow.

  He turned Tasha off the path. He drew her up and gazed down in some consternation at a deep red velvet cloak that covered an unconscious small female.

  He jumped off Tasha’s back and knelt down beside her. What the hell was wrong with her? Why was she here in the middle of the forest, in the middle of a blizzard? He gently turned her over and stared down at a young girl’s face. She was as pale as the white snow around her and her lips were blue with cold. He could see the veins beneath her white flesh. Two narrow scratches slashed down her cheek, the blood congealed with a crust of snow. A thick hank of red hair fell over her forehead.

  The viscount stripped off a leather glove and slipped his hand inside the cloak against her chest. She was alive, but her breathing was labored, and slow, too slow. He lightly slapped her face. There was no response. He slapped her harder and shook her by her shoulders, but he couldn’t awaken her. He had seen many cases of severe exposure two winters ago, when he’d spent the winter in Poland, after the French retreat from Russia, and knew that the result was more often than not a slow numbing death. He quickly scooped her up in his arms, wrapping his greatcoat about her as best he could. She didn’t weigh much, despite her soaked clothing.

  He realized that he couldn’t continue on, even if he were alone, for the snow was so thick now he could scarcely see Tasha who was standing but four feet from him. The hunting box was the only answer. Even if the caretaker of the place didn’t return, it would at the very least allow them shelter.

  He pressed her tightly against his chest in an effort to warm her, and wheeled Tasha back toward the hunting box.

  “Life becomes complicated,” he said to his horse. Her ears twitched and she neighed.

  Phillip dismounted in front of a small stable next to the hunting box and quickly led Tasha inside, carrying the girl in the crook of his right arm. He laid her gently down on a pile of hay, quickly removed Tasha’s saddle and bridle, and covered her with a thick horse blanket. “I’ll be back to feed you when I can, my girl.” He patted her rump, picked up the unconscious female, and carried her to the hunting box.

  The heavy oak front door was, not surprisingly, securely locked, just as he’d expected it would be. His boots crunched in the thick layers of icy snow as he walked quickly to the back of the house. He came upon another door, this one less sturdy. He took a step back, lifted his right leg, and sent his boot crashing into the door. It shuddered, but didn’t give. He kicked again and this time it flew back on its hinges. Clutching the unconscious girl against his chest, he walked into a small kitchen.

  He shoved the broken door closed and pulled a small table against it to keep out the freezing wind and blowing snow. The kitchen had a homey air, with many small personal items strewn about on the table and counters, a sure sign the place was not left abandoned during the winter months. A neat stack of logs climbed halfway up the wall next to the fireplace. Although he didn’t take time to look into the pantry, he felt fairly certain that there would be sufficient food to keep them from starving.

  He carried her quickly from the kitchen, down a narrow corridor that led to the center of the house. He gazed only cursorily into a small dining room and across the hall into a parlor. All the furnishings were covered in white holland covers.

  Phillip felt the cold from her wet clothing and hurried up the staircase that wound up in circular fashion to the floor above, taking the steps two at a time.

  He found a large bedchamber toward the end of the upstairs corridor, carried her to the wide bed in the center of the room, and whipped back the heavy counterpane. He held her against him, pulling off the cloak. Then came her gown, for it was soaked through as well. He laid her onto her back to unfasten the long row of tiny pearl buttons that went from the waist to the throat. His practiced eye noted the quality and style of the gown. She was no farmer’s daughter, that was certain. He frowned at the sight of her boots. They were riding boots, not made for trekking about in a forest. Where had her horse been? Had she been thrown and her horse had run back to its stable? That seemed likely. But why had she even been riding on a day like this?

  He quickly stripped off her petticoat and chemise, both beautifully hemmed and embroidered in soft white batiste, and pulled off her sturdy wool socks. He looked resolutely at her face, but soon realized there was no hope for it. He studied her carefully, feeling her arms and legs for broken bones, pressing his palm to the pulse in her neck, to her breast. Her heartbeat was still slow, but steady. There wasn’t a mark on her. No broken anything. What had happened to her?

  He also saw that she wasn’t a girl, but a young woman. Long-legged, no, he wouldn’t catalogue her female points. It wouldn’t be well done of him. He quickly bundled her under the covers and drew the sheets to her chin. He gathered up her hair, thick, waving around his hand, and as red as a harlot’s evening dress, and spread it onto the pillow away from her head. He stared down at her. She looked like an angel, a dead angel, her skin was so white, her body so absolutely still.

  He sat down beside her, placing his palms first against her forehead, then against her cheeks. She was cold to the touch, yet he knew that when she was warm again, the fever would come and very probably snuff out her life. Just as it had killed Lucius, he thought angrily, his mind laying bare the raw memory. Lucius, his French half brother, who had willingly followed Napoleon into the savage wilds of Russia. Lucius had been a strong man, a rugged man, so unlike this slip of a girl. As he looked down at her, he saw for an instant Lucius’s ravaged face, deeply etched from the weeks of hunger and the driving winter wind and snow. He’d made it to Poland where Phillip had found him.

  His hands shaking, Phillip pressed the covers hard against her, molding them to her. He forced himself to shake off the painful memories that occasionally still haunted his dreams. He looked again, briefly, at the pale face and the mouth that was still blue-tinged with cold. She was so still. He quickly placed his palm over her chest to see if she still breathed. She did, just barely. He’d failed to save Lucius, but he was damned if he was going to let this young female die.

  5

  He stacked his arms with blankets from the linen closet and layered them over her, then took himself downstairs to the kitchen to fetch logs for a fire. The indolent, rather negligent air for which he was known among his acquaintances fell away from him as if it had never existed.

  He laid a huge fire in the fireplace and fanned the embers until flames roared up the blackened chimney. He glanced once again at his patient, saw that there was no change in her, and went to the stables to see to Tasha and to retrieve his leather valise.

  He shaded his eyes from the driving snow as he walked the short distance between the house and the stable. It was nearly a full-blown blizzard. It struck him forcibly that the servants who cared for the hunting box wouldn’t be showing their faces until the blizzard blew itself out. Who knew how long that could be.

  As he walked into the stable, he was greeted with a low whinny from Tasha. She was eating hay from an overflowing bin. At least he would
n’t have to worry about her starving. He patted Tasha’s glossy neck, picked up his bag, and made his way quickly back to the house.

  He felt cheered at the cozy warmth of the bedchamber. As he unpacked his two changes of clothing and laid them carefully over a chair, it occurred to him that he should put her in some sort of nightgown. He pulled the holland cover off a short, squat dresser and rifled through the drawers. They were filled with men’s clothes, and all of them too small for him, he thought, as he lifted them out for inspection. Beneath some underthings, he found two old well-worn velvet dressing gowns.

  He sat down beside her and again pressed his hands to her forehead and cheeks. Her skin was warm; her lips had lost that terrifying blue tinge. But she remained unconscious. He gently probed her head through the masses of auburn hair, but he could find no betraying lump. Gently, he eased the pile of blankets down below her breasts and pressed his cheek against her. Her breathing was labored and he heard a wet crackling sound. He tensed, remembering the same sound from Lucius’s tortured lungs. She stirred, bringing her arms weakly over her breasts, and shivered violently. He quickly put her into one of the dressing gowns. He wrapped it twice around her and tied the belt. He put her into the other dressing gown as well. Why not? He sashed it at her waist, pulled the blankets back up to her chin again, and lightly slapped her cheeks. She’d been asleep long enough.

  “Come on now, open your eyes for me. You can do it. Open your eyes.”

  She mumbled, and turned her face away from him. “Don’t try to get away from me. I’m more tenacious than a tick. Wake up.”

  She moaned, deep in her throat.

  “I wagered with my mare Tasha that you would have green eyes to go with that wicked red hair of yours. No, it’s more a wicked auburn color, isn’t it? No matter, it’s still wicked. Come on, wake up, I want to collect my wager.”

  Her hand fluttered, then stilled.

  “It’s time to face the world, you know. And me. I’m not such a bad fellow. I’m a good friend. Come on, wake up.” He remembered all too well the men whom the cold had kept from consciousness and drawn deeper away from life. He wouldn’t stand for it. “Dammit, do as I tell you,” he shouted at her. “Bloody hell, wake up!”

  He clasped her shoulders in his hands and shook her. She whimpered softly, and tried to bring her hands up to strike him away. But she didn’t have the strength to move the five thick blankets.

  “Open your eyes and look at me or it will go very badly for you.” He continued to shake her.

  Sabrina heard his voice as if from a great distance and forced her eyes to open. She couldn’t see clearly. She heard his voice again. He sounded angry with her. She blinked and her eyes cleared. A man was leaning over her. His hands were on her shoulders. She screamed, then whispered, “No, please no, Trevor, let me go. Let me go.”

  Phillip stared down into large violet eyes, slanted slightly and fringed with thick lashes, a darker red than her hair. He saw the fear—no, it was closer to sheer terror—and said very slowly, lowering his face close to hers, “I’m not Trevor and I won’t hurt you. This fellow is nowhere around. It’s just me and you. I won’t hurt you. Do you understand me?”

  She blinked rapidly several times. The man’s voice was unknown to her. She strained to clear her mind and her vision. “You’re not Trevor,” she said slowly.

  “No, I’m just me and not this Trevor. Don’t be afraid of me. I’m here to help you.”

  “Did God send you?”

  He had to think about that. “Well, perhaps He did. I was lost and just happened to see you lying in the forest.”

  “You don’t look like a gift from God.”

  “My father told me that God’s gifts came in many shapes, that they can even appear in the strangest disguises. Don’t spurn me just because I don’t look like a pious Methodist.”

  “Your hair is as black as a storm in the Irish Sea. I don’t think Methodists have black hair. Come to think of it, I’ve never met any Methodists.”

  “Maybe so, but I wouldn’t scoff at sin, if I were you. I’m a sinner and I’m the one who saved you.”

  He smiled down at her, knowing her wits were still scattered, but she was speaking and making some sense. He lightly touched his palm to her cheek. She was warm, but not too warm. She didn’t flinch.

  “If I were a man I’d want to look like you. Are you tall?”

  “Nearly a giant.”

  “Most any man is a giant compared to me. I stopped growing. I was very down in the mouth about it, but Grandfather said it didn’t matter one little bit. He said I was perfect.”

  “Perfection is usually tough to gain, but it’s true, grandfathers are usually right.”

  “Maybe, but he loves me. That covers a whole lot of things. Could you help me, please? The covers, they’re so heavy. I feel like they’re pushing me into the floor.” When he didn’t move immediately, she began to push and struggle.

  “No, hold still. I’ll make it better.”

  “It’s just that I can’t breathe.”

  “I know, I’m hurrying.” But he knew that even if he pulled the blankets from over her chest, she still probably wouldn’t be able to breathe easily. He compromised.

  “Is that better?”

  She shook her head and continued to struggle, finally shoving down the other two blankets. Phillip caught up her hands in his own and held her tightly. “No, I’ve got to keep you warm. I’m sorry, but even without the blankets you won’t be able to breathe all that easily. The trick is not to fight me or the pain. Take shallow breaths. Yes, that’s right.” He remembered his long-ago words to Lucius and spoke them aloud, over and over. “Slow, shallow breaths. I’m going to make it better, I promise.”

  “Yes, help me.” Her eyes were closed, her fists heavy at her sides.

  He took himself once again to the linen closet, grabbed several towels, and set them near the grate. Some minutes later, he lifted the top towel gingerly, for it was nearly too hot to touch, and carried it to the bed.

  As he pulled back the covers and opened the two dressing gowns to bare her chest, he said, “This will hurt you for just a moment, but it will let you breathe more easily.”

  “Oh, God.” She gasped as he laid the hot towel over her breasts and tried to strike it away.

  He held her hands and drew the dressing gowns and blankets back over her. She made no sound, but tears were trickling down her cheeks.

  He wiped the tears away with his finger. Then he caught up her hands in his again. “I’m sorry, but it must be done. Things will be better soon, you’ll see. Now, why don’t you tell me your name?”

  “Name,” she said, her voice faint and dulled with pain, “my name. You’re trying to distract me. That’s what you’re doing, isn’t it?”

  “Certainly.”

  “All right then, my name is Bree.”

  “Brie is a French cheese that is particularly soft, even runny in the summer, and I’ve never cared for it. My mother adored it. I can’t understand why the French write music to it. You don’t look at all French so why did your parents name you after a cheese?”

  “No, no, Bree is my nickname. My real name is Sabrina.”

  He smiled down at her, lightly touching his fingertips to her nose. “It suits you. What’s your last name?”

  Her eyes were on his face, searching. He saw fear in those incredible violet eyes of hers, and doubt that he wasn’t another man to hurt her.

  “Stop it. I’m not Trevor.”

  “Perhaps. I pray you’re not like him.”

  “I’m not. You can trust me on this.” Her eyes were still wide on his face, but the fear was fading now, and the doubt as well. He grinned and patted her cheek. “My horse won the wager,” he said, and sighed. “You don’t have boring green eyes like I’d thought you’d have with all that red hair. No, yours are a very nice violet. Actually I’ve never seen violet eyes before.”

  “They’re my grandmother’s eyes. Her name was Camilla. My grand
father loved her very much. He never hurt her. You’re the one with the green eyes and they’re not at all boring. They look like wet moss.”

  “Wet moss and French cheese. We’re some combination.”

  “The pain is less now. That’s wonderful.”

  “Ready for another towel?”

  “No, please, wait a moment. It doesn’t hurt so badly now.”

  “My name is Phillip Mercerault.”

  “You don’t live around here.”

  “No, I don’t. Actually I was lost when I found you. Charles gave me damnable directions to his house, Moreland. That’s where I was going.”

  She knew who Charles was, that was as clear on her face as if she’d said it aloud. For whatever reason, she wasn’t going to tell him who she was. She was afraid to. Why?

  Who cared for the moment? He loved a mystery, and he wagered she had as many secrets as a Renaissance nun.

  “Have you ever heard of me?”

  She shook her head.

  “Well, no matter. I’m here now and I’m going to take care of you. Are you ready for another hot towel?”

  She nodded, surprised that the pain in her chest had lessened, that the heat from the towel had seemed to seep deep within her.

  She looked up at the face above her, a handsome young face with regular features. He couldn’t be above twenty-six or twenty-seven. She found herself staring into his eyes, compelling eyes. Unfortunately he’d been on his way to Moreland. On the other hand, if he hadn’t found her, she probably would have died there in Eppingham Forest.

  “I’m going to get another hot towel now,” he said, but didn’t move as she pulled one of her hands free and raised it to his face. He didn’t stir. He felt her fingertip lightly touch his jaw, his cheek, his nose. “No,” she said, her voice slurred now, “you’re not at all like Trevor, thank God.” What little strength she had failed her and her hand fell weakly to her side.