The mansion was silent and still, like Martin’s London residence but with one vital difference. This house seemed to breathe, alive but dormant, quietly waiting tucked up in holland covers. Although the temperature was lower here, the coldness in London had been more profound. This place had been a home, once; it was waiting to be a home again. There was a sense of whispers in the shadows, as if, if she strained, she would hear the echo of laughter and flying feet, of children’s shrieks and men’s rumbling chuckles.
There was warmth here, albeit in abeyance; the promise of life still lay richly upon this house. The fable of Sleeping Beauty occurred to her—the house was waiting for her prince to return and reawaken her. Lips lifting wryly at her fancy, she let Colly ease ahead and open a door.
“This room was always kept ready for the master.”
Holding the candelabra high, she surveyed the chamber. “The earl?” It didn’t seem large enough.
“Nay, the young master. Lord Martin. They was expecting him back anytime.”
She crossed to the curtained bed. “They?”
“The old earl and Lady Rachel. Looked for him for years they did, but he never did come back.” Colly rattled back the curtains, ignoring the cloud of dust. “Gave me a right turn, seeing him standing there, large as life. Too late for his lordship—his father, I mean—and her ladyship, more’s the pity.”
Colly fell to shaking the pillows and the covers. Setting aside her confusion, Amanda placed her candelabra on the bedside table and helped. The room and this bed would do for Reggie. Leaving Colly with instructions to get the fire going, she headed back to the kitchen.
Back to Reggie. She’d never seen him so pale, so lifeless, stretched out on the table before the fire. Their last words rang in her head; she swallowed and chafed his hands, but her own hands were icy. Gently, she brushed back a tuft of hair that had fallen across his bandage; her heart constricted—she forced herself to look around. To do something to hold the unbearable at bay.
Shock, loss of blood—how did one treat that? She’d never felt so helpless in her life. Tea—people always prescribed tea for everything. She rummaged through the few canisters standing on a sideboard, Colly’s meagre provisions. She found the tea.
Martin walked in as she stood hovering over a steaming kettle, a spoon in one hand, the open canister in the other. She glanced at him, gestured helplessly. “I’ve no idea how much to put in.”
He heard the wavering in her voice, saw the rising panic in her eyes. He crossed to her. “I’ll do it.” He took the canister and spoon from her, deftly measured tea into the kettle. “How is he?”
“Icy.” She dragged in a tight breath.
“Did you find a decent bed?”
“Yes, but it’s in the room Colly said had been yours.”
Martin set the canister aside and dropped the lid back on the kettle. “That doesn’t matter—it’s a good choice. It’s smaller than some of the other rooms. Easier to heat.”
Amanda shivered. He glanced at her. It was no longer that cold in the kitchen. “Why don’t you find some cups? We can all do with something hot.”
She nodded, and went to the cupboards.
Colly returned with a pile of blankets. “Here you go.” He handed one to Onslow, nodding in the chair he’d pulled closer to the fire.
Amanda set down the mugs she’d found and hurried to take a blanket and spread it over Reggie. Martin watched, then glanced at Colly. “Why don’t you make up a bed in the room next to yours for Onslow? He can have some tea, then he should sleep.”
“Aye. I’ll do that.” Colly left by a narrow stair that led to the rooms directly above the kitchen.
Martin poured the brewed tea into four mugs. “Here.” He handed one to Onslow, who cradled it in his hands. “How’s the arm?”
“Throbbing, but I’m thinking that’s a good sign.” Onslow sipped. “I’ve been hit before, years ago. I’ll live.”
Martin offered one of the mugs to Amanda. Eyes on Reggie, she shook her head. “No—it’s for him.”
“I seriously doubt he’ll wake tonight—he’s lost too much blood.”
Her expression turned stricken; he drew her to him, hugged her within one arm. “He’ll most likely awaken all right in the end, just not yet. Now—you need this.” He curled her fingers about the mug; she shivered and took it, wrapped both hands about it and sipped, but her eyes never left Reggie.
Colly returned; Martin handed him the fourth mug, and they all sipped, standing before the hearth.
“The horses all right?” Colly asked.
“As well as can be.” Martin looked down at his mug, swirled the tea. “Where are the other horses—my father’s hunters, the carriage horses? What happened to them?”
“Sold. Years ago.”
Martin frowned. His father had died only a year ago, yet the stables had been deserted for much longer.
Colly set down his empty mug and took Onslow’s. “Come on, let’s get you settled, then.”
The pair headed up the narrow stair. Martin tugged the chair Onslow had vacated nearer the ebbing blaze, and drew Amanda to it. She sank down, but her worried gaze remained on the silent figure on the table.
When Colly returned, Martin nodded to Reggie. “It should be warm enough upstairs—let’s move him.”
Not an easy task. Reggie was slight, but he was no lightweight, and Martin didn’t want to ask Colly to help; the old man was too frail. Balancing Reggie, Martin had to stop in the front hall, then again at the top of the stairs to catch his breath, but they reached his old room without catastrophe. Amanda rushed in and drew down the covers, pulling out the warming pan Colly had set in place.
Martin laid Reggie down; Amanda covered him, straightening his arms, brushing back his hair. Martin turned to Colly. “We’ll need some bricks.”
“I set some warming downstairs. I’ll bring ’em up.”
Crouching before the hearth, Martin built up the fire, noting the coal shuttle and woodbox were both full. The chill had left the room. Standing, he stared down at the fire, trying not to look around, see and remember.
He didn’t begrudge Reggie the room; he doubted he could ever sleep here again. Besides, he was no longer the heir, but the earl—his room lay at the end of the corridor.
Colly returned with the heated bricks wrapped in blankets; they slid them between the covers, creating a cocoon of warmth around Reggie’s inanimate form. Glancing at Amanda, tight-lipped, wide-eyed, nearly as pale as Reggie, Martin wished Reggie would stir, show some sign of life. But Reggie was still unconscious; the longer he remained so, the less good his chances. Martin saw no reason to voice that fact.
He dismissed Colly with a nod. “Get some sleep. We’ll see where we are come morning.”
Colly bowed and left. Martin glanced at Amanda. She’d sunk down on the bed beside Reggie, staring at his white face. It was long past midnight; they both needed rest, but he knew better than to suggest she leave her vigil.
“I’ll hunt up some quilts and pillows.” He picked up the smaller candelabra. Amanda didn’t look up as he left the room.
In the corridor, he hesitated, then walked further into the family’s private wing. Toward the double doors at the end, oak carved with the family crest. He stopped before them, seeing not them but visions from the past. Turning his head, he considered the door to his left; after a long moment, he stirred and opened it.
It was well over ten years since he’d last entered his mother’s boudoir. All through his childhood, it had been a place of irresistible delight, a cornucopia of stimuli to his imagination and his senses.
The room was exactly as he remembered it, draped in satins and silks, in rich brocades and laces. No sultan’s harem had ever been so blatantly lush. It was from his beautiful mother he’d inherited his wild and sensual nature, his tactile sensitivity, his love of color and texture. Closing the door, he raised the candelabra, looked at her escritoire sitting between the windows. He could almost see her there
, writing some note, turning to greet him with that laughing smile that had been her hallmark, and her greatest gift.
She hadn’t smiled at him that day; she hadn’t believed him, either, or rather, hadn’t known what to believe. She’d hesitated, hadn’t immediately thrown her loyalty and support behind him, and that had been enough. Enough to bring life as she and he had known it to an end.
Slowly, he moved into the room, recognizing figurines, a clock, a letter opener. Breathing in, he could almost believe he could smell her perfume, weak and stale beneath the weight of the years, but still there.
Still evoking her presence, her smile.
He’d stopped blaming her long ago. He halted by the bed. The counterpane was of padded silk; there were silk shawls and wraps of the finest wool draped about the room. Cushions with silk tassels, pillows edged with lace; he gathered them all in the middle of the bed, then wrapped them in the counterpane. Picking up the candelabra, he headed back to Amanda. Reaching the door of his old room, he paused. All inside was quiet. Setting down the silken bundle by the door, he continued on, back to the gallery.
He knew the house intimately, like a second skin. He walked through the downstairs rooms and checked every window, every door, every place someone could effect an entry. His great-grandfather had built the house—he’d built it to last; a year of neglect hadn’t harmed the fabric, had barely left a mark beyond the dust and cobwebs. Confident no “highwayman” could surprise them in the night, he returned upstairs. Opening the door to his old room, he heard Reggie blathering.
“You know, you look just like a young lady I used to know. You can confide in me, I’m quite safe. Do we—I suppose I mean I—have to actually have an interview with the Great Man? With St. Peter, I mean. Or is it the done thing to just swan in, assuming no stain on one’s conscience? I don’t believe I have one on mine . . . not really. Nothing too damning, y’know.”
Reggie was twisting restlessly on the bed; as Martin closed the door and set aside his bundle, Martin saw him stiffen, straighten, then tug at the bedclothes Amanda was struggling to keep over him. Martin had seen Reggie make the same gesture many times, tugging his waistcoat into place.
“Truth is,” Reggie went on, his voice lowering, “I always imagined he’d look like my old headmaster, old Pettigrew. I’m quite keen to see the old fellow.” He paused, frowned, then amended, “St. Peter, that is. Not Pettigrew. I know what old Pettigrew looked like—well, he looked like Pettigrew, don’t you know?” Reggie continued, but his words became harder and harder to make out, degenerating into a delirious mumble.
Amanda was silently crying, tears rolling down her cheeks as she struggled to keep Reggie from thrashing about, from disturbing his bandages. The mumbling continued, rising, then falling; Reggie continued to twist and turn.
Martin nudged Amanda aside. “Sit by the headboard and hold his head. I’ll deal with the rest of him.”
She nodded, sniffed, scrubbed at her cheeks as she scrambled up on the bed. Together, they made a better job of letting the delirium run its course while limiting the damage Reggie did to his head. And them; Martin had to lunge across the bed and catch Reggie’s arm before he hit Amanda. As far as Martin could judge, he’d been demonstrating cracking a whip.
How long the attack lasted he had no idea, but it eventually subsided, and Reggie slipped once more into deeper unconsciousness. Martin gradually straightened, stretched his aching back. Amanda slumped back against the headboard, her hands reluctantly unbracketing Reggie’s bound head.
“He thinks he’s dead.”
Martin looked at her stricken face, reached out, drew her off the bed into his arms. He hugged her, cradling her head against his chest. “He’s not dead, and there’s no reason to suppose he will be anytime soon. We just have to wait and he’ll wake up.” He prayed that was true.
She sniffed, then lifted her head and turned to the bed—as if she intended kneeling by it until Reggie regained his wits.
He held onto her. “No—you have to rest.”
She turned huge eyes on him. “I can’t leave him.”
“We can make up a bed by the fire, and be close enough to hear if he starts rattling on again.” He drew her with him, picking up the bundle he’d collected. “You’ll be no good to him later if you’re worn to a frazzle.”
Amanda allowed him to bully her into helping him lay out the beautiful counterpane and build a bed of the puffy cushions and pillows, the shawls and wraps. She knew he was right. But when he tried to make her lie on the side closer to the fire, she put her foot down. “No. I can’t see him from there.”
He narrowed his eyes at her; the suspicion he’d intended just that, so if Reggie stirred, she might not hear and he could deal with it and leave her asleep, blazed in her mind. She set her chin. “I’m sleeping on this side.”
She lay down on the side closer to the bed, settled her curls on the pillow and fixed her eyes on the bed. Hands on his hips, lips thin, Martin glared down at her, then, with one of his low growls, capitulated. Stepping over her, he lay down between her and the fire.
With his body screening her from the hearth, she should have remained cold, iced to the bone by shock and concern. There wasn’t any warmth left in her. But Martin settled his chest to her back, curved his body around hers, slid his arms about her—and his heat enveloped her. Sank into her, gradually permeated her bones . . . until her muscles relaxed, until her lids grew heavy . . .
A strange noise woke her. A cross between a snort and a choke, a snuffling . . .
Then she remembered. Eyes flying wide, she looked at the bed. And realized what she was hearing. Snoring. Not from Martin, but from Reggie.
She eased from Martin’s arms, stood and hurried to the bed. They’d left one window uncurtained; faint light seeped into the room. Reggie lay on his back—the snorting, choking noise was definitely coming from him, but he didn’t seem distressed. The sound seemed too regular for a death rattle.
The lines of his face seemed relaxed, not slack in the utter blankness of unconsciousness. Daring to hope, to believe in the relief welling inside her, she put a hand to his cheek.
He snuffled more definitely, raised a hand, caught her fingers, patted them with his, then pushed her hand away. “Not now, Daisy. Later.”
Turning away from her, he drew up the coverlet and snuggled down, frowning as he shifted his head. “You really need to get better pillows, dear.”
Amanda stared. A softer, muffled snore emanated from under the humped covers. Another sound reached her; she turned to see Martin come up on one elbow. He raised a brow.
She gestured at the bed. “He’s sleeping.” Then it hit her; she smiled gloriously. “That means he’ll be all right, doesn’t it?”
“Yes, but it’s barely dawn. Leave him to sleep.” Martin slumped back down. “Come here.” He beckoned sleepily.
After one last look at Reggie, she returned to their makeshift bed. Wriggling back under the covers, facing Reggie, she whispered, “I touched his face and he thought I was someone named Daisy. He said ‘Later.’ “
“I daresay.”
After a moment, she asked, “Do you think he’s still delirious?”
“It sounds like he’s in his right mind, if a little weak.”
She frowned, then Martin turned, and curved his body once more around hers. And she felt . . .
Her eyes widened.
“Now go back to sleep.”
He sounded more disgruntled than Reggie. Amanda wondered . . . then smiled, closed her eyes and obeyed.
They were still snuggled in the warmth of his mother’s counterpane when Martin heard Colly’s footsteps plodding up the stairs. He kept his eyes closed, for one last moment let his senses bask in the simple peace, the simple joy that held them. Cradled in his arms, Amanda was no more asleep than he, equally reluctant to move—her body remained quiescent in his arms, relaxed against his. Savoring what would very likely be their last instant of quiet togetherness for the day. r />
But the morning beckoned; there was much to do. He stirred, then rose. Helped Amanda to her feet. When Colly arrived at the door, he opened it. The old man had brought a small ewer and basin. Martin dallied long enough to suggest they leave Reggie sleeping until he awoke on his own, then followed Colly back to the kitchen.
On the way, he took stock; when he reached the kitchen he was frowning. “We’ll be staying for a few days at least. We need to open up some rooms—brush down the cobwebs, get rid of the dust—enough to be comfortable.”
Colly looked at him in dismay. “The drawing room?”
The drawing room was monstrous. “No. The small parlor will do.”
“I’ll get onto it after breakfast . . .” Colly glanced at the stove. “I’m not much of one for cooking.”
Martin sighed. “What have you got?”
His years of traveling had given him skills not generally taught an earl’s son; when Amanda joined them, he was stirring a pot of porridge on the stove. “Colly unearthed some honey, which should make it more palatable.”
Amanda looked. “Hmm.”
But she ate it; Martin suspected she was as famished as he. At his insistence, Colly and Onslow ate with them. Onslow was quiet; Colly had already washed and redressed his wound. Martin used the time to get an idea of the state of the larder.
“We’ve tatters in the cellar, and some cabbage. There’s a bit of game pie left over from last week.” Colly thought, then grimaced. “Not much else.”
The nearest market town was Buxton; Martin didn’t want to waste the entire day it would take to go there and back. Let alone so widely advertise his return. The truth was, he hadn’t meant to return; stirring his porridge, he wasn’t sure he’d yet digested the fact he was here.
Focusing on the necessities, he nodded. “I’ll take a gun out and see what I can find, then I’ll saddle one of the horses and visit the bakery.”