“Yes, m’lady.”
She went downstairs and cautiously made her way to the kitchen. Once there she found a pleasant, round-faced woman scurrying about with pots and pans and giving orders to her sons.
“Excuse me?” Myriah called attention to herself.
The woman was startled into a gasp, but then simply nodded a silent greeting and waited, obviously uncertain what to make of the young woman before her.
“I am so sorry to interrupt your work. I am Miss …” Myriah hesitated to give away her identity and came up with, “Miss White. I … I was on my way to my family in Dover when we lost our way. I remembered that my cousin’s home was nearby, and so we stopped here for a night’s shelter.
“Apparently Cousin William”—she hurriedly adopted him—“has a fever, and so my groom and I will remain until he is feeling more the thing. I do hope you will not be put out too unduly by our sudden descent upon you.”
Cook appeared to like Myriah’s manners, for she smiled readily and replied she was happy her master had someone to look after him.
Myriah then asked to be given the herbs she needed for the tisane. It didn’t take long to stir and prepare the brew, and soon Myriah was back in Wimborne’s bedchamber.
Tabby held him up while Myriah attempted to get the potion into him. This accomplished, Tab was dismissed, and Myriah continued applying a cloth soaked in rosewater to his head. He continued to toss for a few moments, rambling incoherent words, and then he drifted off.
A light lunch was sent up to Myriah, and Fletcher attempted to relieve her, but she would have none of it. For some odd reason she felt she had to care for her ‘new charge’.
At length his sleep seemed more relaxed, and then suddenly she saw him open his eyes. She was beside him instantly. He scanned her face and smiled feebly as his memory returned, and then his lids closed and he seemed to sleep again.
For an hour Myriah watched the changes of expressions flit over his face while he slept. She was fairly certain he was out of the woods and that the fever had broken when all at once he began to start tossing again and fretfully calling for Kit.
Who the devil was Kit, she wondered as she soothed his agitation. His forehead was on fire, and Myriah had a sudden urge to cry. He couldn’t die, she couldn’t let him die, but he had lost so much blood! Again she wiped away the sweat from his face, neck, and chest. She cooled his forehead with rosewater, and she prayed.
When he seemed to relax and began sleeping peacefully, Myriah wrung her hands, hoping this was a good sign as she sank down on her chair. Weary with physical discomfort and mental stress, she closed her eyes, laid her head back, and tried to compose her faculties.
“I may be in Hell, but I have changed my mind—you are an angel!” Wimborne croaked out, startling her forward.
“Mr. Wimborne!” Myriah exclaimed, going to take his hand. “Oh, oh, you do look better—not well, but ever so much better.”
“Thanks to you.” He grinned boyishly at her.
She smiled and squeezed his hand. “Oh, no. Thanks to your good man, Fletcher. He has a wondrous skill with a knife. But you lie still now … I shall be back in a moment. What you need now is some gruel.”
“No,” said the man, horrified.
“Well, not perhaps right away. First I will bring you some tea and toast,” she said, taking pity and hurrying out of the room.
Some time later, having plied her patient with buttered toast and tea, Myriah watched him fall off to sleep, feeling extraordinarily pleased with herself. She had herself only dozed for a few minutes when a knocking at the open door roused her and she found Fletcher in its frame ready to relieve her.
She smiled and dragged herself to her bedchamber, threw off her clothes, and sank naked beneath the satin coverlets, where she fell quickly off to sleep.
Dreams plagued her peace. They were muddled, lost in time, sending images to taunt and harass her. Sir Roland was there; he grabbed her and held her, and all she wanted to do was run …
*
Kit Wimborne, sixth Viscount of Wimborne Towers, had arrived at his home well after dinner to find it shrouded in darkness. He unsaddled his horse himself in the courtyard rather than wake his elderly groom and set the horse into the pasture. He was tired from the day’s work and thinking about the future.
He shrugged off his greatcoat and hung it on the wall rack just inside the kitchen entrance before he poured himself a shot of whisky and downed it.
Lantern in hand, he moved upstairs to his bedchamber. He was surprised that the drapes in his room had been pulled tight but was too tired to contemplate the mystery. He set the lit lantern on a side table and shrugged out of his clothes. He then picked up the lantern and made his way to his bed, setting the lantern on the nightstand. However, there he stopped short.
Someone with long, flaming ringlets of hair was lying face down, covered only to her waist—in his bed!
His first thought made him grin. His puppy of a brother had no doubt brought her home with him, but why would the rascal send her off to his bedchamber?
Drape mystery solved, and another one to contemplate … in a bit, but first …?