Although she sipped slowly, she choked and began to cough. He pulled her up against him and began lightly hitting her back. “Shush, it’s all right. The water just went down the wrong pipe. That’s it, breathe in light shallow breaths. No, don’t fight me.”
He held her firmly until she regained her breath and again placed the glass to her lips. She managed to swallow the remainder of the laudanum between short, heaving breaths. Phillip gently eased her back down and she lay quietly, waiting for the pain to lessen.
Phillip stood over her, staring down, studying her. Oddly, he felt a strong tug of protectiveness toward her. She could be no more than eighteen years old, a young lady, and in all likelihood a virgin, for there was no wedding band on her left hand. He wondered who this bastard Trevor was, the man who had made her flee her home. He didn’t have a doubt that this was what had happened.
He smoothed back a curling lock of auburn hair that had fallen over her brow. She seemed to have fallen asleep, her lashes dark against her white cheeks. She was really quite lovely, not that it made any difference to anything at all.
6
Phillip left the bedchamber door open so that he could hear her if she awakened, and walked downstairs to the kitchen. He remembered suddenly how he and his fellow officers had hunkered around campfires in the mountains in Spain, roasting birds and rabbits to survive. He had learned to make soup from the remains, had even watched his men bake flat bread in crude ovens they’d made from parts of guns and equipment. But damn, that was more than four years ago. Since that time, it had never occurred to him to wonder where his next meal would come from. He thought of the exquisite meals prepared by Cook at Dinwitty Manor, and nearly swooned. He made it a point to have very mundane fare in London to keep him skinny. He’d give Cook a raise when he returned to his country home.
He walked to a small, cold pantry just off the kitchen that he’d noticed earlier. He was pleased and relieved that the owner of this hunting box knew how to keep it stocked. A haunch of smoked ham, beautifully cured, hung from a hook in the ceiling; there was a bin of flour, sugar and salt, potatoes, onions, carrots, dried peas, and even a partially filled barrel of dried apples.
Phillip Edmund Mercerault, Viscount Derencourt, donned a large white apron and set himself to the task of making soup. He sliced vegetables, cut up a slab of ham into small pieces, and tossed the lot into a pot with the dried peas. He gazed about him for water, realized that it wouldn’t magically appear, and took himself outside to fill a large pot with snow. The well was probably a foot under snow. Some minutes later, he stood next to a newly built-up fire in the grate, gazing down at his pot of soup. “Lord be praised. You’re not such a useless fellow after all,” he said aloud. He stripped off his apron, rinsed his hands, then strode back upstairs.
He walked quietly to the bedside and looked down at Sabrina. Her eyes were closed and her breathing so labored he didn’t even have to bend over her to hear it. He gently touched his hand to her cheek and found her cool to the touch.
Sabrina felt fingers, featherlight, against her cheek and forced her eyes to open. She could make out a man’s face above her and for an instant felt a stab of fear. Her memory righted itself and she whispered, “Phillip.”
“Yes, Sabrina. Don’t worry. I’m here.” He kept his voice pitched low and calm. The last thing he wanted was to frighten her again.
For a moment she thought it strange that he should know her name. She remembered vague images of her flight from Monmouth Abbey, her mare going lame, and the bitter, unrelenting cold. And then that cold was inside her. “I’m so cold. Really, so cold, just like I was in the forest. But I’m not in the forest now. What’s wrong?”
“No, nothing’s wrong. You’re safe with me, Sabrina. I want you to lie still. I’m going to make you warm.”
Phillip retrieved another towel from the grate, this one so very hot that he had to toss it several times into the air so that she would be able to bear its heat. She hissed out her breath when he placed it over her.
“No, don’t move. Don’t fight it. Just let the warmth seep into you. It will if you let it. Just hold still, that’s right.”
“I don’t like this, Phillip, I really don’t. It hurts worse than the cold.”
“It won’t in just a moment, I promise.”
She didn’t move. It was very difficult, but she didn’t even blink. She felt the scalding heat begin to seep into her. It was amazing. His fingers touched her hair and she heard him say, “Try not to move your head, your hair is still damp.”
“It’s better. I can’t believe you were right. I feel warm to my bones.”
He tucked the blankets close to her chin. “Good. Now you need to sleep. You’ll get better faster the more you sleep. I remember my mother telling me that after I nearly drowned. It worked for me. It will work for you. I’ll be right here if you need me.” Her eyes were closed. She was already asleep.
Phillip walked to the long narrow windows and pulled back the draperies. He could see nothing save white snow swirling against the windowpanes. He couldn’t help but smile. The fates and Charles’s directions had certainly conspired to alter his life, at least for the present.
He was too old and too tired. Sometimes he just wanted to close his eyes and sleep, and never wake up. He hadn’t deserved the long life he’d been granted, not after he’d let Camilla die. To lose her in childbirth, and all of it his own fault. He shouldn’t have given in to her pleas for another chance to have a daughter. They’d been given only one son, and how she’d wanted a daughter. But he had given in to her and she’d died, the boy child with her. No, he wouldn’t think about Camilla just now. He hunched forward in his chair and stared at his elder granddaughter, Elizabeth. She was graceful, he’d give her that, and she would be pretty if it weren’t for the discontent that dragged down the corners of her mouth, that leached out any sheen of contentment from her eyes.
Sabrina. She had come to tell him that Sabrina was dead? No, he wouldn’t accept that, never.
She came to a halt in front of him, not too close, because she hated him. He knew it but it had taken him a very long time to figure out why. And then one day, he’d known. She hated his power, seeing herself as powerless. She hated his age, finding it repellent, frightening.
He could have told her it wasn’t frightening at all. It was just a bloody bore. He’d told that to Sabrina and she’d lightly punched his arm, telling him not to be foolish, not to be bored because he had so many years in his dish because that was surely proof that God wanted him to remain here to watch over his lands and his people, to ensure their safety from the wicked that roamed the earth.
Wicked, he thought, and looked toward his nephew, Trevor. Aye, his nephew and heir, the future Earl of Monmouth, a pretty fellow who was always polite to him, any feelings he felt always held behind those veiled lying eyes of his.
He tried to keep the contempt from his voice as he forced himself back to Elizabeth. He forced himself to say the words aloud, but it was difficult, for to say them meant that they were true. He fel
t the gnawing of helplessness, felt nearly bowed to his knees with it. He swallowed, saying nothing for another moment, but Elizabeth held herself perfectly quiet, Trevor the same. There was no news, he thought, and said, “It’s been two days now, two days without a word, without a clue, without a sign of Sabrina. Have you brought me no news at all then? You know very well, Elizabeth, that she wouldn’t leave her home without some powerful reason to motivate her.” He pulled a crumpled piece of paper from his dressing-gown pocket and waved it at Elizabeth, a granddaughter he’d tried to love, tried to shield, but she’d not wanted that from him. Fear clutched at him, making his belly twist and knot. “As for the letter she left me—it tells me nothing. Damnation, what does this mean? She writes that she can no longer remain here and must go to her aunt Barresford in London?” He thought of Sabrina’s mare, her legs scratched from brambles, the left foreleg lame, returned yesterday to the Abbey, and felt his blood run cold. His blood had been cold now for two days. “No, don’t you dare tell me again about her depressed spirits, whatever that means. I want the truth now, Elizabeth. I don’t want any more of your lies.”
Elizabeth stood tall above the earl, almost wraithlike in her slenderness, and nervously shifted her weight to her other foot. What was she to say to this miserable old man who was the undisputed master, who didn’t even allow her to sit in his presence? How she wanted him to suffer. He deserved to for the slights he’d given her since the day Sabrina had been born. But the tug of fear was still there. She felt what little color she normally had fade until she knew her face was as white as the wall behind her grandfather’s chair. She didn’t move, something she’d managed to master many years ago. She never fidgeted in front of him, never showed him how much she despised him for his disregard of her. She nearly smiled as she said, “I have no lies to tell, Grandfather. It was as I first told you. Sabrina was quiet, withdrawn from me. I know nothing more today, truly.”
And Trevor, his too-pretty nephew with his grand manner, said, “Elizabeth doesn’t wish to cause you more pain, sir.” As he spoke he gently squeezed one of her pale slender hands. “Come, my dear, we must not further dissemble. You cannot protect your little sister forever.”