It was half past two when he unlocked the door, crossed the threshold into his residence, and halted. Something was different. Perhaps it was that he was seldom here at this time, last night being an exception. But even as he considered it, he knew it was more than that. It felt different. It didn’t seem as empty. A lamp had been left burning on the first step of the stairs, as though she’d thought—or perhaps hoped—he’d return early.
He hadn’t planned to. He’d gone to Scotland Yard to inquire after any murders that might have taken place the night before. He’d spoken with Sir James Swindler, a friend of the family who wouldn’t question Drake regarding his strange curiosity. The inspector confirmed, unfortunately, that some killings had occurred, but all the victims had been identified. None apparently was the Earl of Wigmore.
Drake had gone to the coroner’s. No unclaimed corpses there. But that didn’t mean anything. The attack could have happened elsewhere, could have been handled by other police, other coroners. The attack could have happened and the victim not yet discovered.
Perhaps it wasn’t an attack. Only an accident. A careless driver losing control of the horses, the coach spiraling off a bridge. A spoke breaking, causing a carriage to careen off the road and into the river.
A hundred possibilities existed. Only someone with his past would immediately jump to the conclusion of foul play. From the moment Frannie Darling had taken him from the streets, he had been sheltered, but images of pain, suffering, and fear had already been branded into his consciousness. The loving arms and gentle smiles could not erase the horrors he’d witnessed, could not prevent the nightmares from rising up on occasion.
He was no doubt a fool not to tell Somerdale about his sister, to return her to her brother’s keeping. Yet he was picking up the lamp and ascending the stairs to check in on her, confident he would find her asleep. In his bed, no doubt. Lady Ophelia Lyttleton would not sleep on a cot.
He imagined rousting her from slumber, sending her to her bedchamber. The satisfaction of it, the delight of putting her in her place was tempered by the worry at the edge of his mind. He didn’t like not knowing what had happened to her. If Somerdale was telling the truth—if he was not—either way, something dastardly seemed to be at play.
Reaching the top of the stairs, he opened the door to his bedchamber, surprised to find the bed empty, but not at all surprised to see the bed remained tousled; the ashes from last night’s fire were still a heap in the hearth.
Had her memory returned? Had she tried to make her way home? He tore down the hallway to the corner room and shoved open the door.
She was there, curled on the cot, a lit lamp on the floor. The relief that swamped him was unwanted and disconcerting. He wasn’t supposed to care about her well-being, and yet for some unfathomable reason he did. But she was safe, not running hither and yon about London. He should leave. Return to the club and see to its profits.
Instead he approached quietly, and only as he neared did he realize that she was trembling as though he’d only just pulled her from the river. She wore one of his shirts again, the linen falling just above her knees. Her eyes were squeezed shut tight. Her breaths were harsh pants as though the air she required was elusive and distant. Her arms were crossed closely over her chest, her hands balled into knots.
“Phee?” Lightly he touched her shoulder and she struck out, arms flailing about madly.
“No, no! Don’t touch me. Don’t!” A shout, then a whimper, a tiny cry as she folded in on herself.
He remembered the words from last night, how he’d assumed they were directed at him. Perhaps they were directed at someone else. An attacker. Thieves could have tried to rob them. He could quite see her sticking that pert little nose of hers up in the air and informing them that their behavior was inappropriate and not to be tolerated.
She continued to shiver. Tears rolled down her cheeks. Sweat beaded her neck. She was constrained on that horrible tiny uncomfortable cot. What the devil had possessed him to think it would be fun to force her to sleep there when a perfectly good bed sat unused in his bedchamber in the evening?
All thoughts of lessons and retribution fled. All he wanted was for her to feel safe. To be safe.
“Phee?” He kept his voice calm, gentle, a tone he used to settle nervous horses. He’d always had a way with the great beasts, had even for a time considered becoming a stable boy, then a groom, but he was the ward of a duke and duchess who had grander plans for him. Bending his knees, he slipped his arms beneath her. “Shh,” he whispered when she responded with a mewling. “It’s all right. I won’t let anything happen to you.”
Lifting her up and cradling her against his chest, he realized her bare legs graced his arm with the wondrous feel of her silken skin. It was completely inappropriate to be thinking of her skin, of her flesh touching his.
With her fingers tightening around the shirt he wore, she snuggled her head into the nook of his shoulder. Her breaths lengthened as she drew in great drafts of air, as though she were delighted by a fragrance. His.
Ridiculous. Whatever was wrong with him that he would have such inane thoughts? She was no doubt simply relishing the warmth from his body, feeling as though she were tucked into a safe cocoon. No harm would come to her while he was near. Somehow she must have sensed that. Which should have made him feel better but didn’t.
He carried her to his room and set her down gently on the bed, cursing his eyes for noticing how the hem of his shirt had ridden up her thighs. In spite of her short height, she had long, slender legs and the most delicate ankles. He was half tempted to place a kiss there. Instead he flipped the covers up over her, surprised that she hadn’t awakened. Apparently she was an incredibly deep sleeper, even when nightmares flourished.
He went to the fireplace, crouched, and did what she should have done earlier: swept out the ashes, arranged the coal and logs. Then he struck a match, lit the kindling, and watched as the fire took hold.
He heard a sob being choked back. Damnation. Unfolding his body, he strode back over. She was restless again, rolling her head from side to side, murmuring to be left in peace, but she didn’t sound as though she would find any peace this evening.
Leaning in, he touched his fingers to her cheek. “Phee?”
She inhaled deeply, once, twice. “You returned.”
“Yes.”
Her eyes fluttered open, and her lips lifted up into the smallest of smiles. “You chased away the monster. You and your dragon.”
He felt as though he’d taken a hard punch to the gut. Her words, her smile. She never smiled at him like that, nor could he recall seeing that smile bestowed upon others. Yet there was an honesty in it. No artifice. No pretense. No role playing.
“What monster?” he asked.
“I don’t know. I couldn’t see him clearly. Perhaps I should have a dragon inked on my back.”
He imagined a dragon in flight over her slender back, what she would endure to possess it. “It’s a very painful process. Once you begin, you can’t stop. What good is only a piece of the dragon?”
“I suppose you’re right.” She pressed her lips together before gnawing on the lower one. The action went straight to his groin. It was the shadows, his shirt draped over her skin, her in his bed.
“I have so many questions,” she said, distracting him from dangerous musings.
“We’ll get to them in the morning. You need to sleep now.”
“I don’t understand my clothes.”
“Have they been talking to you then?”
Her smile grew slightly. “No, but they’re wrong. I don’t have a nightdress.”
“We’ll discuss it all later, after you’ve rested.” He was delaying the inevitable, but he didn’t want to lose the way she was looking at him, as though she accepted him, as though she didn’t distrust him.
She shook her head. “I don’t like to sleep.”
“You were having a nightmare. No one, nothing here will harm you. I’ll keep watch.”
“None of this, my being here, makes sense to me.”
“It will, very soon, I’m sure.”
She studied him as though striving to ferret out the truth, but he wasn’t lying. He would tell her everything tomorrow evening, after Gregory returned. Meanwhile, he would have another day of her scrubbing his back.
“I’m so cold,” she said quietly. “It’s as though I’m frozen throughout.”
He couldn’t make the fire any larger, and he had no more blankets, blast it all. He supposed he could heap his clothes on top of her. Or he could give her warmth in another way. “Don’t be alarmed but I’m going to lie on top of the covers and hold you. All right? I can warm you that way.”
She nodded. Removing his jacket, he spread it over her hips. He tugged off his boots. So the buttons wouldn’t scrape her, he draped his waistcoat over the chair. For his comfort, he unfolded his neck cloth and set it aside. Then he climbed on the bed, stretched out beside her. She came into the curve of his shoulder as though she belonged there, her hand curling against his chest. Placing his arm around her, he drew her nearer. With his free hand, he rubbed her back down to her waist, down to where the covers had gathered. He didn’t want to consider how close his hand might be to the bared flesh of her thighs.
“I can’t decide if you like me,” she said so softly he almost didn’t hear her. “You seem to care for me, like now, and other times you have no patience with me.”
“We just don’t know each other very well I suppose.”
“Then tell me a story.”
A story. Yes, he supposed he could do that. He’d told a good many to Grace when she was a child. “Once upon a time there was a cobbler and his wife—”
Laughing with that sweet sound that he had only discovered she possessed, she lifted her head and met his gaze. “You are not on the verge of telling me the story of the cobbler and the elves.”
“You know it?”
She gave him a pointed look. She’d given him many in the past, but none like this. It was teasing, amused. It made him want to plow his hands into her hair, bring her down for a kiss that would warm her, scorch her soul. It made him want to keep her here. It made him want to know her. It unsettled him to think she could be very different from what he had always known.
“Of course I know the story. I don’t want you to tell me a fairy tale, silly. I want you to share something about you. Tell me a story about you.”
Silly? He was far from silly. He considered castigating her, employer to employee, yet he didn’t want to lose this moment. For the life of him he didn’t know why he wanted to hold on to it. Share something with her. He had spent his life erecting a wall that only a select few could peer over, but none could see through completely. He even held things back from the Mabrys. He didn’t believe anyone could accept him completely as he truly was. He could give her something to use against him, so he had to be very careful in what he shared.
She settled back down, nudging her head in the hollow of his shoulder until it fit perfectly.
“Warmer?” he asked.
“Yes. But I’m still waiting for the story. Tell me something from when you were a boy.”
Those tales would satisfy the Brothers Grimm. “As I mentioned earlier I began my life on the streets. I survived by skill, cunning, and quickness. But still food, clothing, warmth were scarce. I remember the first time I ate until I was full. I was eight at the time. Meat pies. Then I promptly brought them all back up.”
“Ew! I think I would rather hear the cobbler’s tale.”
“I thought you might.”
She was quiet for a very long time. He thought perhaps she was drifting off. Then she said, “I can’t imagine that my life is very happy. I can’t seem to feel any joy in being here.”
An awful thought jarred him. Had she deliberately jumped into the river intending to do herself harm? Had his kiss so repulsed her—no, her plunge in the river had nothing to do with him. Nor with her wishing herself harm. If he knew anything at all about her, it was that she thought too highly of herself to deny the world her existence. Her loss of memory was simply disorienting to her.
“You take great pride in your place,” he said. True, even if it was her place in the aristocracy to which he referred.
“Do I?”
“Yes. You are well versed in your duties. You carry them out with extreme diligence. You’ve set an example for others that few can imitate.” Again, all true, although he’d never considered the merits of them, but they were there even without his recognizing them.
“Are those words from my letters of reference?”
“Only my observations.”
“Did you bring the letters?”
“I seem to have misplaced them, but I shall find them.”
“Why did you return early?”
“Because I was . . . concerned for you.” Because she was driving him more mad without her memory than she ever had with it.
“I’m warm now,” she said. “No longer shivering.”
He supposed that was his signal to leave her. He should be incredibly relieved. Instead, he found that he enjoyed holding her, inhaling her unique scent, speaking low with her—even about nothing of significance—while shadows danced around them. Disturbing her as little as possible, he eased off the bed.
With her head on the pillow, she tucked a hand beneath her cheek and regarded him. “I like this bed better. It’s more comfortable.”
“You may use it when I’m not here.”
“But you’re here now.”
“Yes, but I won’t be sleeping.”
He stood there until he was relatively certain that she had drifted off. Then he pulled over the chair, sat, and began his vigil.
Only because she was Grace’s friend, and his sister would never forgive him if something awful happened to her. His remaining had nothing to do with the glimpse she’d given him of a lady he had never before met.
She awoke disoriented on sheets that weren’t quite as soft as those to which she was accustomed. The pillow was harder, the mattress firmer. She tried to latch on to what she could barely recall, but it was like trying to capture fog and it slipped through her grasp. Everything had slipped away, all of her memories, and yet . . .
The man was familiar. His scent, the strength in his arms. He was sitting in one of those awful hard chairs, his head tilted to one side, his eyes closed, long lashes resting on sharp cheekbones. His legs were outstretched, crossed at the ankles, his arms folded across his chest. She marveled that he hadn’t toppled to the floor. His neck would no doubt ache when he awoke. She would massage it when she washed his back.
Because he hadn’t left, because he’d kept watch as he had promised.
He shouldn’t have returned until after dawn, and yet he’d arrived last night when she needed him. It seemed he was always there to rescue her: when she was drowning, when she was cold and frightened, when dreams terrified her. How many other times had he been there? How many other times might he have consoled her and eased her fears?
He opened his eyes, and she found herself staring into the dark depths. So black that they should have been unsettling. Blacker than his hair, darker than the shadow on his jaw. Nothing about him was light or carefree. Everything had a dangerous edge to it, and yet she knew she was safe with him. Had she always known that or had she once been afraid?
He didn’t say anything. He simply studied her as though he wasn’t quite certain who she was or how she might respond to his presence.
“I’m rather embarrassed about the spectacle I made of myself last night,” she began.
“You shouldn’t be. Dreaming of monsters can be upsetting. Do you recall anything else?”
She was lying on her side, one hand beneath the pillow, the other curled around the blankets. She considered sitting up, but she thought any movement might break whatever spell was presently between them, creating an intimacy she didn’t understand. He hadn’t moved either, as though he sensed it as well.
“A man. He was trying to hurt me, and I was fending him off.”
“Who was he?”
“I don’t know. He was shadow, dark, foreboding, sinister. No features. But he loomed over me. I was suffocating. I couldn’t move, and I wanted to. Desperately. I screamed but no sound escaped no matter how hard I tried to make the noise, so no one could hear me. I was terrified that this time he’d have his way.”
“This time?”
She sensed the alertness in him, as though his entire body had suddenly awoken. She rubbed her brow. “I must have had the dream before. Something about it was familiar. Or perhaps that was simply part of the dream, thinking that it had happened before. Perhaps a dream within a dream.”
“I want you to tell me if you remember anything else about it, about the attacker.”
She couldn’t help but form a smile. “Are you a dream slayer then?”
He was looking at her as though he’d never seen her before. He blinked, looked down at his bare feet. His shirt was as it had been yesterday, loose and unbuttoned. But now she knew the corded muscles he hid beneath it, the ink that resided just below the surface.
A corner of his mouth finally curled up. “I’m not but the dragon on my back is.”
“Is that why you had him inked? You had nightmares as well?”
He was studying her intently again, and she thought he might not answer. Yet she wanted him to, badly. She wanted to know everything about him, everything she’d forgotten. While she understood—but could scarcely accept—that she worked for him, she couldn’t help but believe a bit more existed between them. They had some sort of history. She was certain of it, because why else would she not be alarmed that she was in his bed, with his linen shirt gathered at her hips, her legs bare while he was sitting there completely comfortable with half his clothing gone? It involved more than the fact that she bathed his back. While that had created a startling closeness, she knew the familiarity wasn’t foreign to them.
In spite of their lack of attire, her bare legs, his bare feet, he wouldn’t suddenly pounce onto the bed, he wouldn’t take advantage. She knew that, but how the devil did she know?
It was so frustrating to know only pieces of him when she wanted to know the whole.
He unfolded his arms, leaned forward, planted his elbows on his thighs, and met her gaze. “During my time on the streets, I witnessed horrors that still sometimes visit my dreams. When I was younger, I did have the rather juvenile thought that the dragon would fend them off.” His lips formed a self-deprecating smile that caused her chest to tighten. “But I’ve come to believe that only we can conquer our demons.”
“Have you conquered yours?”
“Not to my satisfaction.”
“Are we not also our own worst critics?”
“Perhaps.”
“We always want something different from what we have.” She furrowed her brow. “Why do I think—no, why do I know that with certainty? I wanted something different, but what did I want?”
He didn’t say anything, only held her gaze as though he had the power to draw the memory, the truth, from her. She trusted those eyes, the depths of them, the sincerity. He was not a man who ridiculed or taunted.
“I believe I may have unraveled the mystery of my clothes,” she said.
One dark brow shot up. “Oh?”
She didn’t know if he was reacting to her sharp change in topic or was truly interested in the answer. “I must have packed everything into a valise that night, all except the most hideous of my clothing. I must have lost it in the river. That’s why I have no apron or nightdress. Although I don’t know why I didn’t leave the apron behind, because I think I was striving to escape this life. As I see no value in it.”
“The life of a servant?” he asked, as though she could possibly be speaking about something else.
“Yes. I can’t imagine awakening every morning and knowing that my day would be naught but dealing with dust and dirt.”
“The value in it is a salary, satisfaction in a job well done. Ensuring a residence is pleasant to live in. The family with whom I lived—they were well off. One must eat. They could have prepared their meals. Instead they hired someone to do it for them. While that person cooked, they were out doing good works. The cook, while preparing nourishment for them, allowed them to have the time to do their good works. It’s all interconnected, it all has value. If you’re not seeing it, it’s because you’re not looking at it properly.”
His words were laced with passion, his voice teeming with it.
“I spend long hours providing entertainment for gentlemen,” he continued. “Having a servant means that I’m not distracted by household concerns. I can concentrate on increasing profits. More profits means we can hire more employees so more men can provide for their families. They purchase more meat for their table so the butcher has more income. He buys more meat. The farmer has more income. I could go on but I believe I’ve made my point. It may seem but a small drop, but it ripples out and affects so many. You may not see it, but even the lowliest servant has value, purpose, worth. Everyone has a place and none of those places should be diminished.”
As though suddenly embarrassed, he closed his eyes, shook his head, and leaned back. She wondered if she’d been aware of all the points he’d made, if she’d agreed with them. But if she had why would she have been running away?
Although in truth she didn’t know if she had been. She was only speculating about her clothing. It was the only explanation that made sense.
“I suppose I should get to it then, shouldn’t I?” she asked.
“I’ll prepare breakfast for you while you dress.” He unfolded his long, sinewy body, and an image of him prowling toward her flashed through her mind, kicking her heart against her ribs. It was an incongruous thought that didn’t fit with the man before her, the man she knew, but then how well did she really know him? A day of memories was hardly sufficient to create a complete picture, and yet he’d been patient and understanding. Quite remarkable when in essence he’d lost his housekeeper.
He strode from the room, his movements neither stiff nor formal, but relaxed. He was in his element here, although she suspected he was within his element everywhere. He wore confidence like a cloak.
Tossing aside the covers, she scrambled out of bed. While it was disconcerting to know no more than she did, it was also reassuring to consider that he valued her, that she could lighten the load he carried.
As Drake slammed pots around the kitchen, he soundly cursed himself, wondering what the devil had possessed him to utter such nonsense about value, and purpose, and worth. He believed it of course, absolutely. But to wax on boringly about it was beyond comprehension. It was as though he was striving to beat the sentiment into her, to make her understand that her pedestal only remained upright because of the work of others. Ironically, she didn’t know she’d placed herself on the blasted pedestal.
To make matters worse he was preparing the damned creamed eggs for her. He’d spoken to the cook at Dodger’s about them and received the directions. They weren’t all that difficult to make as he whipped them around the pan, adding cream, butter, and seasoning. But still, she was supposed to be cooking for him. That had been the plan. To have her waiting on him.
But when she looked at him so innocently, so trustingly, with her hand tucked beneath the pillow, the collar of his shirt turned up against her neck, lying all snug in his bed, he felt this irrational urge to protect and care for her. The ludicrousness of all this was not lost on him. Yet he couldn’t return her home, not yet, not until he heard from his man, until he was certain that he wasn’t leading her to the lion’s den. Nothing made sense, especially his desire to please her at breakfast. He should feed her nothing except toast and water, should make her realize that not everyone had the luxury of creamed eggs—of any sort of eggs.
“Creamed eggs?”
The wonder in her voice had him glancing back. She looked positively delighted. Her face was still pink from the morning scrubbing she’d no doubt given it. Her plaited hair draped over one shoulder. She wore the other dress he’d found in the missionary bin. It draped off her like a sack. He fought back the notion that she deserved better, that she deserved morning gowns that outlined every dip and curve. That she deserved clothes sewn just for her figure.
“I thought after the night you had that a little treat was in order. Don’t get used to it.” He poured the mixture over the toast he’d prepared earlier and set the plate on the table.
“Aren’t you joining me?” she asked.
“No. I’m going out for a bit to see to some matters. I expect you to begin managing your chores while I’m gone.”
“You are quite the tyrant, aren’t you?”
Teasing laced her voice and he didn’t like the way that it made his chest feel tight and uncomfortable. “I’ve been lax because of your situation but understand that I expect an honest day’s work for an honest day’s pay.”
She pleated her brow. “I suppose all that is subjective.”
“My subjectivity is all that matters since I’m the one paying for the services. Now, enjoy your meal and then see to the dishes.”
He charged up the stairs and into his bedchamber. Of course, the bed linens were still askew, the pillow had yet to be fluffed, so it carried the imprint of her head. He was tempted to cross over and straighten everything, but it was her job. He’d leave it to her.
In the bathing chamber, he found water in a bowl, none in the pitcher, so he used the water she’d used to wash up. He reached for his brush, halted, his fingers only inches away from it. Long blond strands were woven throughout the bristles, just as they’d been yesterday. The intimacy of it was unsettling. Tunneling his fingers through his hair, he decided that would do for now. He donned fresh clothing. It wouldn’t do to arrive at Mabry House untidy, to give the appearance that his life was suddenly unsettled.