Chapter 8
Unwelcome Visitors
“Are you done?” Izzy called up the stairs to Boreas.
At his insistence, she had brought him soap and hot water, for he’d said he smelled like a dead horse, and he could not stand it even if she could.
She had offered to help, an idea he had stamped on despite her having cared for him during his illness.
“For now.” His voice was weary, and she shook her head, cross that he’d pushed himself. He was proving to be a very stubborn man and a difficult patient now he was out of danger.
“If you make yourself ill again, I shall murder you,” she told him, making her way up the last steps.
She set down the bowl of soup she’d brought and turned to look at him.
He lay back against the pillows, and their fresh white linen covers only highlighted his pallor.
Lord, but he was still beautiful, his broad shoulders and powerful arms proving a most invigorating sight.
Though she had tended to his needs while he was out of his head, that had been different.
Seeing him now, awake and bared to the waist, made heat rise beneath her skin.
The lamplight glinted upon the golden hair scattered over his chest and Izzy forced herself not to look, aware of him watching her.
His eyes were alert, if shadowed, and when she had last changed the poultice, the swelling had almost gone.
“Stop fussing, sweetheart. I’m strong as an ox.”
She snorted at that. The arrogant lummox. “As an elderly mouse, possibly. Stop trying to run before you can even stand, never mind walk.”
“Yes, Miss Honey.” His mouth ticked up as she stood looking at him, her arms folded. “My, but you are bossy.”
“I’m nothing of the sort, but I saved your sorry life, and you owe me the decency not to undo all my hard work.”
“I owe you a good deal more than that.”
Izzy picked up the bowl and knelt beside him. “No, you don’t. Just try not to get yourself killed again. That is thanks enough.” She sniffed the air, the scent of the soap lingering. Bergamot and citrus, it was very pleasant. “You smell nice.”
He laughed at that, wincing as the movement pulled at his stitches. “A good deal better, at any rate. That was very fancy soap. The reverend is a dandy at heart, I perceive.”
Izzy snorted. “Not at all. My sister’s husband left it when they were last here.”
“Ah, Lord Beaumarsh. That makes a deal more sense. He’s a peacock if ever there was one.” He nodded with a smirk.
“You know Lord Beaumarsh?” She stared at him in surprise, wondering how a smuggler knew such a man. But then he was not like the other smugglers in Little Valentine. Whilst she could not say he was a gentleman, there was something about him. He seemed far more educated than one might expect.
“By reputation only. We are not members of the same club,” he replied smoothly, one eyebrow quirking and a cynical glint flickering in his eyes.
He took the bowl she offered, and she watched as he lifted a spoonful of soup to his mouth.
It was thick and rich, redolent with herbs and studded with hefty chunks of potato and carrot.
His hand shook, but he managed it well enough.
A low sound of pleasure rumbled through his chest as he swallowed. “Lord, but I’m famished.”
“I know. But you’d best go slowly. Your body has been through an ordeal. You can’t go overloading it with steak and potatoes, I’m afraid.”
“I’m fine,” he said, devouring the soup before her eyes and handing her back the bowl a short time later. “Still hungry though.”
Izzy laughed. “Well, I’m glad to hear it. I’ll bring you something else as soon as I can.”
She watched as he smoothed his hands over the bedcovers. Suddenly, he seemed ill at ease. “When I was out of my head, did I…say anything?”
Izzy studied his face. He gave nothing away, little more than mild curiosity in his gaze, but she sensed his anxiety.
“No,” she said with a smile. “Nothing that made any sense, anyway.”
Though he had spoken of someone dying, of wanting to kill someone, there had been such anguish in his voice, such pain, she knew he would be uncomfortable with her having that part of him.
He nodded, apparently satisfied, and ran a hand over his chin, grimacing at the beard that had grown. “I need a shave,” he grumbled.
Izzy reached out and touched it, smiling. “I rather like it. It makes you look like the rogue you are.”
His blue eyes sharpened, the atmosphere changing in an instant.
Her skin prickled, suddenly intensely aware of the fact that he was barely dressed, and rumoured to be a devil for the ladies if the local gossip was anything to go on.
Too late, Izzy remembered he was a dangerous man, not some tame creature she could pet and tease as she wished.
She would be a fool to trust him an inch.
She snatched her hand back, realising how far she had overstepped the mark.
Somehow, in caring for him so intimately the past days, she had let down her defences and forgotten how to act with a man who was little more than a stranger to her.
In her mind they shared a bond, forged in fire, but he was not a young woman with a romantic streak a mile wide.
No doubt he’d forget her the moment he left this space and never spare her another thought.
A slow smile curved over his wicked mouth and Izzy felt heat climb the back of neck, settling upon her cheeks like sunburn.
“Don’t stop on my account.”
Abashed, Izzy snatched up the empty bowl and fled.
Ben watched her go, still smiling. It was too bad of him to tease her, but she was such a delight, bold and yet innocent, brought together in a remarkably lovely package.
Remorse swept over him as he realised he must leave her.
He could not dally here. As soon as he was strong enough to stand without falling on his face, he must go.
Tomorrow morning at the latest. Somehow, he must get word to his men, for he needed to get away before Captain Underwood got wind of his presence in the area.
Though he did not like to ask her, he knew he must task Miss Honey with that errand.
He closed his eyes and turned his face onto the cool cotton of the pillow.
Izzy.
He liked the little nickname. It was sweet and vibrant and suited his Miss Honey, who was all of that, but so much more.
Closing his eyes and dismayed to discover how weary he was, he frowned as images returned to him, memories of his illness and the fever that had damn near done for him.
Had she cried for him? He smiled again as he remembered the way she had held his hand, kissing it repeatedly when she realised he was awake.
Yet other images crowded in too, memories of people long dead and things he wouldn’t let himself dwell upon.
He shoved them back into the mental box he’d constructed, shutting the lid tightly.
Instead, he thought of her, though he knew he ought not.
He would leave soon, and his life was too dangerous and too complicated to involve her in, even if he wanted to, which he did not, obviously.
But the regret that sat in heavy in his chest told him he was a liar.
Ben reached for the glass of water she had left beside him and sipped at it, grimacing. Everything tasted strange. A shot of brandy would be the thing, but he looked around to no avail. No doubt she’d known he’d want it and had taken it before he could prove her right.
He sighed and picked up one of the books she had left him, turning to the first page, but the words blurred, and he felt suddenly exhausted. Dropping it back on the stack, he stared up at the rafters overhead.
Would she miss him, he wondered? Yes. For a while, at least, until she came to her senses and realised what a lucky escape she’d had.
If anyone thought she had spent time with him, she’d be ruined, and he’d not have that on his conscience.
She’d marry soon enough, for a lovely creature like her would have suitors breaking down the door.
Her sisters had certainly done well for themselves.
An earl and a marquess. Not bad for a vicar’s daughters.
But then there was something special about the Honeywell family.
He’d not known the elder sisters, but if they had half the spark their little sister did, they could each have caught themselves a duke if they’d been so inclined.
Izzy could, he thought with a smile. If she wanted one.
Would she settle for a mere Mister, and one whose past was too murky for such a lovely creature to stomach?
Perhaps if he tricked her and seduced her into believing he was a good man.
He could do it, he knew. Lord knew he’d tricked enough people in his life into believing things that were not true.
Bad blood. Just like your father.
He shook his head as if he could shake his mother’s words free of his mind.
Yet her image rose behind his eyes, the accusation there, inevitably replaced by the image of her body, lifeless on the floor of the dingy two-roomed apartment they had inhabited.
If only she had given him a little more time.
But he had trodden the path of what if and if only too many times before.
He’d not think of it now. He had too many regrets to number but dwelling on them changed nothing.
At least he had a job to do now, a purpose, and when that was over, he did not much care what life held for him next.
He’d not drag Izzy into that, into his wretched mess of a life.
He’d ask nothing of her, not when she’d given so much.
Yet that sat ill with him. She should have something by way of thanks, whispered a sly voice in the back of his head.
At the very least, you ought to thank her for her trouble and leave her something to remember you by.
The Vicarage, Little Valentine, 24th January 1816