Chapter 3
Rosamunde straightened and shook her head. She planned adulterous wickedness and ended up custodian of foul chamber pots. Perhaps her dull life was not the result of her accident, but simply her fate!
But at least she’d carried off the lie about where he was.
She’d never been a convincing liar. She hated deceit, and her stumbling tongue and guilty blushes had given her and Diana away time after time.
Tonight, however, she had told her untruth in a calm voice and darkness had hidden her burning cheeks.
Perhaps she could carry this wild plan off after all.
But not immediately.
The plan would have to wait until he recovered, so she might as well continue with chamber-pot duty.
She opened the window to freshen the air, then put on her dressing gown and carried the noisome pot away. She could hardly leave it to stink up the corridor, so taking the small nightlamp, she crept downstairs and placed it quietly outside the back door.
She returned to her room, took the clean pot from under her own bed and going to his room, placed it by his side. Should she stay in case he was sick again? Well, she wouldn’t. The wretch had drunk himself ill, and he could puke himself sober without her help!
Thoroughly disgruntled, Rosamunde snuggled into her own bed—which by now was unwelcomingly cold. Her sense of the ridiculous soon returned, however. Why had she imagined that a sick man would awake cured and full of amorous intent?
Such foolishness.
She wished he had, though. Then, it would be over.
She turned, punching her pillow, feeling wretched about something….
Then she remembered. Remembered thinking about her dull life. It was the sort of thought she didn’t normally let out.
She had a lovely life. A kind husband. A comfortable home, and a prosperous estate that provided plenty of useful work. Loving family nearby. Good friends all around.
The accident could have made her a recluse for life, but Digby had rescued her with his kind offer of marriage.
What was a recluse, though? Even someone who lived in a community could be considered a recluse if she never left it. If she was afraid to. The recent trip to Harrogate had been her first venture out of Wensleydale in eight years.
So? She turned and punched her pillow again. Plenty of people were content to stay close to a good home. There were people in Wensleydale who’d never even been to Richmond!
So—the truth was that she wasn’t happy living that way. Instead, she felt barred from the world by her face.
She fingered the scar ridges to the right of her eye. They weren’t the problem. It was the long one down her cheek that made her hide away, even though her family and Diana kept saying it wasn’t really so bad.
Even Digby, however, preferred to sit to her left.
Dear Digby. As a friend of her father’s and an honorary uncle, she’d loved him all her life.
But not, she was coming to realize, as a wife should love a husband.
She hadn’t known that at sixteen, however, hadn’t know how wrong it would feel when he claimed his husbandly rights.
It had never been terrible, just not something she and Sir Digby Overton should be doing.
She’d been relieved when the activity had ceased and they could be comfortable together again.
Until now.
Now, however, she had to have a child. She owed it to Digby, to Wenscote, to everyone who had been so kind to her these past eight years.
Anyway—and this shamed her—she wanted Wenscote for herself. Without a child, when Digby died, she’d have to leave. Leave her sanctuary. Leave the place where she had powers and responsibilities.
Digby was a fair landlord, but not an adventurous one.
It had been Rosamunde who’d started sheep-breeding projects, and growing winter fodder.
She’d put the cottage industries—cheese making, spinning, and weaving—on a more orderly footing, and made sure everyone received a fair price.
And, her true enthusiasm, she’d started breeding horses.
It had all come about out of boredom, but she knew she’d stumbled upon her life’s purpose. Where was she going to find the like if she lost Wenscote? It wasn’t even considered proper in most circles for women to be directly involved in animal breeding.
So there it was. In the open at last. She wasn’t being a martyr. She was serving her own ends. True, many people would benefit if she went through with this, but at heart she was being ruthlessly selfish.
So be it. She still had reason enough, and the means.
A stud animal, she thought firmly. She was used to evaluating rams and stallions, and this one was healthy and well-formed. What more did she want? Was she still hoping for a dashing knight on a white charger?
A dashing knight would doubtless be a great deal of trouble. Her drunken wastrel would do his business, like Samuel her best tup, then move on to another ewe without a thought.
She heaved herself onto her back with a wretched sigh, wishing she could get to sleep. Problems were niggling at her, however.
Even she knew young men didn’t leap onto every woman they encountered. A fine state of affairs that would be! She suppressed a chuckle at the thought of a country fair—or even church on Sunday!—with all the men acting like Samuel in a field of fertile ewes.
It wasn’t funny, though. She had to work out what to do. Should she dress provocatively? Would she have to be naked? Should she touch him first? Kiss him first?
Oh, she did wish Diana was here. Though unmarried, Diana met a lot more men and flirted with most of them. She’d even mentioned books on intimate matters. She’d surely know how to encourage a male. Whatever it took, however, Rosamunde was going to do it.
Even if she had to go up to Arradale and raid the library for those mysterious books!
Fear.
He lay still in the darkness, a bitter memory of enemies hovering over him.
Silence.
A foul taste.
Vomit.
’Struth! Embarrassing memory flooded back. He’d cast up his accounts in front of a woman.
Had she been real?
Tentatively, he reached out and found he was alone. Thank heavens. He’d dreamed it.
But the taste was still there, and the memory of a calm, pleasing voice was devilishly clear.
The touch of a breeze made him turn his head. His much less painful head. In the dark, curtains stirred, giving glimpses of a slightly lighter outside. Someone had opened the window to freshen the air.
So, who was she, and where was he?
Clearly in the country. The air and quiet told him that.
The woman had named the place, but that too eluded. Gill-something? Gillshaw?
He burned with a need for the security of knowledge. Despite comfort and tranquility, he lay tense with fear, under a haunting sense of danger in the shadows.
Was it real?
He didn’t know.
Just as he still didn’t know who he was. That seemed ridiculous, so he pushed and poked at his mind, demanding his identity.
He stirred only dreamlike memories, but snatched at them greedily.
Riding a country lane on a sweet summer’s day.
When?
An old stone house with ivy-covered walls.
Where?
Birds singing in the trees. A blue coat spoiled by a brush against wet paint.
Had he cared?
Swaying in a good, solid coach, applying himself to paperwork. He paused on that. It showed a hardworking, conscientious fellow, and that felt true. Not this drunkard in a whore’s bed….
Silver plate on a laden table, glowing in candlelight….
He sucked in deep breaths, forcing himself to break off the frantic struggle to weave these scraps into whole cloth. He knew with eerie certainty that they weren’t connected.
Who was he?
What was his name, dammit?
The veils parted and his name popped out like an impish child saying, “Were you looking for me?”
Brand Malloren.
He groaned with exquisite relief.
He was Brand Malloren. The knowledge settled in his mind, carrying dancing ribbons of detail. He was Brand Malloren, third son of the Marquess of Rothgar. The old marquess. His oldest brother held the title now.
That rich dinner had been his last meal at Malloren House in London before heading north. As the ribbons wove into a complete story, he grasped each detail, desperate for more of himself.
He could see the dining room as clearly as if he were sitting in it.
Silver dishes of excellent food, all bathed in warm candlelight though, it being summer, fading sunlight lightened the room as well.
His oldest brother the marquess sat at the head of the table, Cyn and Cyn’s wife, Chastity, at either side, Elf opposite.
That was the “elf” he’d thought of before.
His sister Elfled. Cyn not “sin,” Bryght, not “bright”—Arcenbryght, his other brother.
How long ago had that been? Had Bryght’s wife had her child? Had all gone well? She was a small woman for childbearing….
He struggled to remember something else, but everything between that pleasant meal and this dark, mysterious room lay blank, as if it had never existed.
But he remembered talking at that dinner about a trip north.
Was he now in the north? He thought he remembered a touch of it in the woman’s voice, though she’d spoken like a lady. So, he was likely in Yorkshire or Northumberland. But where? And who was his nurse? And what the devil had happened to him?
He forced himself to sit up and after a moment, found the pain in his head bearable. Massaging the dull ache, he still struggled with the idea that he’d drunk himself insensible.
If he couldn’t change the damnable darkness in his mind, he could surely light that around him.
Groping, he found a table, and searched with his fingers for the candle and tinderbox that should be there.
Nothing. He stretched further. He felt the brushing chill of glass a moment too late, and cursed as it shattered on the floor.
His fingers scrabbled over the smooth table for something else. Something he could use as a weapon. The door creaked open and a pale figure appeared, backlit by a weak nightlight in the hall.