Chapter 3
It took everything in Rosalind’s power to push aside the fear that threatened to overwhelm her as she followed the viscount into his library, and watched him lay Harry’s limp body out on the settee.
The copper taste of terror filled her senses, as it had since she found the wounded pony in the clearing, and her brother’s riding boot tossed nearby.
“Please bring us up smelling salts,” the viscount said to the maid who arrived. “And warm water, and clothes. We will need something to bandage the wound, and a blanket for the boy. Let us know when the doctor comes.”
Rosalind sank to the plush carpet beside the settee, and clasped her brother’s hand in hers. “Foolish, foolish boy,” she whispered.
The maid returned, and, to Rosalind’s surprise, the viscount stepped forward to clean the wound on Harry’s head, working with a precision and confidence she had not expected outside the medical profession.
He pressed a cloth to Harry’s head and said to Rosalind, “We will not tie it in place until the doctor arrives, in the event I have cleaned it poorly and he needs to check my work.”
“Where did you learn to do that?” she murmured, watching his fingers work dexterously at the bandage.
He did not look at her, or respond. If he had heard her, he was choosing not to answer. She took the stolen moment to evaluate him fully.
The Adrian Sarre she had known was a raucous and immature lad when he was a child, and when he returned from the war she had hardly seen him. A few events, perhaps, here and there. In these, he kept to himself but for the stunning women that always seemed to appear about him like butterflies.
Now, he seemed an entirely different man. Gone was the banter and the mockery. Gone was the long and luscious hair and the foppish style. Gone was the boasting about battle and the saber on his hip.
His hair was close cut—unfashionably so—with white at the temples. He was tall and well-built, with wide shoulders and veins straining from his forearms. His grey eyes were guarded, and he spoke very little.
After what seemed an eternity, Dr. Ashcombe arrived, clearly shocked to see Rosalind and Harry here at Marwood Park.
“They said it was an injured boy,” he said, inspecting the wound. “I hardly guessed… poor lad.”
He worked quietly for a long time, and then sat up and met Rosalind’s gaze.
“He has been very lucky, Miss Thorne,” he said.
“It is a bad blow, and he should not be moved until he wakes. Beyond that, I believe we may hope for a quick recovery. The placement is not fatal, and this senseless state is likely the body’s quick protection as he heals. ”
He looked at the dressing, and smiled. “You did well with the bandage, Miss Thorne. I am impressed.”
“It was Lord Marwood,” she said, looking toward the man who would not meet her gaze.
The doctor raised his brows. “It is well done.” He squinted at the viscount and added, quietly, “battlefield dressing?”
The viscount hesitated, and then nodded.
The doctor remained for nearly an hour, watching over Harry and tending to his wounds, before declaring the boy safe for the night.
“He should stay here until dawn, at least—even if he wakes it is too late for a nighttime transfer,” Dr. Ashcombe said.
“My lord, are you content to offer your home at present?”
“Miss Thorne and her brother may have every courtesy of the house,” the viscount said quietly.
“I need only this bit of carpet, and the settee,” she answered quickly. She did not know this man, and she did not know this house. She was not sure she could fully trust either.
“Good,” Dr. Ashcombe said. “Then I shall check on him in the morning.”
After he took his leave, the viscount came to sit beside Rosalind. “I will send for some tea,” he said.
“You are gracious,” she countered, “but I have no appetite at present.” In truth, a headache was beginning to creep into her periphery.
Again, there was a long silence. Why would he not leave her be?
Then he said, haltingly, “The boy will be alright. You can see that. It was a fall from a horse, and many men have done so without ill effect.”
His words launched a waterfall of emotion. How similar Harry had looked to her father, lying lifeless with a wounded head after a fall from a horse. It was her nightmare repeated in real time, and this man she hardly knew was going to tell her it was ‘alright’?
“My father said something like that from a saddle once,” she said coldly, her eyes on her brothers’ face.
“And now he is in the ground. My brother has never had proper riding lessons, and should not be on the back of a horse. I will thank you not to offer empty comfort on a matter you cannot possibly understand.”
She felt him wince, even though she was not looking his way. A stab of guilt pricked her, and Rosalind fully expected the viscount to take his quiet leave, or snap back at her the way she had snapped at him.
Instead he sat down, a safe distance away, and regarded her quietly. He did not offer further sympathy, but he did not leave.
She found she was grateful for both his silence and his presence, despite not knowing him well. She pushed a tendril of hair behind one ear, and arranged her skirts around her, realizing for the first time what a state she was in.
There was nothing she could do about the mud, but she tied back her hair into a loose braid before laying her head on the settee at her brother’s side, squeezing his hand and closing her eyes.
She had not realized how exhausted she was until she woke up in the middle of the night, head thick with sleep, and realized she had drifted off.
The room was dimly lit by the flickering flames of a low fire in the fireplace, and as Rosalind’s eyes fluttered open, the memory of the last day crashed back on her with sickening clarity. She sat up, and looked at her brother. He was still fast asleep, his breathing steady.
Heartbeat receding, Rosalind sat back on her heels and turned, surprised to see the viscount standing in the doorway.
He startled as though caught, and stepped away from the door frame. “I came to make certain you did not need anything,” he said hurriedly.
Their eyes met in the flickering firelight. “You need not worry, my lord,” she said quietly. “I will tell you if anything changes in his condition.” She noted the time on a nearby clock. “It is quite late—or early, in this case. You must be exhausted. ”
“So you need nothing?”
“I am certain I can manage on my own,” she said, drawing herself up a little straighter.
He smiled ever so slightly. “You remind me of my sister,” he said.
“Lady Honoria,” she said, smiling and nodding. She remembered the black-haired beauty well enough.
“She came down with me earlier, but you had already fallen asleep.” The viscount turned as though to leave, his hand resting on the door frame. “She leaves for London tomorrow morning.”
“You should have woken me,” Rosalind said, blushing fiercely despite herself. She found herself wondering how long she had been asleep. Something about the grave viscount coming to check on her made her heart stammer.
“Not for the world,” he said.
At Rosalind’s side, Harry stirred. She turned and saw his eyes fluttering open. His lips moved, but it took several attempts before words emerged.
“Wa… water.”
The viscount moved more quickly than Rosalind, pushing a crystal tumbler into her hand before she could even ask. She nodded gratefully and held the glass to Harry’s lips, watching with relief as he took a few sips and then dropped his head back on the pillow.
“Where am I?” he asked. Then, in the same weak tone, “Rosie?”
Rosalind’s heart clenched within her. He had not called her by that pet name since he was a small boy. “I am here, Harry,” she said softly.
“My head…”
“You fell off the pinto pony,” she said, forcing herself to stay calm as she spoke the words aloud. Now was not the time to point out his foolishness. “You were riding hard on Lord Marwood’s estate.”
“Marwood,” he mumbled, then his eyes brightened and he looked wildly about, his gaze stilling on the viscount. “I saw your bay hunter… out riding. What a horse.”
“When you are better, you can meet him properly,” the viscount said, standing stiffly to the side.
Rosalind felt her body grow cold. She knew the viscount meant well, but the idea of her brother, who lay limp before her still, anywhere near a bay hunter stallion chilled her.
He had not proven himself worthy of these majestic animals—if anything, he had shown her with his actions that she should keep him even further from the stables.
She caught the viscount watching her face, and realized he would be able to read her frustration there. She rearranged her expression into placid, but feared she had been too late. The man watching her appeared even more guarded.
“Rest for now, Harry,” she said. “We will go home at dawn, if you are well enough to move.”
He nodded, and closed his eyes, drifting off to sleep again. Rosalind looked up at the viscount. “I hope it is not too much to ask, after all you have done for us—”
“You may have the use of our carriage to return home,” he said, reading her thoughts with alarming clarity. What other thoughts has he been able to read? She wondered.
“Thank you.”
She settled back against her brother’s side, but did not sleep again. Through the night, Harry woke off and on again, looking a little stronger each time. Rosalind was confident that they would be able to return home in the morning, and told the viscount as much.
When the first fingers of dawn crept through the library curtains and began to dimly light the room with a natural glow, the viscount walked out for a time and returned shortly after with news of the carriage at the door.
He was silent still, but when Rosalind moved to help Harry to his feet, the older man quietly stepped in and lifted the boy as though he were a feather, carrying him outside with Rosalind trailing behind. Harry was awake again, and looking much better.
He protested that there was no need to carry him, but Rosalind was glad of the help. She was not sure she could have easily wrestled Harry into the carriage herself. At last she moved to climb in, bone weary and exhausted.
As she stepped up on the carriage step, she felt a firm hand clasp hers, steadying her. She looked down, startled to see the viscount assisting her, though his eyes were carefully averted.
“Thank you,” she said, more coldly than she meant. It was the only defense she had against the warm feeling spreading from his sudden touch.
He was baffling, and she did not know how to meet confusion except with cold calculation. That would be the antidote to this wild night, she was certain. Logic would drive any thoughts of the viscount, and his wide shoulders and firm hand, from her mind.
He nodded and stepped back, and as she settled into the seat at Harry’s side he frowned sharply at her.
“Golly, Rosalind. What a mess you look. Did you wade through a swamp on your way to the good viscount’s door?”
She laughed despite herself, and he laughed as well, as effortless of a show of joy as she had seen from him as of late.
It was not until she returned to Thornefield Hall that the dizzy mysticism of the night evaporated. On the hall table, as she walked inside, she found a calling card from a name she recognized with a cold chill: Mr. Edmund Crewe.
She had not seen or heard from her stepbrother in years—not since he left behind her stepmother’s funeral procession, dressed head to toe in black satin.
He had not returned for the funeral tea, nor ever after.
As her fingers turned the card over, she had a morose feeling of doom—as thought something dark lurked on her horizon.
“Nonsense,” she whispered to herself, turning the card face-down on the table. “You are simply tired after a long night.”
She spun away from the calling card and focused her full attention on her brother again. Mr. Edmund Crewe would have to wait.