Chapter 4
Four
Dear Sisters,
He is dead and I pray for death every day.
Caillen
—A letter written by new Lady Griffith to her sisters while she recovered from a brutal attack on her honeymoon. An attack her husband, Lord Griffith, did not survive. November 1811
Caillen slumped against the door outside his chambers, her cheeks blazing with humiliation.
He knew. It was as if the man could read every thought that went through her head.
She’d found his physicality and virility shocking.
Fascinating, actually. Despite never wanting to engage in marital relations again, his cockstand had entranced her.
No, no that wasn’t the correct word. His aroused manhood had merely stunned her with its impressive stature.
She winced. It was not impressive.
“I’m told it’s rather extraordinary,” he said from the other side of the door.
She closed her eyes and turned her head to speak to the closed door. “How did you know I was still here?”
“I heard you slump against the door and was afraid you may have fainted as you recalled the length of my—”
“Impressive cock!” Charlotte cried.
“Stop! Not another word from either of you,” she commanded.
“Are you ordering an injured man to be quiet after he hasn’t spoken in, what, a week? A fortnight? I honestly have no idea how long it’s been, but I would think you would be ecstatic that I was talking at all.”
She couldn’t help but smile. He was the talkative sort, and she was overjoyed by his sudden burst of health. It was as if he had willed himself to live, and so he would.
But she was also embarrassed beyond compare. Perhaps if she just ignored him, he would fall back asleep and she could go back to taking care of him.
“Toss up her skirts! Impressive cock!”
“Even the door can’t hide the fact that you’re smiling.”
Blast it all, she was smiling and somehow, he knew it.
In the past several weeks of caring for him, she had begun to see him as a man with weaknesses and strengths.
He was a son, whose mother wrote daily. He was a brother, whose siblings wrote letters for him to read, but said not to worry about writing back.
He was loved. He was a hero, but he was also a rake.
She didn’t like rakes. “I’m going over my list of chores for the day, be quiet. ”
“How am I supposed to eat my broth?”
“I’ll send one of the maids in to assist you.” She couldn’t face him yet.
“I’d rather you do it.”
“I’d rather poke my eye out with embroidery needle.”
His voice grew somber. “I’ve seen something very similar to that. It’s not a pleasant fate.”
God in heaven, what kind of person was she? Reminding a man, barely this side of the grave by mere days, about the atrocities he’d witnessed and endured. What kind of woman did that? “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”
“I’ll make a bargain with you. You don’t apologize for losing your patience with me, and I won’t apologize for my rakish ways. Agreed?”
“How about we agree to be more sensitive to each other’s danger zones.” There was silence on the other side of the door and Caillen looked up and down the edge of the frame as if he might be standing on the opposite side.
“Astley?” When he didn’t respond, her heart tripped in her chest. What had she been thinking?
The man hadn’t conversed in so many days she’d nearly forgotten the sound of his voice.
What if he…what if he’d died? The doctor had warned her about some patients having a burst of energy before they expired. Oh, God.
She opened the door to find Astley slumped back in his pillows, his eyes closed, and his mouth slightly agape.
Her gaze flew to his chest as she slowly made her way across the room.
It didn’t move. He didn’t move and her fear of the worst possible outcome coming true made her freeze in her tracks.
Astley was dead. He was dead. After everything he had suffered at the hands of the French, he had died under her care.
Alone. She had failed him. She’d failed his family.
She’d failed his son. A tear trailed down her cheek as she stared at him.
He snorted.
She jumped. And Astley took a large breath, filling his lungs and exhaling in an exhausted slumber.
More tears fell, but for a very different reason. She couldn’t wait to tell him he’d agreed to be a perfectly proper gentleman in her presence from this day forward.
Charlotte chattered as if she were irritated that Simon was no longer talking.
“He needs his rest, Charlotte. Let him sleep.”
The yellow-naped parrot shuddered. Her bright green feathers plumed twice her size with the movement, before she began silently cleaning her plumage as if she understood.
Quietly, Caillen picked up the bowl of now cold broth, backed out of the room and silently closed the door just as the housekeeper, Mrs. Bernard ascended the steps.
“How is his lordship this evening, my lady?”
“Good news, he’s doing better. He was just talking, but he fell asleep before eating his broth. Could you have one of the maids sit with him for a while and then ring for more broth when he awakens?”
“Oh, my word, that’s wonderful news. Most of the staff have been given the evening off. It’s his lordship’s habit to allow them to go home early on the sabbath to spend time with their families, but I will be happy to sit with him.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Bernard.”
“The countess will be so happy to hear her son is on the mend. May I thank you for taking such wonderful care of the earl? He would not have survived without you.” The older woman’s eyes filled with unshed tears and Caillen felt the need to turn away.
She could not deal with anyone else’s emotions when her own were so very raw.
“I appreciate your kind words. If you need me, I will be in the earl’s study writing to his mother.”
“Of course, my lady.”
Caillen went down to the second floor, determined to find something on Viscount Pembrock before she was banished from Astley’s home. There was a reason Astley wanted the War Office to have Pembrock’s name, and she was certain it had something to do with her father’s death.
Yet, the conversation that had just transpired with Astley in the past half hour occupied her thoughts.
Distractedly, Caillen opened the door to his study and stepped inside the masculine domain.
Her very first venture into Astley’s study had been a shock.
She hadn’t expected the man, who was serious about absolutely nothing, to have shelves of books on history and warfare mixed with Shakespeare and a bit of whimsey in his private collection.
His study wasn’t just a place of work; it was a den for masculine escape.
There were the obligatory decanters of brandy and scotch, but the high-backed chairs next to the fireplace suggested Astley enjoyed whiling away his time in this very room, away from the prying eyes of his staff and family.
Not that his family visited London often, but there were the infrequent visits to town.
Astley’s private book collection held not only recent books by Byron and Shelley, but by Wordsworth and Blake.
More surprising, were the sonnets written by Charlotte Smith.
His personal library had fascinated her beyond measure on her first visit when he’d asked her to write a letter to Sir Williamson over a fortnight ago.
That short missive had led her to see a side of Simon she would have never known.
Since then, she had spent her free time exploring his collection.
The main library of the house had been a gift of insight into the earldom, but his study had given her an understanding of the man who had saved her, and she suspected no one else had been gifted with that privilege.
With that, of course, she’d also found his collection of less than reputable readings that her sister Iseabail would have encouraged her to read.
She’d avoided them like the plague.
She glanced up and down the hallway before closing the door to his study. The room was cozy and warm, thanks to the stoked fire keeping the chill from the night air. Caillen made her way across the room to Astley’s oversized mahogany desk, her silk skirts swishing with each step in the silence.
Her heart slammed to a stop. A small lantern behind the desk illuminated a menacing masculine form. Crouched low behind the desk, the man gazed up at her, but the brim of his hat sat low on his forehead and concealed his identity. Fear skittered down her spine.
“Who are you? What are you doing?” Her voice trembled. Her hands shook as she grasped the muslin at her thighs. Slowly, she took a few steps backwards, and then another as if to hide her retreat, and her utter fear. It didn’t.
The man stood, radiating menace. His oversized, dingy coat was covered in coal dust and masked his true shape.
He raised the small lantern, blinding her view of his face even further.
But his size was unmistakable. He was her height, no taller.
That bit of knowledge gave her a surge of confidence she seized.
Silently, he rounded the corner of the desk and exposed his crime. Stacks of Astley’s papers were strewn about the floor, scattered in such a fashion to display desperation.
“What are you doing in the earl’s desk? What are you looking for?”
Without a word the man tossed the oil lamp into the curtains. The glass bowl and chimney shattered. Oil splattered, covering the window dressings, wall, and the rug in flames. Caillen gasped as the fire grew.
“Are you mad?” She screamed.
Her question was left in the air to reverberate, like an echo of the past threatening to swallow her in the mania of violent men. Her blood went cold.
Abruptly he ran at her, his shoulder crashing into hers. Pain radiated through her arm and chest. She was thrown to the floor with such force, her head bounced on the floorboards. Stars danced in front of her eyes as she heard the muffled sound of the door slamming closed.