But Ophelia didn't go away, and neither did Mildred. The former shot Amy a look of loathing, then crouched down before the captain. "Now, you mustn't worry, Lord Charles," she crooned, in a voice that was meant to be reassuring but, addressed as it was to a proud king's officer, came out sounding patronizing. "I know you must feel very sad and sorry for yourself right now, but we'll take care of you, and you can be certain that no harm will come to you here. Everything will be just fine."
The captain ignored her.
"Did you hear me, Lord Charles? I believe I'm talking to you."
He only stared straight ahead and blinked, the exaggerated sluggishness of the action only emphasizing the extraordinary length of his lashes, the aquamarine clarity of his eyes. He did not turn his head to look Ophelia's way, or even acknowledge that she had spoken.
This was a situation Sylvanus
did
know how to deal with. "Leave him alone, girls," he said gently. "The poor fellow has had a shock and needs to rest. Can you not see that?"
Ophelia shot her father an angry look. Then, sweetly addressing Lord Charles once more, she cooed, "Well then, perhaps I can get him something with a bit of laudanum in it so that he can sleep."
Mildred pushed her sister aside. "No, no, Ophelia,
I
can get that for him."
"
You're
going to Lucy Preble's poetry reading, you don't have time to see to Lord Charles's wishes as
I
do."
"And
you're
going out driving again with Matthew Ashton!"
Sylvanus said, "I think Amy can see to Lord Charles's needs just fine."
"Now Papa, you
know
that Amy has so many other things to do, she doesn't have
time
to see to him," Ophelia protested. She gave her father her sweetest smile, but above it her eyes were harder than stone. "We only want to help her out."
"Yes, help her out," put in Mildred, not wishing to be outdone.
"Divide his care between the three of you then," he said wearily. "But if there's anything, er,
delicate
that needs doing, leave it to Amy. There are some things the two of you just shouldn't be seeing."
Ophelia and Mildred giggled. Sylvanus turned away. On his pallet, Lord Charles remained unmoving, and as Amy looked from him to her sisters, both of whom were regarding her, she saw that their eyes gleamed with malice and loathing.
Don't think we're going to let
you
take care of him
, those glittering eyes warned.
He's ours, now.
He's his fiancée's
, Amy wanted to retort, taking a certain delight in anticipating their response when they found
that
out.
Sylvanus eased himself down into a chair. "And now, I'd like to speak to Captain de Montforte in private," he said, reaching for his cider. "Mildred, go get ready for your reading. Ophelia, you've got an outing with Matthew Ashton to prepare for."
"But Papa —"
"Come now, girls, go. I wish to speak to our guest alone."
"What about Amy? Why does
she
get to stay?"
"Because she's making supper. Now hurry up, or you'll be late."
They pouted. They pleaded. But for once Sylvanus didn't give in to them. As soon as they stormed from the room in a huff, he turned to the lone figure sitting before the fire.
"I
am
sorry, Captain de Montforte," he said. "This cannot be easy for you, and you have my sympathies for your plight."
There was no response from the captain.
"Dr. Plummer wants you to rest for the next fortnight, but after that, we need to think about getting you back to the army in Boston," Sylvanus continued. "If you ask me, your spirit's taken a far worse blow than the back of your head, and I think it would do you a world of good to be with your own people." His voice gentled. "You need to be with friends, not strangers."
The captain only blinked again in that slow, exaggerated way he had, and continued staring into nothingness.
Sylvanus, growing worried, glanced at Amy, who shook her head and motioned with her hands to let the man alone. But out of guilt for his son's part in this tragedy, Sylvanus persisted. "I know you must be eager to return to Boston, and as much as I'd like to take you back there myself, I just can't leave my flock, I can't spare my son, and it is, of course, unthinkable that I allow my two daughters to bring you . . . though if you're determined to go, I suppose I
could
always send Amy."
The captain, still staring straight ahead, finally spoke. "Is Amy not your daughter also?" he asked flatly.
"Er — well, uh . . . she bears my name, yes. But she doesn't have a reputation to consider, as do Ophelia and Mildred."
"
All
young women have reputations to consider."
"Yes, but Amy is — well, never mind, Captain. Suffice it to say that, unlike her sisters, Amy's reputation does not demand careful care and protection."
Amy wanted to die.
The captain's jaw hardened.
And Amy, seeing it, quietly stirred the stew in its big black kettle. "Papa, if Lord Charles wants to go to Boston, I can take him anytime he wants to go —"
"
No!
" barked their guest, startling her with the vehemence of his tone. He glared sightlessly into the flames, his fists clenched. "I will not allow it."
Sylvanus began, "Really, Captain, Amy's a very capable young woman —"
"Precisely that, she is a
young woman,
and Boston is a den of rascals, sailors, blackguards and scum. It is no place for her, and since I've been rendered useless in my ability to protect her, I will remain here until someone can come up from Boston to collect me. I will not see her life or virtue risked on my account.
By God, I will not!
"
Sylvanus's brows shot straight to the roots of his sparse white hair. And Amy, who had never before had anyone defend her in such a gallant way, had never thought of herself as a woman worthy of "protection," and had never been the focus of such gentlemanly concern, widened her eyes and put her hand to a suddenly fluttering heart.
"Papa," she said carefully, "Lord Charles has just woken up. He is exhausted, upset, and needs time to rest. Time to come to terms with what has happened to him. Maybe you should have this conversation with him later."
Sylvanus, his face white, nodded. He made a comment about getting back to his sermon and hastily exited the room, leaving an awkward silence in his wake.
Once he had gone, Charles's shoulders rose on a great sigh of weariness, then fell. There was no pride to maintain, now. No reason to show strength where none was needed. He put his head in his hands and stayed that way for a long time, not saying a word while the girl moved about the room, quietly performing her slave-duties. But he could not get her out of his mind. Her humiliation had been, and still was, nearly palpable. The way her sisters had attacked her, the way her apathetic father had failed to defend her, the way her cowardly brother had allowed her to shoulder blame that was his and his alone, gave him a tangible outlet for anger which heretofore, had no other but self-pity. They were a pack of wolves after a little fawn. They were horrible. And as she silently went about preparing supper, Charles decided that he had never disliked anyone as much as he did these people who called themselves her family.
The stew was thick and bubbling, the bread a lovely golden brown, and the fragrance of beef, onions, and herbs filled the keeping room before he finally spoke.
"Miss Leighton."
He heard her crossing the room, the brush of air against his face as she knelt down to his level, taking the hand he held out to her in silent apology. "Yes, Lord Charles?"
"I am sorry for embarrassing you so. Forgive me."
"Oh, there's nothing to forgive," she said, squeezing his hand and then releasing it. "I know you're not angry with my family, but with your circumstances —"
"On the contrary, Miss Leighton, I am furious with your family. I do not know if I can suffer them for the remainder of my stay here."
"I don't mind bringing you back to Boston, then, if you want to go —"
"Damn it, girl, don't fuel my fury with such remarks!" Charles dug his fists into his eyes and then, in a calmer, quieter voice, murmured, "I need you to do me a kindness."
"Certainly."
"Can you read and write?"
"Yes."
"Providence smiles on me at last. I need someone to pen three letters for me. Will you do that?"
"Oh, yes. We can do them right now, if you like. Supper won't be ready for a while, and I'm just tidying up a bit, that's all . . ." He heard her jump to her feet. "I'd be happy to write your letters for you, Captain de Montforte, even post them for you in the morning —"
"No. You have more than enough to do. Let your sisters post them."
"I don't mind, really —"
"I mind. Let them do it."
"Well . . . all right." He heard the whisper of her petticoats, caught the tantalizing scent of bayberry mingled with warm, soft
female
as she came close. His senses heightened, his skin warming at her nearness, and Charles frowned, disturbed by his reaction to her. "Now, if you'll take my hand, I'll bring you into Papa's study, where there's pen and paper."
He extended his hand up toward her voice, unaware that she, at the same time, was beginning to lean down. His fingers plunged through cloth and into the plush softness of a breast, and he heard her surprised gasp as he jerked his hand back, curling his fingers into his palm, into a fist, and cursing himself for his inadvertent liberty.
"Miss Leighton, I am
dreadfully
sorry —"
"N-no, you couldn't see what you were doing, there's nothing to be s-sorry about," she managed, in a breathless little voice.
"Shall we try again?"
"Yes — " a nervous little laugh — "yes, let's."
He tentatively extended his arm. God help him, the feel of her breast, so soft, so firm, so ripe, was still seared on his fingertips, imprinted on his brain. Charles didn't even realize his hand was still fisted until he felt her gently prying apart his fingers.
It was all he could do not to pull her down into his arms, to put his hands all over her so that he could see, through his touch, the face of this woman who had done so much for him, who was the only light in his world of darkness, who seemed to intuitively understand and protect for him those things he needed most. Dignity. Rest. Space to heal.
But he could not put his hands on her, of course. He could not go about touching people. He could not, would not, go about touching young women, especially those to whom he wasn't engaged to be married. And so he rose to his feet, taking care that he didn't put undue pressure on her hand and thus throw her off balance, and then stood there swaying a little with disorientation, weakness, and a renewed pounding of his head.
"Can you manage this, Lord Charles?"
"Yes — just give me a moment." He took a few deep breaths to steady himself. She remained very still beside him, just holding his hand, letting him get used to the feel of being on his feet once more.
"I am ready now," he said.
She squeezed his hand and took a step. He, in his stockinged feet, followed. How very strange it felt to move through this impenetrable blackness. How very strange it felt to entrust your steps, and more importantly, your direction, to another. And how strange it was to put such confidence in this small, albeit strong, little hand. She did not try to hurry him, but merely stayed with him, holding his hand and reassuring him by her very presence that he was not alone. He kept moving. His head swam with dizziness and his skin prickled with apprehension that he would bump into something and fall, that he would trip over something and bring them both crashing to the floor. But no. He tripped over nothing, and she stayed right beside him.
"We're at the door to the study now, Lord Charles. It's open. If you shuffle your feet, you'll find the doorjamb and it won't trip you up."
He did, and there it was, just as she'd warned. He lifted his foot, walked over the tiny obstacle that, in his infirm state, would have been enough to send him sprawling, and began to move a little more confidently. The girl kept pace beside him. He felt like a big, blundering fool for clutching her tiny hand as though it was the only thing in the world worth hanging onto, but he couldn't help it.
It was.
"We're here," she said. "If you turn to your right and back up a bit, you'll find yourself against Sylvanus's favorite chair. It'd be a good place for you to sit and dictate to me, I think."
He did as she suggested, and there it was, the stuffed edge of a chair, pressing against the back of his legs. Suddenly weary, he put out one hand, found the arm, positioned his body, and very carefully lowered himself down. It was amazing how much thought was needed for acts to which he wouldn't have given the merest consideration, before. But the chair was deep, the stuffing soft and lumpy with age and use, and it swallowed him up like a mother's arms might a babe. Charles sighed and leaned his aching head back, and it was only then that he rather reluctantly released the girl's hand.
"Are you all right, Lord Charles?"
"My head," he murmured. "It's killing me."
There was a slight hesitation; then he caught her scent as she leaned toward him, felt the warmth that surrounded her body a second before her fingertips moved gently over his brow, his temples. Instinctively, he leaned his head into that cool, soothing touch, but caught himself just as his cheek met the palm of her hand. Stiffening, he pulled back — to throbbing pain and a desperate wish to feel that caring touch once more.
A desperate wish that he didn't want to acknowledge.
He heard the sound of a chair being pulled out, a drawer opening, an ink bottle being uncapped, papers being slid about.
"I'm ready," she said. "Are you?"