Yours Until Dawn (7 page)

He turned toward the stairs, his tread heavy. Samantha cupped a hand over her mouth to smother her laughter, but despite her best efforts, a squeak escaped.

Gabriel slowly pivoted on his heel. Did she imagine the flare of his nostrils? The suspicious curl of his lip? She held her breath, fearing the slightest move or wayward draft might give her away.

He cocked his head to the side. “Did you hear that, Beckwith?”

“No, my lord. I didn’t hear anything. Not even the creak of a floorboard.”

Gabriel’s sightless gaze scanned the floor below, returning to linger near Samantha with uncanny accuracy. “Are you certain Miss Wickersham doesn’t have any of the attributes of a mouse? Twitching whiskers? A passionate fondness for cheese? A tendency to creep about and spy on people, perhaps?”

Beckwith’s brow was starting to glisten again. “Oh, no, my lord. She doesn’t resemble a rodent in the least.”

“That’s fortunate. Because if she did, I might have to set a trap for her.” Arching one tawny eyebrow, he turned on his heel and started up the stairs, leaving Samantha to wonder nervously just what bait he might use.

Bells were ringing, sweetly caroling their song across the countryside. Samantha rolled over and nestled deeper into her feather pillow, dreaming of a sunny Saturday morning and a church thronged with smiling people. A man stood before the altar, his broad shoulders straining the fawn linen of his morning coat. Samantha started down the long aisle, a bouquet of lilacs gripped in her trembling hands. She could sense him smiling at her, could feel his irresistible warmth tugging her toward him, but no matter how bright the sunshine streaming through the stained-glass windows or how close she drew to him, his face remained in shadow.

The ringing of the bells swelled, no longer melodious, but jarring and off-key. Their harsh, insistent jangle was joined by an even more insistent pounding on the door of her bedchamber. Samantha’s eyes flew open.

“Miss Wickersham!” cried a muffled voice tinged with panic.

Samantha scrambled out of bed and rushed to the door, tossing a dressing gown over her plain cotton nightdress. She threw it open to find the earl’s harried butler standing in the corridor, clutching a branch of candles in his shaking hand.

“Good heavens, what is it, Beckwith? Is the house afire?”

“No, miss, it’s the master. He won’t stop ringing until you come.”

She rubbed at her bleary eyes. “I should have thought I’d be the last person he’d summon. Especially after all but tossing me out of his bed-chamber this morning.”

Beckwith shook his head, his quivering chins and red-rimmed eyes making him look only a sniffle away from bursting into tears. “I’ve tried to reason with him, but he insists that he wants only you.”

Although his words gave Samantha pause, she simply said, “Very well. I’ll be right there.”

She dressed quickly, blessing the simplicity of her dark blue, high-waisted morning gown and the new French styles. At least she didn’t have to squander precious time waiting for a lady’s maid to lace her corset or wrestle with a hundred tiny silk-covered buttons.

When she emerged from her chamber, still tucking flyaway wisps of hair into her drooping chignon, Beckwith was waiting in the hall to escort her to Gabriel’s bedside. As they hurried down a long corridor and up a broad flight of stairs to the third floor of the house, Samantha smothered a yawn with her hand. Judging from the murky light seeping through the freshly washed window on the landing, night was only just beginning its surrender to dawn.

Gabriel’s bedchamber door stood ajar. If not for the vigorous jingling, Samantha might have feared finding him collapsed on the floor on the verge of death.

Instead, he was reclining against the carved teak headboard of his towering four-poster, looking in robust good health. He wore no shirt, and judging from the way the silk sheet rode low on his hips, no pantaloons, either. The candlelight cast a glowing patina over skin that already looked as if it had been sprinkled with gold dust. As her gaze was drawn to that impressive expanse of muscle and sinew, Samantha felt her mouth go dry. A sparkling mat of hair tapered to a narrow ribbon on his taut belly before disappearing beneath the sheet.

For a moment, Samantha feared Beckwith might actually drop the candles and clap his hands over her eyes. At the butler’s scandalized gasp, Gabriel gave the bell in his hand one last indolent flick.

“Really, my lord!” Beckwith exclaimed, resting the branch of candles on a nearby pier table before returning to stand at rigid attention by the door. “Don’t you think you should have at least covered yourself before the young lady arrived?”

Gabriel simply draped one muscular arm over the mound of pillows piled next to him, stretching like some large, lazy cat. “Forgive me, Miss Wickersham. I didn’t realize you’d never seen a man shirtless before.”

Thankful that he couldn’t see the heat flooding her cheeks, Samantha said, “Don’t be ridiculous. I’ve seen plenty of men without their shirts.” Her cheeks grew even hotter. “I mean while performing my duties. As a nurse.”

“That’s very fortunate. But I still wouldn’t want to offend your delicate sensibilities.” Gabriel fumbled among the bedclothes until he located a rumpled cravat. He draped the scrap of cloth around his neck and tugged it into a clumsy knot before turning a devilish smile in her direction. “There. Is that better?”

Somehow he managed to look even more indecent wearing a cravat but no shirt. If this was the trap he’d set for her, he had baited it well. Refusing to be caught without a struggle, Samantha went marching over to the bed. Gabriel stiffened as she tucked one finger into his poorly made knot, tugging it loose.

Despite his wary stillness and her concerted efforts, the backs of her fingers brushed the heated velvet of his skin more than once as she fashioned the lace-edged linen into a snowy waterfall she would have dared any valet to improve.

“There,” she pronounced, giving her handiwork an approving pat. “
That’s
better.”

Gabriel’s gilt-tipped lashes were lowered over his eyes. “I’m surprised you didn’t strangle me with it.”

“Tempting though the prospect might be, I have no desire to seek other employment right now.”

“It’s rare to find a woman who can tie a cravat with such skill. Have you a father or grandfather who was a fumble-fingers?”

“Brothers,” was all she offered. Straightening, she moved just out of his reach. Despite his blindness, she feared he still saw more than she wanted him to. “Now would you care to enlighten me as to why you dragged half of your household out of their warm, cozy beds before the crack of dawn?”

“If you must know, my conscience was troubling me.”

“I can see why such a rare occurrence might rob you of your sleep.”

Gabriel drummed his long, elegant fingers on a silk-covered bolster, his only acknowledgment of her riposte. “I was lying here all alone in my bed when I suddenly realized how unfair it was of me to hinder you in the performance of your
duties
.” His sulky mouth caressed the word, sending a curious shiver down Samantha’s spine. “You’re obviously a woman of high moral character. It would hardly be right to expect you to sit back and collect your rather generous wages for doing nothing at all. So I decided to rectify the situation by ringing for you.”

“How very thoughtful of you. And just which
duty
would you like me to perform first?”

He pondered for a moment before his face brightened. “Breakfast. In bed. On a tray. Please don’t disturb Étienne this early. I’m sure you can manage. I’d like my eggs baked and my bacon lightly charred around the edges. I’d prefer my chocolate to be steaming, but not
too
hot. I don’t wish to scorch my tongue.”

Bemused by his high-handedness, Samantha exchanged a look with Beckwith. “Will there be anything else?” She had to bite her bottom lip to keep from adding,
Your Majesty
.

“Some kippers and two fresh-baked crossbuns, slathered with honey and butter. And once you’ve cleared up after breakfast, perhaps you could ring up a bath and finish dusting my sitting room.” He blinked in her direction, looking as angelic as that sinister slash of a scar would allow. “If it’s not too much trouble, of course.”

“It’s no trouble at all,” she assured him. “It’s my job.”

“Indeed it is,” he concurred.

As the right corner of his mouth curled in a devilish smile, Samantha clearly heard the sound of a trap snapping shut on her tender tail.

My dear Miss March,

If you mock my honeyed words, perhaps I should try to woo you with honeyed kisses instead…

“M
iss Wickersham? Oh, Miss Wickersham?” That plaintive refrain was accompanied by the merry jingling of Gabriel’s bell.

Samantha slowly turned in the doorway of his bedchamber, still breathless from having traipsed up four flights of stairs from the basement kitchens for the third time that morning.

Her patient was propped up among the bed pillows in a pool of morning sunshine. Sprawled there on the rumpled sheets with the sunlight sifting through his tousled hair, he looked less like an invalid than a man who had just enjoyed a passionate tryst.

He held out the Wedgwood cup Samantha had just handed him, a disappointed moue turning down the unscarred corner of his mouth. “I’m afraid my chocolate is lukewarm. Would you mind asking Étienne to make a fresh pot?”

“Of course not,” Samantha replied, returning to the bed and wrenching the cup from his hand with more force than was necessary.

She hadn’t even reached the top of the stairs when the bell started jingling again. She stopped and counted to ten beneath her breath before painstakingly retracing her steps. She poked her head around the doorframe. “You rang?”

Gabriel dropped the bell. “When you return, I thought that perhaps you could reorganize my wardrobe. I’ve decided it might be easier for me to dress myself if you grouped all of my cravats, waistcoats, and stockings together.”

“I wasn’t aware that you’d stirred yourself from your bed in the past week long enough to dress yourself. And I spent six hours yesterday matching your garments into complete sets because you decided you didn’t care to have them sorted by type.”

Gabriel sighed, his fingers plucking aimlessly at the satin coverlet. “Well, if it’s too much trouble…” Ducking his head, he left the challenge hanging in the air between them.

She gritted her teeth in a smile that felt more like a death rictus. “I should say not. On the contrary, it will be both a privilege and a pleasure.”

Before he could find the bell among the disheveled bedclothes, Samantha turned on her heel and went stalking down the stairs, wondering if she could talk the French cook into lacing his master’s next pot of chocolate with hemlock.

She spent the rest of that day just as she had spent her every waking moment for the past week—at Gabriel’s beck and call. Since the first morning he had summoned her, he had refused to allow her a single second to call her own. Every time she so much as thought about sitting down for a few minutes or stealing to her bed-chamber for a brief nap, his bell would start ringing again. Its persistent jangling continued morning, noon, and night until the other servants were forced to sleep with their pillows pressed over their ears.

Although she knew exactly what he was trying to do, Samantha refused to let him goad her into resigning her position. She was determined to prove she was made of much sterner stuff than old Cora Gringott or the widow Hawkins. Never had a nurse been so devoted to the well-being of her charge. She bit back her every sarcastic retort and tirelessly played the roles of valet, cook, butler, and nursemaid.

Gabriel was especially peevish at bedtime. She would tuck the blankets around him and draw the bed hangings, only to have him dolefully observe that the room was getting a trifle bit stuffy. She would open the bed hangings, peel back the blankets, and crack open a window, but before she could tiptoe to the door, he would sigh and say that he feared the night air might give him a fatal chill. After covering him again, she would linger in the doorway, just waiting for those gilded lashes of his to settle against his cheeks. Then she would hurry down the stairs to her own bedchamber, already dreaming of her feather mattress and a night of uninterrupted sleep. But before her head could sink into the plush goose down of her pillow, the bell would start ringing again.

Tossing her clothes back on, Samantha would rush back up the stairs, only to find Gabriel propped against the headboard, beaming like a cherub. He hated to disturb her, he would sheepishly confess, but would she mind plumping up his pillows before she retired for the night?

That very night Samantha finally sank down in the overstuffed wing chair in Gabriel’s sitting room, thinking only to prop up her aching feet for a few precious minutes.

Gabriel reclined in the bed, pretending to sleep, and waited for the telltale creak of the door. He’d grown accustomed to the cozy rustle of Miss Wickersham’s skirts as she bustled about his bedchamber, blowing out candles and picking up whatever objects he’d managed to strew across the floor without actually leaving the bed. As soon as she believed him to be asleep, she would attempt to make her escape. He always knew the moment she went. Her absence left an almost palpable void.