"Nevertheless, we would do better to leave Miss Fairfax where she is until she recovers from her illness." He snapped his fingers. "I've got it! How about your father's sister? The one who was one of the queen's ladies in waiting. Lady Wethering. That's it."
Blake groaned. "Aunt Delia? Lord, Nigel, she must be seventy if she's a day. And deaf to boot."
"She's perfect, Blake. Think about it. She's a highly respected and highly respectable widow who dotes on your father. She'll be thrilled at the prospect of doing you a favor." As far as Nigel was concerned, the matter was settled. "You can send a note around to her house right away."
"I don't want my life turned upside down," Blake insisted. "You take her--and Aunt Delia."
"Be reasonable, Blake."
"No, Nigel." Blake bit out the words. "I order you to take her."
Nigel was shocked, then outraged by his best friend's audacity. "You know what you can bloody well do with your orders."
"Threats, Nigel?"
"You know better than that. Dammit, Blake, I think you deliberately turn on your freezing glare just to ruffle my feathers." Nigel smiled at his old schoolmate. "Unless you want me to threaten you? Shall I run tattling about town with news of your latest amour?" The teasing words were out before Nigel could stop them.
Blake's face hardened. The warm glow of friendship left his onyx-dark eyes, replaced by the steely glint of anger.
Nigel realized his mistake at once and began to apologize for his teasing. "Blake, I didn't mean ... You know I would never... run tattling to anyone about anything you do."
Blake held up his hand in a sign of surrender. "Enough, Nigel, don't apologize. I'm the one who owes you an apology. I'm to blame. You were teasing. I don't know what came over me. My head aches so much I can't think straight."
The tension instantly dissolved and with a shower of compassion, Nigel moved to place his hand on Blake's brow. "Well, you don't have a fever, so your soaking's done you no damage, but you do have a nasty bruise on your cheekbone to go with your swollen nose. And a small cut as well. Don't be surprised if your eye turns black in a few hours. Mind telling me how you got this wound? Did she hit you again?"
"It was an accident and it's none of your bloody business." Blake winced as Nigel disinfected the cut and slapped a dressing on it. "Ouch!"
"That should teach you to be nasty to a compassionate healer," Nigel commented as he finished. "There's nothing else I can do here except argue with you and I do have patients to see this morning. Miss Fairfax should sleep through the afternoon and probably into the night. I suggest you send a note around to Lady Wethering and go about your usual business. It should be interesting to see how you explain that black eye to your Home Office colleagues." The doctor smiled, ignoring Blake's muttered imprecations. He enjoyed seeing Blake in a prickly mood. His mask of cynicism was rarely removed long to allow anger to surface.
Nigel felt it was good to be reminded Blake hadn't lost all feeling. He was so efficient and so coldly unemotional most of the time, it was sometimes hard to remember he really was a very caring man.
Nigel Jameson was no fool. He had known Blake since they'd been in nursery frocks. He knew him well enough to know what caused the cynicism, the lack of feeling. He was also one of the few people who understood how it had all begun. Blake couldn't continue to live his life in a void, pretending he didn't need anything from anyone. He was an intelligent, sensitive man who needed someone of his own. Maybe that was why Nigel had insisted the Fairfax girl stay put when it would have been relatively simple to transport her to a hospital. There was something between them. There had to be. Blake hadn't shown this much emotion toward anyone in a very long time. It was good to see him lose his temper. The loss of control could be beneficial to him.
Nigel Jameson smiled to himself and whistled the chorus of a bawdy tune as he packed his medical instruments into his bag. He would check on Miss Fairfax's condition as often as possible. Lawrence House was going to be a lively place to visit while she remained in residence.
"Stop! Stop! You're hurting me! Go away and leave me alone. I'm not like you! I hate you! Do you hear me? I hate you...."
The sound of anguished cries came from the guest room. Blake heard them from his bedroom down the hall and bolted from the bed with a start.
"Mackie, what is it? What the devil is going on in there?" Lord Lawrence demanded of his harassed housekeeper as he stood in the doorway of the guest bedroom and watched Mackie struggling to keep Cristina in the bed.
"Bad dreams. She was crying in her sleep, then she sat up and started wailing like a banshee," Mrs. MacKenzie answered, fighting to protect her face from Cristina's flailing arms.
"She's in pain," Blake said suddenly. "She's been beaten. Roll her over."
Blake hurried to help his housekeeper as Cristina continued to strike out at the arms and the bedclothes that imprisoned her. "It's all right, Mackie, I've got her now." He lay almost atop Cristina, holding the covers close about her body, forcing her to cease her thrashing about.
"Please, leave me alone. Let me go. Please." She twisted her head to evade the strong hand stroking her damp hair as hot tears slid down her face onto the pillow.
"Ssh," Blake soothed, easing his weight off her. "I'm not going to hurt you. I'm only going to roll you over onto your stomach so you'll be more comfortable."
"Hot," Cristina whispered. "Too hot."
Blake nodded grimly as he moved to toss the covers aside.
Mackie caught his arm. "But Master Blake, you can't. She's--"
"It's all right, Mackie," Blake said. "I've seen women in their undergarments before." He flipped back the covers and carefully guided Cristina onto her stomach.
He had seen her before, when he'd removed her sodden petticoats and put her to bed at Marlborough House. But he hadn't seen her like this. He hadn't seen the angry red marks crisscrossing her finely molded buttocks, the tender flesh of her thighs, her shapely calves, or the delicate arches of her feet. He hadn't seen the strap marks. Until now.
Mackie made a quick sign of the cross and rolled her eyes heavenward, whispering softly, "Sweet Mary, who would do such a thing?"
Blake sucked in a ragged breath. "A bastard of a jaded aristocrat," he muttered. "The lowest sort of life form."
"The poor child's anguish breaks your heart."
Blake's mouth tightened into a thin line. Tension strained every handsome muscle in his face. He remembered all too well the panic he'd felt when he'd seen the Prince of Wales's bed sheets flapping in the breeze. And the agony Cristina must have endured just hanging onto them. "She'll be all right, Mackie. We'll see to that. Miss Fairfax is strong. She wants to live. But for now she's hurt and she's tired. She needs someone to take care of her."
He raked his fingers through his disheveled hair. He didn't understand how he knew what was going through Cristina Fairfax's mind, but he did. And that made him very uncomfortable. He didn't want to share her private thoughts. Having her under his roof was bad enough.
"You're tired, Mackie. Why don't you go back to bed?"
"All right, Master Blake. I'll wake your aunt. She'll sit with Miss Fairfax."
Blake shook his head. "Let her sleep. She needs her rest, too." He smiled. "Besides, if Miss Fairfax's shouting didn't awaken Aunt Delia, your calling her isn't going to do it. I'm awake. I'll stay with her awhile." Three nights of sitting up with Cristina had taken their toll on Mackie and on his aunt. Mackie looked tired and worn and old and Aunt Delia had barely been able to keep from nodding off at dinner. Blake was filled with remorse. "Go on to bed," he urged. "It will be all right. I'll leave the door open for propriety's sake."
Mackie nodded an affirmative and hurried away in the direction of her bedroom, relieved and more than willing to let Master Blake watch over the poor girl.
Blake waited until his housekeeper left the room be
fore he pulled a sheet over Cristina's bare back and tucked it gently around her shoulders. He shifted his weight to the edge of the four-poster bed and sat quietly, studying her features, almost memorizing them, until Cristina opened her eyes and uttered a single word.
"Please ..." She grasped his hand and clutched it in her own sweaty palm.
"What is it, Miss Fairfax? Cristina?"
There wasn't a spark of recognition in the feverish depths of her green eyes as she spoke again. "I'm afraid."
Blake's voice was infinitely tender. "What are you afraid of, Cristina?"
"Dreams," she muttered. "My dreams."
"Ssh." Blake placed a finger against her parched lips. "I'm here. There's nothing for you to be afraid of. I promise not to hurt you and I won't let anything else hurt you." He lifted her hand with his captured one and brought it to his lips. "I promise, Cristina."
She smiled and closed her eyes.
Blake awoke as the pinkish-gray colors of dawn streaked across the sky. He stretched his cramped muscles and automatically swiped at the irritant tickling his face. The damp odor of jasmine and perspiration assailed his sensitive nostrils.
He opened his eyes, suddenly wide awake. He lay on his side, his body curved around the delectable form of Cristina Fairfax. His legs were intimately embracing hers and his arm rested lazily across her narrow waist. He sighed contentedly and Cristina stirred in her sleep, moving closer to the warmth radiating from his body until her baby-soft bottom rested familiarly against him.
Blake groaned aloud as the root of him instantly sprang to life, proudly erect, prodding her softness, seeking entrance. His brain flashed a sudden warning which told him he should leave while he still had the chance, but Blake ignored the warning. He followed his instincts, those marvelous instincts that urged him to pull her closer.
He buried his face in her hair, inhaling her scent as he ran his hand down her arm and over her side. He traced the outline of her ribs through the sheet, following her curves as he imagined her passionate response to his lovemaking.
God, but it would be heaven to kiss that soft mouth again and bury himself deep within her. Sheer heaven to wake up to her every morning.
Footsteps in the hall interrupted his passionate musings. Blake rolled away from her and scrambled from the bed with the agility of a panther. She was sick and hurt. He was supposed to be taking care of her and all he could think about was making love to her. Blake frowned. What kind of man was he? What kind of jaded aristocrat had he become?
There was a light tap at the bedroom door. Mackie peeked in.
"Still sleeping quietly, I see."
Blake swung around. Cristina was curled on her side and sleeping soundly when he half expected her to be pointing an accusing finger and staring at him as if he were a two-headed monster. He released a deep breath and brushed his hair off his forehead with trembling fingers. He didn't know if he was more thankful for the fact that Cristina slept undisturbed or that all evidence of his previous arousal vanished when Mackie opened the door. Either way, he decided, he had been lucky. Lucky and foolish.
"You must be tired, Master Blake. Why don't you try to get a few hours' sleep before your afternoon appointment? One of the maids can sit with her now," Mackie suggested, taking a good look at his unshaven face and the worry lines etched in his forehead.
Blake nodded in agreement, but he left the guest room reluctantly and as he climbed back into his own bed, he noticed how large and empty it was.
Cristina awoke the evening of the fourth day after her arrival at Lawrence House. Blake was keeping vigil in the chair beside her bed when he saw her eyelids flutter open. Her fever had broken and she looked pale and tired. Her skin was almost translucent and there were purple shadows beneath the eyes. Blake watched her, waiting patiently for her to focus her gaze on him.
"So you're awake at last. I was afraid you had decided to sleep forever. How do you feel?" He whisked a cloth off a tray containing a steaming bowl of broth. "My housekeeper sent this up a little while ago. We thought you might be hungry when you woke up. You've been asleep for quite awhile." He kept up a steady flow of conversation as he spooned broth into her mouth. He was behaving foolishly by insisting on waiting for her to wake up and then feeding her himself when he had a whole house full of employees more than willing to do it. And if that wasn't foolish enough, he was chattering away like an infatuated schoolboy. He was a seasoned diplomat and he was acting like the biggest fool in London and he couldn't seem to control the impulse. He wasn't even all that sure he wanted to. "The doctor has been in to see you," he told her. "You'll soon be up and out dancing again."
"I don't think I want to attend any more dances," she said softly. "My last one turned out to be a debacle."
"Nonsense." His manner was light and teasing. "You were the undisputed belle of the ball."
"Right up until my confrontation with royalty," she replied bitterly. "And British diplomacy. Thank you for the soup, but I'm very tired." Cristina shook her head, refusing to open her mouth for the spoonful of broth Blake held for her.
Her open hostility burst his foolish bubble.
A small nerve on the side of Blake's mouth began to twitch as he clenched his teeth. He tightened his grip on the spoon until his fingertips whitened and the silver grew hot in his hand. When he spoke all traces of his earlier gentleness vanished. He became a cold, hard stranger once again. "If you want to be alone, Miss Fairfax, I'll be happy to oblige you. But as soon as you've recovered from your illness, I expect an apology and a feasible explanation for your behavior."
"I don't need to apologize or explain myself to you."
"As a guest in my home, you owe me some courtesy after turning my life upside down. I'll accept an apology and an explanation."
"That's very magnanimous of you." Her voice was soft and laced with sarcasm.
"I think so." Blake agreed. "You were alone in a carriage riding through town in the pouring rain at half-past seven in the morning wearing a cape and a petticoat and raging with fever." Blake knew he was being unfair. He knew why she'd been without her clothes. He knew why she was alone. What he didn't understand was why she had chosen to run from him when he had been the one to rescue her from Rudolf's amorous intentions. Didn't she realize how lucky she was? "Surely such extraordinary behavior from a first season debutante deserves some explanation. And if you don't care to explain that behavior, you might try explaining why you assaulted me with a necklace while I was trying to help you. Yes, Miss Fairfax, I think you owe me an explanation. Not to mention cab fare."
"Cab fare?" Cristina sputtered. "You'd dare to charge me for the cab fare after commandeering it for your own purpose?"
Blake smiled. A little color had returned to her face. He realized that he preferred the flush of her anger to the deathly white of resignation. "I thought you understood. I'm a man who dares many things. Good evening, Miss Fairfax." Blake delivered his parting shot and left her fuming.
Cristina stared at the bowl of broth, wondering if she dared fling it and the tray across the room. He had no right to treat her so high-handedly when he'd treated her so kindly once before. She hadn't asked to become his houseguest. She hadn't asked him to assume responsibility for her. She hadn't asked for anything except to be left alone. She appreciated the care he had given her during her illness, but she didn't need it any longer. She needed to be on her own and she had no intention of exchanging her mother's domination for Lord Lawrence's. She intended to use the necklace as her avenue to freedom. She would sell it. And once it was sold, she would pay Lord Lawrence for his dubious hospitality and use the remainder of the cash to join her father.
The thought of the cash the necklace would yield comforted Cristina. It meant she had the means to pay her way. It was reassuring to know she wasn't alone and penniless. Reassuring. Until she remembered that the last time she'd seen the n
ecklace he had held it in his hands, demanding an explanation. His hands, not her own.
She had been asleep for a long time. The necklace could be anywhere. She had to get it back. And with that thought in mind, Cristina picked up the spoon and began to spoon the tepid broth into her mouth with grim determination.
My only books
Were women's looks
And folly's all they've taught me.
--THOMAS MOORE 1779-1852
*Chapter Eight*
Hours later, Mackie peeked into the sickroom to check on her patient and found Cristina curled up on the big bed. The girl was sleeping like an angel and Mackie couldn't help wondering what had happened to make Master Blake storm into the kitchen and demand his dinner be served in the library instead of in the sickroom with Miss Fairfax as planned. Nor could she understand why he'd gone into the library muttering blasphemies about "that ungrateful girl."
She shook her gray head. No doubt the strain of staying up and worrying about the young lady during the night and working during the day had taken its toll on Master Blake.
Mackie was mistaken. The strain of work and worry had very little to do with Blake's explosive frame of mind. For one split second when Cristina had stubbornly refused to take the broth, she had reminded him of Meredith. Unfaithful, deceitful Meredith, crushing his youthful dreams of love.
He stood staring into the flames that licked at the dry, seasoned logs in the fireplace, hoping to quell the unreasonable anger that surged through his body. He had lost control and allowed his temper to get the best of him and that was something that surprised him as much as it appalled him. He almost never lost control of his temper. Men in his position could lose everything they had worked so hard to gain simply by losing control of their emotions. Exposed emotions made a person vulnerable to his opponents and Blake had vowed never to be vulnerable again. He refused to let anyone have the upper hand over him and hiding his true feelings behind a mask of indifference that gave nothing away had become second nature. But that slip of a girl, not even old enough to know her own mind, had penetrated his stony exterior and caused him to lose control of his carefully guarded emotions. It infuriated him to know she could get under his skin without realizing what she was doing.
He turned away from the fire. The copper flames reminded him of the young woman who lay upstairs tempting him. Getting rid of the little vixen with her alluring body and her sword-sharp tongue would be a relief. The sooner he had her out of his house and out of his mind, the better.
As soon as she was on her feet again, he was sending her home where she belonged. But before he allowed her to leave, he intended to find out how she came to have that particular necklace in her pocket.