Almost an Angel (12 page)

Carolly stared at the woman, feeling totally confused. "How are we responsible for your situation?”

"My situation! Did you hear that, Bob? My sit-u-ation. When it's 'er who's been tossed out on 'er ear. Well, good riddance to bad rubbish, I say." A cheer echoed through the courtyard.

"But we haven't done anything to you," cried Carolly. She scrambled for a way to deal rationally with these people.

"You took our jobs," they cried. "You seduced the earl to yer evil ways."

The insults were coming fast and furious, led by the shrewish woman. Carolly tried to shout them down, but couldn't. Her tenuous hold on her temper was slipping, and she was thinking about slugging the woman when she got hit in the face with a gob of mud. It didn't hurt, just surprised her. But some experiences—like being stoned to death—tended to stick with a person. Carolly knew exactly what was happening even as her mind reeled with the honor of it all.

She raised her arm as more mud sailed with painful accuracy right toward her face. Whipping around, she tried to shield Margaret from the crowd. "Run!" she screamed, knowing that the throng would soon progress to throwing stones along with mud.

She was almost too busy ducking and running, her skirts slapping about her legs, to hear the oncoming rush of hooves. Glancing up she saw James, his powerful body astride Shadow galloping into the courtyard. His face was twisted in rage.

If ever she felt grateful that he could look so incredibly terrifying, it was at that moment. The crowd quickly dropped back as he clattered into the yard.

"Stop it this instant! Stop it!" he bellowed. The mud bombs stopped, but James did not. He glared at the people around him and continued to shout: "These people are under my care! Anyone who touches them again will answer to me! Is that clear?"

His only answer was a sullen, angry silence, and Carolly looked back fearfully. True, the people were cowed for now. A furious earl on horseback was a little much for seven unarmed people to fight. But the inclination remained. Hatred and resentment simmered in the afternoon heat.

"Get up."

Carolly blinked, only now realizing James spoke to her, ordering her to climb onto his horse. Margaret, she noted, had already scrambled up in front of her uncle. After one last glance behind her, Carolly quickly grasped James's outstretched hand and swung herself up behind him.

"Are you sure Shadow can carry us all?" she whispered.

"Just hold tight."

He didn't have to tell her twice. She buried her face against his hard back and wrapped her arms so tight around his middle, a hurricane could not tear her loose. She felt the horse's powerful haunches bunch and release as they rode away.

"Are you hurt?" James called back to her.

"No," she said, coloring her voice with false bravado. "I'm an old hand at stonings, remember? But Margaret—"

"She is fine."

Carolly sneaked a peek at the girl in front of James. Mags was curled tight against her uncle, her face tucked out of view, but she didn't seem to have any cuts or bruises. "Thank God," she said.

Carolly took a deep breath. Even though the child was unhurt, she could tell by James's rigid body and stony silence that she was in serious trouble. She wasn't surprised. In fact, she was in serious trouble with her own conscience. She had acted stupidly again, putting herself and an innocent child at risk without thinking. Whatever dressing down the earl intended was nothing compared to what she was telling herself right now.

But then again, knowing James, he'd probably find a way to make her feel even worse.

She was almost looking forward to it. She certainly deserved it.

Chapter Nine

"So. Aren't you going to yell at me?"

"I beg your pardon?" James settled into his favorite leather chair, and, out of habit, stretched his feet toward the cold library grate. Carolly sat beside him, her hands folded demurely in her lap, her head bowed as though a great weight compressed her shoulders. She sat properly, refraining from her usual sprawl. And if he wasn't mistaken, she wore a corset.

Carolly in a corset. What had the world come to?

He let his gaze travel the length of his strange guest. For a moment he allowed his senses to linger on the golden highlights in her hair, on the sweet curve of her neck, and the soft scent of lemon clinging to her luminous skin. She was beautiful, and she contained a fire that defied God and man alike. An angel, indeed. And yet, if anyone could be what she claimed, it would be Carolly.

Except she was not an angel—or a pre-angel, as she so delicately put it. She was a madwoman. And he had come to care deeply for her.

He turned away, pushing his thoughts toward this afternoon's trauma. At least Margaret seemed unharmed. After a long hot bath, the child had gone straight to bed, not even bothering to eat. He knew Carolly had spoken with her, and he intended to check in on the child later, but for right now, he was content to let her be. The afternoon's events were shocking and frightening, especially for a young child. But she had survived and would be much more wary in the future.

Right now, his attention was drawn to the strange woman at his side.

"Carolly—"

"I was stupid, irresponsible, and idiotic," she whispered. "I didn't think my actions through, and I could have gotten Margaret killed."

What could he say to that? She would not even look at him, her customary directness somehow stripped away. It pained him to see it.

"So, go to it, James," she continued with utter defeat in her voice. "Yell. Scream. Throw me out. Hit me."

He stiffened in his chair. Did she honestly believe he would strike her? He took a deep breath, then carefully made his voice its most gentle. "Will you ever go to the village alone again?”

She didn't hesitate. "No."

"Will you ever take Margaret exploring without speaking to me about it first?”

"Absolutely not."

He paused, wanting to make sure she understood. If only she would meet his eyes. It was hard to be gentle when all he could see was the top of her head. "I do not act without good reason. You are aware of that, are you not? And for Margaret to again—"

"You don't have to worry about it." Her voice was dark. "We're not going anywhere. At least not without an armed escort."

"Then," he said, kneeling down before her and lifting up her chin, "I shall not lecture you. I have the impression you have been censored too much in your life."

Carolly blinked, and he caught the distinct shimmer of her unshed tears. "You're not throwing me out?"

"I cannot allow a Bedlamite to wander lost and alone about my lands. What would the neighbors think?"

She pressed her lips together, but he saw the betraying tremble of a silent chuckle. She said, "Don't make me laugh, James. I feel too rotten."

He touched her cheek. Her skin was soft and pliant beneath his fingertips. "Please do not leave without telling me again."

"I won't. I promise."

He could not explain the relief he felt. He only knew it washed through him like a breath of fresh air, easing muscles he did not know were clenched. But when he looked at Carolly, he did not see the same ease. If anything, she looked more miserable, more anguished than before.

"Carolly?"

"I'm all right. Really. It's just that . . ." Her voice trailed away as she struggled for the words to express her thoughts.

"Tell me," he urged softly. He took hold of her hands, not to comfort her, but to keep her near him. She always seemed on the verge of running, and just this once, he wanted her to stay. He had come too close to losing her this afternoon to want to risk it again.

"What are you thinking?" he asked.

"I . . . I'm not ready to leave yet." She looked up at him, and he was startled by the pain etched in the fine lines around her eyes and mouth. Had it always been there? She shrugged, twisting her face away when he would not release her hands. "Can you believe that? I don't want to go. There's so much wrong here that I'm not even sure where to begin, but I want to fix it all." She laughed, a short bitter sound. "I'm not ready to die."

Her words left him mystified. There were times when she seemed completely rational. Other times, all he could do was pretend to understand. "Most people do not wish to die," he said gently. “That is perfectly natural."

"Not for me." She clenched her hands, but he held them effortlessly, letting his fingers gently circle her fists. "In all my other lives, I couldn't wait to leave. Everyone thought I was crazy, pretty much. No one really cared, even the people I tried to help.
Especially
them." Her bitter laugh returned. "In the end, death was always a huge relief."

"But not this time?”

She shook her head. "Not this time."

"Good." He had no special knowledge of the mentally ill, but he felt sure this indicated progress. She wanted to live. He almost shouted with glee. Instead, he pressed her for more details, more understanding. "What makes you
not
want to leave?”

"You." Carolly turned back to face him, her gaze meeting his. And for the first time ever, she did not fight his touch. She did not seek to sever the connection to reality or to him. "It's because you care."

He started, surprised by her comment. "Is that so rare a thing?”

She quirked her eyebrow, her expression wry. "You tell me. How many people would do what you have done for me? Who else would let me invade his home, disrupt his life, and endanger his ward—then not throw me out or turn me over to someone else?”

He shrugged, beginning to feel uncomfortable with the shifting emotions she so readily embraced. How could he keep pace with a woman who moved so quickly from guilt to humor to madness to sudden warmth? It disturbed him even as it fascinated him. "Perhaps I am the better candidate for Bedlam," he mused.

She smiled, and her eyes reflected the colors of the fading sunset. "Or perhaps you're just a nice guy."

His breath caught in his throat. He knelt before her, their eyes level, their mouths a scant inch apart. Moments before, he had tried to understand her, tried to ferret out her secrets in an effort to help her. But not now. Now, he wished merely to touch her. To hold her. To kiss her.

And so he did. Without extra thought or planning, he merely leaned forward and claimed her lips. She responded slowly, as if reluctant to give in to the force that seemed to surround them constantly, pushing them inevitably together. But he had no more strength to resist; and as he added his own encouragement, nibbling gently along the edges of her lips, her reluctance seemed to melt away.

He did not press against her, though his entire body urged him on with a power that made his legs shake. Instead, he held himself back, leisurely tasting her mouth, exploring the dark recesses behind her lips while she sighed sweetly, opening herself up to him. And then, guessing her to be a virgin unused to such attentions, he forced himself to withdraw. He did not wish to. Indeed, were her mental state solid, he would have pressed her down onto the carpet. But he feared pushing her into madness, and so he pulled away, his body protesting every inch that separated them.

She spoke, then, her words confirming his worst fear: that his attentions overwhelmed her so much as to further unbalance her mind. "Angels aren't supposed to kiss like that," she whispered. He looked at her eyes, saw the shimmer of regret within them.

"Oh, James, angels shouldn't even think of kisses like that." She swallowed, obviously pulling her thoughts about her. Unfortunately, they were disordered thoughts, steeped in madness. What else could they be? "We must think about what you'll do to help the villagers."

He slid away from her, returning to his seat, while inside his heart sank. He should have known better. He
did
know better. One could not dally with a madwoman. For
her
stability, not to mention his own. Obviously, his attentions had disturbed her so much she'd run straight for her madness, using it as a shield against him.

And yet, even now, he wanted to touch her again. To taste her again. To introduce her to love with the sweetest, most gentle of caresses.

"James,' she repeated, as if trying to get his attention. "We have to help the people who lost jobs because you turned them out."

He sighed, the evening soured, his thoughts buried in defeat. "I will not rehire them, Carolly. I am wealthy enough without having to make money off the sweat of women and children."

She clapped her hands, her grin widening. "Exactly!"

"What?"

She pushed out of her chair, pacing in front of him with sudden enthusiasm. "I think we should start a school. Once we've got the children enrolled, then we can focus on the women. We should give them pigs or goats or something."

"The children?” he managed. "You want to give goats and pigs to children?"

She spun back toward him, her loose hair spilling over her shoulders. "No, silly. The women. But first we should handle the kids."

James shook his head, knowing her madness a direct result of his attentions. And yet, he did not know how to address the situation. The best he could do was ride out her spell and hope she returned to lucidity soon. He reached for his brandy as she resumed pacing.

"Do you know those people actually blame Margaret for losing their jobs?"

"Yes, I know." He'd tried to explain it to them. The timing was the merest coincidence. But somehow Margaret's arrival and the changes at the mines were inextricably mixed in the villagers' minds.

"James! How can you let them think that?"

He sighed. "It is not a question of me allowing them to think anything. They chose who they wish to blame, and nothing I say changes that."

Carolly shook her head. "But she's just a child."

"I realize that."

"How can they be so stupid?”

He merely shrugged. He had no answers for the oddities of the human mind, as evidenced by his spectacular blunders with her. She was speaking so quickly, he doubted even she fully understood what she was saying.

"Well, you've got to do something. This can't go on."

James let his brandy glass dangle from his fingertips and stared out the window. "Things were awkward, but not untenable until recently. Two years of bad crops have escalated the tension."

She tugged at her hair, clearly deep in thought. "Mining's horrible, but it's still a job. What we need to do is find the women and children something else, some way to replace their lost income. Something like farming."

He shook his head. "They
are
farming. But the yields have been poor."

She pursed her lips. "Okay, something for the children. The boys could apprentice with the blacksmith or as stable hands. The girls could learn sewing or become maids."

"I have already hired a blacksmith I do not need. The maids are so plentiful I trip over them, and I have more stable boys than I do horses."

She turned to him, her face aglow with an odd sort of joy. "And here I thought you were being ostentatious."

He shifted, lifting his chin. "I am merely ensuring a well-run household."

"So much so you can't stand it."

He sifted, knowing she could read the truth in his face. "I do prefer a less crowded household."

She smiled. "Can you send any of them off to other homes? Sort of farm them out to your friends?”

He shook his head. "My friends have all the servants they need."

"Hmmm." She frowned as she resumed pacing. "Guess we're back to pigs and school."

"I beg your pardon?”

"All those people you fired, you need to train them, right? Teach them another trade that will earn a living."

"We ate speaking of women and children."

She waved that thought aside as if it had no bearing on the situation. "Well, the children ought to be in school. As for the women, there must be lots of things they can do. That's what I meant about pigs or goats. Raising animals is something they can handle at home, at least until we can set up a working day-care."

"Working day what?" He stared at her, unsure whether she jested or was merely insane. Either way, he could not process her bizarre comments. "Pigs?"

"Never mind that," she said, her movements becoming more animated. "The first thing we should do is start a school."

He sighed. Truth be told, he had thought of that. "But it will not recompense anyone for lost income."

Carolly turned and stared at him. "We pay them to go to school."

"We what?"

"Well, that's the only way."

He gaped at her, knowing she was completely mad. "I should pay children for the privilege of going to school?”

"Well, of course. Eventually, people will see the value of an education all on their own. In my time, people will end up paying exorbitant sums to go to school. But we've got to get the first couple generations there first."

"Generations? You want me to pay for generations of schooling?"

She nodded, then gave him a mischievous wink. "Just look at it as an investment. A long, long, long-term investment."

He folded his arms over his chest, the first glimmerings of amusement stirring within him. "And just where am I supposed to get all this money to pay people to educate themselves?”

She shrugged. "You're an earl, aren't you? Rich enough to buy a good portion of the world, I shouldn't wonder.

His gaze shifted to the fire. "But I certainly do not intend to squander it—"

"It's not squandering. It's—"

"Investing," he interrupted grimly. "A long-term investment with no expected return."

"An investment in the future."

He threw up his hands, amazed by her audacity. "I should have made you my mistress," he commented ruefully. "At least a mistress only demands a few baubles every month or so. You want to beggar me for generations."