Faith (12 page)

Eighteen

I
t was nearly midnight and raining when they finally pulled up in front of the caretaker’s cottage at Rothmere. Gareth climbed out unassisted and glanced back inside at his sleeping wife. He turned to the dripping footman and put a finger to his lips, indicating they would leave Faith to sleep for the time being.

Golden light glowed from the windows on each side of the door to the cottage. Gareth ran toward their beckoning warmth, his shoulders hunched against the chill downpour.

The outriders he’d sent ahead had done their jobs well. A fire had been started in the cozy fireplace, and a small pot of soup hung steaming from an iron hook above the flames. He looked through the open door to the only other room in the cottage: a small bedchamber that was as neat as he’d left it. He regarded the comfortable bed he’d thought to share with his wife, then turned bitterly away. It would likely be a good while before he slept in that bed.

He swept his
eyes
around both of the two small rooms he’d considered “cozy” until now. He wondered what his bride would think of her new living quarters, accustomed as she was to living in luxury. The furnishings, which had once seemed more than adequate, now looked shabby, and he knew that the cottage would feel much smaller when shared by two people—especially when those two people could hardly stand being in the same room. He turned back to the fire and stared pensively into the dancing flames, dreading the thought of waking his wife to more disappointment.

Something was tickling her hand.

Slowly, Faith woke up, wrinkling her nose in confusion at her surroundings. Distant thunder rumbled, making her aware of the pounding rain on the roof. She looked around for Gareth and realized the carriage was no longer moving. He was not even in the vehicle.

Her hand was tickled again. This time, the sensation moved up her arm in a decidedly skittering fashion. In sudden dread, Faith looked down and saw the large brown spider making its leisurely way across her wrist.

With a bloodcurdling scream, Faith brushed the creature from her arm and leapt for the door. She wrestled frantically with the catch on the door handle, but wasn’t able to open it. The skin on her back crawling, she pounded, desperately calling for a footman, and pushed heavily against the door with her shoulder. Right then, it opened from outside. Faith fell headlong from the vehicle. She felt a sudden, burning pain as her cheek scraped the edge of the door, then her head struck a rock on the ground and everything went blessedly black.

The muffled scream startled Gareth from his reverie in front of the fire. Cursing under his breath, he ran to the front door and wrenched it open. The steady rain had strengthened into a cold downpour. He could just make out the shapes huddled near the ground by the coach, and with an awful sense of dread he plunged into the torrent and ran the few feet to the vehicle. Impatiently, he pushed the footmen aside. His wife lay crumpled in the mud.

The worst fear he’d ever known quaked through him. He knelt in the puddle next to her unmoving form. “Faith!” He felt quickly at her neck for a pulse and breathed a sigh of relief when he found it. Gathering her gently into his arms, he stood and carried her limp body into the house.

“Go get the doctor,” he called to the footman. He crossed the room in three long strides and gently laid Faith on the sofa.

“You,” he ordered, pointing to the first of several servants who had begun arriving. “Get some water boiling. Find me something to use as a bandage, then warm some bricks and wrap them in flannel for the bed.” He turned back to the sofa and knelt beside Faith. “Somebody find me a blanket.”

Her eyes hadn’t opened, and Gareth now saw the long scratch oozing blood on her right cheek. Knowing the scratch alone wouldn’t have caused her to lose consciousness, he gingerly began running his hands through her wet hair and found what he sought. On the right side of her skull, up near the crown, was a swelling lump. He gently pressed her scalp around the contusion, wincing as he did so, and looked at his hand. It was wet, but thankfully only with the rain that had soaked her hair, not blood.

Without warning, Faith began shivering violently. Gareth looked over at the servant who was placing bricks on the fire. “Help me move this sofa closer to the hearth,” he said. Quickly, the man complied.

When the sofa was warmly situated, Gareth began working on getting his wife out of her wet clothes. He struggled with the catch on her soaked cape, cursing under his breath and finally breaking it when the dratted thing wouldn’t cooperate. He pushed the cape back and grimaced. The gown she wore fastened in the back. Carefully, he rolled his wife against him. She moaned softly but gave no other indication that she knew what was happening. Nestling her face against his chest, Gareth clumsily undid the frustrating row of tiny buttons, then eased the garment off her shoulders and worked it down the rest of her body.

Her shivering was growing worse, so Gareth quickly slipped off her ruined shoes, scooped her into his arms, and carried her into the bedroom. Carefully he shifted most of her weight to one arm, reaching down to turn back the coverlet and linen sheets. As tenderly as he was able, Gareth laid Faith on the warm bed, then straightened and took a step back. His heart caught as he looked down at her—and then, to his horror, he felt the unwelcome stirrings of arousal.

She looked like a fragile angel against the snowy white bedclothes, her face so pale that her closed eyelids seemed nearly translucent. The scratch on her cheek stood out red and angry against the delicacy of her features. Her hair lay in soaked disarray across the pillows, its normal luster diminished by rain and mud.

She frowned, her eyebrows drawn tightly together in unconscious reaction to the throbbing of her head. But it wasn’t the marred beauty of her face that made Gareth’s heart pound. His eyes dropped below her neck and moved down her body—a body made impossibly alluring because it was covered only by the thin muslin of her chemise. That wet material clung to her curves, emphasizing the shape normally hidden by her conservative dresses and gowns.

Horrified by his body’s reaction to his injured wife, Gareth quickly turned away. With purposeful intent, he walked across the bedchamber to the wardrobe that stood in the corner. There, he whisked open the doors and pulled out the first shirt he saw. It was made of soft white lawn, with billowy sleeves and a wide neckline that would allow it to be slipped easily over her head. Best of all, it had no buttons or studs that would need to be fastened or unfastened. He clenched his teeth and returned to the bed.

Carefully Gareth lifted Faith’s legs and rolled off her wet stockings. He dropped them on the floor beside the bed and took a deep breath. His eyes mostly averted, he carefully slid the chemise up her bare legs to the tops of her thighs. Gently, he lifted her hips from the bed and slid the garment under her backside and past her torso, bunching it under her arms. Lifting first one arm and then the other, he eased them carefully through the armholes and gingerly pulled her to a sitting position. With an arm around her back for support, he pulled the offending shift over her head and dropped it with the stockings onto the floor.

He was just settling his shirt over her head when he heard the door in the other room open, letting the sounds of the steady wind and falling rain into the cottage. Gently he laid Faith back on the pillows and pulled the coverlet up, then turned to greet the village doctor.

Dr. Matthew Meadows had become friends with the new marquess during the previous summer. Gareth had insisted upon helping with the restoration of his new estate, and as a result had suffered numerous injuries that required the young doctor’s assistance. After a time, Dr. Meadows had simply begun stopping at Rothmere on a regular basis to check on his regular patient.

“Well, your lordship, what have you broken this time? An arm? Your head?” The physician looked Gareth up and down. “You appear to be in appallingly good health to require my services in this ungodly weather.”

Gareth smiled grimly. “Actually, Meadows, I seem to have broken my wife.”

The good-natured grin vanished from the doctor’s face. “You aren’t married,” he said, walking past Gareth to look at the unconscious figure on the bed. He sucked in his breath at the sight of the pale, fragile beauty nearly swallowed by the covers, her exquisite features marred only by a long scratch on her cheek. She was trembling with cold, he noticed, and automatically placed a hand on her brow to see if she was feverish. Turning back to Gareth, he couldn’t help the expression of wary curiosity on his face. “Why is her hair wet?”

“She fell while getting out of my coach,” the marquess answered. “I carried her inside and got her out of her wet clothes.”

Dr. Meadows looked skeptical. “She’s not unconscious from that scratch on her face and some rain…” He turned back to Faith and opened his bag.

“She also hit her head on a rock.”

“How long ago?”

Gareth lifted his hands in a defeated gesture. “An hour, maybe,” he offered.

Dr. Meadows grunted and began feeling Faith’s head. Gareth paced for a moment, finally retreating to a chair in the corner while his wife was being examined. After a few moments, Dr. Meadows turned around and beckoned him to follow into the other room. After a lingering glance at the still form on the bed, Gareth complied.

The doctor was about to seat himself on the sofa when Gareth strode into the room. “That’s wet,” he warned. “Brandy?” he asked as he poured himself a glass of port. Matthew moved to the driest part of the sofa and nodded. Gareth poured it and handed it to the doctor, then set his port on the mantel and turned to face his friend.

“She’ll be fine, my lord,” Matthew pronounced, but held up a warning finger. “If,” he stressed, “she doesn’t end up with a fever.”

Gareth stiffened, the momentary relief on his face fading. “I take it you feel there maybe a good chance of that?”

Matthew shrugged. “She is injured, as well as having been cold and wet for some time, and this cottage is rather drafty. Keep her warm, especially her feet.” He swallowed his brandy and stood. “And send for me if you have need, my lord.”

Gareth nodded then stood to walk the other man out. He watched as the young doctor’s carriage pulled away into the stormy night, closed the door, and leaned his head against it. After a moment he straightened, took a deep breath, and went back into the bedroom to watch over his sleeping wife.

Nineteen

F
aith realized she was awake before she opened her eyes, but hovered for a time in that gray area between oblivion and awareness. There was something bothering her, something she needed to recall. She thought for a moment longer, then gave up. All of the images in her mind seemed blurry.

Cautiously, she tried to open her eyes but found them strangely heavy lidded. She frowned as she realized the whole right side of her head hurt. The more she focused, the worse the pain became. She tried to reach up with her hand, but was curiously unable even to lift it from the bed. More frightened by the bewildering weakness than by the pain in her head, she unknowingly whimpered in dismay.

The small sound and the attempt to move the hand Gareth held awakened him, seated as he was beside the bed in a comfortable chair he’d moved there for that very purpose two nights before. Dr. Meadows had sent a woman from the village to tend Faith during the day, and he stopped in to see her himself every afternoon, but at night there was only Gareth. And the longer her husband sat with her still, silent form, the guiltier he felt about her condition.

Logic and reason told him that her accident had not been his fault, but a persistent, nagging little voice in the back of his mind kept popping up with reminders.

You left her alone in the carriage,
it accused.

She was sleeping and I didn’t wish to disturb her,
he argued back.

She should have been safe, warm, and dry in your London town house,
persisted the voice.

Gareth had no argument for that unequivocal truth. He’d finally fallen asleep in his chair and dozed fitfully for nearly an hour before Faith stirred.

His eyes flew open. “Faith?” He leaned forward urgently.

“Gareth? I’m so tired,” she whispered. She tried lifting her hand again, but it still seemed oddly numb.

“Shh, princess.” He smoothed the hair back from her face. “The doctor gave you laudanum for the pain. You’re just a bit groggy.” He rubbed his thumb gently back and forth across the soft skin of her cheek.

“Stay with me, please,” she murmured. She turned her face into his palm and drifted back to sleep.

A fierce feeling of protective tenderness surged through Gareth, shocking him with its intensity. He looked down at her, struck by the expression of tranquility on her pale face. He tried to fight the feeling, reminding himself that this was the same woman who had scorned him, who had married him and contrived to keep him out of her bed. But she was also the woman he’d waltzed with in the moonlight, who had shyly responded with awakening ardor to his caresses in Amanda Lloyd’s gazebo.

The woman who had trapped him.

The woman who had captured his heart.

She tightened her hand in his and sighed. And in that instant Gareth’s residual anger at her machinations melted away. She’d wanted time to be sure that their marriage was right. He smiled to himself. This accident should give him the time he needed to prove everything to her.

Faith opened her eyes slowly and cautiously, then widened them in surprise as she looked around. It was dark outside the one window in the room she occupied, but she could
see
fairly well by the light of a crackling fire and the moonlight that streamed in through the spotless glass. The room was small but cozy, furnished only with the bed she lay in, a large wardrobe in the corner, and a comfortable chair pulled near her side. She looked at that chair and frowned, bothered by a shadowy memory that wouldn’t quite coalesce.

The fire snapped and popped suddenly, and Faith turned her head toward the sound. Surprised, she saw that Gareth had come into the room. He was bent down in front of the hearth, a poker in one hand and a long-handled spoon in the other. She smiled at the domestic little scene and tried to push herself into a sitting position. As soon as she did, however, her head began pounding. A wave of dizziness washed over her. She settled back on her pillows, unable to suppress a groan of pain.

Gareth heard the small sound and moved quickly to her side. “Faith?”

She waited for the pounding to subside and cautiously opened an eye. Gareth stood over her, still holding both the spoon and the poker. She managed a wan smile. “I suppose,” she whispered weakly, “you’re here to put me out of my misery with that poker.” Her eyes moved to the dripping spoon. “Or did you mean for me to die slowly, my lord?”

It took Gareth a second to realize she was making a joke about his cooking. He smiled softly, charmed by the quick wit she displayed despite her injury and the medication. “Actually, I’m glad you’ve awakened. I was unsure of which tool I should use to stir the soup and hoped to ask your opinion.”

That quip earned him another smile, but it didn’t last long; Faith was already tiring. “My head hurts,” she murmured.

“You fell from the carriage the night we arrived,” he explained.

Faith closed her eyes and wrinkled her forehead. “We’re married,” she recalled.

Gareth’s heart jumped. “Guilty, I’m afraid.”

Somehow, that odd statement penetrated her sleep-fogged mind. She opened her eyes and looked up at him somberly. “We began rather badly, didn’t we?”

Gareth nodded and sat beside her on the bed. He leaned the fire poker against the chair and took her hand. “I’d like to begin again. If that’s all right with you.”

Faith bit her lip and nodded once, then winced in pain.

Gareth stood. “We’ll talk in the morning. For now, let me get you some soup, and then you can go back to sleep.” He smiled down at her for a second, picked up the poker, and moved back to the fireplace.

When he came back with a bowl of the steaming soup, she was already fast asleep.

The sun was streaming through the open window when Faith awoke the next morning. She thought for a moment that she was in Pelthamshire in her own bed, for in London she never awoke to the sound of early-morning birdsong. Within seconds, however, she remembered exactly where she was and with whom.

She recalled their brief conversation in the night. The warmth she’d seen in his eyes after the tension of the first two days of their marriage was a welcome relief. She fervently hoped that he’d meant what he’d said about starting over, for that was precisely what she wanted to do.

Gingerly, she pushed herself to a sitting position. The sharp ache in her head had subsided to an occasional painful twinge. She pushed back the covers and swung her legs over the side of the bed before she remembered that it was entirely possible that she was not alone in the small house. She leaned forward, listening intently for a moment for sounds from the other room. When she didn’t hear anything, she stood.

Her legs were still a bit weak from the days in bed without much sustenance, but seemed to be operating just fine. She looked down at the shirt she was wearing and realized for the first time that Gareth must have undressed her. Although she was alone, the thought made a hot blush steal across her face.

She leaned against the post at the end of the bed and looked across the room at the wardrobe, hoping the few items she’d packed were inside. Slowly she walked across the room and opened the doors. The two dresses she’d brought were there, hanging all the way to the left in front of a row of neatly washed and brushed items of Gareth’s. She reached out and tentatively touched the sleeve of one of the shirts, feeling oddly as though she was invading his privacy. She ran the back of her hand lightly down the row of clothes, then stopped when she recognized the last item to the right. It was the jacket he’d worn at their wedding.

She reached out and slid the garment of jet-black superfine off the wooden hanger. She remembered where she’d last seen it, tossed angrily across the foot of the bed at the inn where they’d spent their wedding night. A sudden wave of regret washed through her, and she hugged the garment to her cheek. It smelled like Gareth, clean and woodsy, with just a hint of tobacco. She slipped it on and wrapped her arms around herself.

Gareth had been almost asleep in front of the fire in the other room when he heard Faith get up and pad quietly across the floor. Afraid her legs were still too weak to support her, he leapt up and went to the doorway of the bedchamber. The sight that greeted him made him catch his breath: Faith stood across the room, in front of the open doors of the wardrobe, clad only in his white shirt, her long slim legs exposed to his gaze from midthigh to the floor. Her hair was unbound, falling in a glorious golden tumble to the middle of her back. A small smile touched her lips as she reached into the wardrobe. When he saw what she pulled out, he felt his heart constrict.

She stood for a moment, staring at the jacket he’d worn on their wedding day. Then, as he watched, she brought it close, rubbed her cheek on the material, and buried her face in it. After a moment, she held it up again, her head tilted to one side as if in deep thought. She slipped her arms into the overlarge garment and wrapped them around herself. Gareth leaned against the doorframe, thoroughly enjoying the small scene unfolding before him.

Faith bowed from the waist to an invisible partner, then spoke, deepening her voice in an obvious attempt to sound like Gareth. “Miss Ackerly, would you care to dance?” She stepped to the other side and sank into a curtsy. “But of course, my lord, I’d be honored—” She broke off abruptly as she rose from her curtsy and finally saw Gareth. Her face colored hotly and her hands fell to her sides.

“M-my lord,” she stammered and drew herself up to stand with as much dignity as she could muster. “I thought you were out.”

He smiled and straightened. “I’m glad I wasn’t,” he returned, his voice deep and resonant, sending chills skittering up her spine.

Faith looked down and started to remove his jacket, then realized that the shirt beneath was a great deal more revealing. Instead, she pulled it together in front. “I was just getting dressed, my lord.”

Gareth raised a brow. “A pity,” he commented. Then, to her relief, he turned away. “Mrs. MacAvoy has left a fortifying lunch of cold chicken and fresh bread, if you’re interested,” he added over his shoulder as he left the room.

Faith waited until she was sure he’d gone and yanked down the first gown she touched and dressed rapidly. Her pulse beat erratically as she did, but she wasn’t sure if it was from embarrassment at being caught going through Gareth’s things or from her reaction to the way he’d looked at her.

She reached around to try and deal with the three buttons on the back of the dress, her face burning anew. He’d looked at her so oddly, and she’d stood there like a complete dolt, the sleeves of his jacket hanging well past her fingertips, the lawn shirt billowing almost to her knees.

She finally conquered the last button and turned back to the wardrobe, hoping to find her shoes and stockings, but found neither. She bit her lip in consternation and shrugged. Gareth had only a few moments ago caught her in nothing but his shirt and jacket. She saw no reason why she couldn’t also have luncheon with him in her bare feet.

She walked out of the bedroom and into a small cozy area filled with the most comfortable-looking furnishings she’d ever seen. Gareth had placed a large linen cloth on the floor and arranged several cushions for her to sit on. Touched by the care he’d taken with the simple fare, she smiled softly and looked around, biting her lip when she didn’t see Gareth. She thought back to the animosity that had flourished between them before her accident. Had he left her to eat alone, unable to abide her company after all?

The door opened. Gareth pushed it wide and propped it ajar. He turned and saw Faith standing across the room, a hesitant smile on her face. “I thought I’d let the outside in,” he explained, gesturing to the doorway with a hand that clutched a bunch of wildflowers.

“For me?” Faith smiled with surprise and pleasure.

Gareth walked across the room to hand the flowers to his wife, feeling like an awkward boy with his first crush. “I’m afraid I haven’t much of a garden,” he apologized when she took them and looked down.

Faith lifted her face swiftly. “Oh, Gareth, no! These are perfect.” She plucked a glass from the tray Mrs. MacAvoy had prepared, and arranged the flowers in it, then knelt and set the glass in the center of the blanket. She looked up at him over her shoulder. “See?” Her face glowed with happiness. “They make a lovely centerpiece.”

Gareth stared at the beautiful girl kneeling next to the flowers and privately thought she would make a far lovelier one, but wisely held his tongue. He didn’t want to frighten her, didn’t want to apply too much pressure. Instead, he busied himself setting out the food while Faith got settled on the cushions.

The simple meal, as it turned out, was delicious. They ate in companionable silence, and though Faith didn’t consume a great deal, it was evident her appetite was improving. Already the color was coming back into her face, and the sparkle had returned to her gray eyes, making them glint with silvery reflections from the dancing candlelight.

She set aside her plate when she was finished, staring at the flames in perplexed thought. When Gareth said he was bringing her to Rothmere, she’d assumed it was the name of the entailed estate that went with his title. She looked around at the rustic little two-room cottage. While perfectly lovely, it was certainly not the home she knew the ton pictured for the Marquess of Roth.

She glanced at her husband’s profile, remembering all the gossip about the estate he was supposedly renovating and the vast fortune said to have come with his title. Her heart went out to him. It was probably all he could do to keep the town house in London for appearance’s sake.

Another thought occurred to her. She bit her lip and looked down, wondering if she would have to keep house and cook. In Pelthamshire, each of the girls had been given light and easy chores when they were growing up, so she felt rather confident that she could manage the cleaning. When it came to cooking, however, Faith was fairly certain she would be a dismal failure.

When she looked up she found Gareth watching her intently. She gave him a hesitant smile. “My lord…,” she began.