Taffeta & Hotspur (23 page)

Once there, she set the candle down
and looked around at what was obviously a bachelor’s chambers. Was
this William’s father’s room? If so, where then was he?

She removed her jacket and boots,
throwing them negligently onto a nearby chair, blew out her candle,
and dropped across the bed. A moment later she was
asleep.

* * *

With a start Myriah brought up her
head. The room was still clothed in darkness, yet a slit between
the drapes allowed the morning’s gray light to filter through. The
strangeness of her surroundings puzzled her a moment; then as she
felt the dawning of memory, a groan escaped her lips.

She pushed herself up and into a
sitting position and became aware of the fact that her body was
making known its very strenuous objections regarding her latest
escapade. She felt as though she had been brutally beaten, and a
longing to shirk her promise and return to sleep did private battle
with her conscience. Alas, a conscience is a troublesome
thing.

Berating herself for a fool, Myriah
rose from the bed and attempted to stretch. With a groan she pulled
on her boots and jacket and then encountered yet another problem.
When she attempted to take her first step, she found her legs
objects unto themselves. Hold, they cried. Did you, Myriah Whitney,
not subject us to cruel and flagrant misuse? The verdict came in
guilty, and Myriah’s hands went in sympathy and support to her
thighs as she crossed the hall to William Wimborne’s
room.

This feat accomplished (Myriah felt it
deserved applause), she took a moment’s respite and leaned against
the open door. Bolstering her courage, she walked stiffly toward
Fletcher, who offended her sense of justice by looking wondrously
comfortable and deeply asleep on the Queen Anne chair beside his
master’s bed.

She gave the groom a rather rough
shake, and he grumbled into consciousness. “Fletcher, you are
relieved. How did he sleep?”

“
Restless he was—gave him a
bit of laudanum.” He stood, stretched, and added, “He should sleep
peaceful now.”

“
Thanks.” Myriah sighed,
wondering why she had appointed herself the young man’s
nursemaid.

Fletcher shuffled out of the room,
turned to advise her that he would have Cook send up breakfast, and
warned her not to mention the cause of his master’s indisposition
to the servant.

“
Cook?” asked Myriah. “Then
there are some servants here after all?”

“
Jest be Cook and her two
lads. They comes days, she cooks, they cleans, tends to various
things, and then they are off,” Fletcher said and turned abruptly
to head out.

Myriah sucked in air, poured some
water into the washbasin, and began setting herself to rights. She
would have to ask Tabby to bring her overnight portmanteau to her,
for young Wimborne’s comb was nowhere to be found. “Oh, well,” she
mumbled aloud as she sank into the Queen Anne chair and gazed
ruefully at the patient. Now in the full daylight she could see his
hair was dark blonde, streaked with gold. His face had the
appearance of a boy—just a boy.

There was a knock at the door, and a
young, freckle-faced urchin appeared with a tray. “I brung your
vittles,” said the wide-eyed boy as he placed the tray on a nearby
table. “Fletcher—well … he said … young master took sick and you be
tending him.”

“
Thank you,” Myriah said,
dismissing the curious boy with a gentle but firm look.

She swallowed the tea and devoured the
buns in a trice, all too aware that some of her aches were due to
hunger.

Boredom set in quickly, and she moved
toward the long, diamond-paned window overlooking the estate
grounds. The estate was obviously suffering from neglect. The lawns
were overgrown, the flowerbeds needed weeding, bushes sadly wanted
pruning, and the stables were in dismal need of paint. It would
appear the Wimbornes had fallen upon hard times.

Surely this had once been an elegant
home, for the furniture was exquisite, though the material could
stand a good cleaning.

A sound from the bed made her look
around, and she discovered her patient had tossed off his covers.
She hurriedly soaked some cloth and began pressing it to his head,
bringing up the blanket to cover his exposed chest.

For the next two hours he tossed,
fretted, and called for ‘Kit.’ It was all she could do to keep him
from tearing off the bandages. At last Tabson came in.

“
I’ve put your bag in the
room you took last night, m’lady—thought ye might be needing
it.”

“
Oh, Tab, thank you—I do.
But would you stay here with him awhile? He is burning up, and I
want to go to the kitchen and prepare a tisane to ease the
fever.”

“
Yes, m’lady.”

She went downstairs and cautiously
made her way to the kitchen. Once there she found a pleasant,
round-faced woman scurrying about with pots and pans and giving
orders to her sons.

“
Excuse me?” Myriah called
attention to herself.

The woman was startled into a gasp,
but then simply nodded a silent greeting and waited, obviously
uncertain what to make of the young woman before her.

“
I am so sorry to interrupt
your work. I am Miss …” Myriah hesitated to give away her identity
and came up with, “Miss White. I … I was on my way to my family in
Dover when we lost our way. I remembered that my cousin’s home was
nearby, and so we stopped here for a night’s shelter.

“
Apparently Cousin
William”—she hurriedly adopted him—“has a fever, and so my groom
and I will remain until he is feeling more the thing. I do hope you
will not be put out too unduly by our sudden descent upon
you.”

Cook appeared to like Myriah’s
manners, for she smiled readily and replied she was happy her
master had someone to look after him.

Myriah then asked to be given the
herbs she needed for the tisane. It didn’t take long to stir and
prepare the brew, and soon Myriah was back in Wimborne’s
bedchamber.

Tabby held him up while Myriah
attempted to get the potion into him. This accomplished, Tab was
dismissed, and Myriah continued applying a cloth soaked in
rosewater to his head. He continued to toss for a few moments,
rambling incoherent words, and then he drifted off.

A light lunch was sent up to Myriah,
and Fletcher attempted to relieve her, but she would have none of
it. For some odd reason she felt she had to care for her ‘new
charge’.

At length his sleep seemed more
relaxed, and then suddenly she saw him open his eyes. She was
beside him instantly. He scanned her face and smiled feebly as his
memory returned, and then his lids closed and he seemed to sleep
again.

For an hour Myriah watched the changes
of expressions flit over his face while he slept. She was fairly
certain he was out of the woods and that the fever had broken when
all at once he began to start tossing again and fretfully calling
for Kit.

Who the devil was Kit, she wondered as
she soothed his agitation. His forehead was on fire, and Myriah had
a sudden urge to cry. He couldn’t die, she couldn’t let him die,
but he had lost so much blood! Again she wiped away the sweat from
his face, neck, and chest. She cooled his forehead with rosewater,
and she prayed.

When he seemed to relax and began
sleeping peacefully, Myriah wrung her hands, hoping this was a good
sign as she sank down on her chair. Weary with physical discomfort
and mental stress, she closed her eyes, laid her head back, and
tried to compose her faculties.

“
I may be in Hell, but I
have changed my mind—you are an angel!” Wimborne croaked out,
startling her forward.

“
Mr. Wimborne!” Myriah
exclaimed, going to take his hand. “Oh, oh, you do look better—not
well, but ever so much better.”

“
Thanks to you.” He grinned
boyishly at her.

She smiled and squeezed his hand. “Oh,
no. Thanks to your good man, Fletcher. He has a wondrous skill with
a knife. But you lie still now … I shall be back in a moment. What
you need now is some gruel.”

“
No,” said the man,
horrified.

“
Well, not perhaps right
away. First I will bring you some tea and toast,” she said, taking
pity and hurrying out of the room.

Some time later, having plied her
patient with buttered toast and tea, Myriah watched him fall off to
sleep, feeling extraordinarily pleased with herself. She had
herself only dozed for a few minutes when a knocking at the open
door roused her and she found Fletcher in its frame ready to
relieve her.

She smiled and dragged herself to her
bedchamber, threw off her clothes, and sank naked beneath the satin
coverlets, where she fell quickly off to sleep.

Dreams plagued her peace. They were
muddled, lost in time, sending images to taunt and harass her. Sir
Roland was there; he grabbed her and held her, and all she wanted
to do was run…

* * *

Kit Wimborne, sixth Viscount of
Wimborne Towers, had arrived at his home well after dinner to find
it shrouded in darkness. He unsaddled his horse himself in the
courtyard rather than wake his elderly groom and set the horse into
the pasture. He was tired from the day’s work and thinking about
the future.

He shrugged off his greatcoat and hung
it on the wall rack just inside the kitchen entrance before he
poured himself a shot of whisky and downed it.

Lantern in hand, he moved upstairs to
his bedchamber. He was surprised that the drapes in his room had
been pulled tight but was too tired to contemplate the mystery. He
set the lit lantern on a side table and shrugged out of his
clothes. He then picked up the lantern and made his way to his bed,
setting the lantern on the nightstand. However, there he stopped
short.

Someone with long, flaming ringlets of
hair was lying face down, covered only to her waist—in his
bed!

His first thought made him grin. His
puppy of a brother had no doubt brought her home with him, but why
would the rascal send her off to his bedchamber?

Drape mystery solved, and another one
to contemplate … in a bit, but first …?

He sat beside the woman just as she
rolled over. He got a full view of her face and a slight view of
her full and luscious breasts.

Damn! He gently and deftly pulled away
the thick, fiery tresses from their owner’s face and shoulders to
have a better look at her face.

The object of these ministrations
sighed contentedly as he sucked in air and felt a moment’s
enchantment. She was ravishing, and he released a soft
whistle.

He pulled a rueful grin as he thought
his brother had certainly won himself a worthy piece of
muslin—worthy a full grown and experienced man … such as
himself.

His decision to have a better and more
detailed look at the creature lying unsuspectingly in his bed was a
natural occurrence, given the circumstances, believing as he did
that she had been paid for her night’s services.

Again, his hands worked dexterously as
he removed the quilted covering from the beauty’s tantalizing form.
His eyes wandered slowly and appreciatively over her lush curves
and her tantalizing nipples. Then she moaned and turned once more
onto her stomach and gave him a view of her exquisite
back.

She shivered suddenly, and his
lordship sought to remove her discomfort by covering her—with his
own naked body. He put his arm across her and leaned over her lithe
form, a sudden spark reviving his blood and chasing away all
thought of sleep.

“
Now what to do with you,
sweet,” he murmured. Grinning, he thought, One shouldn’t infringe
on one’s brother’s property—but really, Billy, why the devil did
you put her in my bed? This question repeated itself, and still
grinning, his lordship decided the only thing to do in such a
situation was to wake her—his way!

His fingers moved sensuously as they
stroked her soft, bare arms. He shifted position so he was
stretched right up against her silky, naked body, and his hard dick
began to dance and play…

He nibbled at her delicate ears and
placed a warm kiss on her throat. She groaned pleasurably. The
sound stimulated him, and one masculine calf straddled her
outstretched legs as he leaned over her and took her mouth with
his.

* * *

Myriah felt the sweet pressure, and
her dream took on a new force, one that sent a fire bolt racing
through her veins. Her arms went around the virile, muscular body,
the source of her dream’s acute burning. Dreaming … she had to be
dreaming—how else would she be holding a rock-hard, muscular body
in her arms?

All at once Myriah was awake. Unable
to speak in spite of the fact that her lips were now quite free,
she lay staring in utter disbelief at the stranger she was still
holding in her arms. She lay for a moment in quiet astonishment,
trying to collect her thoughts as she stared at the stranger’s
face.

He was smiling provocatively, and she
noted the ruggedness of his features. Somehow, they seemed
familiar. But he was a stranger nonetheless—and he was in her bed,
taking advantage of her.