Destitute On His Doorstep

As if he read her thoughts and not unacquainted with hardship—he had not forgotten the pain of it—he said, ‘I am not as heartless or as unfeeling as I might sound. At least let me offer you accommodation. My invitation that you remain as my guest still stands,’ he offered, hoping she would, astonishing himself.

‘I must reject your invitation. I will not inhabit the same house as a Roundhead,’ she replied.

Francis was relieved that her reply sounded more of a statement than a heated exchange of anger. ‘No, I though not. So—where are you planning to go?’

‘That is no concern of yours.’

‘Humour me,’ he said drily. ‘You have to go somewhere.’ When she didn’t reply and continued to look down at her hands, trying to hold on to his patience, in exasperation he said, ‘Mistress Lucas, are you always this disagreeable and stubborn?’

She glanced up at him. ‘My father always told me that I have a unique talent for it.’

Glancing down at her, Francis thought he glimpsed a shadow of a smile curving her soft mouth as she lowered her head once more. ‘I’m beginning to realise that. Might I make a suggestion?’

‘Please do.’

‘Your steward’s house is empty. You could stay there for the time being …’ A smile touched his lips. ‘Rent-free, naturally.’

‘That won’t be necessary. I may not have the money to pay the fine on Bilborough, but I am not destitute. I can pay my way.’

‘So you agree to live in the steward’s house?’

‘I am left with no choice.’

‘But you do have a choice.’

The dark eyes narrowed. ‘And I told you that I will not stay under the same roof as a Roundhead.’

‘As you wish.’ He turned away from her and shoved another log into the fire with his booted foot. ‘But I wonder if all that pride of yours will keep you warm at night and your belly full.’

Jane lowered her gaze, too aware of her situation to make any denials. ‘One must be practical.’

‘My thoughts exactly.’ His hard blue eyes narrowed as they took in her uncovered head and gown in one coldly speculative glance, and he raised his brows. ‘In which case, might I suggest that unless you wish to draw attention to yourself from the authorities, you remove what you are wearing and dress yourself in normal apparel.’

Burning colour flooded her face, and placing her hands in the small of her waist, she moved closer to him, glaring at him, her eyes overbright with an oncoming fever. ‘Dear me, sir, you really are a Puritan through and through, aren’t you—condemning those who are given to frivolity and prefer to wear lace and silken-coloured gowns instead of the morbid black of a crow. No doubt you think there is too much laughter in the world, too many people intent on enjoying themselves, no matter what the cost to their immortal souls.’

Francis became still and Jane’s breath caught as he stepped nearer.

All his senses completely involved with her, Francis felt an overwhelming desire to take her arms and shake some sense into her, or to drag her into his own. Her soft ripe curves beckoned him, made his body starved of a woman for too long ache with the want of her. Her loveliness quickened his very soul, stirring his mind with imaginings of what loveliness lay hidden from view beneath her provocative red dress. It was a long time since he had felt this need in him to feel the warmth of a woman, to sweep her up in his arms and ease the lust in his loins. Were he to do so, he could well imagine Miss Lucas’s outrage.

A lazy smile crept across his face and Jane’s heart skipped a beat. Francis Russell had a smile that could melt a glacier. All she was conscious of was a sense of complication and confusion. Everything had suddenly changed. His powerful, animal-like masculinity was an assault on her senses. Moistening her lips, she could almost feel her body offer itself to this man, this Roundhead, this stranger—and yet he wasn’t a stranger, not to her, and in that instant they both acknowledged the forbidden flame ignited between them.

Francis drew a ragged breath, wishing he could understand why she seemed so familiar to him. By an extreme effort of will he replied casually, ‘I am a man of the Civil War. That does not make me a Puritan who would tell you to cover yourself and say that your appearance is unseemly in the eyes of the Lord—that your breasts are as wantonly exposed as your brazen, flaunting hair.’

The warmly mellow tones of Colonel Russell’s voice were imbued with a rich quality that seemed to vibrate through Jane’s womanly being. To her amazement, the sound evoked a strangely pleasurable disturbance in areas far too private for an untried virgin even to consider. As evocative as the sensations were, she didn’t quite know what to make of them. She glanced up at him, cheeks aflame.

‘Then since you are not a Puritan, Colonel Russell, you would not say those things?’ He shook his head. ‘So my state of dress, immodest as it is, would not trouble you?’

‘Not in the slightest, but for your own safety you would do well to heed my words.’

‘Oh, I shall, sir, but I will continue to wear what I please. Nothing you may say or do will persuade me to discard this dress. And you cannot force me to do so.’

‘Can I not?’ He looked at her with that faint amusement that she was already learning to detest. It was the same look that he might give to a bad-tempered, obstinate child. An amused look, but quelling. ‘I believe that you know better than that, and since my method of persuasion might be construed as rough, it might be as well, while you reside on this estate, to do exactly as you are told.’

Jane was tempted to tell him that she would reside anywhere but near him, but seeing Mary standing in the doorway, she considered it wise to hold her tongue. Never had she felt so wretched or confused. Later she would break down and weep, but at that moment she was caught in an icy world from which she could not escape.

‘The steward’s house is habitable. I’ll instruct the housekeeper to have some food sent over and some linen.’

His eyelids lowered, masking the expression in his eyes. A muscle pumped along his jaw and Jane felt herself dismissed in a way that she thought was disconcertingly regal—for a Parliamentary man.

‘Excuse me. I would like to go and have a word with Mary.’

Her head throbbing, Jane began to cross the hall when suddenly nausea rose in her throat and she stumbled, finding it difficult to breathe. Placing the back of her hand to her forehead as her vision became blurred, she stopped to overcome a wave of dizziness. She summoned her will-power to keep upright, but she had no strength left and her thoughts refused to obey her. Dimly she heard Mary call her name and was aware that Colonel Russell was striding towards her, then she swayed and slumped to the floor with no memory of falling.

From far away she heard one of the servants gasp and say, ‘Is it the plague?’ and Colonel Russell briskly order the doctor to be sent for.

No, a voice shrieked in Jane’s throbbing head. No—not that. Not the plague. It couldn’t be. Dear God, no, it screamed as she was swept up into a pair of strong arms, where she struggled before she was enshrouded in darkness.

Jane sensed the presence of someone in the darkened room as she floated in a comfortable grey haze. Always there were hands and voices near her, muffled and meaningless, flowing past her in a whispering stream, but she could not pay attention and was incapable of joining them. She was content to linger in this blissful state, because it allowed her to evade the haunting questions and nameless fears lurking at the back of her mind.

Reason and memory played no part in the timeless vacuum in which she existed. She was living and breathing, but set apart from the world. With a natural buoyancy her mind began to rise slowly upwards, and then there was a tiny aura of light. Voices drifted towards her down a long tunnel, the words muted, encouraging her to respond.

‘Jane? Can you hear me?’

The voice was soft and close to her ear and familiar. She felt panic as she was a drawn up into the world of awareness. She felt quite odd, but for the first time in unaccountable days, the fever clouds had rolled back. A great weariness weighted down her limbs.

‘Jane?’

She tried to open her eyes, but they were stuck tight. Suddenly she remembered where she was and what had happened before she had collapsed. She also remembered the words the servant had uttered and in her dark world the reality that she might have the dreaded plague hit her.

‘Where does it hurt?’

The question was so irrelevant in the context of the discomfort that consumed her that, if she hadn’t known she was dying, she would have laughed. Fear, the weakness she despised above all others, spread through her, evading all her efforts to subdue it, and a tremor passed through her at the thought of her life being cut short by such a terrible disease.

‘I—I cannot open my eyes. They’re so sore,’ she whispered. Her voice was weak and hoarse and her throat and lips were dry. Her body was burning hot. Hearing the sound of a cloth being dipped in water, she breathed a sigh of relief when she felt someone bathe the stickiness from her eyes that kept them glued together.

‘There, is that better?’ Mary murmured.

Jane’s eyes flickered open and she nodded and blinked. Painful shards of brightness caused her to close them again and she winced, quickly shading them with her hand.

‘It’s the light,’ a man’s voice said. ‘Pull the curtains.’

Again she blinked her eyes. The room was darker now. The air in the room was strangely still, the colours in the fabrics muted. The indistinct shadow of the man gradually became clearer. He gained her full attention. Inexplicably a sharp pang of anxiety ran through her even before she saw his face clearly.

Disconcerted, she pressed back against the pillows and eyed him warily as he came closer. Probing her memory, she fathomed the cause of her dismay. The darkly handsome face should have stirred feelings in her woman’s breast. Yet there was something about the moment that made her heart lurch and grow cold within her chest.

She opened her mouth to speak, but a hoarse croak was the only sound she could manage. Mary, recognising her need, slipped an arm beneath her shoulders and raised her up and placed the rim of a cup containing cold water to her lips. When she had quenched her thirst, Mary lowered her back on to the pillows.

‘There. How are you feeling now?’

‘I’m not sure,’ she replied. Her clothes had been removed and she now wore one of the two nightgowns she had brought with her. Her gaze moved searchingly around the room that was so achingly familiar to her. This had been her parents’ room. She lay in a large four-poster bed with overdrapes of scarlet and green.

The man she recognised as Francis Russell was watching her closely, hands on lean hips, short dark hair slightly tousled. His eyes were bright and vivid blue, as blue as the sky on a summer’s day. She frowned, wondering why he was here.

‘I’m glad to see you are back with us, Mistress Lucas,’ he said, his voice imbued with warmth. ‘You were sleeping so soundly we were beginning to wonder if you would ever wake. As it is you’ve slept two nights and most of three days.’

Francis had been deeply concerned about her. From the moment she’d been confined to bed he’d enquired after her almost hourly. Mary had assured him that although Jane was very ill the physician was confident she would make a good recovery. When Mary had left the room to fetch fresh linen, he’d gone in to see for himself. As he’d stared down at her, her gleaming hair spilling over the pillows, guilt and fear made his chest ache. She looked so ill, but what struck him forcibly was how small she looked in that great bed, tucked around with bedcovers and pillows.

When she’d arrived at Bilborough, she had faced him with all the self-assurance of an educated, prim and proper young lady. But when he’d gazed down upon her face, unguarded in sleep, there was nothing prim about that soft, generous mouth and those long curling lashes that lay like crescents against her cheeks. He realised as he watched her chest rise and fall with fitful little gasps, how vulnerable she was, how innocent she looked. She had told him she had no family. It would seem she needed him more than she realised and the urge to protect he’d felt on their first encounter was stronger than ever.

When Mary had returned and seen the deeply etched lines of fatigue and strain on his face she’d urged him to get some rest—’Otherwise when she opens her eyes the sight of you might frighten her into a relapse.’

‘You do remember me?’ he asked softly, and as he spoke with a lightness to his words, no one would guess at the terror that had gripped his heart when she’d collapsed and how he’d prayed to God for the first time in years not to let her die.

She nodded, but the movement made her head hurt. ‘Yes, Colonel Russell,’ she answered tightly, feeling the dreamlike sense of submergence threatening to engulf her again. ‘I remember you.’

He moved to stand closer, lending her his undivided attention. She could not take her eyes off him, for never had she seen a man as handsome as he was. His dark hair, curling slightly, was just long enough at the nape to brush the open collar of a shirt that appeared no less than dazzling white in the dimmed light. ‘Please don’t,’ she said, suddenly alarmed that he was about to venture too close. Struggling to raise her head, she was overcome by a dry cough. When the cough had abated she managed to gasp, ‘Please don’t come any closer. You mustn’t.’

He ignored her and came to stand next to the bed, looming over her. ‘And why not, pray?’

‘You’ll become infected.’

‘I’m quite safe. I had the illness when I was a lad.’

‘Then you were fortunate to survive it. Better if you all leave me to die in peace.’

‘Die? Who said anything about dying?’ He chuckled low in his throat. ‘Dear me, Mistress Lucas, you are feeling sorry for yourself.’

Jane’s eyes widened in disbelief at his cruelty. ‘Sir, you are indeed a callous brute. I know the plague spares very few.’

His eyebrows arched upwards. ‘The plague? Who mentioned the plague?’

She stared at him dazedly. ‘Why—I—I thought …’

He seemed suddenly amused. ‘There is no need for alarm. According to the physician who examined you, you have nothing more serious than the measles.’

Jane looked at him, suddenly feeling very foolish. ‘The measles?’

He nodded. ‘Show her, Mary.’

Mary produced a mirror. Turning her head away Jane peered into it, unable to believe it was herself staring back. Her face was covered with a red blotchy rash. She was appalled by what she saw. Tears welled in her eyes and she bit her trembling lip. ‘Oh—just look at me. I look dreadful. I—I was convinced I had …’

‘The plague? No, Mistress Lucas,’ Francis said, seeing the gallant effort she made to bring herself under control before she turned her head on the pillow and looked at him once more. ‘Measles can be serious, but the physician is convinced you will get well. He has advised that you remain in bed for a few days. You must drink plenty and he’s left medicine for you to take that should ease your cough. The rash should fade in a few days, although your cough may persist a little longer. I’m afraid you will have to stay here for the time being.’

Having just been subjected to several moments of fear and feeling more than a little foolish, Jane reacted with a flash of anger, which had more to do with feeling mortified that he should see her looking so ugly, so wretched—which did nothing for her self-esteem—than anything else.

‘With you?’

‘I’m afraid so. Unless …’ he smiled lazily, mocking her with her own words ‘… you insist on leaving, since you have an aversion to residing under the same roof as a Roundhead.’

Jane stared at him, wishing she were not confined to bed so she could strike out at him. ‘I am sorry to impose on you. I can imagine how my presence must inconvenience you. I shall do my best to get well and be out of here as soon as I am able.’

Francis met her angry gaze with an amused smile, momentarily awed by her eyes as they caught a stray shaft of light penetrating a crack in the heavy curtains. For the moment they looked so dark as to be almost black, emphasising the redness of the ugly rash that marred her lovely face. With some difficulty he dragged his mind to full attention. He knew she was feeling most unwell and upset and pondered how he might soothe her fears.

‘You do not inconvenience me, Mistress Lucas. My only concern is for your state of health and your welfare,’ he assured her on a softer note. ‘You are welcome to remain as my guest for as long as you wish.’

‘Thank you. I am indeed grateful,’ she uttered tightly. ‘But it is a strange feeling to be treated as a guest in my own home.’

‘I hope you will continue to treat it as such while you are here,’ he replied, ignoring her sarcasm. ‘I had quite a struggle getting you up here. If nothing else, I’m glad to see your temper has improved.’

‘My temper? Why—did I object when …?’

‘You did. The language you used would have made a seaman blush.’

‘I—I didn’t …’

‘Yes, you did—is that not so, Mary?’

From across the room where the housekeeper busied herself, she nodded. ‘I’m afraid she always was too outspoken for her own good.’

‘Why, what did I say?’

A crooked smile accompanied his reply. ‘You have an unladylike turn of phrase, I will say that. I have been a soldier for a good many years, Mistress Lucas, and never have I been more slandered—or my parentage for that matter—nor in such colourful detail. Quite frankly, I was shocked.’

Twin spots of colour grew in her cheeks, but the dim light and the rash did much to hide her blush. ‘Oh, I did not. I think you exaggerate.’

‘And how would you know that? You were delirious. In fact, if I hadn’t thought you might be close to death, I would have been thoroughly entertained.’

‘I’ve never been ill before—at least, not really ill. Not like this.’

His smiling eyes captured hers and held them prisoner until she felt a warmth suffuse her cheeks. He answered with slow deliberation. ‘Then consider yourself fortunate to have excellent health. Some people are not as lucky. In someone with a less robust constitution, a severe bout of the measles can be fatal. How are you feeling now?’

‘As bad as I look.’ She smiled, her expression open and direct. ‘I apologise for not looking my best.’

Francis marvelled at the fact that she could actually joke about it, which gave him the impression that pretensions were completely foreign to her, which made her refreshingly unique. Unfortunately that realisation led quickly to another one, one that banished his pleasure at her recovery and made him take a step back from the bed. There was nothing natural about the way he was thinking about her. He was the last man on earth who had the right to think about her in any personal way.

‘I can see you are tired. I’ll leave you to Mary’s ministrations. And please don’t worry. So as not to upset or anger you, I shall make myself scarce.’ He turned and went to the door.

‘Thank you,’ Jane said quietly.

Francis turned and looked at her. ‘For what?’

Those candid eyes were levelled on his, delving, searching, and Francis had the fleeting impression that they could see right into his blackened soul. She obviously hadn’t got his true measure because she smiled and said, ‘For letting me stay.’

‘You were very ill. I was hardly going to turn you out.’

Jane was very much on Francis’s mind as he left her. The shadow of the dark days of War and his own personal torment were never far from his tortured mind. War and death was an ugly business, the aftermath of battle always messy and merciless. No matter how he had tried to eradicate what he had seen and done from his mind, it had left its mark on him. Like a wound it was painful, deep and festering. War had hardened him and changed the man he once was, but on that fateful day when Jane Lucas had returned to Bilborough, for the first time he had paused to contemplate his meaningless life.

Something had begun to grow within him. At first it was only a vague restlessness, then it had become interest—interest in Jane Lucas. Had he imagined it? Was it a dream that he had conjured from the depths of hopelessness that Jane Lucas had actually returned to her old home? The haunting image of soft, perfect features and rippling dark hair swirling around her shoulders, and ripe, curving breasts swelling almost free of a provocative red gown was branded on his memory with minute detail, stirring an agonising impatience that could only be relieved when he could hold her in his arms.

In increasing frustration he flung himself on to his bed. Was it possible that where Jacob Atkins’s brutality had failed, the illusion of Jane Lucas came close to breaking him? In desperation he held the vision, for when it faded it would be replaced by a gruesome one of a dimly lit room, of being beaten and slowly tortured by a one-eyed sadist.

True to his word Francis kept away, but he did enquire of Mary how Jane was doing. Wearily Jane knew he did so probably out of duty or an unexpected pity, or guilt that he had been the catalyst of the whole sorry business.

Now the fever was gone she was restless and insisted on getting out of bed. After four days the measles rash had turned brown and began to fade, but her cough, though not as severe, persisted.

One week after she had taken to her bed, the world still felt unreal. When she thought of the future a sudden fear threatened to engulf her. However, she was relieved there was no word, no sign of Jacob Atkins.

The hardest and most painful thing of all was accepting that Bilborough Hall was no longer her home. She begrudged Francis Russell every stone and blade of grass, every fraction of his unearned possession, and she never expected to feel any different.

It was early afternoon and she sat by the window curled up in a large chair, her feet tucked under her nightgown and feeling pretty miserable. Nothing stirred outside the window and the house was quiet. Leaving her perch, she paced the room. Intense boredom was beginning to drive her insane. Crossing to the door, she opened it and peered out, looking up and down the landing, vaguely aware of Scamp scurrying out and disappearing round a corner, delighted to be freed from the confines of the room. Immediately on the heels of his flight, something rattled and crashed to the floor.

Wondering what her mischievous pet had sent flying, she hurried to investigate. Her curiosity went unappeased, for as she turned the corner she came to a mind-jarring halt against an obstacle firmly standing in her path. The following moments became a time of utter chaos. With dazed senses, she reeled away haphazardly. The threat of falling seemed imminent as her bare foot slipped on the highly polished floor. In the next instant, an arm stretched out and clamped about her waist in an unyielding vise. Before she could gather her wits, she was swept full length against a solid human structure that, by rights, should have made her hackles rise. The thin fabric of her nightgown seemed insufficient protection against the stalwart frame, and she had cause to wince within the unyielding embrace of the man who clasped her so tightly.

In an attempt to regain her dignity, immediately she pushed him away, relieved when he let his arms fall and released her. Upon reclaiming her freedom, she stepped away from him, only to find that the object Scamp had overturned was a large vase of flowers, the water having formed a pool around her feet. She slipped once more and found herself completely off balance, her arms flailing wildly about her in a frantic attempt to catch hold of something to stop herself falling. The only thing within her grasp was the front of the leather jerkin the man was wearing and in desperation she clutched at it. Even then she failed to regain her footing and as she went down her shoulder made hard contact with Colonel Russell’s loins.