no less.
Water dripped into the bowl as he held the cloth still. Nobody knows who I am. He’d rushed away from London without leaving much of a coherent message behind him. After he’d discovered a clue about the whereabouts of a document his family was hunting, he’d taken the initiative. If he died, his parents would mourn, even if his brother would not. If they knew where he was, to mourn for him.
He was on his own. Behind enemy lines, hunting down an elusive document that he now didn’t have a hope of discovering. He’d wanted to present himself as a weary traveler, have them welcome him into the house as a fellow Jacobite, but it wasn’t that simple.
At least he was well enough to move. That bout of fever had set him back. He’d have to get out of here and return to London with his tail between his legs. Let his almighty cousin Julius deal with it, as no doubt he planned. Tony was closer to Julius than he was to his brother, but that wasn’t saying much. Every time he tried for a rapprochement with Nick, his brother pushed him away and provoked him into yet another argument. Not that Tony wasn’t capable of causing a few of his own.
When he flexed his muscles, his arm still hurt like hell, but the wound was crusting over, a sure sign recovery was happening as it should now. She must have worked for hours, easing out all the noxious substances.
He took a fresh strip of linen and re-bandaged his arm, deftly fastening the end as he’d done for others in his time. As a soldier, he’d been lucky to escape serious injury. After he’d conquered his father’s efforts to have him sent to the safest regiments, the most luxurious postings, he’d faced death, as soldiers do, and seen injuries to men who had fought by his side, but he’d come away relatively unscathed. Men had vied to join his regiment and serve under him, because they’d seen him as a talisman. He grimaced. Some talisman.
He’d have to tell Julius what he’d done and how close he’d come to death. Not his father though. He’d grieve him. He couldn’t do that again. The remembrance of his father’s face when he told him he’d joined the army would remain with him for the rest of his days. He’d sold out largely because of his father’s urging.
One thing he was sure of. He would not, absolutely not, leave Emmy to suffer the consequences of what she’d done. One way or another, he’d take care of her. Doing his best to ignore the need to hold her close, he climbed into the narrow bed and forced himself to sleep.
* * * *
Tony was waiting eagerly when Emmy returned the next night. She brought food, a bundle of bread, cheese and ham, and that, added to the barrel of small beer Old George had delivered, was plenty. He watched her bustle about. Her movements made him strangely content, considering the beat prowling within him that urged him to throw her down and strip her of her practical clothing.
Old George was the first thing he mentioned. While she was stowing the food safely away out of the reach of the mice that scurried in the rafters, carefully covering it with cloths, he told her about his day, such as it was. “My wound is now well on the way to recovery. Old George brought me food and drink today. If he stood upright, he’d be as tall as his son.”
Laughter lent a cadence to her voice. “Their family has worked for—the family here for generations. Their loyalty belongs to the Thanes, not any cause.”
“Like in the middle ages, when one family gave their loyalty to another and another, right up to the crown.”
Her head bobbed as she ensured the bread was tucked up and stowed. He liked this domesticity. More than liked it.
He began to consider the impossible. What if he could see her like this every day? After all, he wasn’t too important in the scale of things. His estate wasn’t likely to overwhelm her. She must be an upper servant here. Abruptly he asked the question. “What kind of maid are you?”
Her hands
Water dripped into the bowl as he held the cloth still. Nobody knows who I am. He’d rushed away from London without leaving much of a coherent message behind him. After he’d discovered a clue about the whereabouts of a document his family was hunting, he’d taken the initiative. If he died, his parents would mourn, even if his brother would not. If they knew where he was, to mourn for him.
He was on his own. Behind enemy lines, hunting down an elusive document that he now didn’t have a hope of discovering. He’d wanted to present himself as a weary traveler, have them welcome him into the house as a fellow Jacobite, but it wasn’t that simple.
At least he was well enough to move. That bout of fever had set him back. He’d have to get out of here and return to London with his tail between his legs. Let his almighty cousin Julius deal with it, as no doubt he planned. Tony was closer to Julius than he was to his brother, but that wasn’t saying much. Every time he tried for a rapprochement with Nick, his brother pushed him away and provoked him into yet another argument. Not that Tony wasn’t capable of causing a few of his own.
When he flexed his muscles, his arm still hurt like hell, but the wound was crusting over, a sure sign recovery was happening as it should now. She must have worked for hours, easing out all the noxious substances.
He took a fresh strip of linen and re-bandaged his arm, deftly fastening the end as he’d done for others in his time. As a soldier, he’d been lucky to escape serious injury. After he’d conquered his father’s efforts to have him sent to the safest regiments, the most luxurious postings, he’d faced death, as soldiers do, and seen injuries to men who had fought by his side, but he’d come away relatively unscathed. Men had vied to join his regiment and serve under him, because they’d seen him as a talisman. He grimaced. Some talisman.
He’d have to tell Julius what he’d done and how close he’d come to death. Not his father though. He’d grieve him. He couldn’t do that again. The remembrance of his father’s face when he told him he’d joined the army would remain with him for the rest of his days. He’d sold out largely because of his father’s urging.
One thing he was sure of. He would not, absolutely not, leave Emmy to suffer the consequences of what she’d done. One way or another, he’d take care of her. Doing his best to ignore the need to hold her close, he climbed into the narrow bed and forced himself to sleep.
* * * *
Tony was waiting eagerly when Emmy returned the next night. She brought food, a bundle of bread, cheese and ham, and that, added to the barrel of small beer Old George had delivered, was plenty. He watched her bustle about. Her movements made him strangely content, considering the beat prowling within him that urged him to throw her down and strip her of her practical clothing.
Old George was the first thing he mentioned. While she was stowing the food safely away out of the reach of the mice that scurried in the rafters, carefully covering it with cloths, he told her about his day, such as it was. “My wound is now well on the way to recovery. Old George brought me food and drink today. If he stood upright, he’d be as tall as his son.”
Laughter lent a cadence to her voice. “Their family has worked for—the family here for generations. Their loyalty belongs to the Thanes, not any cause.”
“Like in the middle ages, when one family gave their loyalty to another and another, right up to the crown.”
Her head bobbed as she ensured the bread was tucked up and stowed. He liked this domesticity. More than liked it.
He began to consider the impossible. What if he could see her like this every day? After all, he wasn’t too important in the scale of things. His estate wasn’t likely to overwhelm her. She must be an upper servant here. Abruptly he asked the question. “What kind of maid are you?”
Her hands
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