Lara Temple - Lord Stanton's Last Mistress

After a week, his pulse steadied and she noticed his expression change when she read the newspapers, his sharply carved mouth shifting as if in internal conversation with the topic. Politics would be accompanied by a frown and news of London society with a faint curl of his thin upper lip. But his face became most expressive when she indulged in her own fascination—the advertisements in the agony columns. She had never read these before, but when she exhausted the more respectable pages of the two newspapers she became completely enthralled in reading them. There was something so touching and perplexing about them—little snippets of drama and romance that would remain unexplained for ever. Without even noticing it she began discussing them with her unconscious patient.

‘Here, listen to this,’ she informed him. ‘This is a very passionate fellow. ‘“ To M-A ”—which I presume is Maria, or could it be Margarita? That would add an exotic touch. Anyway, he writes: “ Do I deserve this? ” In capital letters, too. I wonder if that costs more? Then he continues: “ Is it generous? Is it equitable? If I hear not from you by Wednesday hence I will strike thy graven memory from my heart and endeavour to efface thy sweet smile from my soul. Orlando .” This was three weeks ago, so Wednesday has come and gone and I shall never know if Orlando has been blessed by his Maria or whether she has chosen someone rather more sensible. I think living life in capital letters might be a little tiring. Oh, no—here, this one is even worse! “ To P. If you could conceive of the sorrow and despair into which I am plunged, you would not raise your head. With you I could suffer every privation. Alone I am all misery. A hint of kindness could obliterate all pain. S.B .” Goodness. Well, I think it is very brave to put such pain on paper, but I cannot imagine ever writing something so...’

‘Maudlin.’

The paper scrunched between her hands. The word was faint but decisive and for a moment she searched the room for its source until she realised it came from the Englishman. He was awake, not the brief surfacing of the past few days, but truly awake and inspecting her. Lucid, his eyes were even more dramatic—as sharp and steely as a sword.

‘Where the devil am I?’ he asked as she remained tongue-tied, her pulse as fast as his had been at the height of his fever.

‘Illiakos.’

‘Illi... Hell. I remember. The storm. They shot at us.’

‘They thought you were pirates.’ She tried to be conciliating, thinking of the King.

‘We were flying Maltese colours. Clear as day.’

‘Yes, well, it wasn’t. A clear day, that is.’

He groaned as he tried to shift on the bed.

‘I remember. The blasted fog. We rode up on the shoals. Why are you reading the agony columns? Out loud, too, for pity’s sake.’

‘King Darius requested that I read the English newspapers to you. He thought it would help you recover.’

‘That mawkish pap is more likely to send me into a decline. I had no idea people wrote such drivel.’

‘It is not drivel to them. Anyone willing to bare his or her soul like that deserves some sympathy, whether you approve or not.’

His mouth relaxed slightly in what might have been the beginning of a smile. It was the first time she had seen that expression on his face and her pulse, which had begun to calm, went into another gallop.

‘You didn’t sound very approving yourself just now, so I don’t think you can claim the moral high ground.’

Christina flushed, wondering how on earth they had reached the middle of an argument when she should really be summoning the doctor or doing something sensible, but the taunting glimmer of amusement in his eyes kept her in her seat and she groped for something to say.

‘For your information, I have already read you the political pages from end to end. Twice. And those are equally as depressing. More so.’

He frowned.

‘I remember now—you were reading something about the Tsar and the Sultan. But that news was well over a month old.’

‘The mail takes a while to reach us. The pirates have made trade difficult so the ships travel in convoys. Hopefully next week we will receive new newspapers from Athens.’

‘We... Who are you and why are you wearing a tent? You sound like you’re underwater.’

‘It is a bridal veil,’ she replied, with as much dignity as possible. ‘Brides on Illiakos wear them in public for the first month of marriage. It symbolises the period during which the married couple is dedicated wholly to one another.’

‘Good God, more sentimental drivel. I don’t envy you or your groom your wedding night.’ His laugh ended in a gasp of pain as he tried to sit up and she dropped the newspaper.

‘Please lie down, the doctor removed the bullet, but you lost a great deal of blood.’

She sat on the side of the bed and pressed him back gently as she had during the throes of his fever. Except it was different now. His skin was no longer burning, but hers was. The moment her palms flattened on his shoulders she froze. She tried to reason that he was merely a sick man she was tending, but that wasn’t what it felt like. Her fingers were trying to curve over the velvet surface that covered the rock-hard ridges of his shoulders. Sitting like that, if she just leaned towards him a little, raised her head... Took off her veils...

She removed her hands, but couldn’t gather any more resolution to rise. So she sat there with her hands clutched in her lap, waiting.

He froze, too, and there was a confused frown in his ice-grey eyes now, as if he was struggling to remember a word.

‘You were here before, weren’t you? I remember...’

He reached for the veils and she surged to her feet, which was a mistake because she tripped on the awkward yards of cloth and stumbled backwards.

‘Careful!’ His arm shot out to right her and with a groan of pain he turned chalk white and fell back.

‘Don’t move.’ Christina’s concern overcame her confusion and she gently pressed back the bandages, sighing with relief at the unbroken scab beneath. ‘That was foolish.’

‘I wasn’t the one leaping like a scalded cat,’ he muttered through gritted teeth. ‘You made your point; I won’t touch the veils. That blasted doctor may have extracted the bullet, but I think he left a sheave of knives inside me instead.’

Despite her discomfort, her mouth curved upwards at his quintessential Englishness.

‘Not a sheave, just one. It is considered good luck.’

‘You are jesting, right?’ His eyes widened and she smiled at the apprehension in his voice.

‘Of course I am. He is merely terrified of the King which makes him a little clumsy. Please lean back while I apply some salve, it will soothe the inflammation and the pain.’

‘I don’t need any more ministering. That fool of a doctor did enough damage already by the look of it, and I’m damned if I will let you smear some noxious folk remedies on an open wound. What I need is to get off this island.’

‘It is merely some boiled herbs, including witch hazel and vinegar which are excellent for preventing putridity in wounds. I promise there are no bat wings and ears of newts. If you wish to recover swiftly, I suggest you let me apply the salve.’

His mouth held firm for a moment at her scold, and then with a curse worthy of a sailor he leaned back and closed his eyes.

His skin was hot and velvety beneath her fingers as she spread the salve. She worked slowly, smoothing it as gently as possible over the reddened area around the wound, her fingers just a butterfly’s flutter on the wound itself. He didn’t wince, but she could feel the tension in his muscles and see it in the way his hands fisted by his sides. She had an almost overwhelming urge to bend down and press a kiss to his bare chest, to ease that control, to reassure, explore... She knew she should draw back, but her fingers kept up their soothing strokes, until she exhausted her excuse and had no choice but to stop.