Anne O'Brien - Puritan Bride

‘Is the young man badly injured? I can fetch Elspeth from the kitchen if you deem it necessary.’ Verzons bent over the settle with some concern.

‘No. I think not.’ Marlbrooke stripped off his gloves and shrugged out of his coat for the second time that night and handed them to his steward. ‘He fell from his horse at the Common crossroads and hit his head. There is no need, I think, to disturb the rest of the household at this hour. I’ll carry him up to one of the bedrooms if you would send some cloths and warm water, and some wine—for me, if not for him.’

‘Certainly, my lord. And there is food prepared when you are ready.’

Marlbrooke nodded. ‘Is my mother still awaiting me?’

‘No, my lord. Lady Elizabeth retired some little time ago. I believe she has not been well today. Mistress Felicity is, I understand, still in the parlour.’

The Viscount grimaced in recognition of his steward’s bland expression. ‘We will not disturb her!’

‘Certainly not, my lord. It will not be necessary.’ Verzons bowed his understanding and vanished into the shadowy fastness of the house.

Groaning at the strain on his tired muscles, the Viscount bent and lifted the youth, climbed steadily up the main staircase and shouldered his way into the first unoccupied bedroom on the first floor. The lad might not be heavy, but the events of the night were beginning to take their toll. The room was cold and barely furnished, not from neglect rather than simply long unoccupancy, but the bed had fresh linen and newly laundered curtains and a fire had been thoughtfully laid in the hearth. The panelled walls had been recently polished, as had the floor. There was a pleasant pervading scent of beeswax and herbs. As he thankfully deposited his burden on the bed, a servant arrived with candles.

‘Robert!’ Marlbrooke smiled his thanks. ‘Perhaps you would light the fire. Even the mice could die of cold in here.’

‘Yes, my lord.’ Robert grinned as he knelt to comply. ‘Master Verzons asked if he should send up food?’

‘No. Not yet. Let’s see how much damage the lad has done to himself.’

He took a candle and placed it by the bed as he freed the youth from his enveloping cloak. He had been correct in his first assessment. He was indeed young with a light frame and slender build. His face was ashen, waxy in texture, which roused Marlbrooke’s immediate fears, but his fingers were able to detect a faint but steady pulse beneath his jawline. The short dark hair was matted with blood from a deep gash to the skull. Marlbrooke investigated with gentle fingers. It had bled copiously, as did all head wounds, but was now beginning to clot. A deep bruise was developing on the forehead and temple where the stony surface of the road had made hard contact and removed a layer of skin in a deep graze. The collar and sleeve of his jacket, as well as the sleeveless jerkin worn over it, were soaked with blood, but hopefully from the head wound only. He appeared to be otherwise unharmed, but the shallow breathing worried Marlbrooke—a blow to the head from a horse’s hoof could be fatal, but there was nothing to be done in the short term but clean the wound and wait for time and nature to take its course.

But who was he? His clothes were of good quality, if plain and serviceable. Most likely from a local gentry family—of Puritan inclination, since there was none of the lace and ribbons adopted by Royalists. The jacket was buttoned to the neck over the now bloodstained linen shirt. His leather boots were worn, but soft and well made. No clues here. The pockets of his coat, quickly searched, yielded nothing to identify the traveller.

With deft movements, as gently as possible, Marlbrooke manoeuvred the boy’s arms out of his coat. No signs of further wounds were apparent apart from an angry swollen wrist that was probably nothing more than a bad sprain. Elspeth could dress it on the morrow. He pulled off and discarded the boots. No sprains or broken bones. He ripped open the ties at the neck of the stained linen shirt, hoping that the blood here was merely from the head wound and nothing more sinister.

And his fingers froze.

Exposed before him in the flickering light from the candle were the unmistakable delicate bones and obvious form of a young girl. He took a deep breath and expelled the air slowly as realisation hit him. Small firm breasts with exquisite pink nipples. Sharp collar bones. Fragile shoulders. A tapering waist, the ribcage visible under the skin. Skin as pale and silken as any that could fill a man’s dreams or fantasies. He drew a fingertip along one delicate collarbone in a whisper-soft caress. She reminded him for all the world of a fledgling tipped from its nest by some malignant force. He sighed, touched by compassion, before drawing together the edges of the shirt with great care and respect for her modesty.

The Viscount lifted the candle to give his attention to her face. With knowledge it was distinctly feminine. It was an arresting face, cast into clear relief by the short revealing hair, which, with hindsight, showed signs of being inexpertly hacked off at back and sides with a less than sharp blade. Long dark lashes, well marked brows, a straight nose. Her face was relaxed, but shadows marked the fragile skin beneath her eyes and the bruising on her temple was outrageous. As he pushed her hair gently back from her temples he noted its tendency to curl round his fingers. Her hands, which he lifted and turned over in his own, were fine boned, long fingered and clearly those of a well-born lady. This was not a girl who had worked for her living on the land or in the kitchen. As he released them he felt a strange tug at his senses. She was beautiful. How could he possibly have thought that she was a boy? He touched her cheek, so pale, so soft, with the back of his hand.

The girl opened her eyes. They were a deep blue, the colour of delphiniums, and now almost indigo with pain and confusion. They were blurred, uncomprehending, as they moved searchingly over her line of vision. Then her gaze stopped and focused on his face. Suddenly they were filled with fear, a nameless terror. Tears gathered and began to trickle down her cheeks into the pillow and her ravaged hair. She said nothing.

He was caught in that blue gaze for the length of a slow heartbeat, trapped in their sapphire depths, unable to do anything but wipe away the spangled drops from her cheeks.

‘Don’t cry,’ he murmured. ‘You are quite safe here. There is no one to hurt you here.’ What terrible circumstance could have driven her to cut her hair and ride the perilous roads at the dead of night dressed as a boy?

The girl gave no recognition that she had heard him. She closed her eyes as if to shut out a world that threatened to engulf her in nameless horrors.

Marlbrooke swallowed and rose to his feet from his seat on the edge of the bed. He turned to the hovering servant, who was as yet unaware of the deception unfolding in the quiet room.

‘Has he come round, my lord? Doesn’t look too good, does he?’

‘No, Robert. He does not. If you would rouse Mistress Neale with my apologies, ask her to come with all speed. It would seem that I need help here.’

The Viscount lifted and spread the embroidered bedcover over the still figure and stood, hands on hips, looking down on her. Then he moved to the chair by the struggling fire to wait. But he could not take his eyes from her.

‘Good morning, madam. You look well. And remarkably fetching in rose silk. Is it new? Ah, Felicity … I have brought you the books you requested. I believe that Verzons will have taken them from Jenks last night and have them in his keeping. And these—’ holding out a number of slim volumes to Lady Elizabeth with guileless grace ‘—should keep you entertained and make your heart beat a little faster, my lady.’