A Well Favored Gentleman: Well Pleasured #2 Page 5

  “How long will they be needed?”

  Alanna turned a long, considering look at the motionless figure of Leslie. “Like your physician, I’ve never seen anything like this, although…well. That’s of no matter. I’ve never seen this. Tell me, how long has he been so stricken?”

  “He wouldn’t say, but I assure you, he sent for me only because he knows he is dying. So”—Ian thought—“at least two months.”

  She turned her gaze to the rotting hulk on the bed, and she tried to still the rush of hate and guilt Leslie Fairchild brought forth in her. Hate because he’d run her away from her home, forced her to grow up and become self-sufficient when she would rather have remained the immature lady of Fionnaway. And guilt because she hated a man doomed to die, and painfully, if the legends were true. “The rumors of his illness have circulated for longer than that.”

  “As I thought.” Ian examined her, his eyes roving her shape with persistent curiosity. Then with a nod, he walked toward the door.

  Her curiosity overcame her good judgment. “May I ask one more question?”

  He swung back and raised a mobile brow. “You haven’t needed permission before.”

  “Why have you answered my questions at all? Why have you not slapped me for my impudence and ordered me to mind my herbs?”

  “Because you’re an intelligent woman.” He grinned, showing sharp teeth that gleamed through his clipped black beard. “An intelligent woman. I’d believed the words were mutually exclusive.”

  Chapter 5

  “Miss Witch?”

  Wilda’s muffled voice brought Alanna’s head around, and she stared through evening’s shadows toward the closed door of the master’s chamber.

  “Miss Witch, are you busy?”

  Alanna looked down at Leslie’s slumbering features, then up at Mrs. Armstrong. Busy? Alanna had been tending him for three days, through raging fits and deathlike stupors, and she thought that qualified as busy.

  But the door creaked open anyway, and Wilda popped her head in. “Isn’t that a silly question? ‘Are you busy?’ Of course you’re busy. Even I know that. But Uncle Leslie isn’t yelling right now, so I thought you’d like to take a walk. Would you like to walk with me?”

  Alanna stared at Wilda, and all she could think was, How beautiful she is. No woman had the right to have hair that glowed golden in sunlight and candlelight. It wasn’t fair, when ash smothered Alanna’s face and rough wool swathed her figure, that this creature should have a silken complexion and wear a gown of amaranths cotton that accented her petite, curvacious figure.

  And what Alanna hated—really, really hated—was that sensible Mrs. Armstrong beamed at Wilda with great fondness. If Alanna had to contend with a beautiful woman in her home, then at least that woman could have the grace to be rude to old ladies and contemptible to the servants.

  “Walk?” Alanna asked in a not-particularly-patient tone. “The sun has set.”

  “Not really. Not quite.” Wilda smiled engagingly and fingered the buttons of her woolen pelisse. “I thought you’d like the darkness, anyway.”

  Alanna was tired. Her mind moved sluggishly, so she asked, “Why?”

  “Well, you’re a witch. Witches like the darkness. I always thought it was because they wanted to do mean things, but you’re being kind to Uncle Leslie, so that can’t be the truth. I mean, anyone who is nice to Uncle Leslie must be either insane or good, and while I am a Fairchild, and as awful as the rest of them, I can still recognize goodness when I see it.”

  “A Fairchild?” For the first time Alanna realized what Wilda was saying. “You’re a Fairchild?”

  Wilda blinked, her dark lashes fluttering. “Didn’t you know?”

  “Nay, why should I?” Alanna asked churlishly.

  “Miss Witch.” Mrs. Armstrong used the sobriquet Wilda had given, but in an admonishing tone.

  Alanna slanted a look at her dear old retainer. Mrs. Armstrong had been wary of her at first, watching to see what demonic behavior the witch exibited.

  Until she’d seen Alanna’s necklace. Her mother had placed the silver chain around Alanna’s neck on the day she turned three, and on her birthday every year thereafter, she had drawn a square stone from the bag offered her. Her mother strung the stone on the chain, and Alanna wore it all that day. Then the necklace was carefully removed and put away until the next year.

  At first she hadn’t understood the ritual. The square, tawny stones were carved with indecipherable scratches that meant nothing to her. But the servants had always waited breathlessly as Mr. Lewis examined her choice, and she’d come to realize they believed their prosperity depended on her. It was a silly custom, really, and in her adolescence she had been quite scornful of it.

  Yet when she’d run away, she’d placed the necklace around her neck, under her clothing, and she had never taken it off. Every year she had gone to Mr. Lewis and drawn another stone from the bag. And once Mrs. Armstrong had heard her speak and noticed the clink of the stones, Alanna’s secret was known to one, at least. But Mrs. Armstrong did not tell tales.

  Unfortunately, Mrs. Armstrong had strong convictions about how the lady of Fionnaway should act. The lady of Fionnaway should be kind, diligent, and hospitable.

  Alanna didn’t want to be, but Mrs. Armstrong assumed the privileges of one who had attended Alanna’s birth, and she did not hesitate to make her opinion known.

  Forcing cordiality into her tone, Alanna said, “I did not realize you were a Fairchild.”

  Wilda’s eyes widened in surprise. “We all look alike.”

  Alanna glanced down at Mr. Fairchild, his countenance lit by branches of candles and by the sun’s fading rays. There, to her surprise, she could see a similitude to the beautiful Wilda in the ravaged features.

  Relief swept her. Relief she had no right to feel.

  Ian was this woman’s cousin, not her lover, and that easily explained his protectiveness.

  But—“Ian does not resemble you.”

  “No, poor man, and he was teased unmercifully about it when he lived at Fairchild Manor, although I think it would be easier to be a Fairchild and look like Ian than be a Fairchild and look like the rest of us, because all of the ton positively recoils when they see us coming.” Wilda tapped the dimple in her chin with her index finger. “Except for the men, of course.”

  “Of course,” Alanna murmured.

  “But I don’t think slobbering is attractive in a gentleman, do you?”

  Wilda appeared to be serious, and a great, unexpected laugh bubbled up in Alanna. She turned it into an old woman’s cackle, and when she could contain herself, said, “I wouldn’t know.”

  “Why not? You were pretty once.”

  Alanna jumped.

  Wilda stepped closer and peered at Alanna. “Very pretty. In fact, you could look much better now. Perhaps I could help you with your appearance and you could help me with my problem.”

  Alanna stared at her in horror.

  Stepping back from Alanna’s concentrated glare, Wilda tapped the pocketbook that hung off her arm. “Maybe you’d be happier if I just crossed your palm with silver?”

  “That would be better.” Alanna stepped out of the candles’ light and hustled toward Wilda, planning her route through the shadowy corridors. “Let us walk while you tell old witchie what she can do for you, Miss Fairchild.”

  They left the master’s chamber and strolled along, Alanna keeping close to the wall. But Wilda said nothing.

  “Miss Fairchild?” Alanna prodded her gently.

  “Oh! I suppose you think I’m silly, don’t you? Waiting to speak to you all this time, trying to make sure Ian wouldn’t see me, and now I can’t think of a thing to say. That is, because Ian was so cross when I came to see you. He made me promise I wouldn’t go seeking you again.”

  “Did he?”

  “He said you were a crafty old woman.”

  “He’s at least a little bit right,” Alanna said with a fair amount of humor.
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br />   “But I didn’t really go seeking you, because you were already here, so I didn’t break my promise, and oh! Miss Witch”—Wilda clasped Alanna’s hand between both of her own—“I have wished for my heart’s desire for so long, and I don’t know who else to ask.”

  Wilda’s clasp startled Alanna in its warmth and kindness. This girl—no, this woman, for she wasn’t as young as she first appeared—touched the old witch without hesitation, without fear. It incongruously reminded Alanna of her mother, and the way she would stroke a cheek, or lay an arm across shoulders, and wordlessly convey affection. “You can ask me anything.”

  Alanna could scarcely believe the words had come from her. She’d intended to brush Wilda off with a little medley of magic-sounding words, not offer commitment.

  After all, Wilda expected real witchcraft.

  “Thank you!” Wilda’s blue eyes glowed sapphire. “I knew Ian was wrong about you. When you came here, I was afraid he’d be hanging about every day and every night, and I’d never find you alone.”

  “Instead he couldn’t wait to abdicate the duty he owed his father,” Alanna snapped.

  “Oh, no.” Wilda dropped Alanna’s hand. “Not Ian.”

  For a woman who talked all the time, she seemed satisfied to say just that.

  Reluctantly Alanna admitted Wilda was right. At first Ian had checked on his witch and her progress frequently, but as she proved herself, he had taken the opportunity to render his duties for Fionnaway. She hated to see the servants come to him with questions, hated to hear him answer the cottagers’ queries with wisdom, yet at the same time, she was glad when he left the manor to roam the estate on Tocsin. His presence close by her shoulder made her uncomfortably aware of her real identity, and his dark gaze made her feel he had stripped away her masquerade.

  Now he was gone all the time, and she was grateful. The estate desperately needed tending, and Ian had a competent manner that inspired trust in the servants, and more important, in herself.

  Alanna didn’t want to think how he would react when she appeared on her twenty-first birthday and demanded the return of Fionnaway. Nor did she want to think she owed him for his management, for she knew the coffers were—had to be—empty.

  She comforted herself she would make it up to him eventually. Somehow. And she didn’t dwell on his anger when he discovered her deception. When he discovered all the deceptions.

  One more step and Wilda and the witch would be in the great hall, with its lights and its comforts, and Alanna didn’t want that. Doing an abrupt about-face, she said, “Tell Granny your heart’s desire.”

  “You promise you won’t laugh.” Wilda’s voice wavered.

  “I won’t laugh.”

  “I want—I forgot to cross your palm with silver!” Wilda fumbled to open the string to her pocketbook. “How much for a spell?”

  Fascinated, Alanna watched Wilda’s fingers shake. “That would depend on the spell.”

  “I think it’s a big one.” Wilda pulled out a coin and immediately dropped it. “Oh, dear.” Falling to her knees, she crawled after the spinning coin, leaving a trail of new coins in her wake. “Well, not a really big one. Not like moving someone’s eye to the middle of their forehead or sending a plague of those disgusting insects with the wiggling things on their heads, but it’s bigger than turning a frog into a prince.”

  “I usually send them the other way.” Following Wilda, Alanna stooped and picked up coins as she went. “I usually make princes into frogs.”

  Wilda sat back on her haunches. “Really?”

  “No.” Alanna handed Wilda the dropped coins, and laughed at her palpable disappointment. She decided to relieve Wilda’s anxiety. “Miss Fairchild, let old Granny tell you want you want.”

  Clasping her hands together, Wilda said, “You know?”

  Of course, Alanna didn’t know, but the longer she looked at Wilda, the more she realized this was not an extremely young woman. She had to be approaching thirty, and she wore no ring and she lived with her cousin. Alanna thought she made a fair guess when she said, “You want a love potion.”

  Wilda’s face fell so far Alanna felt guilty for disappointing her.

  “No! Wait. Granny really needs her crystal to see into your heart.” Alanna rubbed her forehead with her fingers. She’d been so sure she was right. “Money,” she mused, keeping an eye on Wilda.

  Wilda’s disappointment deepened.

  Love. Money. What else could Wilda want? “A place all your own?”

  Wilda shook her head, and wisps of hair bobbed around her heart-shaped face.

  Lowering her hands, Alanna blinked as if she were coming out of a trance. “Miss Fairchild, your mind is complex and fascinating.”

  Wilda brightened.

  “Old Granny is having trouble understanding your thoughts. Perhaps you should tell me what kind of spell you want.”

  Slipping the coins into the purse, Wilda stood and looked earnestly at Alanna. “You are so good-hearted. I want—”

  A gust of wind slammed the front door against the wall. The crash echoed through the manor, and Ian’s voice called, “I’ll eat dinner, and then I’ll go to the stables. One of the mares is foaling, and Shanley’s uneasy about her progress.”

  The two women looked at each other, and without a word spoken they fled in opposite directions.

  “Treacherous viper.” Alanna nursed her rapidly purpling eye and stared at Leslie as he raged, barely conscious. “Worm of corruption.”

  “I dunna know where he got the strength t’ land ye that blow.” Mrs. Armstrong moved toward the night candle. “Let me look at it.”

  “Nay!” Alanna said too vehemently, and she regretted it. “Nay.”

  “Ye’ll bruise if we dunna put a cold rag on it,” Mrs. Armstrong insisted, not at all impressed by Alanna’s anger.

  “Witches don’t bruise.” Alanna dabbed at the red trickle that etched her cheek and wished it were true. Her body ached with the tiredness caused by long hours of nursing. Her soul writhed from the fragments of malevolence Mr. Fairchild unloosed, even in his delirium.

  “Nor do they bleed,” Mrs. Armstrong retorted. “But if ye’ve a mind t’ be stubborn, so be it. Don’t walk into any walls with that eye swollen shut.”

  Alanna squinted at the women she had chosen for their levelheaded good sense. Two of them had wrestled Mr. Fairchild into submission and given him the dose of betony, and stood now on either side of the bed. Mrs. Armstrong stood at the foot, forming the point of their skeptical triangle. All wore identical stances: their hands on their hips, their elbows akimbo.

  “Thank you for your help. You’ve been more friends to me than any since old Mab died last winter. I just had it called to my attention that I’ve…been lonely.” She smiled tentatively, trying to bestow gratitude where she couldn’t give more. “I don’t know what I’d have done without you these last two days.” Stepping aside, she shooed them out. “It’s the dead of night, and you need your rest. I’ll care for him now.”

  Clucking and protesting, the women made their exit. They would go to the servants’ quarters to wrap blankets around themselves and sleep until she called them again. As their friendly warmth vanished from the room, Alanna’s sense of isolation returned to swamp her. With trembling fingers she wet a cloth in the ceramic bowl on the bedside table and dabbed at the bleeding cut. The rag came back smeared with scarlet and ash, and her shaking increased. Swishing the rag in the water, she wrung it out and dabbed again—and muttered, “Oh, I don’t care.”

  Taking the bowl with her to the full-length cheval mirror, she placed it on the floor and sat beside it. With firm strokes she wiped the coating from her face. Painstakingly she lifted the camouflage from the bruise and from her eyelids.

  As the water turned black, her ministrations became less successful, and she blinked away the tears to confront her own reflection. What she saw there made her sob again. Her eye swelled and turned purple. Crying always made her eyes puffy and her nose re
d and misshapen. And traces of ash and charcoal lingered regardless of her care.

  But who would see and who would care? Certainly not the man on the bed. Rising, she walked to the bedside. Mr. Fairchild might never wake again.

  For four years she had dreamed of coming home. Now she had, only to find changes. The newer servants were sullen and uncooperative. No improvements had been made to the manor. Mr. Fairchild had tainted her home with his very presence, and she didn’t know how she could ever wash it clean.

  This was Fionnaway. This was hers! And she could no longer allow strangers and Englishmen to savage the lands as a hound would savage a fox.

  She’d watched her mother attempt everything to please the irresponsible, sullen man she’d married. She’d watched her die in this chamber trying to bring forth a son for him, and Alanna had sworn never to allow a man such control over her life. On her twenty-first birthday she would take the position of lady of Fionnaway. She would have a husband, aye, but only after a year. Only after she had secured her status as undisputed mistress of her lands, her wealth. She would interrogate all possibilities, and chose one who would be meek and biddable. He would know his place, and during the years of her exile she had planned how she would bring Fionnaway to greatness once more.

  Yet now, when Mr. Fairchild died, his son would remain. She did not make the mistake of thinking he would easily relinquish command.

  All of Fionnaway depended on her. As the lady had done for countless years, she guarded Fionnaway’s secrets. Now, because of Ian, she experienced the compulsion to swim out and verify the safety of the pact. She wanted to sneak into her old bedchamber and confirm that the stones still rested, warm and unharmed, in their box.

  Too many secrets. Too many responsibilities. Too many dangers.

  A gasp from the dais brought her head up. Conscious for the first time in three days, Mr. Fairchild gazed at her with a wild gaze. She took a step back, but recognition distorted his face and he whispered, “Alanna.”