She shot out of bed like a stone from a catapult and stood there shivering in the sudden cold, staring at the stranger, blinking as it all came back to her. She snatched some of her clothes and hurried downstairs to get the fire going again.
The man slept on through the day. Apart from him sleeping like the dead, Ellie could find nothing wrong with him. She checked his head wound several times. It was no longer bleeding and showed no sign of infection. His breathing was deep and even. He wasn’t feverish and he didn’t toss and turn. He muttered occasionally, and each time, Amy came running to tell.
Amy was fascinated by him. Ellie had managed to stop her daughter referring to the stranger as Papa, but she couldn’t seem to keep her away from his bedside. The weather was too bitter for her to play outside and the size of the cottage meant that if Amy wasn’t with Ellie downstairs, she was upstairs watching the man.
It was harmless, Ellie told herself. And rather sweet. While Amy played with her dolls upstairs, she told him long, rambling stories and sang him songs, a little off-key. She told him of her special red wishing candle, that had brought him home. The child seemed quite unperturbed that he never responded to her prattle, that he just slept on.
It would be a different story when he woke. If he ever did wake…
She probably should have fetched Dr. Geddes. But she disliked him intensely. Dr. Geddes dressed fashionably, yet his tools of trade were filthy. He would bleed the man, give him a horrid-tasting potion of his own invention and charge a large fee. Ellie had little money and even less faith in him. Besides, Dr. Geddes was a friend of the squire…
She folded the shirt, now clean and dry, and set it with his buckskin breeches on the chest in her room. Both garments had once been of good quality, but had seen hard wear and tear. There was nothing incongruous about a poor labourer wearing such clothes, however. In the last year she had been amazed to learn of the thriving trade in used clothing—second-, third-, even fourth-hand clothing. Even things she’d thought at the time were total rags she knew now could have been sold for a few pennies, or a farthing.
She’d sold everything too cheaply, she realised in retrospect. Her jewellery, her furniture, treasured possessions, Amy’s clothes, her beautiful dolls’ house, with its exquisitely made furnishings, the tiny, perfect dolls with their lovely clothes and charming miniature knick-knacks—she could have sold them to far more purpose now. She had been ignorant, then, of the true value of things.
Still, they were neither starving nor frozen, and her daughter derived just as much pleasure from her current dolls’ house, made from an old cheese box, with homemade dolls and furnishings made from odds and ends.
Ellie examined the stranger’s other belongings. There were precious few—just the clothes he stood up in. His stockings were thick and coarse but walking on the bare ground in them had made holes, which she had yet to darn. She had found no other belongings to give a clue to his identity, only one item found wadded in his breeches pocket, a delicate cambric handkerchief, stiff with dried blood. An incongruous thing for such a man to be carrying. It did not go with the rest of him, his strong hands and his bruised knuckles.
She recalled the way those big, battered knuckles had slipped so gently across her cheek and sighed. Such a small, unthinking gesture…it had unravelled all her resolve to keep him at a distance.
He was a stranger, she told herself sternly. A brawler and possibly a thief as well. She hoped he had not stolen the handkerchief. It was bad enough having a strange man sleeping in her bed, let alone a thief.
Rat-tat-tat! Ellie jumped at the sound.
Amy’s eyes were big with fright. “Someone at the door, Mama,” she whispered.
“Miz Carmichael?” a thick voice shouted.
“It’s all right, darling. It’s only Ned. Just wait here.” Ellie put aside her mending and went to answer the door. She hesitated, then turned to her daughter. “You mustn’t tell Ned, or anyone else, about the man upstairs, all right? It’s a secret, darling.”
Her daughter gazed at her with solemn blue eyes and nodded. “’Coz of the squire,” she said, and went back to playing with her dolls’ house.
Ellie closed her eyes in silent anguish, wishing she could have protected her daughter from such grim realities. But there was nothing she could do about it. She opened the door.
“Brought your milk and the curds you wanted, Miz Carmichael,” said the man at the door and added, “Thought you might like these ‘uns, too.” He handed her a brace of hares. “Make a nice stew, they will. No need to tell the squire, eh?” He winked and made to move off.
“Ned, you shouldn’t have!” Ellie was horrified, and yet she couldn’t help clutching the dead animals to her. It was a long time since she and Amy had eaten any meat, and yet Ned could hang or be transported for poaching. “I wouldn’t for the world get you into troub—”
Ned chuckled. “Lord love ye, missus, don’t ye worry about me—I bin takin’ care o’ Squire’s extra livestock all me life, and me father and granfer before me.”
“But—”
The grizzled man waved a hand dismissively. “A gift for little missie’s birthday.”
There was nothing Ellie could say. To argue would be to diminish Ned’s gift, and she could never do that. “Then I thank you, Ned. Amy and I will very much enjoy them.” She smiled and gestured back into the cottage. “Would you care to come in, then, and have a cup of soup? I have some hot on the fire.”
“Oh, no, no, thank ye, missus. I’d not presume.” He shuffled his feet awkwardly, touched his forehead and stomped off into the forest before she could say another word.
Ellie watched him go, touched by the man’s awkwardness, his pride and the risky, generous gift. The hares hung heavy in her arms. They would be a feast. And the sooner they were in the pot, the safer it would be for all concerned. She had planned to make curd cakes for Amy’s birthday surprise. Now they would both enjoy a good, thick meaty stew as well—it would almost be a proper birthday celebration. And if the man upstairs ever woke up, she would have something substantial to feed him, too.
She smiled to herself as she struggled to strip the skin from the first hare. She’d thought him a thief because of the handkerchief. Who was she to point her finger, Ellie Carmichael, proud possessor of two fat illegal hares…?
He had slept like the dead now, for a night and a day. Ellie stared at his shape and wished she could do something. She wanted him awake. She wanted him up and out of her bed. She wanted him gone. It was unsettling, having him there, asleep in her bedclothes. It was not so difficult to get used to it during the day, to assume he was harmless, to allow her daughter to sit beside him, treating an unconscious man—a complete stranger—as if he was one of her playthings. During the day he didn’t seem so intimidating. Now…
She hugged her wrapper tighter around her, trying to summon the courage to climb into the bed beside him once more. In the shadows of the night he seemed to grow bigger, darker, more menacing, the virile-looking body sprawled relaxed in her bed more threatening.
But he hadn’t stirred for a night and a day. Another night of sharing would do no harm, surely. Besides, she didn’t have any choice… No, she’d made a choice, her conscience corrected her. She could have called for help. He would have been taken “on the parish.” But he wouldn’t have received proper care—not with the poor clothing he wore. An injured gentleman, yes, the doctor or even the squire would see to his care. But there were too many poor and injured men in England since the war against Napoleon had been won. They’d returned as brief heroes. Now, months later, as they searched for work or begged in the streets, they’d come to be regarded as a blighon the land. It wouldn’t matter if one more died.
There were too many indigent widows and little girls, too.
She could not abandon him. Somehow, with no exchange of words between them, she had made herself responsible for this man—stranger or not, thief or not. He was helpless and in need. Ellie knew what it felt like to be helpless and in need. And she would help him.
Without further debate, Ellie wrapped herself in her separate sheet—she hadn’t lost all sense of propriety—and slipped into the bed beside him. She sighed with pleasure. He was better than a hot brick on a cold winter’s night.
This time there was little sense of strangeness. She was used to his masculine smell, she even found it appealing. The sag of the bed felt right, and she didn’t struggle too hard against it. After all, if there was too much of a gap between them, icy drafts would get in. But recalling the immodest position she had woken in, she determinedly turned her back to him. It was not so intimate, having one’s back against a stranger, she thought sleepily, as she snuggled her backside against his hip.
And once again, in the warmth of his body heat and the calm steady rhythm of his deep, even breathing, Ellie forgot her fears of the stranger and went to sleep. And her toes reached out and curled contentedly against his calves…
Ellie came awake slowly to a delicious sense of…pleasure. She had been having the most delectable dream. She kept her eyes closed, prolonging the delightful sensation of being…loved. Hart was caressing her in the way she had always dreamed of… His big, warm hands smoothing, kneading, loving her skin. She felt beautiful, loved, desired in a way she had never before felt. Warm, sleepy, smiling, she stretched and moved sensually, squirming pleasurably in the grip of the marvellous dream. Her skin felt alive as his hands moved over, across, around, between…sending delicious shivers through her body, shivers which had nothing to do with the cold and everything to do with…desire.
Hands slipped up her thighs and caressed her hips and she moved restlessly, her legs trembling. She felt a big, warm hand cup one breast, felt her flesh move silkily against the rougher skin of his hand. Her breasts seemed to swell under the caress and when she felt warm breath against her naked skin she clenched her eyes shut and felt her body arch with pleasure. A hot mouth closed over her breast and his tongue rubbed gently back and forth across her turgid nipple. She shuddered uncontrollably, waves of pleasure and excitement juddering through her with a force she had never experienced. He sucked, hard, and she almost came off the bed in shock as hot spears of ecstasy drove though her body. She could barely think, only feel. Her hands gripped his shoulders and gloried in the feel of his power and the smooth, naked skin under her palms.
Still creating those glorious sensations at her breast, she felt a large, calloused hand smooth down over her belly, caressing, smoothing, exciting… Her legs fell apart, trembling with need.
His mouth came down over hers, softly, tenderly, possessively, nipping gently at her lips. “Open,” he murmured huskily, and their mouths merged as his tongue tasted her, learned her, possessed her, and she tasted him and learned him in response.
And froze…
It wasn’t Hart! Ellie jerked her head back and opened her eyes.
It wasn’t Hart!
He smiled at her early morning bewilderment. “Morning, love.”
It was the stranger! It hadn’t been a harmless, delicious dream of her husband. She had been lying with a stranger! Allowing him intimacies even her husband had never taken. Her breast still throbbed with want. And his hand was still creating the most incredible sensations between her—With a small scream, Ellie shoved him away from her and shot out of bed. There was a thud as his head connected with a bedpost and he swore. She stood shivering in the middle of the room, staring at him, outraged, dragging her nightgown down over her flushed and trembling nakedness.
“Who are you? How—how dare you! Get out—get out of my bed!”
“You didn’t need to shove so hard,” he grumbled. “My head was bad enough when I woke. Now it feels like—”
“I don’t care what your head feels like! I said, get out!” Ellie almost screeched it.
He blinked at her in puzzlement, rubbing his head absently. “What’s the matter, love?”
“As if you don’t know, you—you ravisher! Get out of my bed!”
He frowned in vague confusion, then shrugged, climbed out and walked towards her. Stark naked. Acres of naked masculine skin, bared to her shocked gaze. With not a shred of shame.
“Stop! Get back!” She felt her whole body blushing in response.
He gave her a very male look, as if to say, make up your mind, but he stopped his movement towards her and sat back down on the bed, rubbing his head. Still naked. Making no attempt to cover himself. Even though he was still shamefully, powerfully aroused.
As, even more shamefully, was she. Her knees trembled, so she sat on the stool, half-turned away from the beautiful, shocking sight of him. “Cover yourself!” Ellie snapped.
She heard a slither of fabric, and turning back to face him, she felt herself blush again. He had picked up one of her stockings and draped it carefully across himself. Across the part which had most shocked her. The rest of him sat there in shameless naked glory. His body was glorious, too. She tried not to notice how much.
His blue, blue eyes were twinkling roguishly. “Is that better, love?”
“Don’t call me that!” she snapped. “And cover yourself properly. My daughter could come in at any moment.”
At her words he glanced towards the door and drew one of the blankets around his shoulders, covering his chest and torso and…the rest. It didn’t seem to make him any less naked. His long legs, bare, brawny and boldly masculine, were braced apart on the edge of the bed. She tried not to think about what the blanket concealed.
“You’ll have to leave,” Ellie said firmly. “I shall go downstairs and make you some breakfawhile you dress yourself. And then you will have to leave.”
He frowned. “Where do you want me to go?”
Ellie stared in astonishment. “Where do
I
want you to go? Go wherever you want. It’s nothing to do with me.”
“Are you so angry with me, then?” His voice was soft, deep and filled with concern.
Ellie recalled the shocking things he had done to her. It seemed even worse that she had enjoyed them so much. “Of course I am angry. What did you expect when you attacked me in that appalling way?”
His brow furrowed. “Attacked?” His brow cleared after a minute and he looked incredulous. “You mean just now, in bed? But you were enjoying it as much as I was.”
Ellie went scarlet. “Oh, you are shameless! I want you out of my house this instant!” As she spoke, his stomach rumbled. “As soon as you have eaten,” she amended gruffly, feeling foolish. It was ridiculous to care whether he was hungry or not. She had taken in a stranger and cared for him for several days and how had he repaid her? With near-ravishment, that’s how! The scoundrel! She wanted him out!
There was a short silence. “Did we have a quarrel, love?”
“Quarrel!” Ellie said wrathfully. “I’ll give you quarrel! And I
told
you not to call me that!”
“Call you what?” He frowned. “Love?”
Ellie flushed and nodded curtly.
He rubbed his head and then said in an embarrassed voice. “I’m sorry if it makes you cross, but the truth is, I have the devil of a head on me and cannot seem to recall your name.”
“It is Ellie. Mrs. Ellie Carmichael,” she added for emphasis. Better he think she was married, not a widow. He might leave faster if he thought she expected a husband home any minute. It was Lady Carmichael, in truth, but it seemed ludicrous for a pauper to be titled.
“Ellie,” he said softly. “I like it…Carmichael, eh?” He frowned, as if suddenly confused. “Then—”
“What you think of my name is immaterial to me.” Ellie tossed him his clothes. “Have the goodness to dress yourself at once and leave this house!”
“Why do you want me to leave?”
Ellie narrowed her eyes at him. “Because this is my home and I say who can stay here! And you, sir, have outstayed your welcome!”
He looked at her seriously. “And have I no rights?”
She gasped at his audacity. “
Rights!
And what rights, pray, do you think you may have here, sirrah!” Did he think a few stolen caresses gave him rights? She was no doxy!
He hesitated, looking oddly uncertain. “Is this property not in my name?”
“
Your
name? Why should it be?” Ellie glared at him, but could not help feeling suddenly frightened at this talk of rights. What if the squire had sold the cottage without telling her? He had threatened to do so, often enough. Nor would she be surprised to learn he would imply that Ellie was part of the sale. The squire was a vindictive man.
“Women do not commonly own property. It is generally held in the husband’s name.”
The squire
had
sold the cottage. And this man had bought it for his wife and himself. And had been set upon by thieves while on his way to inspect his new property. Fear wrapped itself around Ellie’s throat but she drew herself up proudly. “I am not for sale. My daughter and I will leave this place as soon as possible. You will give us a week or two, I presume, out of simple decency.”
“Dammit, woman, you don’t have to go anywhere!” he roared. “What sort of man do you think I am?”
“I have not the slightest idea,” said Ellie frostily. “Nor do I care. But I am
not
for sale!”
“Who the devil suggested you were, for heaven’s sake!” he said, exasperated, and clutched his head again. “Blast this head of mine. What the deuce is the matter with it?”
“Someone hit you,” said Ellie. He gave her a look, which she ignored. “I do not know what the squire told you, but I am a virtuous woman and I will not be bought! Not by the squire, not by you or any other man, no matter what straits of desperation you try to bring me to.” Her voice quavered a little and broke.
There was a long silence in the upstairs room. The wind whistled around the eaves, rattling the window panes. Ellie sat on the hard stool, her shawl wrapped around her defensively, staring defiantly across the room at him. She swallowed. She had no idea of what she might be forced to do to keep Amy safe, but she had not reached that point. Yet.
He stared back at her, an unreadable expression on his face. Finally he spoke. “I have no idea what this conversation is about… I think whoever hit me over the head—was it you?”
She shook her head.
“That’s a relief, then,” he said wryly. “But whoever it was made a good job of it. My brain is quite scrambled. I have no idea what you are talking of. I cannot think straight at all. And my head feels as if it’s about to split open.” He stood and made to take a step, then swayed and went suddenly pale.
Without thinking she jumped up and hurried to help. “Put your head down between your knees.” She pushed him gently into position. “It will help the dizziness.”
After a few moments he recovered enough to lie back on the bed. He was still as pale as paper. Ellie tucked blankets around him, all thought of throwing him out forgotten. Whether he owned the cottage or not, whether he thought her a doxy or not, she could not push a sick man out into such weather. She could, however, send for his relatives.
“Who are you?” she said when he was settled against the pillows. “What’s your name?”
He looked blank for a then his eyes narrowed. “You tell me,” he said slowly. “I told you my brain was all scrambled.”
“Don’t be silly. Who are you?” She leaned forward intently, awaiting his reply.
He stared at her, his blue eyes dark and intense against his stark white pallor. There was a long silence as his gaze bored into her. And then he answered.
“I am your husband.”