A Lady at Last. Brenda Joyce
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people arguing about her? She began to awaken, realizing that she was in the throes of a strange dream. She wasn’t dead, she was sleeping. She stretched but her body was weak and it felt battered, yet the pallet she was lying on gave deliciously and then sprang back, like the most heavenly cocoon. No pallet was so soft and firm, at once.
Where was she?
“No one sleeps for a whole day. She’s dead, Ariella, dead. See?”
Amanda jerked as someone roughly seized her foot through a soft, fluffy cover. Bewildered, she opened her eyes, blinking against the brightness of the room. Then she met a pair of blazing blue eyes and a wicked grin. She cried out.
“I told you she’s alive,” another child said.
Amanda sat up, her sore body protesting, staring at a small boy with dark hair and familiar blue eyes. He looked past the bed. “Of course she’s not dead. She’s been sleeping ever since Papa brought her home. I knew that! But I had you, didn’t I?”
“You did not!”
Amanda took in her surroundings. She was in a huge canopied bed, the ebony wood intricately carved, the bed hangings a misty blue. Terribly confused, she saw a fireplace with a white mantel carved with vines and leaves. She glanced down. The cover was a pale blue silk, the finest kind that came from plunder. Dazed, she took in a huge room with white-and-blue fabric covered walls. Dear God, all the furniture was matching, upholstered in ivory, blue or white, tufted with gold. And the ceilings were gilded. Then her gaze slammed to the wide-eyed little girl standing by her side.
The child smiled. “My name is Ariella. Papa says your name is Miss Carre. Are you his mistress?”
The boy reached over and jerked hard on her hair. Ariella punched him just as hard in the jaw.
Papa. And in that stunning moment, Amanda lost everything for the second time in her life. Grief crashed over and she was drowning in it—she could not breathe. The tears began, but she didn’t care. Gasping, she doubled over in pain.
Papa had been hanged. Papa was gone. Murdered by Woods and the British.
“She is ill. I’m getting Papa!” the boy said sharply, racing out.
Amanda vaguely heard. Cliff de Warenne had been there at the hanging, preventing her from watching him die. She must be at Windsong. Oh, God, how was she going to survive the loss, the pain?
A small hand stroked over her arm. “Miss Carre? Don’t cry. Whatever is making you so sad, my papa can fix it.” Pride filled her tone. “He can make you happy. He can do anything.”
Amanda blinked at the beautiful child through her streaming tears. She couldn’t recall much, just a terrible sound, the breaking of bones in her father’s neck. It was a sound she was never going to forget. “My papa’s dead,” she gasped to the child. And she hugged herself, doubling over again.
Rapid booted steps sounded. Amanda heard de Warenne. “Ariella!” He was stern.
“Papa, I didn’t make her cry!”
Slowly, Amanda somehow looked up, keeping her arms wrapped tightly around herself. And now she began to remember how Cliff de Warenne had kept his arms tightly around her at the hanging.
“I know you didn’t. Please join your brother in the nursery. Now.” De Warenne nodded at the door, his expression rigid.
Clearly knowing when to immediately obey, Ariella flung a worried look at Amanda and quickly left the room.
Amanda found herself staring into Cliff de Warenne’s searching blue eyes.
He had paused at the foot of the bed. “I will not be foolish enough to ask how you are feeling. I am sorry, Miss Carre, for your loss.”
Amanda broke into tears again. She turned onto her side and wept in grief. She was aware of him approaching, and felt him hovering over her, but the grief was just too much to bear. “Go away,” she wept, but she really didn’t want him to go. She wanted him to take her in his arms, the way he had a few hours ago, and to hold her until her wounds healed. Except she knew they never would.
His hand clasped her shoulder. Amanda suddenly realized her shoulders were bare. Her naked body was swimming in a very fine, lace-trimmed cotton nightgown. She couldn’t imagine what had happened to her clothes or whose garment she was wearing.
“You are in the throes of grief. It is understandable,” de Warenne said softly. “I have sent for my ship’s surgeon. He’ll give you laudanum. It will help.”
The terrible flood had ceased. Amanda turned onto her back and stared up at him. He quickly removed his hand from her shoulder. “Laudanum,” she said dully. She knew what laudanum did. When she had broken her wrist as a child, she’d been given it and it instantly erased the pain. Would it also erase her grief?
De Warenne’s face was strained. His blue eyes, however, were filled with sympathy and compassion. “If it is any consolation, your father died a swift death.”
She started to weep again.
“It will get easier. The anguish will ease. I promise you that, Miss Carre.”
She shook her head; she didn’t know how that could be possible. “Is your father…. dead?” she stuttered.
“No. But my mother died when I was a very small child.”
She started, her tears drying. “She did?”
He nodded gravely. “She died giving birth to my younger sister, Eleanor.”
Amanda struggled to sit up, and he slid his arm behind her to help her do so. Becoming dizzy, Amanda grasped his bulging forearms, but the wave intensified. She leaned toward him, her forehead finding his chest. The bed tilted wildly and she began to spin.
“You need to lie down with your legs elevated,” he said sharply.
Amanda couldn’t answer—she was trying to claw free of the spinning gray room. But suddenly she was on her back, all the pillows thrown to the floor, except for a large blue velvet neck roll, which was under her knees. The bed slowed, finally becoming level once again. Amanda opened her eyes, only to find de Warenne sitting by her hip, one arm under her knees along with the pillow, staring intently at her.
“You are exhausted,” he said flatly. “When was the last time you ate?”
She had no idea. “I’m fine. I never swoon. I don’t know why I got so dizzy.”
De Warenne jumped abruptly to his feet, tugging her nightgown down over her calves. He whirled. “Instead of hovering outside the door, Alexi, have a servant bring Miss Carre a bowl of soup and white bread.”
The boy nodded, wide-eyed, and raced off.
“I’m not hungry,” Amanda said, feeling very foolish now. She started to kick the pillow out from under her legs, unable to dismiss the fact that de Warenne had his hand under her nightgown.
He seized her knees, immobilizing her. “I suspect you haven’t eaten in days. Unless you wish to follow your father into his grave, you need to nourish your body, Miss Carre.”
His gaze was locked with hers. Amanda couldn’t look away—she was mesmerized. It was almost as if he had some genuine concern for her, but that was impossible. A flicker of interest began, piercing through the grief. “I don’t want to die,” she said slowly, and she realized that she meant it.
He smiled very slightly at her. “Good.”
WHEN AMANDA AWOKE the next time, bright sunlight was trying to filter through the closed blue-and-white draperies of the room. She blinked up at the ruched blue fabric of the canopy overhead, remembering everything. She was at Windsong; Papa was dead. She was unbearably saddened.
She wondered how long it had been since the hanging. She recalled having soup and bread, not once but several times, a pretty, plump maid with bright red hair hovering over