Lady Knightley's Secret. Anne Ashley
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that three of those six must be men from the lower ranks. There would be no discrimination under her roof, no preferential treatment to those higher born.
Richard couldn’t recall being carried up to this room, nor had he any memory of those first few days after the surgeon had tended the deep gash in his shoulder and had removed the piece of lead shot from his thigh. The last thing he could remember was having his mount shot from under him and seeing a blinding flash whilst he lay, momentarily stunned, on the scorched, bloodstained ground; though who had discharged the firearm, a fellow soldier or the enemy, he had no notion. Then, as he had made to rise, his vision blurred, his eyes smarting, he had been felled again by a French cavalryman wielding a sabre. The next thing he remembered was someone gently raising his head and coaxing him to take a little water.
That, of course, had been Mary, several days after he had been carried into this house. Since then she had administered to his every bodily need, had nursed him back to health and had forced him to come to terms with his brother’s tragic death.
‘No, my darling girl, I don’t have need of that particular receptacle at the moment. But I do require the window opened before I expire from the heat.’
‘It is open, but I’ll open it a little more, once I’ve got you safely back into bed.’
He felt the warm touch of gentle fingers on his wrist before a slender arm encircled his back. He was instantly aware of soft curves pressed against his side, and was both astounded and faintly embarrassed by his body’s immediate reaction. He recalled that it had been some weeks since he had assuaged his needs in that particular direction, and was aware in those moments before returning to his bed that he was far stronger than he had realised.
Praying she hadn’t noticed his arousal, he didn’t waste a second in pulling the covers up to his chest. He heard the grating of the sash window as it was raised higher, and then felt a blessed waft of fresh air. ‘That’s better!’ he remarked with genuine relief before he detected a faint chink as Mary busied herself with picking up the fragments of porcelain.
‘I suppose it never occurred to you to throw the bedcovers off?’ she chided, placing the broken pieces in the bowl. ‘There! That’s cleared that up. Now, let’s have no more middle-of-the-night wanderings!’
He couldn’t forbear a smile at the scolding tone; he had grown quite accustomed to it by now. He heard her light tread once more and arrested her progress to the door by asking her to stay for a while.
He felt the bed go down slightly under her light weight, and instinctively sought one of those infinitely capable hands. ‘I’m a selfish devil, because you must be tired, but just sit with me for a while.’
He couldn’t see the smile which played around the exquisitely formed lips, but couldn’t mistake the gentle understanding as she said, ‘I know you must be concerned about tomorrow, Richard, but everything will be all right…I know it will.’
He brushed his thumb back and forth over the soft skin, easily detecting the small bones beneath. How often during these past weeks had he held these tapering fingers for comfort and support? He would know these caring hands anywhere. He had not infrequently marvelled at the fact that such a slender creature could be so strong, manoeuvring his six-foot frame in those first early days when he had been too helpless to do anything for himself. He had learned from Sergeant Hawker, the old rogue, that she was a very pretty young woman; knew too, from Mary herself, that her long hair was the colour of sun-ripened corn and that her eyes were blue. Such a delicious combination! But he had never looked upon what Hawker considered the sweetest smile in Christendom…Would he ever be privileged to see it?
‘I wish I had your confidence, Mary.’
Her soft laughter had a teasing quality. ‘You will see,’ she assured him again. ‘Call it the gypsy in me that knows.’
He was still far from certain, but knew he was probably being too pessimistic; behaving like a spoilt child, as Mary had told him in no uncertain terms on more than one occasion during these past weeks. Darling little scold! His sight hadn’t been permanently damaged—the doctor had assured him of that. His eyes had been inflamed, certainly, and everything had been just a blur, but the condition was only temporary. His eyes had needed only resting and nature would effect its own cure. Tomorrow, when the bandages were removed, he would see again. He must believe that! Surely life wouldn’t heap the torment of blindness upon him on top of everything else?
He found himself experiencing that same gnawing ache of grief, infinitely more painful than any one of the several wounds he had sustained during his years in the army. It had been just over two weeks since Mary had read that letter informing him of his brother’s tragic death. He still found it difficult to accept that, when he did eventually return to England, Charles wouldn’t be standing outside the ancestral home waiting to greet him, as he had done so many times in the past; that dear Margaret wouldn’t be there either, nor little Jonathan. A racing curricle, driven at breakneck speed, had forced his brother’s carriage off the road and it had tumbled down a ravine. Because of some mindless fop’s attempts to win a wager, Charles and his wife, and their nine-year-old son, now lay six feet beneath the earth.
Learning about the tragedy so soon after seeing so many comrades fall at Waterloo had been almost too much for him to bear. He had come perilously close to losing the will to live; might well have not survived his injuries; might never have attempted to come to terms with his tragic loss if it hadn’t been for Mary.
Mostly gently coaxing, but occasionally rounding on him like a spitting virago, Mary had somehow managed to transfuse a small part of that indomitable spirit of hers into him, lifting him from the nadir of despair, and instilling in him a determination to face up to the responsibilities which had been placed upon him by his brother’s untimely death. It would take a long time before he got over his loss; perhaps he never would, fully; but, for the sake of the baby niece he had never yet seen, he must face the future.
Charles and Margaret had considered their baby daughter too young to make that long journey to Derbyshire to stay with their friends, and had left her in the care of a close relative residing in London. Thankfully, Juliet was too young to understand the tragedy which had struck. Now it was up to him to ensure that her life was as carefree and happy as possible by taking the place of the father she would never remember.
He automatically reached out for his sweet preserver with his other hand and, pulling her down against his chest, ran his fingers through that long mane of silky hair which always smelt so deliciously of lavender-and-rose water. ‘What would I have done without you, you darling girl!’
Without conscious thought he removed his hand from her hair to run an exploratory trail down her cheek, brushing gently against the outline of her jaw before taking a hold of the softly rounded chin and raising her face. He lowered his head and his mouth retraced the path his fingers had taken before coming to rest on soft lips, invitingly parted.
He had intended nothing more than a brief display of his genuine affection for this wonderfully caring young woman, but as he felt those soft lips tremble deliciously beneath his own, as he became acutely aware of the firm young breasts pressed against his chest, his need returned with an urgency, reigniting that fire of desire in his loins. Before he realised what he was doing, he had eased her into the bed beside him and was peeling away that last flimsy barrier of her clothing with hands that now shook slightly in their urgency to touch every last inch of her.
It must have been this loss of sight which had finely tuned his other senses, he decided, for never before could he recall touching skin so satiny-smooth, so beautifully unblemished. She was perfect. Her breasts reacted instantly to his caressing touch, hardening and inviting his lips. Her soft moans of pleasure as he ran his fingers down to the softly swelling hips was music to his ears, a delightful encouragement for further intimate caresses.
Not for an instant did it cross his mind to wonder why the hands which began to explore the triangular mat of dark hair covering his chest were trembling slightly; nor did he consider the very real possibility that the body which reacted so deliciously to his gentle caresses might not be that of an experienced woman, but that of a hitherto untouched