Chapter 18

Chapter Eighteen

There was a whiff of vinegar in the air, mingled with the sweeter scent of linden blossom and willow bark, and oddly enough, fresh paint.

It took an effort for Louisa to open her leaden eyes, but when she did, she discovered she was surrounded by roses.

Maybe she'd died, she mused. Roses abounded on all sides of her, even on the ceiling. It finally dawned on her they weren't real roses, but a rose pattern embroidery on the canopy and the blanket.

The room was panelled in dark wood, and green velvet curtains were drawn over the window, leaving a slit open. It was an unfamiliar room. An elderly woman sat in the corner near the window, sewing in the weak light that peeked through the curtains.

Her head throbbed, and her throat was dry.

Louisa moaned.

"Good heavens, you're awake!" The woman dropped her sewing, got to her feet, picked up a cloth and dabbed at her forehead. It was wet and cold.

"Thank heavens. It looks like you pulled through."

"Thirsty," she mouthed, and the woman helped her take a sip from a cup. It was a cold, bitter tea. Louisa grimaced.

"Let me call the major at once," she said. "You mustn't …"

Her eyes fluttered shut as she drifted into a fitful sleep.

The next time she was awakened by male voices.

"The worst is over, sir. I won't bleed her again because she's too weak. The fever's broken, so she won't need any more ice baths. But keep giving her the willow bark tea. And rest. Lots of rest."

"What about Dover's powder? A surgeon in my regiment swears by it and administers it to those with fever."

"Good heavens. Keep away from it. It contains opium and vitriolic tartar to induce sweating, but I don't recommend it. Likely, more of your men have died from that stuff than from the actual fever. I am a firm believer in nature's medicine. Willow bark and linden blossom tea will do the trick. And sleep."

Louisa slept. This time it was a dreamless sleep, deep and healing.

She woke once during the night to find herself tightly held against someone's chest. It was firm and muscular.

"What's happening?" she murmured. "Why are you here?" There was something she needed to do, but she couldn't recall what it was. She struggled to sit up, but someone held her down, firmly, gently.

"Shh. Go back to sleep. You'll be all right. Everything will be fine. I promise."

He kissed her head.

Her ear was pressed against his chest. She heard a rhythmical tum-tum-tum-tum, much like the beating of the heart.

It comforted her.

Maybe he was right. Maybe it would be all right. Somehow, in the end.

She slept.

The next day, Louisa sat up in bed. The fever was gone; she was left feeling dizzy and weak, and ravenously hungry. She'd just gobbled down some thin soup which the maid had brought and found she wanted to eat something with more substance. The maid had curtsied and said she'd tell Mrs Dalton.

Louisa had no idea who Mrs Dalton was. Was she the cook? Or perhaps she was that grey-haired woman who'd been in the room earlier.

This time, the curtains were pulled aside. It was raining and dreary outside, but through the bleak daylight she saw that this must be one of the rooms in Meryfell Hall. Perhaps one of the larger bedrooms of Lord and Lady Milford.

She got out of bed and stumbled to the window. It was Meryfell Hall, all right. The view opened to the back part of the house, with the lawn and the forest in the distance. Her own bedroom, when she'd stayed here as a guest, had had the same view.

She pulled a woollen shawl over her shoulders and stepped out. The wood creaked under her feet as she walked along the corridor. A sweeping oak staircase led down to the great hall. There seemed to be a lot of commotion on the other side.

She placed her hand on the banister and was about to descend when two men in red uniforms emerged from one of the guest rooms, carrying a long, heavy, rolled carpet.

One of them spotted her standing in the corridor. "Attention, ahead!" he called and came to a halt. His comrade whipped his head round.

"Hounds' teeth. Is that her?" the other man said, shifting the carpet from one shoulder to the other to get a better look.

"Must be. Otherwise, it must be the Faerie Queene, herself."

They stared at her with openmouthed admiration.

"Shut your gob and salute," the other hissed.

They dropped the carpet on the floor with a bang and saluted in military style, their movements coordinated in precise unison.

"Good afternoon, my lady. I am Lieutenant John Carey of His Majesty's First Regiment of Foot, currently serving under the command of Major Sir Robert Ashford as his aide-de-camp, at your service," said one.

"And I am Lieutenant Edward Miller, ma'am, also of His Majesty's First Regiment of Foot, proudly serving as Major Sir Robert's second aide-de-camp, at your service."

Both remained standing at attention, stiff and straight.

Louisa pressed her hands to her chest and backed away against the banister. She supposed she ought to say something. She cleared her throat. "Er. How do you do?"

What now?

They remained immobile and rooted to the spot like waxworks in Madame Tussaud's cabinet. How to get them to move again?

"At ease," a voice behind her commanded.

She jumped and whirled around. A stranger stood before her. Well-dressed and clean shaven, wearing clean, pressed clothes. There was something familiar in the angular face, the high forehead, and the probing look in his eyes as he regarded her. It took Louisa several moments to comprehend it was Robert.

She gaped.

"Take the carpet below stairs to be cleaned, then see to your uniforms as well. I don't require you to be uniformed while you're here," he said.

"Yes, sir," they said out of one mouth, making her jump again. They moved again in unison to pick up the carpet and carried it downstairs.

He looked thunderous. "And who gave you permission to be out and about?" He scooped her up before she could utter a word.

She squealed. "Put me down!"

But he kicked the door open to the next room and carried her in. The maids who were busily washing the windows dropped their rags and curtsied.

"You're not wearing shoes, either. Fetch some stockings," he ordered the maids.

They were in the library. She'd spent many hours here. It seemed to be one of the few rooms in the house that had remained unchanged. Like the rest of the house, the furniture was made from dark oak and the walls were lined with bookshelves that reached the ceiling. A fire was burning in the fireplace.

"Put me down," Louisa said.

He placed her gently on one sofa in front of the fireplace.

The maid returned with woollen socks.

"I can do it myself," she said, but he knelt, took her bare foot in his hand, and pulled on the sock.

"What pretty feet you have," he murmured. "Long and slim. And those ankles …" His voice was husky.

He shook his head as if to snap out of his reverie, then pulled the stocking over her lower thigh.

Her cheeks burned with heat.

Then he lifted her legs onto the sofa, wrapped them in a woollen plaid and tucked a pillow behind her back.

She'd never been so embarrassed in her life. Not knowing what to say, she said the first thing that came to mind, which was, of course, completely idiotic. "What happened to your beard?"

"I shaved it off." He remained sitting on the floor, his long legs stretched out in front of him.

That was obvious. He'd cut his hair, too.

She studied his face. She could see now what hadn't been so clear earlier, when half of it had been covered by shaggy hair. It was a chiselled face, full of hard planes and angles, high cheekbones, a proud nose and forehead, and a firm chin. A slight scar ran from his left jaw to his ear. His dark hair was styled and combed backwards, exposing a high forehead.

He was a completely different person.

In fact, he was …

… An image of a tall redcoat in the ballroom flashed in her mind. Medals. Honours. Everyone had made much to-do about him … he was that hero of some place or other. Walpurgia. Valeria. Victoria. Vitoria.

"You're Sir Twiddlepoops." Louisa groaned loudly. "Of course. I should have known."

He flared his nostrils. "Twiddlepoops? By all that's holy, couldn't you at least have chosen something less absurd? Something more, I don't know—" he waved his hand. "Appropriate to the military?"

She folded her hands in front of her. "It seemed appropriate at the time. And I don't know any military nomenclature."

"Clearly," he retorted with a dismissive snort.

She took a big breath. "You were furious about that stupid caricature." She plucked at the frills of her blanket.

Judging by the rigid set of his jaw, he still was.

"Furious?" He gave an unamused laugh. "You turned me into a bloody laughingstock. The entire regiment rolled in the fields with laughter." He pressed his lips into a thin line. "If you think I'd let you get away with it, you're wrong. I still am the butt of their jests. ‘Major Ashford might storm any battlement in Spain and France with aplomb, yet he fails miserably on the domestic front. The only fortress the major has been unable to breach is that of the Incomparable.'" His voice was morose.

She lowered her gaze to her hands. "I s-see." She swallowed. "That is, of c-course, excruciatingly t-tragic."

He stared at her sharply. "I swear, Louisa. If you laugh at me, I will have you court-martialled and executed. This is an exceedingly serious matter."

She tore her eyes wide open. "Heaven forbid. I wouldn't dream of laughing." But then a giggle escaped her.

He uttered an oath and dived, and she, shrieking, brought up her hands up to her face, which he pulled away. He pressed her down onto the sofa, gazing intently into her face.

Her mind barely registered his hazel eyes with golden flecks.

She held her breath.

And then his mouth crashed down on hers.