Man Of My Dreams: Secrets Of Midnight Part 10

Whatever was the matter with her? For heaven's sake, she'd faced tougher trials! This situation wasn't dangerous or life-threatening, no, not like coming face to face with armed Customs men in the dark of night, or braving boiling surf to help drag to sh.o.r.e a near-drowned fisherman. It was the sherry, and it was her own blessed fault for drinking so much of the stuff, making her act like a ninny, a dimwit, a fl.u.s.tered goose!

"Would you like some champagne, Corie? It might make you feel better."

"Oh, Lord." Now what was she to do? Tell him no, thank you, she'd already downed half a bottle of spirits in the drawing room? Then he'd think she was a drunkard and-oh, she didn't care what he thought! Champagne might actually make her feel better, she decided, her fingers still trembling as she began to pull clothing out of her valise and scatter it about her. "Yes, yes, all right. That would be nice."

"Have you ever tasted champagne before?"

She was tempted to say no, not wis.h.i.+ng to reveal any more about herself than was absolutely necessary-theirs was a business arrangement, after all-but then she shrugged. "Once. At Lindsay's twentieth birthday this last February." Corisande smiled to herself as the cork popped, the sound bringing back uproarious memories. Lord, how Lindsay had made her laugh! "We borrowed one of Lady Somerset's precious bottles for the occasion and had ourselves quite a giggle."

"So Lindsay is younger than you, then."

"No-" Corisande froze, wanting to kick herself. "I mean, yes, she's-"

"Here's your champagne."

Corisande took the long-stemmed crystal goblet Donovan held out to her above the screen, hoping he hadn't heard what she'd said. She didn't want him to know that she was younger, well, she supposed it didn't really matter now that they were married. Oh, why couldn't her thoughts stop tumbling over themselves? And where was her nightgown? How could she possibly find anything while holding this silly gla.s.s? It was so full, she would surely spill champagne over everything . . .

Wholly exasperated, Corisande drained the goblet in two long swallows and set it upon the floor behind her, then began to dig once more through her valise. She came up triumphant this time, grateful at least that Rose Polkinghorne hadn't yet st.i.tched her a new nightgown. Hers was st.u.r.dy white flannel with a plain collar that came up to the chin. She wouldn't have to worry at all about anyone ogling her tonight.

Corisande pulled the pins from her hair and whipped off her sooty veil, wondering what Donovan was doing as she draped it over the top of the screen. He had gotten so quiet of a sudden. Ah, no matter. She began to work at the back of her dress, her fingers searching for the pearl b.u.t.tons, until she remembered with a start that there were no b.l.o.o.d.y pearl b.u.t.tons. That's why Rose Polkinghorne had had to sew her into this dress. No time to do anything else . . .

"Oh, no."

"Problems?"

Corisande frowned. Was the man forever listening for her every word? She rested her head against the screen, her heart starting to pound. Now what was she going to do?

"I think I can help."

She looked up and almost wished she hadn't as she gulped, swallowing air.

Donovan was standing stripped to the waist just beyond the screen, his powerful-looking shoulders more broad than she could have imagined, his chest matted with black hair that narrowed to a thick trail down the center of his taut, muscled abdomen and then disappeared into his breeches. Thank heaven, he still wore his breeches! Oh, Lord, oh, Lord "I noticed you had no b.u.t.tons at the church. Frances had said they failed to arrive from Penzance so . . ." He shrugged. "There's really only one thing we can do."

"Do?" she echoed, staring stupidly as he held out his hand to her. Before she even realized what she'd done, she placed her palm in his warm one and felt him drawing her from behind the screen, drawing her closer and closer, until suddenly he spun her around so she was facing the other way.

"It will look better anyway . . . to the servants."

Corisande felt his hands gripping the satin fabric at her shoulders and her underlying s.h.i.+ft, then she heard a rending sound that seemed to echo around the room. A rending that went all the way down to her hips, and she cried out as cool air touched her skin. Clutching what was left of tier dress to her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, she fled back to the screen, not daring to look behind her.

Which was probably a good thing. She wouldn't have liked the look in Donovan's eyes, and he certainly didn't like what seeing her bare flesh had just done to him.

With a low curse, he walked back to the bed and continued to strip from his clothes, hoping Corisande would have the sense not to peek at him behind the screen. If so, she might faint dead away; he doubted she'd ever seen a man afflicted with his current plight. He was so hard it hurt, his turgid member standing at full attention as he cursed again his brilliant idea to rip her out of her dress.

When he'd seen the lovely curve of her back and the dimpled flesh above her b.u.t.tocks . . . sweet rounded b.u.t.tocks-ah, G.o.d, why was he torturing himself? And there had been no stays, no stays at all, which meant those saucy b.r.e.a.s.t.s were nature's own tantalizing design. With a pained grunt, he climbed into bed and yanked the covers to his waist, then reached for his gla.s.s on the side table and downed the champagne in one gulp. Oh, yes, he'd gotten his wish, and it was fast becoming a b.l.o.o.d.y nightmare!

First she'd had to start laughing on him, her eyes alight and sparkling as he'd never seen them, her gleeful grin causing the strangest tug at his heart, and then he'd even encouraged her to smile more often! And now this . . . this madness seizing him, his lower body full and heavy and throbbing and no promise of release in sight. If she came from behind that screen in some clingy, semitransparent muslin nightgown with her pink nipples showing through, he couldn't say what he might- "Donovan?"

He groaned inwardly, cursing for a third time the painful bulge between his legs.

"Donovan, I'm ready to come out now. Have . . . well, have you finished changing?"

Changing? He almost laughed, but it would have held little humor. He braced himself, saying as normally as he could, "I'm in bed, Corie. There's nothing to fear. Bring your gla.s.s, and we'll have another sip of champagne, then we'll go to sleep. Does that suit you?"

He heard no response, but imagined she must have found his reply agreeable for he saw a flash of virginal white from behind the screen. He squeezed shut his eyes. Oh, G.o.d, give him strength. No nipples, please. It had been too d.a.m.ned long. . .

"Here's my gla.s.s, Donovan. Should I turn out that lamp by the door?"

Chapter 15.

Donovan opened his eyes, sheer relief flooding through him and no small amount of incredulity, too, as his gaze swept over Corisande.

Flannel? Good G.o.d, he'd seen such stuff on small children but never a grown woman. Enveloped from her toes to her chin, her slim arms swathed in long cuffed sleeves, her auburn hair flowing down her back, Corisande looked more a hesitant, wide-eyed young innocent than the half-naked temptress who had fled only moments ago behind the screen, a very good thing. So what was this disappointment filling him? h.e.l.l and d.a.m.nation, he wanted nothing to do with the chit!

"Yes, turn out the lamp."

Corisande flinched, Donovan's voice a surly growl that took her by surprise. He hadn't sounded so gruff when she had asked if he'd finished changing and . . . oh, dear. Her eyes dropped again to his bare chest when he leaned forward to take her gla.s.s, her heart already beating hard as a drum as she tried to rea.s.sure herself anew that he must have changed into some sort of sleeping wear. She didn't know what men wore to bed, but surely he wasn't- Not even wanting to consider the matter further, Corisande hastily lifted her gaze, but Donovan was already occupied with pouring more champagne. Oh, Lord, she already felt as bloated as a fish. She couldn't possibly drink any more until she had . . . oh, this night was becoming increasingly more unbearable and more embarra.s.sing than she could have ever imagined!

"Is . . . well, could you tell me where the water closet-"

"Over there through that door. By the wardrobe."

Still pouring champagne, he hadn't bothered to look at her, and for that Corisande was grateful as she hurried on bare feet across the room. His voice was as gruff, too, but right now she didn't care. She felt ready to burst, her head in a fog, her legs feeling wobbly beneath her, and probably the last thing she needed was more champagne.

While Donovan wished he had another bottle as Corisande half stumbled into the water closet and shut the door behind her. Two bottles! If nothing else, that would have numbed him. But he had only the one, and it was empty now, the two goblets filled to the brim. He didn't bother to wait for her, his champagne gone when she reappeared a few moments later.

"Don't forget the lamp."

She glanced at him, but said nothing, which was somewhat of a surprise. Surely his churlish tone must be irritating her, and he certainly wished it would.

A rousing show of temper would probably do them both some good. Help them to get some sleep, too, each hugging their own side of the bed with their backs turned belligerently to the other like two encamped enemies exhausted from battle. Watching her douse the lamp, the room falling into darkness but for the dying orange flames in the fireplace, Donovan wondered what he could say to make her flare up at him. Or maybe all he had to do was make some move toward her . . .

"Oh . . . oh, no!"

Donovan heard a dull thud followed by a heavy thunk as if something had fallen, making him throw back the covers. "Corie?"

A low groan greeted him, and Donovan lunged from the bed. His heart pounding, for a moment he couldn't see her, for that corner of the room was so dark. But then he spied a still white form on the floor near the wardrobe. He rushed to Corisande's side and dropped to his haunches.

"Corie? What happened?" He got no answer though she moved clumsily this time, her hand flying to her forehead. He did the same, pus.h.i.+ng away her trembling fingers to place his palm gently over her brow, a telltale lump already forming above her right temple.

"I-I tripped," came a weak faltering voice that didn't sound anything like Corisande at all. "I hit I hit the wardrobe and-"

"I know, Corie. Shh, don't talk for a moment." Donovan scooped her up in his arms, trying to a.s.sure himself that there was little cause for alarm as he carried her to the bed. It was only a small b.u.mp, and after a full night's rest she'd be as good as new and eager to spar with him again, he had no doubt.

Yet she felt so limp in his arms, so helpless, and he didn't like it at all. Strangely, it made him feel helpless, too, which was even more b.l.o.o.d.y unnerving, just like earlier in the day when those pilchard barrels had been cras.h.i.+ng toward her and he'd been too far away to do anything but cry out her name.

"Easy, Corie, lie still now," he commanded softly, placing a down pillow beneath her head and then pulling the covers to her chin. "I'll get a wet cloth for that b.u.mp and some water for you to drink."

"Yes, water. Please, water," she agreed in a raspy voice that had grown somewhat stronger. "No more champagne. No more sherry."

"Sherry?"

She didn't answer, moaning softly to herself as she rolled her head from side to side until suddenly she froze, her fingers digging into the covers. "The bed! Oh, G.o.d, what's happening to the bed? It's spinning-"

"It's not spinning, woman, you're spinning," Donovan cut her off dryly, realizing now exactly what she'd been talking about.

It must have been a d.a.m.ned good amount of sherry too. One gla.s.s of champagne wouldn't have made her feel so ill, or caused her to trip over her own feet, though it had probably made things worse. No wonder his surliness hadn't riled her. The chit was as pickled as a mackerel! And, just as he'd feared, in the next instant he was racing to bring the washbasin to the bed before she was sick all over herself. Donovan held her head and swept her long hair out of her face as she leaned over the edge of the mattress and retched and moaned, and retched some more.

Finally, when she was done, he was able to leave her to get rid of the basin and fetch wet cloths and a gobletful of water; Corisande drank so thirstily that he thought she might become ill again, so he took the gla.s.s away. After wiping her face and mouth, he pressed a fresh cloth to her forehead, the b.u.mp as big as a robin's egg now and quite tender. She sucked in air through her teeth and cried out, trying to push his hands away.

"Dammit, woman, you need this for the swelling! Lie still or you'll only start spinning again."

That dire warning seemed to work as she sank back onto her pillow and grew quiet, so quiet that several moments later he thought she'd fallen asleep. Sighing heavily, Donovan left her side and climbed back into bed, but he didn't lie down, propping some pillows behind him to sit staring at what was left of the fire.

So much for his wedding night. He might have a temporary marriage, but he couldn't say the evening hadn't been memorable. In fact, he doubted he'd ever forget it.

First she'd wanted to whack him over the head with a shovel.

Then she'd nearly driven him to distraction with a body any man might kill for.

And lastly, she'd walked smack into a wardrobe and nearly scared him half to death, only to come very close to being sick all over him.

b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l, he deserved a drink. And fortunately there was one more gla.s.s of champagne.

"So mean. So mean . . ."

Donovan turned to find Corisande had rolled over onto her side and was clutching her pillow, her body curled into a ball.

"Corie?"

"So mean! Bess . . ."

He couldn't tell if she was awake or dreaming, her words coming in half-whispers that sounded hoa.r.s.e, distressed. Sliding closer, he laid his head down close to hers and prodded gently, "The housemaid, Corie? Bess, the housemaid?"

In answer, she clutched her pillow more tightly, a broken sigh slipping from her lips. It sounded so sad, Donovan couldn't help but move closer, drawing her into his arms. He held his breath, but she didn't resist, instead pressing her cheek against his shoulder.

"What did she say, Corie?" he whispered, freeing one hand so he could stroke her silky hair. A second ragged sigh broke from her throat, this one even more heartwrenching than the last.

"Ugly . . ."

He tensed, anger filling him. "Bess said you're ugly?"

"Scar . . ."

Her voice had sunk to a whisper and, as she pressed even closer, Donovan could feel a warm wetness where her face was buried against his shoulder.

". . . ugly. So cruel. They don't know don't know. . ."

He said nothing as her voice trailed away, her breathing so deep and regular he knew she was fast asleep. While he lay there, his throat so tight that he could barely breathe. But he didn't want to move, not right now. He didn't want to wake her.

Instead he gathered her close and rocked her gently, as a father might cradle a hurting child.

Corisande half opened her eyes, a blurred shadow pa.s.sing in front of her. Groaning at the dull throbbing in her head, she was barely aware that the indistinct shape had stopped and now hovered over her.

"Oh, you poor, poor dear. To be sick on your wedding night? Such a shame. Nerves will sometimes do that to a bride. But I've tea for you, and a nice hot bath is ready, my lady. Shall I help you to sit up?"

Corisande recognized the brisk, capable tones of Ellen Biddle even before she could focus clearly upon the housekeeper's kindly face. What was that the woman had said about nerves? About her being sick? She tried to speak, but nothing came out except a hoa.r.s.e croak, her tongue as dry as wool and practically useless.

"Oh, my, yes indeed, you need tea, my lady. Here, if you'll raise yourself just a bit-that's right, now I'll plump these pillows for you. There."

Corisande was amazed; one moment she'd been lying flat on her back feeling wretchedly helpless and disoriented, and now she was comfortably reclining while Ellen poured her a steaming cup of tea from a white china pot decorated with tiny blue flowers. Comfortable at least, but for the painful ache above her right temple, Corisande flushed with chagrin as fuzzy memories came rus.h.i.+ng back at her.

Oh, dear, had she really tripped and fallen headlong into that wardrobe? And now that she thought about it, she vaguely remembered becoming ill but little else after . . .

"Sugar? Cream?"

Corisande shook her head, to which the housekeeper gave a concurring smile.

"Plain is how I like my tea too. Well steeped, hot, just the thing to start the day. Here you go, my lady."

Corisande no sooner accepted the teacup and took her first sip than the housekeeper was bustling across the room, her plain black dress and starched ap.r.o.n rustling efficiently. A spare middle-aged woman with premature gray hair beneath her neat white ruffled cap, Ellen Biddle had to be one of the most energetic souls Corisande had ever seen.

"A pity, but it seems the suns.h.i.+ne has left us today." With firm no-nonsense tugs, Ellen drew aside the forest-green velvet curtains at the windows flanking the balcony doors and tied them back with thick gold-braid ropes. "The fog broke a short while ago, but I fear not the clouds. It looks certain to rain, maybe even storm. Wretched weather for traveling, but there it is. At least you had a fine day for your wedding, my lady."

"Traveling?" Relieved that she had regained the use of her voice, Corisande stared in confusion as Ellen came back around the bed. "I don't recall anyone saying-"

"Oh, my, no, I didn't mean you, my lady, or His Lords.h.i.+p." The housekeeper's face drew into a sudden frown. "Good riddance, is what I say. Those two girls were a handful of trouble. Well, not so much Meg, although she followed along after Bess like a silly milk cow. A pity too. She was a good worker. But His Lords.h.i.+p said that she and Bess must go this very morning, and f.a.n.n.y too. I warned the girl her loose tongue would bring her trouble, but-"

"Lord Donovan . . . I-I mean, my husband sent them away?" Incredulous, Corisande had to believe it must be so when Ellen firmly nodded.

"Oh, yes, indeed. His Lords.h.i.+p came to see me before the sun was up, quite angry he looked too. Said he'd have no servants in this house speaking ill of you, my lady. Said those three must be gone before you opened your eyes this morning, and so they were, sent to catch the mail-coach in Helston just after dawn. Meg and Bess bound for Weymouth and f.a.n.n.y back to Arundale Hall where she'll have to explain herself to His Grace, no doubt. I believe Lord Donovan sent along a sealed letter."

Corisande leaned her head back against the pillow as Ellen paused to refill her teacup; memories swam before her now, fresh and vivid. The unsettling conversation she'd overheard between the housemaids, Bess discussing her so callously, and how furious Donovan had been, threatening Henry Gilbert with injury to life and limb until Corisande had told him that f.a.n.n.y "I must apologize for those girls, my lady."

Corisande looked at Ellen, but the woman seemed reluctant to meet her eyes as she set the china pot back upon the tray.

"I don't know what all was said between the three of them, but . . . well, it troubles me to no end to think your upset last night might have been caused . . ."

Ellen didn't finish, instead glancing down uncomfortably at her hands, which led Corisande to guess that the housekeeper had probably heard-Ogden and the other remaining servants as well, for that matter-much of f.a.n.n.y's gossip on their way to Cornwall. But something told her that she would never have heard a word of such talk from this woman's mouth. Ellen Biddle had a strong air of decency about her that made Corisande doubt, too, that she could possibly have agreed to be a spy. But Corisande supposed she could never be sure.

"It was a simple case of nerves, Ellen, nothing more," she said, deciding it was a good time to show that if she'd overheard anything, she'd granted it little credence. "Certainly no reason to trouble yourself. All the excitement, the long day. I'm sure you understand."