Everything I Ever Wanted (21 page)

The colonel nodded. "And in spite of that his body was recovered evening last, also from the Thames. He had been weighed down with blocks, but the mooring line was eaten through and he floated to the surface. What was left of him, that is."

"Is there any doubt as to his identity?"

"None. He had some papers on his person that were still legible once they dried. I came to this news late and only by happenstance. I have since confirmed it beyond question. It is Rutherford."

South took this in, remembering how he had questioned India after learning of Rutherford's disappearance. He thought she had been genuinely concerned, not only for Rutherford's well-being but his own. Could she have truly had a hand in his murder?

"There is one other thing," the colonel said slowly, "about his manner of death."

"Yes?"

"It was not the same as Kendall's."

"Then he wasn't beaten?"

"No. Not beaten. His heart was cut from his chest."

India placed a steaming bowl of chicken broth in front of Darrow. She bit back her smile when he regarded the offering with more resignation than appreciation. "Do you find you have no stomach for the broth?" she asked.

"Some meat in it wouldn't be amiss," he said.

"Then you are feeling more the thing? After so much difficulty with your porridge this morning, I did not think you could possibly accept even the smallest of tender slivers. Poor Mr. Darrow. You smelled it cooking in the pot and it has whetted your appetite." She sniffed the air. "Why, I can smell it still. The aroma rises nicely above stairs, does it not? Well, if you are quite certain you can manage a bit of chicken meat" Her voice trailed off as she made an assessment of the ruddy color returning to the valet's thin face. It accompanied the growling and grumbling of his stomach.

Darrow's jaw clamped tightly shut, and he pressed his hands to his sunken middle as if it would stave off the noises. A bit of chicken meat? He could devour the entire hen, including the neck and the giblets and the part of her that went over the garden fence last. India Parr, dark-eyed witch that she was, was starving him and finding a great deal of satisfaction in it, if he was any judge. She was diabolical. That was the word he had been in search of these past nine days. Diabolical . If he said he was feeling stronger, she immediately began making noises about returning to London. That forced him to find another complaint to keep himself bedfast and to keep her tending to his failing health. It was an intricate set he had been dancing with her, but Darrow did not fool himself into thinking he was yet in the lead. He may have invited her onto the floor, but she'd been twirling him in dizzying circles ever since.

"Mayhap a drumstick," he said, striving to keep his voice at a pathetically quavering pitch.

India remained skeptical. "Well I suppose it could not hurt you overmuch. Mrs. Simon said it should be only the broth until you can stomach the porridge, but it may be that she is wrong."

Mrs. Simon, a widow from the village who had been the cottage's caretaker for more than ten years, came daily to assist with chores and the necessary cooking and baking and laundering. She arrived the morning after Darrow had been struck down by his mysterious illness, to find that all had been taken well in hand. After discovering that the new mistress of the house had risen early, drawn her own water for washing, and already found the store of oats, she took over stirring the thick porridge bubbling in the hearth pot.

They might have been fast friends, Darrow remembered gloomily, instead of newly met strangers. From his bed he could hear them chattering. Plotting. It did not take India long to engage Mrs. Simon in her conspiracy. The widow was ever so helpful in recommending poultices and herbal remedies that would draw the sickness from him. What one of them did not think of, the other did. He was grateful for his own knowledge about such things, as it was his only assurance they weren't poisoning him in carefully calculated increments.

India gently laid the back of her hand across Darrow's furrowed brow."You are warm, Mr. Darrow. Shall I prepare a cool compress?"

The problem was, Darrow thought, if one simply discounted the fact that she was diabolical, India Parr was also tender, calming, and kind. She did not bristle when his mood soured, and she had never once complained about caring for him. He couldn't think of many who would have done the same. In point of fact, when he refined upon it further, he couldn't think of any.

"Yes," Darrow said weakly, his resolve crumbling in the face of her gentle ministrations. There were worse things in life than having India Parr's exquisite hands fussing over you. "A compress would be just the thing."

"And the drumstick?"

"Perhaps later." His stomach rumbled in revolt, but Darrow manfully ignored it. For now he would settle his hunger with broth and bread and appreciate these moments when India sat on the edge of his bed and cared for him with charityand a bit of cunningin her heart.

India laid a cloth in the basin and allowed it to absorb the cool water. Below stairs she heard the cottage door open. She glanced at Darrow and saw that he had also heard the sound. In anticipation of the widow Simon's strident call that she had returned from the village, his mouth had flattened in a thin line. "You needn't fear," India told him. "I shall not allow her to prepare a single poultice for you this afternoon." Seeing him relax slightly, she added, "If such is needed, I shall do the thing myself."

Diabolical . The bowl of broth wobbled on his tray as Darrow leaned back against a stack of pillows.

India squeezed water from the cloth, folded it, and laid it lightly across the valet's forehead. "Tilt your head," she instructed. "Never mind the broth. I shall feed you." She sat on the edge of the bed, careful not to dislodge the tray, and picked up the spoon. "Good. It is still hot. I was afraid it would not be after our discussion about"

She stopped. Darrow was no longer giving her the least attention. His eyes were riveted to a point past her shoulder, and judging by the deep flush rising from his chest, it was not Mrs. Simon who was standing on the threshold. India's fingers tightened on the spoon. It was more out of habit than conscious thought that she pressed it to Darrow's mouth. "Here. You must eat." It was her voice, though she had no sense of the words. "It will not do for you to lose more strength. I should like to think that"

"A touching scene." Southerton had heard and seen enough. He stepped out of the doorway and unfastened his greatcoat with abrupt, impatient motions. Tossing it on the trunk at the foot of the bed, he came closer. The spoon India had removed from his valet's mouth still hovered in the air. Darrow had not yet shown the presence of mind to swallow. South supposed that in their place he would be equally surprised by his sudden appearance. After all, it had been two days and a full sennight since he'd left them behind. India would have had cause to wonder if he had abandoned her. Darrow, who would have known better, had contrived to follow South's instructions and had landed himself flat on his back and under India's thumb.

"For God's sake," South said, removing his hat, "swallow whatever it is, Darrow, or spit it out. Put down the spoon, India. I am quite certain Mr. Darrow can manage eating on his own. You are all of a piece, aren't you, Darrow?"

The valet straightened, pushing himself to attention. The cloth on his forehead fell onto his tray, narrowly missing his soup. He swallowed and nodded at the same time.

"Good." South stared at India's back. She had not yet deigned to turn away from her patient. He knew that when she did so she would already have composed her expression. Whatever opportunity there had been to see naked emotion in her darkly mirrored eyes had now passed. "You will come with me, India."

Very much aware of Darrow's guilty but watchful glance, India set the spoon down carefully. She came to her feet and smoothed the apron pinned to her unbleached muslin gown. Turning, her features perfectly schooled, she merely inclined her head in South's direction. "As you wish."

As soon as they were gone from the room, Darrow removed the tray from his lap, threw off his covers, and dressed. He took his leave of the cottage by tiptoeing down the stairs, and when he met Mrs. Simon on the cobblestone walk he invited her to leave her parcels outside and join him for a meal in the village tavern. Nonplussed, she hesitated at first. It was when her eyes fixed on the great black stallion tethered nearby that she understood.

Mrs. Simon set her things down precisely where she stood. She folded her plump arms across her chest and stared at the cottage, her head cocked to one side. There were no raised voices, but then not everyone engaged in a row that could be heard by all and sundry. Mr. Simon had been one to bluster like a stormy north wind, and for the eight years they were married, she had given as good as she got. "So he's returned, has he?" she said plainly.

"He has."

She nodded once, her bow mouth screwed to one side as she mulled the consequences of this over. "I shouldn't be surprised if there's a murder to be done."

"I was thinking much the same thing. She doesn't easily ruffle, that Miss Parr, but his lordship has a way about him, you might say, that will surely test her mettle."

Her decision made, the widow Simon eyed Darrow with more interest than she had shown on any previous occasion. "You must be weak in the knees with hunger."

"Aye." He crooked his arm for her to take."Didn't know if I could survive your curative powders much longer."

Slipping her arm into his, Mrs. Simon had the grace to smile apologetically. She glanced at him, a bit taken aback when she had to tilt her head so far. "My, but you're a tall one," she said softly.

Too hungry to wonder if he'd leaped from the frying pan into the fire, Mr. Darrow led the widow away. Behind him the cottage remained eerily quiet.

India followed South into the hall but hesitated when he turned toward her bedchamber rather than taking the stairs. Laying his hand flat on her door, he shot her a look that was at once impatient and challenging. It was enough. With impeccable timing, she swept past him just as he pushed the door open.

India was halfway across the room before she realized she was no longer advancing, but in retreat. She turned to make her stand. "I will not be bullied, m'lord." In contrast to her words and her posture, there were her eyes, drinking him in. The proof that these last nine days had cost him sleep and peace of mind was laid open on his face. It was drawn, the skin pulled taut. His fine features stood out in sharp relief. India did not want to notice these things, yet she found that once noticed, she could not pretend otherwise. Neither could she pretend she was unaffected by them. That he could stir compassion in her so easily filled her with a sick kind of dread, yet hadn't she spent every one of these last nights praying that he had not already come to harm? It was only because she retained some small measure of pride that she persevered. "You cannot simply snap your fingers and expect"

"Have off, India," he said wearily. South leaned against the door. In the stillness that had settled over the room, its jarring closure was loud and discordant. He pulled off his riding gloves and looked around for some place to put them. India, as if moved by a force outside herself, stepped forward and took them out of his hands. Her fingers brushed his. It was the briefest of glancing touches, and yet they both drew back from it. She was able to hold on to only one of the gloves. The other fell to the floor between them.

India stooped to pick it up. She remained there unmoving when South's hand came to rest lightly on her shoulder and his fingertips grazed the bare nape of her neck. Tendrils of hair shifted against her skin. A shiver exposed her vulnerability.

She let the glove lie there and dropped the other beside it. The symbolism of the gesture was not lost on her. Two gauntlets thrown. No matter that it had been by accident, not design. No matter there had been no formal challenge. Something existed between them that was perhaps better left unstated, wanting only to be acted upon.

India stood. His palm made light and momentary contact with her upper arm, then her breast. He did not look away from her face, nor she from his. Tears made her dark eyes luminescent and spiked her thick lashes. "You will ease yourself with me," she said, taking his hand. "And I with you."

So simply said.

South's breath caught at the back of his throat. His lips parted around an unexpressed thought. There was much he needed to say and none of it that he wanted to. He suspected it was the same with her. So they would ease themselves first, just as she said. One in the other. The rest could wait.

India led South to the bed and pressed him without words to sit. She knelt at his feet and removed his boots. He could not tear his eyes away from her hands. They were slim and strong and exquisitely feminine, entirely capable. She pushed the boots aside, rose, and turned to the window. The curtains were drawn back by silken cords, and she ran her fingers slowly across one before she loosed it from its mooring.

"Leave it."

There was the briefest of pauses before she let the other one fall. Save for the thin, transparent flames from the fireplace, the room was shuttered in shadow. India smoothed the felds in the material, quieting their waving motion. She closed the small separation between them so even a slim beam of setting sunlight could not enter.

Turning to him again, her manner neither defiant nor yielding, India began to undress. After a moment, South stood and did the same. They were silent as they attended to this task, their eyes averted. Discarded clothing pooled around their feet. South stepped back as India approached the bed wearing only her muslin shift. She moved like a wraith, weightless, insubstantial. The urge to fall on her, to tear the shift from her body and feel the shape and heat of her flesh, was upon him so strongly that he dug his nails into his palms to stay his hands.