Kiss the Earl (10 page)

Patrick stared at the door that had closed behind the innkeeper only seconds ago, wondering what the devil he was going to do now.

Something was very, very wrong for the baron to be offering a reward, not for the safe return of his beloved daughter but information about Patrick and his whereabouts. What had Amelia done? Where the devil was she? Was she injured or worse?

He stood, nervous energy lighting his limbs. Amelia had always been too impetuous, and her lack of circumspection had gotten her into trouble on more than one occasion. But Patrick had always been there to help ease her out of her difficulties, to help cajole the baron into a lighter punishment than Amelia truly needed. Patrick frowned and started to pace alongside the table. Perhaps he should not have intervened so often. Had he contributed to Amelia's wild streak, helping to throw her into the path of this latest escapade?

His steps plodded evenly, the wood creaking softly through the parlor. If she was hurt, he'd never forgive himself. She was like his sister. He couldn't imagine where she could be. His fist landed in his palm.

George, the vicar. He had to get to George. If he had any luck, the vicar would know Amelia's whereabouts.

“Patrick?” Ella's soft call startled him from his reverie.

“Yes?” He turned to Ella, a guilty heaviness lodging in his gut. Yes, Amelia may be in trouble, but Lord knew he had enough on his hands at this moment.

“Are you okay? You look really worried.”

Raking his hand through his hair, he faced her. The sight of her was like a punch to his gut. How could a woman look so bedraggled, so mud-splattered, damp, and rumpled, and still be as beautiful a woman as ever he'd seen? Her eyes were so bright, so clear. It was like looking into a beautiful pool on a sunny morning. He could see forever.

“I will be fine. I am just worried about Amelia.”

Was he imagining the slight fall to her chin at his words? She looked almost disappointed.

“I know. I'm sorry. I'm going to help you find her, you know.”

“And I shall help you…” He trailed off, not really wanting to say the words. He cleared his throat and started again. “I shall help you find someone to send you back to your time.”

Her gaze flew to his, eyes wide. “You believe me?”

An incredulous chuckle escaped him, and he looked out the window at the gray clouds moving across the sky. “I should not. It is too outlandish. But I…have always been more open than I should to the idea of such things. I have been trying to forget it, but in light of what's happened to you, I can no longer pretend differently. I believe I owe my life to magic.”

A soft gasp drew his attention back to her. Her mouth was open, her brows lifted in concern. “What do you mean?”

He pulled a chair beside her and took his time arranging it, more to collect his scattered thoughts than anything. The memory had been buried in the back of his skull, but the moment he'd met Ella, it had been threatening to come out.

Drawing a heavy, steadying breath, he looked into her eyes and began.

“I was in the army, Ella. I fought and I killed, for king and country. And it was hell. Truly the most horrifying experience a man can ever go through.”

He cleared his throat to dislodge the lump there. Ella stayed silent, her gaze never wavering.

“I was very badly wounded in the Battle of Orthez. I took a bullet to the belly and fell from my horse. I remember lying on my back in thick mud, staring up at the dark clouds and thinking I would die there in southern France, never seeing my home again.”

“But you don't have a scar,” Ella whispered.

He shook his head with a rueful smile. “No, I do not.”

“Why?”

Nervousness tensed his thigh, and he planted his palm atop it to keep it from trembling. “It seemed I laid there for weeks, but in only a half hour or so, the fighting had stopped. The rains were torrential, and I began to wonder if I would drown before I could bleed to death. But then an old woman knelt down by my side. She laid her hand above my wound, and then everything went dark.”

Ella's hand covered his, and his muscles relaxed at the heat of her.

“I woke in my tent as if nothing had happened. My clothing was torn and soaked with blood, but my skin was unmarred.” His voice broke, and he stared at the floorboards. “I did not know what to think, so I did not think. I put on a clean uniform and did my duty as if nothing had happened. I have tried not to think of it since then. Until I met you.”

“I'm so glad you're okay.”

Her words were strained, and he looked up. The sight of tears glinting in her eyes was like a punch to his chest.

“I never thought that I would come across someone who would understand what happened then. It is impossible, but here we both are.”

She nodded, dashing away a tear that had started to wend its way down her cheek. “That's true.”

Patrick's stomach knotted as he leaned toward her. “This may seem odd, but I feel a sort of kinship with you. I had despaired of ever finding a soul I could relate that tale to. Most would think me mad; indeed, I doubted my own sanity for a time. But then you appeared, and I…” He trailed off, the words deserting him. How could he tell her that he was beginning to ascribe much more importance to her than he should?

She sniffled, tears still tracking down her cheeks. Not knowing what else to do, he handed over his handkerchief and stood.

“Where are my manners?” Patrick turned to the bundle that the innkeeper had brought. He picked it up and turned to Ella. “There is a washroom through that door there. You should get out of those wet things. Should I call for a maid to come and assist you?”

She shook her head vehemently, wiping her eyes. “No, I can get around good enough. I don't need help getting in there.”

Patrick gave a wry smile. “Am I to take that to mean you do not need help dressing where you come from?”

Her pink lips parted in a soft
O
. “Um, I haven't needed help dressing since I was about four or five. I think I got this.”

“Very well.” Patrick gave her a sharp bow. “I shall leave you to it then.”

He turned and headed for the exit.

“Where are you going?”

Pausing a moment in front of the door, he answered her question without looking back. “I had thought to go down to the taproom and see where our luncheon might be.”

“Don't you think that's a little dangerous if the baron has men here?”

God save him from managing females. He turned and looked at her then. She was standing by the chair, the bundle of clothing crushed against her chest. Her beautiful forehead was lined with worry.

“I will be fine. Do not worry. While I am down there, I thought to find out more information about Amelia and the baron's instructions.”

She bit her lower lip, her white teeth making sharp contrast with the soft skin. “Sure that's a good idea? I mean, I know you're worried about her, but what if they recognize you?”

He tried to ignore the way his belly warmed at her concern, but he was only partially successful. “I shall practice the utmost discretion. I shan't leave you, Ella. I promised that I would help you, and I shall.”

“I know you will, it's just…” She glanced away, her cheeks coloring.

“What?”

“Nothing.” A falsely bright smile painted her lips. “It's cool. Don't worry about it. I'm going to go change now.”

Patrick gave her a bow, then turned and left the parlor.

What the devil had that been about? Could the strange and beautiful Miss Briley be as attracted to him as he was to her?

He shook his head as he went down the narrow, dark hallway to the taproom. It did not matter. Despite their unchaperoned trip across the country and his overemotional confession, he and Ella would never be more than barely acquainted friends. They may share a common experience with magic, but that did not a kinship make. He stopped without warning.

It was that word.
Friends
. He
was
her friend, wasn't he? And she was his. He crooked a smile. Despite his worry about Amelia's harebrained scheme and the danger she may be in because of it, he could not deny that he was having a wonderful time dashing headlong down the roads with a beautiful—if a bit odd—female companion. Ella made him laugh, she confounded him at every turn, and he was quite sure that she may just be the bravest woman he'd ever had the pleasure of meeting.

As he rounded the corner of the taproom, he decided that if they all lived through this, he'd thank Amelia for quite the best adventure he'd had in many a long year.

“Ho there, Sir Iain,” the innkeeper said, struggling under the weight of a huge tray. Patrick blinked. Was that a whole ham alongside two brace of partridge? Good Lord. “I was just bringing your luncheon for you. So sorry for the delay. There was not enough on the tray the first time around. I gave the cook a sound talking-to, not to worry.”

“Thank you.” Patrick smothered his laugh, which was not at all well done of him. He wondered about that. Politeness was his second nature. It must be Miss Briley. If she'd seen this, her cheeks would have puffed out with impossible-to-restrain giggles. She was a bad influence on him.

“I shall return momentarily. There's something I must see to.”

The innkeeper tried to bow, but the china atop the tray clattered in warning, and the man steadied himself just in time. “Quite right, sir. It shall be waiting on your return.”

The man turned, and Patrick allowed himself a smile. If he and Ella ate everything on that tray, both Bacon and Kipper would be groaning under their weight for the rest of the journey. Now that would be a sight.

* * *

When she'd heard the word “washroom,” Ella had dared to let herself imagine luxury.

Running water.

Toilets.

A mirror, even.

What she got was a chamber pot, a small screen, and an old-fashioned washstand.

Ella winced, then hobbled inside, shutting the door behind her. At least there was privacy.

A small stool stood in the corner, and Ella sank down onto it. The thought of Patrick lying there, wounded and dying, had really shaken her. She closed her eyes.
But
he's fine now. Totally fine. And I've got to take care of me.

First things first. Carefully, slowly, she slid the boot off her foot. Even though it hurt, a giant rush of relief flowed through Ella as the boot hit the floor.

“Finally,” she muttered as she gingerly peeled the sodden bandages from her foot. “Ew.”

When she was fifteen, she'd gone with a school group to a theme park during the summer. She'd made the mistake of riding the log flume really early in the morning, and her shoes and socks had squished all day. When she got home that night, her feet were wrinkly and gray, too sensitive and miserable. Funny how she hadn't thought of that in so long, but now, staring down at her pitiful, raisin-wrinkly foot, the memory stared her in the face.

She wiggled her toes gingerly, but stopped as soon as she registered exactly how much that hurt. Scrunching her nose with concern, she went for it.

“Okay, let's see how bad this is. Whoo boy.”

The bottom of her foot had looked bad last night, but now? It was pretty grim. The rest of her foot was just as gray as the top had been, except for the angry red patches where she'd had cuts. The puncture wound was the worst, though. It was puffy and red, with angry streaks moving away from the center of the wound. Even though she didn't want to, Ella picked up the pitcher and sluiced clean water over it. She gritted her teeth against the pain. When she was done, she patted it dry with a folded cloth from the bottom of the washstand. Eyeing her work, she frowned.

“Girl, you've really done it this time.”

She was working on her other foot, which thankfully wasn't anywhere near as bad, when she heard the door to the parlor open.

Opening her mouth to ask Patrick for some clean bandages, she paused. What if it wasn't him? Better to just wait, probably.

A low muttering came from the other side of the door. Walking carefully on the sides of her feet, Ella pressed her ear against the cold wood.

“…should have known that silly cook would make a bungle of this. Look, just look! No fish? A nobleman, being served luncheon here in my inn, and not a fish to be seen. Although the ham looks delightful. Probably I should taste it, just in case.”

Ella laughed to herself, picturing the innkeeper taking bites of their lunch.

“Mmm. Delicious. Mayhap she can keep her position one more day. Yes. There. Quite nice.”

The parlor door shut, and Ella shook her head as she shucked Patrick's jacket and peeled the damp dress from her skin. It was almost as big a relief as taking off her boot. Not quite, but close.

When she'd dried herself and slipped into the clothing that the innkeeper had brought her, she looked down. Not bad. Of course, there wasn't a mirror she could use, but the view from up top wasn't so terrible. She was almost satisfied with her appearance until she reached up to touch her hair.

“Uuugh, gross.”

It was tangled and wild, frizzing everywhere. She tried to comb it with her fingers, but there wasn't a whole lot she could do. She settled for tying it into a low ponytail at the base of her neck with a little bit of ribbon she found hanging over the screen. It wasn't going to be beautiful, but at least it was out of her face.

Scooping up her still-wet boots, Ella opened the door to the parlor. She wasn't exactly a doctor, but she was pretty sure that infection was setting into her right foot. And if the temperature of her forehead compared to the temperature of her insides was any indication, she was coming down with a fever. Well, at least her immune system was kicking into gear, she thought glumly as she aimed the boots at the fire. She needed to tell Patrick, though. She'd slow him down if she got really sick.