Rescuing Mr. Gracey (16 page)

Of a sudden, he swiveled and strode to a picnic basket that had been plopped upon the sand. He retrieved a napkin, then, crouching at the water’s edge, he wet the cloth in the water and returned to her side.

“I wish to attend to your injuries,” he said, lifting her hair before gently washing her neck and near her eye. Every so often, he refreshed the linen with water and began again, methodically, silently cleansing the dried blood and swollen injuries.

“He’d better hope never to see me again.” The harsh sound of his voice contradicted the gentle care of his hand.

She looked up, alarmed at his hardened expression, his clenched jaw. He rose and paced to the lake again, his back to her, his hands fisted at his hips. Soundless, too immobile, he stared at the water as if probing the blue waves for answers.

“Please, sir.” His volatile mood frightened her.

“You should eat something,” he finally said, pointing to the picnic basket. “I remembered you like cheese. I’ve brought a bit of bread also.” Heaving a sigh, he returned to her. “And a special surprise,” he said, his tone flat, his hands rapidly withdrawing bread, cheese, and two cold chicken legs from the straw container.

“Ohhhh,” was all she weakly managed.

“Aye, I thought you’d like it,” Mr. Jordan said, his face marred with strain—so different from the teasing gentleman from last night.

She forced herself to eat for his sake, though she managed only little nibbles.

Staring at the chicken, a treat she had not had since last Christmas, she dared ask a question. “Mr. Jordan, you have so much at your disposal, I’m wondering how you manage it?”

“I brought the basket this morning in anticipation that your father may welcome my help. Please try to eat. It will do much to restore you.”

She was not fooled by his vague answer, but, oddly, she didn’t care.

“’Tis rare—cooked chicken—maybe once or twice a year at Christmas and Easter. Otherwise, chickens provide eggs to sell.” Shrugging, she kept her gaze on her napkin. “We don’t even have that luxury anymore. We sold all our stock—our chickens, a pig, and cow, to pay the Gombeen man interest on the seed.”

After a long wordless moment, she glanced at him and was surprised to see his eyes closed, his hand clenched at his mouth as if he were in some pain.

“I thank you most sincerely, Mr. Jordan. For everything. But may I beg one more request?”

His blue eyes, so gentle and kind, focused on her again. “Of course.”

“Please do not let Da know of the…the incident. Da and my brothers have nothing to gain by defending my honor, yet much to lose.”

He squinted, his brow furrowed. For a moment, Mary thought he would reject the request, but then, his jaw pulsing, he nodded agreement.

She continued, “I intend to say I slipped on a rock, and I’d appreciate your help with that story. ’Tis not untrue, for I did slip while trying to get away.”

His lips thinned, and he pressed his clenched fist to his mouth again before nodding once more. “And you, Miss Smyth, must keep eating.”

For his sake, she continued to nibble the offerings that were piled upon her napkin, and they both absorbed the restorative quiet for a quarter of an hour before she brushed her hands over the napkin and straightened her frame.

She smiled, trying to appear restored. “I best get on with the laundry, or I’ll not be getting it done in time to iron.”

“I do enjoy those smiles, Miss Smyth,” he said softly. Standing, he extended his hand to her. “I’m at your service with the laundry.”

Mary took his hand and rose, but shook her head. “I canno’ ask ya to do anything so low.”

“Shhhh. Miss Smyth,” he said, lifting her chin and locking her gaze with his. “How can it be low if you do it?”

His answer, startling and sincere, blurred her vision with tiny tears.

His thumb stroked her chin. “I hear an Irish accent, and we both know what that means.” His face crumpled into an imitation frown.

She smiled at his teasing. “What of my da? I thought you made an agreement. You cannot leave him alone to do that hard work. Otherwise, I must return to the field.” She pointed to her cart. “All I have is this bit of wash since me
máthair
did the most of it before I arrived.”

He leaned closer. “I’m not leaving you alone, Mary Smyth. Obviously, it is not safe for you here. With the two of us, this bit of laundry will be done in no time, then I’ll return to the field.”

Mary nibbled her lower lip. Truthfully, she was terrified to be alone and would have gone home to finish the laundry except for the many questions she would have to answer.

“Well then, best be at it.” She started to sort the clothing, rattling instructions until, suddenly, she gasped. She twisted toward the lake. “Ohhhh. Noooo.” Her most expensive soap, the rosewater, was lost to the depths of the water.

“Are you ill?”

Mary shook her head. “My rosewater soap.” Her voice trailed to a soft whisper. “It was new and very expensive. I use it for my best clients.”

Flicking a brooding grimace at the lake, he said, “I am deeply sorry, Miss Smyth.”

Don’t think of it now, Mary.
She shrugged and began instructing him quickly. She wanted to be in the safety of her home as soon as she could. “I’ll have to use the lavender and charge the client less. If you don’t mind, I’ll have you do the clients that use lye soap.”

She glanced up, confirming he understood. His eyes twinkled with a combination of delight and amusement.

“Are you thinking you’ll look foolish to be washing? ’Tis not too late to change your mind.”

He cleared his throat. “I challenge that I’ll get my load done faster than you, Miss Smyth.”

“Oh no. You must get them done cleaner.”

“Well then. Let’s be at it.” His lips curled up as he once more returned to the man who oozed charm.

He must not be a spy.
Lord, please don’t let him be a spy.

~ 11 ~

“Come, turn your men the other road,

 
and don’t cross Dolly’s Brae.”

A week ago, he breathed security and ate with privileged society and danced with women who wore too much perfume and not enough clothes. Alec stared at the hut’s warped wooden door, dismayed.

Terrifying. Exhausting…

Fingering her little handkerchief, he brought it to his nose and inhaled the soft rose scent. Tantalizing images of cinnamon-colored hair, dimpled smiles, and bright aqua eyes played an enticing song in his heart.

But she needed a hero. And he was a coward, bought and paid for by an enemy of her people. Even now, after witnessing the horror at the lake, he ached to escape from this struggle—political clashes, or native injustice, or desperate farmers and hungry laundresses.

Yet he did have a remnant of conscience, and right now it pinged too loudly. He must help her.

First, he must see the field planted so that she did not have to labor at two jobs. He must confirm that her brother Patrick was employed at the mill, thus providing an evening escort for laundry deliveries. Perhaps Joseph Smyth, a man of some intelligence and education, might be instructed on the linen production process to help him rise from his desperate state. If a discarded combing machine could be reworked, then her family might keep more profit and have more food. Alec nodded to himself as he increased his stride across the rocky field.

Once he saw to her needs, he would bid farewell to this dangerous land a mile from his home and return to the glittery well-fed world. But, for now, he would ensure her safety, especially keeping her from bathing in that damn lake unattended.

Unexpectedly, the horrifying assault replayed. The sound—her scream, laced with terror—seared his brain like a hot iron even as he ran toward her, his arms outstretched while he helplessly watched the maggot slug her and her body slump.

Gritting his teeth hard, Alec closed his eyes against the impotent emotion, especially when aligned with the proud little Irish elf as she melted into his arms—her torn hands desperately grasping his shirt, her bloody chemise and ugly swollen scratches testifying to the valiant effort made to fight the animal.

Fury raced through his blood as Alec turned and jogged toward the field. Joseph waved, his smile wide and friendly, and Alec wiped the morning’s distress from his expression.

While the elder man tossed rock with the clamp, Alec walked the field. This had to be the most pathetic, rock-littered excuse for a farming field he had ever seen. He exhaled, some of the earlier tension drizzling out as he took up the plow and tumbled the land.

Soon, earthy scents and breezy air carried him away from the morning’s trauma. Sweat cleansed his anxious thoughts. The pull of the mule loosened the strain on his heavy heart, and haunted, impossible yearnings slumbered with physical exhaustion.

Lifting his straw hat, Alec wiped his forehead of sweat as he crossed the field to drink a cup of water from the bucket. Some important message concerning the attack on Mary tapped at the edge of recognition, and Alec allowed the moment for reflection. Running a restless hand through his hair, he probed the problem for an answer. Why would the drunk represent himself as an employee of Roden?

He growled as he unhooked the mule from the plow. The drunk knew about the earl’s hunt for trespassers. Was it a coincidence he’d found Mary by the lake, or did he know she’d be there to do her laundry and had lain in wait? Alec’s stomach knotted as a suspicion arose. He’d reassured Mary her attacker had guessed she was a laundress, a Catholic, but Alec suspected he’d likely been too drunk, and fixated on Mary, to notice the cart of laundry. Was Mary being targeted? As he traveled through the forest with the mule, he probed the problem more, but his mind was too tired for any answers.

Yet the exhaustion felt good…so much better than a day at a political event. Rolling his aching neck, he shifted stiff shoulders and mentally applauded today’s progress. The work—something worthy that could be touched and watched—surprisingly pleased him. How easily he could slip into the life of a farmer. How sweet to come home each night and find Mary waiting, dinner on the table, children all about, the field bursting with life, and…

Alec jerked, slamming the thought back into a safe recess.
Don’t go there… One week. You cannot tarry in her world longer than one week. No more.

He would help a Catholic farmer plant an Anglican’s crop. He would make assurances the Catholic brother would maintain a position at the mill and be well paid. And he would escort Mary Smyth a few evenings—laugh with her and flirt with her and embrace all the magic she offered—and then he would return to the life neatly laid out for him.

Tensed muscles relaxed. After five harrowing yet satisfying days, Alec applauded how well he had managed to avoid accidental, disastrous encounters with those who lived in the upper square of Castlewellan. The first day he discovered a little-known path at the back of the manor to shield his journey to and from Dolly’s Brae. He’d borrowed a servant’s clothing for the field work, and a less ragged version to keep up the masquerade in the evening.

He cast a cautious glance about the barn before dragging the mule and plow behind. A small boy, waiting in the shadows, hurried forward and clasped the rope from Alec.

“Good lad,” Alec said. “The mule worked hard today, so be sure to brush him down well and give him extra oats.”

“Aye, master,” the young boy said, bobbing his head. Handing over a coin, Alec tousled the boy’s thick brown hair. “Today was the last, so you need not prepare the mule tomorrow morning.”

The boy looked down at his feet, disappointment evident in his expression. “Aye, sir.” He had obviously benefited from the daily coin given him for his secret work.

Alec exhaled tension. “You’ve been a loyal and efficient servant, William. I won’t forget it on my next project.”

A wide, toothy smile beamed back.

Alec left quickly, for now he must slide into the house undetected. A tiny squeak, loud as a lion’s roar, escaped the manor’s gate. Alec held his breath and glided through. He slipped behind the old oak tree, flattening, pausing. Head bobbing out, then back, out, then back, he rushed the last few yards to Gracey Manor.
You’re nearly there.
Lowering himself beneath the window, he peeked inside the kitchen.

His heart always hummed faster here, for, until he reached the safety of his room, the risk of discovery increased with each step he took inside the home.

After a full day of field work, Alec had returned each day to the manor, filthy and blistered, allowing only a cold rinse, even taking the precaution of washing his own foul clothing to avoid questions by his valet. He would change into casual clothing and charm the ladies inside the kitchen for more bread, jam, cheese, cold meats, and cider and then head back up the hill, this time using his quick steed through the forest.

On the evening escorts with Mary, he always carried the umbrella and kept a vigilant watch as they approached each street, all so he could protect her during her escorts…or so he assured himself.

However, he knew that to be a lie. Mary Smyth—a fragile, delicate, and elusive creature with a fiery temper and wonderful sense of humor—had wiggled firmly into his heart, and now the most vivid, strenuous torture was his own increasing desire.