The Maid of Fairbourne Hall (21 page)

Margaret steeled herself, as she always did, when it was time to enter one of the men's bedchambers—especially the first time of a morning, when the occupant was still in his bed. She had gotten over the initial shock of having to do so but still did not relish the prospect. Her early training was imbedded too deeply within her. Heaven help her if anyone ever found out she had done so not once, but every morning for months.

Margaret took a deep breath and eased open Nathaniel Upchurch's door. Slipping inside, she closed the door behind her so any corridor noises would not disturb the sleeper. It was too late, however, for the sleeper seemed disturbed already. Nathaniel's head thrashed from side to side, though his eyes remained closed.
What in the world?

One leg, dark with hair, escaped the bedclothes. Cheeks warm, she averted her eyes. She delivered the water, found the chamber pot blessedly empty, and made to leave. But Nathaniel groaned like a man in pain. He was having a bad dream, apparently. A very bad dream. She risked another glance, knowing she ought to slip out before he awoke. How rude an awakening would it be to find a housemaid staring down at him?

He moaned again, a tortured sound. If only he had a valet to rouse him and end his misery. But there was only her. A wave of dark hair fell over his brow, and with those piercing eyes closed, he looked younger, less dangerous. For a moment he reminded her of Gilbert, who had experienced terrible nightmares as a young child. She had never hesitated to wake him, to soothe him, to stroke the hair from his brow.

Margaret took a tentative step forward. From the weak morning light leaking from between shutters and transom, she saw Nathaniel's face contort. Poor man. Of what must he be dreaming?

Perhaps if she whispered to him, the dream would end, or at least shift, without him waking and she could slip out undetected.

She took another step toward the bed and leaned near. “Sir?” she whispered. “Sir?” Gingerly, she reached a hand toward his shoulder. Dared she give him the barest tap?

His hand shot out and he grabbed her arm. She gasped. His eyes flew open, but they were glazed with that vague, unfocused look she recognized from Gilbert's sleepwalking days. His eyes might be open, but Nathaniel Upchurch was still asleep.

She tried to extract her arm, but his grip was too tight. “Sir, you're dreaming. Wake—”

He rolled toward her, grasping her other arm as well. “Margaret?”

Her heart lurched. Was he dreaming of her, or of some other Margaret?

“Cannot save her . . .” The ragged timbre of his voice tore at her heart.

“Sir. You're all right,” she soothed. “You're safe.” She hesitated, then lifted one of her captured hands and awkwardly patted his arm. “Margaret is safe.”

He suddenly pulled her toward him and she lost her balance, falling to her knees beside the bed. He pulled her closer yet, until their faces were very near.

Stunned, Margaret did not move quickly enough to escape his grasp. Was not sure she wanted to escape him. Nathaniel Upchurch was dreaming of her, touching her, perhaps about to kiss her. Was she dreaming as well?

She could feel his hot breath on the sensitive skin of her upper lip.

“Margaret . . .” The name was part groan, part growl.

She was filled with a sweet, aching longing to bridge the lingering space between them. She leaned down and their lips met in a feather touch. Sparks thrilled her every nerve. He angled his head to deepen the kiss, pressing his mouth to hers, fervently, fiercely. Her head felt light, her pulse pounded.

What was she doing? The heady, delicious kiss took her off guard. She had never expected such a passionate, forceful embrace from a man she had once thought timid.
A man who doesn't know what he is doing,
she reminded herself.
Who is dreaming.

She, on the other hand, knew very well what she was doing. She tried to pull away but, leaning over as she was, fell forward, her elbows spearing his chest. Crying out, she scrambled out of his hold and to her feet.

“What on earth?” His voice was different now. Lucid, though still hoarse. Awake.

She turned away, flying toward the door.

Incredulous, he called, “What in heaven's name . . . ?”

Too shaken to force an accent, she fled without a word.

———

Heaven help him. What had just happened? In his mind swirled a quagmire of conflicting thoughts, images, sensations. . . . Had he been dreaming?
Merciful Father.
Had some well-meaning servant slipped into his chamber to calm him, only to be pulled into his bed? What had he been thinking? He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to remember. The dark putrid smoke of the dream laid over him like a heavy cloak, making it hard to breathe. He could still feel the shock, the fury, the terror of the fire. His ship. Being destroyed.

Pieces of the dream returned to him. Had he been calling out loud enough to bring down a servant from the floor above?
Good heavens.
He had not had night terrors since boyhood. He supposed with the recent stress it was not surprising they had returned. But the loss of the ship was not the heaviest weight on his chest, not the elusive, nagging thought flitting just out of sight and recall.

When had the dream changed? He had been clashing swords with Preston, both men trying to reach the gangplank and block the other's escape, when he'd heard a female voice, calling to him.
Margaret.
He had recognized her voice with a start. What was she doing aboard his ship? How had she gotten there? He looked wildly this way and that, trying to locate her. Was she trapped among the rapidly amassing wreckage of toppled masts and rigging that had once been his prized possession?

He'd tried to call to her, his voice coming as if through a sea of uncarded wool. She would never hear him over the roar of the fire, the crack and bang of falling timber.

Preston took advantage of his distraction and drove his sword deep into Nathaniel's chest. His heart. Breaking.
Oh, Margaret, why?
Though she had destroyed his happiness and dreams, still he must rescue her. He ran across the deck, hand to his wound, and pushed a fallen mizzenmast out of his way. The smoke burned his eyes and seared his throat. So dry.

“Where are you? We must disembark. I cannot save her.”

Then suddenly, miraculously, she was in his arms. Safe. Their embrace had felt so real, so sweetly, painfully real. And suddenly the past evaporated. She was there with him, and that was all that mattered. He would not waste one moment. He pulled her close, relishing the feel of her against him. He pressed his mouth to hers, kissing her deeply, as he had long dreamed of doing . . .

Dreamed . . .

Disappointment drenched his soul. It had only been a dream. A delicious, torturous dream. Had there even been a woman in the room? An innocent housemaid come to empty his slops only to be shocked and appalled by his crazed, groping behavior? He had long promised himself he would never trifle with anyone in his employ—that he would respect the female servants as he did the men. Be the benevolent master his heavenly Father was to His servants.

Nathaniel ran a hand over his face. Paused to feel his lips . . . lips he was so certain had been pressed to Margaret Macy's. What had he done—how would he ever explain? He wasn't even sure which girl it was. The poor thing might be gone by breakfast, after telling a shocked and disapproving Mrs. Budgeon how he had molested her. Or might she keep her post in desperation, but avoid him in terror all her days at Fairbourne Hall?

He grimaced again, trying to remember exactly what had happened, to sift out fact from fiction, reality from dream, and wishing to block the whole episode from his mind. Would he never be over Margaret Macy? How did she manage to torment him over the distance of years and miles, wherever she was now?

But the longer he ruminated, the more the dream faded and the events blurred, until he was not certain a maid had been in his arms at all. In the dim dawn light his room seemed undisturbed. If only his heart and mind could claim as much.

He looked toward the door. Shut. Would a maid have bothered to close it were she fleeing in fear? Unlikely. So perhaps no one had even yet been in his room.

He glanced across the bedchamber in the other direction, and glimpsed water cans on his washstand. His heart fell. He rose and crossed the room as though approaching a trap about to spring. He hoped against hope these were the cans from the night before. He dipped in his finger and winced.

Still warm. Very warm.

———

After that, Nathaniel had climbed back into bed and lay there for a time, praying. He must have fallen asleep, for when he opened his eyes again, the sun was shining through the windows, brightening his mood, as did the cheerful birdsong. Arnold came in with a tray of coffee and the newspaper and went about setting out his clothes. He seemed the same as always. No disapproving looks or news of a housemaid giving notice.

“And will you be riding this morning, sir? Or fencing?”

“Hmm? Oh. Riding, I think.”

Everything was as it should be. The same as the day before and the day before that. Perhaps a maid had brought in water as usual but otherwise it had all been a dream. He was really quite sure of it now. What a relief. No apologies to make. No woman in his bed. No ghostly Miss Macy with ethereal blond hair whispering to him in the night that he was safe. That she was safe. Perhaps it was a sign. God was telling him he was finally past it. His heart was safe—Miss Macy fared well wherever she'd gone, and was none of his concern. Everything was fine. It was time for Nathaniel to get on with life in the here and now.

Invigorated at the thought, Nathaniel threw back the bedclothes. He swung his legs over and for a moment sat on the edge of his bed, bowing his head in thanksgiving for a new day. The sunlight splayed over his nightshirt-clad knees. Something shone on the plain white fabric like a thread of a brighter hue. He pinched the errant thread between thumb and forefinger, preparing to toss it in the rubbish basket, but stopped. Instead, he lifted the thread before him and in the shaft of sunlight saw it was not a thread but rather a long hair. A long blond hair.

He frowned. Who among his staff had such hair? None that he could think of, though he made a practice of not looking often nor directly at the young women in his employ. He supposed it might have come in by way of the laundry. He would not recognize the laundry maids if he passed them in the street. Or perhaps Lewis brought home some lady's hair upon his person and it had transferred to Nathaniel via the laundry. Lewis, he knew, had no lack of female admirers of every description. But even as his logical mind tried to reason away the blond remnant, to avoid linking last night's dream with its subject, he could not succeed for long. He had dreamed of blond Margaret Macy, only to awaken with a long blond hair in his bed? Dear God, have pity on a poor sot. What sort of sign was that?

Margaret pressed two fingers to her lips, still tender from Nathaniel's kiss. A pair of fingers was not so much different than a pair of lips, she reasoned, but somehow the pressure of her fingers, once soft, now already beginning to roughen, felt nothing like his lips had—firm, smooth, yet punctuated with scratchy whiskers on chin and cheek. Just thinking of it caused her to experience anew the sweet heady tension, the hammering heart rate, the delirium of thought and emotion. She had never felt that way in her life and wondered why.

Margaret had been kissed before. She thought back to Marcus Benton's forced kiss not so long ago, his fingers biting into the tender skin of her upper arms. But that act had evoked revulsion, anger, fear . . . not the dreamy longing that lingered over her now, that languor of limb and mind. Marcus's had been an act one wished to forget. Nathaniel's a moment to savor and relive. She told herself she was being foolish. For he had not known what he was doing. If he had known it was her, really her, he would never have kissed her, held her with such urgency. But he had been dreaming of kissing her, so did that not mean something . . . something wonderful? She thought she had killed any feelings he'd had for her. But perhaps she had been mistaken.

How different she would feel if she believed Nathaniel Upchurch had tried to kiss Nora, a defenseless housemaid. She thought of Lewis's flirtatious past and Marcus's outright seduction of girls who felt they had little choice. Margaret thought she understood for the first time why Nathaniel Upchurch never really looked at, and certainly never ogled, his servants. It was to her advantage, for he had not looked at her directly enough to recognize her.

She wondered what it would be like to kiss Nathaniel when he was fully awake. She doubted she would ever know. For awake and in his right mind, a gentleman like Nathaniel Upchurch would only kiss his wife with that measure of unguarded passion. She'd had her chance to be his wife and had spurned it, spurned him. A choice she was beginning to truly regret.