The Offer (7 page)

He wasn't mistaken. She did indeed hesitate before answering him. Was she still afraid of him?

Finally she said, “My name is Sabrina Eversleigh.” She wasn't about to tell him that she was actually Lady Sabrina. That was none of his business. He could be anyone. He could even be a friend of Trevor's. Well, no, not that, but for the moment, she wasn't about to tell him anything.

The Eversleigh name was familiar to him. Where had he heard it before? Sabrina's eyes were tightly closed.

He touched his fingers to her cheeks. She was cool to the touch. “Sabrina, you can't go back to sleep just yet. I've made bread for you and some soup. You've got to eat something to gain your strength back. All right?”

“Yes,” she said, not opening her eyes. “I'm hungry. Thank you.”

He looked down at her awhile longer, then rose. He turned at the doorway and said over his shoulder, “Stay in bed. Just call out if you need me.”

Five minutes later Phillip came back into the bedchamber, a tray balanced on his arms. “Your servant, Sabrina. The best bread and soup available in these parts. Of course there are hay and oats in the stable, but I doubt Tasha would part with any of it.” She
cocked her head to one side. “My horse,” he said. “Now, let me help you up on that pillow, my lady.”

She opened her eyes at that. He wasn't mistaken. He saw panic. “I don't have a signet ring,” she said, and he could hear the fear crawling in her voice. “I'm not a
my lady.
How could you ever think that I was?”

He wanted to tell her that he'd just been jesting with her, but no, not now. What was going on here? Who the devil was she?

“No, no signet ring,” he said, looking down at her fingers. “It doesn't matter. Come now and eat.” He clasped her under her arms and eased her to a sitting position, sat down beside her, and vigorously stirred the soup to cool it.

“Would you believe that this is a recipe from His Majesty's own kitchens? Brought to you here in Yorkshire by your humble servant? No, I didn't think you would believe that. Here, try some.” He placed a spoonful of broth into her mouth.

To his relief and delight, she closed her eyes in bliss and looked ready to swoon. She downed nearly half the bowl before shaking her head and leaning back. “It's truly delicious, Phillip, but I can't swallow another drop. If you weren't a nobleman, why then, surely you could cook for the king, although since he's mad, perhaps he wouldn't appreciate your cooking.”

“I'll let you try the bread before making a final decision on my cooking abilities.” He brought out one of the loaves from the cloth. “I know it doesn't look aesthetically pleasing, but perhaps you'll be able to get it down.”

He fed her a chunk of the still-warm bread.

She got it chewed and swallowed, he'd say that for her. Nor did she change expression. In fact, she smiled at him. “It's wonderful, my lord. You are indeed a find. Where did you learn how to cook?”

“If a viscount happens to spend some years on the Peninsula, I assure you that he learns quickly how to keep body and soul together, at least after a fashion. When you are better, I doubt you'll be so enthusiastic.”

A shadow crossed her face. “My father was killed at the battle of Ciudad Rodrigo.”

Eversleigh. Perhaps that was why her name was familiar to him. He tried to remember an officer of that name, but couldn't remember a face. “I'm sorry,” he said. “Many good men were lost in that battle. I was wounded myself.”

She opened her eyes wide.

“Yes, shot through the shoulder. I returned to England then. Sometimes when the weather suddenly changes, as it always is doing in England, my shoulder will ache. But I survived.”

He saw it in her eyes. He saw how she wished her own father had suffered a simple wound and returned. But he hadn't. He was surprised when she said suddenly, “That loaf of bread looks like a turtle and I have just eaten off its head.”

“That's a repellent thought.”

Her smiled deepened, and dimples appeared on either side of her mouth. She looked really quite charming. He knew now that she was animated, full of life, full of energy. “I will be ready to eat its feet in just a few hours.”

“Ah, so you are of a sadistic nature.”

“What does that mean?”

He thought of that evil Frenchman, the Marquis de Sade. He just shook his head. “It just means that you think a bit differently. It's charming.”

She withdrew. She didn't move an inch, but she withdrew from him. Why? He'd said nothing untoward. He said easily, “Actually, I was thinking that
the loaf reminded me of the quarry stones mined near my home.”

“Over the years Cook has occasionally taught me things. I do love your bread, my lord, but I would say that just a touch of yeast wouldn't come amiss.”

“You're right. I'll see if I can find some.” She smiled again, but weakly, and leaned her head back against the pillow. She stiffened when he laid the back of his hand against her cheek.

“No, no, don't pull away from me. I must check. There, you've no fever.”

“How long have we been here?”

“By my best reckoning, about two and a half days. I don't think you could have been wandering around that forest for too long before I found you or you wouldn't have survived.”

“It's Eppingham Forest.”

“Ah, now I know you're an Eversleigh and this forbidding place is called Eppingham Forest. Would you like to tell me where you live?”

He saw a flash of something in her eyes. Was it temper? He hoped so. She said, “What is the day today?”

He had to think a moment about that. “It's Wednesday, I believe.” It felt strange to be living outside of time.

Wednesday. She turned her head away from him, not wanting him to see her face. She had left Monmouth Abbey on Sunday. It seemed an eternity to her. She thought of the note she'd left her grandfather and blinked. She couldn't cry. It would do no good. It would only make Phillip more suspicious. But Grandfather knew by now that she hadn't reached Borhamwood. By now he might think her dead.

Something was seriously wrong. No more pushing her now. He rose. “We'll speak later of why you left
your home, sweetheart. It's quite likely that your family is at this very moment searching for you. The blizzard will blow itself out very soon now.” He closed his hand over hers. “No, don't worry just yet. All will be well, you'll see. Undoubtedly, my friends will be out soon searching for me as doubtless your family is searching for you.”

She turned even whiter. He held his peace. She closed away thoughts of her grandfather, thoughts of Trevor. She felt weary, incredibly weary. She looked up at him for a long moment and said, “Your eyes. They're really quite beautiful. It seems so long ago, yet I remember now wanting to see you frown or smile so that I could read your eyes, so that I would know what kind of a man you were.”

“My eyes wouldn't tell you whether or not I was a good man. Sleep now. When you next wake up, you'll be even stronger. I'll have some more bread and soup for you.”

Phillip sat quietly beside her until he was certain that she slept. So I have beautiful eyes, have I, Sabrina? He realized that she hadn't said whether or not she'd found him a good man. He walked quietly to the window, staring out over the white landscape. The snow wasn't slapping so hard against the window. The winds had lessened. The blizzard was blowing itself out. Where had he heard the name Eversleigh before? Was it from Ciudad Rodrigo?

 

“Well, girl, don't stand there gawking. Get on with it. What news do you have for me?”

Elizabeth stood before the earl, her eyes downcast, her fingers nervously plucking at the folds of her gown. “I don't have any news. I'm sorry, Grandfather. All of our men have been searching since the blizzard lightened this morning, but as yet, there is no word.”

“Trevor is searching with the men?”

“He began the search, Grandfather,” she said, looking away from him, toward the open-draped windows.

“Just what does that mean?”

“Trevor is greatly affected by our severe weather. He was forced to return a short while ago. He is in his bedchamber, warming himself.”

The earl slewed his head about and stared silently for several moments through the bowed library windows onto the frigid white landscape. “Sabrina isn't a fool,” he said, more to himself than to Elizabeth.

She'd always been the fool, Elizabeth thought, bitterness twisting in her belly. “But I didn't run away,” she said aloud, “disgracing myself and my family.”

The earl's grizzled gray brows drew sharply together. He said in a voice colder than the frozen pond in the east gardens, “Sabrina isn't a slut, Elizabeth, even though it suits you to insist upon it. Your spite does you no credit. Sabrina throw herself at Trevor? Such a thing is nonsense, absurd.” He saw Elizabeth pale, but doubted he could bully her into telling him the truth. He'd believed, foolishly perhaps, that Elizabeth's dislike of her sister would lessen once he'd secured her a husband, and not just any husband, but the future Earl of Monmouth. He had made certain that she would marry before Sabrina, even going so far as to deny a powerful nobleman Sabrina's hand until after Elizabeth was safely wedded. He shook his head, knowing that he wasn't being entirely honest with himself. No, the truth of the matter was that he'd wanted above all things to keep Sabrina with him for as long as possible. If only Clarendon had wanted Elizabeth instead of Sabrina. But of course, Richard Clarendon had been drawn to Sabrina the moment he'd seen her laughing with old Squire Frobisher as she'd helped him to his chair. He remembered seeing
the look on Richard's face and knowing, simply knowing, that Clarendon wanted her.

The earl looked back at Elizabeth's pale face. “Well, don't you have anything to say to me?” It was a meaningless question. He couldn't begin to imagine what she would say, if she would say anything at all.

Elizabeth felt the old earl's eyes on her face. “Why is it, sir, if Sabrina had decided to leave Monmouth Abbey—for whatever reason—that she didn't come and discuss her plans with you? You have said yourself that her letter told you nothing. Does that fact not imply her guilt and shame in this entire matter?”

She'd shaken him. She wanted to smile. It took all her resolve to keep still, to keep all her triumph, her pleasure at her blow to herself. He appeared to shrink visibly in his chair, and his fierce blue eyes dimmed. Ah yes, she thought, your precious Sabrina, who's always shared her fancies and problems with you, her doting grandfather—gone with only a meaningless letter to you.

The earl drew a deep breath. “I shall never believe the story you and your husband have tried to foist on me, Elizabeth. Leave me now.”

Her shoulders squared, Elizabeth turned on her heel and walked quickly from the library, without a backward glance. As she walked across the massive flagstone entrance hall, she wondered what would happen to her and Trevor if Sabrina hadn't been consumed by the blizzard.

“Lady Elizabeth.”

She turned abruptly, her hand on the balustrade. “Yes, Ribble?”

“Forgive me, my lady, but the Marquess of Arysdale has come to call on Lady Sabrina. He is in the drawing room. I didn't think it my place to tell his lordship that Lady Sabrina wasn't here.”

Elizabeth felt a deep jolt of pleasure sweep through her. She licked her dry lips. Good God, Richard Clarendon was here. She saw that Ribble was watching her and nodded briskly. “I will see him, Ribble.” She felt both frightened and excited at the prospect of seeing Richard, the man she'd fallen in love with when she was sixteen and he, twenty-one. She had given him every encouragement over the years, had even blatantly talked of her dowry to him, one befitting the heir to the Duke of Portsmouth. When his young wife had died over two years ago, her hopes had soared. She remembered the shock of betrayal she'd felt when only six months ago she had overheard him tell the earl that it was Sabrina he wanted. Her humiliation was made all the worse by the fact that neither of them seemed to care that she was within earshot.

Every word spoken was still clear in her mind, the pain of them still bowing her in on herself. The earl had said in that deep smooth voice of his, his brows beetled together, “My little Sabrina is like her grandmother. She won't tolerate a husband who isn't faithful to her. She knows of your reputation even though she can't begin to understand it. No, I would never give her over to a man who would betray her, and that's how she would view a husband who bedded other women. Make up your mind to mend your ways, for I'll not push her into a marriage that would make her unhappy.”

“Sabrina is young, my lord,” Richard Clarendon had said in that honey-smooth deep voice of his. “She's spirited, a beautiful unbroken filly. As my wife, my lord, you can be assured that she will never desire for anything more than I can give her. And that, sir, includes other gentlemen.”

“So, Richard, you believe your charm and prowess will satisfy my granddaughter, do you?”