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Authors: Maya Rodale

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BOOK: The Rogue and the Rival
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STANBROOK ABBEY, SUSSEX, ENGLAND
SEPTEMBER 1821
 
Phillip
opened his eyes to an unfamiliar sight. Squinting at the strange, soft, silken light, he realized that it was morning, and he could not recall the last time he had seen morning light. To him, it was something to be shut out by heavy velvet drapes and slumbered through after a long night spent drinking, gaming, and wenching. He blinked a few times, and his eyes adjusted.
What did one do in the morning?
Breakfast, he recalled, rolling onto his side while wincing at the pain of doing so. He reached for the bellpull beside the bed, groaning at the strain that it placed on his aching muscles and the subsequent crushing pain in his chest. His hand grasped helplessly at the air, finding no braided cord to tug on. There was no bellpull! How was he to eat if he could not alert a servant and inform them that he wanted food? He was going to starve to death.
Phillip shifted once more to lie on his back, a shockingly painful activity. What the devil had he done? And where on earth was he? Looking around the narrow, rectangular room, he thought there was a good chance he was in prison. The walls and floor were gray stone. There was one door, and on the wall opposite, one window with a view of nothing other than sky. No carpet, no curtains. Nothing, really, other than bare necessities: the narrow bed on which he lay, a table by the bed, and a chair, both of which were of such poor quality that Phillip wondered if the carpenter had been foxed when he made them. That was all.
It was a far cry from any residence he had ever inhabited in his nine and twenty years. Cliveden, the ducal estate where he had spent his youth, wasn’t as grand as it once was, but it at least had carpets in every room. And the Parisian apartment from which he had recently fled (that much he remembered) was on the smaller side, with only ten rooms. But each of those had been exquisitely decorated. Even the maid’s rooms had curtains.
But everything begged the question of where the hell he was. He couldn’t even ask anyone, because there was no bloody bellpull to summon a servant to answer his questions.
Phillip could only conclude that he had not escaped the men that were after him. His head started to throb viciously as he tried to recall what had happened, to no avail. But he could recall the relentless darkness of midnight, the constant drumming of his horse’s hooves, the cold rain slapping his face and soaking him to the bone. And always, always, looking back over his shoulder to see if he had lost them. His memory was blank after that, and judging from the pain and cell-like chamber he was in, he could only conclude that he hadn’t been able to outrun them after all.
But he was too tired and in too much pain to give a damn. He didn’t even have the strength to worry about the footsteps he heard in the hall that eventually paused outside the door. Phillip did, however, feel a spark of interest when a woman entered bearing a tray that he hoped contained food.
“You’re an angel,” he said without thinking. Phillip did not believe in angels, and he certainly did not believe that he would ever make it to a place inhabited by them. Heaven, in all its eternal vastness, had no space for Phillip Kensington. But she looked like one. Her golden hair was pulled back into a thick braid that was coiled atop her head like a halo. Big blue eyes, under thick lashes and light brown arching brows, stared at him. Her complexion was pale. Upon a closer look, her expression, in contrast, was anything but angelic. She looked quite peevish, in fact.
“You must have hit your head harder than I thought,” she retorted. She did not have the voice of an angel; hers was low, smooth like velvet, intoxicating like brandy. She had the voice of a devil with the face of an angel.
Phillip was intrigued, pleased, and confused. Who was she? And where was he?
The tray she carried was placed on the bedside table with a thump as it hit the wood, and with the sound of glass and cutlery clattering against each other. She told him to sit up, and he did, hoping she didn’t notice him wincing in pain, and then she unceremoniously handed him a bowl of porridge.
“I hate porridge,” he said, handing the bowl back to her. She did not take it. “Fetch me something else. And I want tea with a generous splash of brandy. And while you’re up, I could use another blanket. It’s damned drafty in here.” When she didn’t make any move to leave, he added, “Go on then.”
“Oh,
really
?” she asked, with such obvious sarcasm that even Phillip, with his apparent head injury, could not miss it. “Oh sure,” she continued, “I’ll just go tell the cook, who has just made breakfast for fifty people, and now has to prepare luncheon for fifty people, that the ungrateful invalid we’ve been keeping alive for the past week only out of Christian charity now wants ‘something else.’ And we don’t keep brandy here.”
No brandy?
Oh, that was too horrifying to even contemplate. He focused his attention on the dish in his hand instead.
“Porridge will be fine,” Phillip said.
Her smug expression wordlessly communicated that she thought so, too. The face of an angry angel, he thought. The voice of the devil. And the bedside manner of a prison warden. He thought it best if he took a bite of the damned porridge. It tasted as awful as it looked. Made a man consider starving to death.
“Perhaps you could tell me where I am,” he said, forcing himself to take another bite.
“Stanbrook Abbey,” she replied.
Phillip choked. She smacked him on the back, between his shoulder blades. And then the evil wench laughed.
“Last place you expected to find yourself, I gather. Well, we didn’t expect the likes of you, either. But since we are good Christian souls here, intent on redeeming the most worthless specimens, we couldn’t very well turn you away when the Sloan brothers brought you in, after finding your nearly lifeless body in a ditch.”
“I presume you know who I am then,” he said haughtily, shocked at her impertinence and treatment of him if she was aware of his status as a peer of the realm. That should at least entitle him to some respect, if not a decent meal.
“We come across a news sheet from time to time, Lord Huntley. And besides, the abbess here is the Dowager Countess of Bamford, and she recognized you.” Phillip had no idea who Lady Bamford was, but this didn’t surprise him. It had been years since he had been in England, years since he had even attempted to remember a name of someone he met. And being the notorious scoundrel that he was, more people were familiar with him than he was personally acquainted with.
“I see. Well, I shan’t be staying long. I could leave this afternoon, in fact.”
“As much as I wish you would, I’m afraid that is impossible,” she said briskly. “You have a gunshot wound in one leg, three broken ribs, and a nasty gash on your head. It seems you broke your nose, too.”
“Again?” he wondered aloud. She looked confused. “Or not. My nose was already broken,” Phillip added wearily, rubbing his jaw. It was in need of a shave. He must look like a complete barbarian.
“You must be in the habit of provoking many people,” she observed, and he did not contradict her. “You don’t like your porridge?” she asked, after looking down at the nearly full bowl he still held.
“No,” he said. “It’s revolting. I doubt even the pigs will eat it.”
“I’m beginning to see why you have so many injuries,” she answered, taking the bowl from him and setting it on the tray, from which she picked up linen strips and a small jar of ointment. To his surprise, the angry angel placed one small hand on his chest, urging him to lean back against the pillow so she could tend to him.
She didn’t speak as she worked, starting with an application of ointment at the cut on his forehead. He didn’t speak, either, although he was tempted to swear and complain because the ointment stung. Phillip was acutely aware of her fingers gently brushing his skin. He was far more aware, however, of her breasts as she bent over him. She wore some horrid, ill-fitting gray dress that covered everything up to her neck. A white apron was pinned to the front. He could see her breasts strain against the fabric. The hint of round, full breasts just inches away from him. From his mouth.
Phillip did not avert his gaze. He may be a gentleman in title, but generally, he was not a gentleman in his actions. After all, admiring the view never hurt anyone.
Phillip thought she was finished, and he was slightly shocked and more than a little pleased when her fingers began to undo the buttons on his shirt and push it open. The shirt was not his own, for the fabric was coarse and rough against his skin. In fact, he thought it looked rather like a woman’s nightgown.
“What am I wearing?” he asked suspiciously.
“You can thank the cook, Henrietta, for lending you her extra nightgown. It was the only one that would fit you. And the only thing we had for you to wear.”
“Yes, do give her my eternal gratitude,” Phillip remarked dryly. He would have rather she provided a decent meal, instead. One quick glance at his angry angel’s face, and he thought it best not to voice that thought.
It was a relief to have the blasted female garment off, if only partially. Her hands were warm against his chest as she examined the bruises from his broken ribs. He closed his eyes. For a fleeting second, everything was right and perfect in his world: her hands on his skin. The thought vanished as quickly as it came.
“What is this from?” she asked.
He looked down at the old gray scar on his left shoulder that she traced with one fingertip.
“The usual,” he said, his voice sounding rough to his ears. “A duel over something stupid.”
“A stupid woman, I presume,” she said sarcastically.
“Game of cards,” he corrected.
Her cheeks reddened as she pulled the blankets aside so that she might check on his gunshot wound. It was in the middle of his thigh, covered by a long strand of linen wrapped around his leg. She began to unravel it. She talked as she worked, and between her hands and her voice, he couldn’t help but become aroused.
“The doctor removed the bullet. He said as long as the wound did not become infected, you should be fine. You might limp, though.”
Limp. He wanted to laugh, but he knew it would hurt. Phillip had on nothing but a shirt and a pair of smalls, and thankfully, blankets covering his lap so that she wouldn’t see that he was far from limp.
She worked quickly, applying the ointment and wrapping a fresh bandage around his leg. He inhaled sharply as she touched a sensitive spot that caused an intense shock of pain. He couldn’t hide a wince.
“Sorry,” she said quietly. Phillip was sorry when she began to pull the blankets back in place and button up the horrible dressing gown. “How often do you have to do that?” he asked when she was finished.
“Once a day,” she replied.
Once every hour would be preferable, he thought. She placed the bowl of porridge and jar of ointment on the tray, in preparation to leave. He didn’t want her to go, because he didn’t want to be alone.
“I could use another blanket or two. It’s awfully drafty in here. Curtains would help, too. And I should like some brandy.”
She ignored him.
“You haven’t told me your name,” he said as she opened the door.
“You haven’t asked,” she replied pertly.
Insufferable wench, he thought. She was going to make him ask. So he did.
“My name is Angela,” she answered. “But I’m no angel.” And then she left, banging the door shut behind her and leaving him all alone.
Phillip had never cared for being alone. He found it rather dull, so he always went out instead of staying in, and surrounded himself with friends, acquaintances, or companions. And now his only option for company was a mean but attractive woman, and she had left him alone. There was nothing to do but think, an activity he generally avoided.
He thought that his choice to starve rather than eat the nasty porridge was a bit foolish. Hunger pains joined his other ailments. He certainly would not be leaving this afternoon, or the next, or even the next after that, which was just as well, since he had no place to go. Or rather, there was nowhere he wanted to go. Might as well get used to life in an abbey.
Phillip couldn’t help but smirk that a worthless bounder such as he was in a house of God.
Who knew that nuns were pretty? They were supposed to be pinched old spinsters that did foolish things like pray for unredeemable souls like his. Angela was likely praying that he would leave soon, and preferably feetfirst. Angela was certainly not a pinched old spinster, either. No, she was young, luscious, and lovely, with the mouth of the devil.
There was one sort of thinking that Phillip was fond of. And so Phillip imagined her unbuttoning his shirt and running her hands over his chest. But in his mind, she didn’t stop there. The dress went first, and then the pins holding her hair in place. His fists clenched around the sheets, but in his mind his hands roamed freely over her. She would slip into bed with him. And he would run his fingers through that mass of golden hair, tugging lightly to pull her mouth to his and then . . .
He didn’t know why, but he looked up at the wall behind his bed. A small wood carving of Christ on the cross looked down at him.
BOOK: The Rogue and the Rival
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