Page 14 of The Major’s Mistake (Intrepid Heroines #7)

Julian’s face creased in thought, then his mouth pursed in a rueful grimace.

“Touché.” He leaned back on his elbows, the wind ruffling his long locks.

“Tell me everything about him,” he said abruptly.

“Hell’s teeth, I don’t even know his birthday!

Was it a … difficult birth?” The questions were fairly tumbling out of his mouth.

“What was he like as a baby? When did he take his first step?”

She stared at him in wonder.

“Please,” he added in a low voice.

Her eyes fell to the muted plaid of the blanket. “Yes,” she began slowly. “It was a difficult birth. I nearly lost him ….”

How long she talked she wasn’t sure. He interrupted often, eager for every detail of the little boy’s life. She avoided any references to her own circumstances, but at times, he paused to regard her with an odd look before asking of something else. Finally it seemed the subject was nigh exhausted.

“Well, milord, there is really little more I can tell you about your son.”

He grinned. “I know he loves frogs and hates Brussels sprouts?—”

“All little boys hate Brussels sprouts.”

The marquess feigned an injured expression. “I loved Brussels sprouts when I was little.”

Miranda quirked a tentative smile. “Oh, fustian, sir!”

“Well, maybe I didn’t love them.”

The sun had become quite warm, and as Julian spoke, he reached down to undo the cuffs of his shirt and roll them back from his wrists.

“Oh, Ju—sir!” Miranda sucked in her breath as she stared at the jagged white scar cutting across his forearm. “Why, that is from a saber?”

“Nought but a scratch,” he muttered, quickly turning back the soft linen.

Her eyes came up to meet his. “And your leg? Was that a saber too?”

“Shrapnel.” he answered curtly as he looked away. The laughter had drained from his face and a faint color rose to his cheeks. “As you see, I’m hardly the man I once was.” His lips twisted in a mocking smile. “Damaged goods.”

Miranda was shocked to hear him speak thus.

Never would she have imagined that he, with all the advantages of position and wealth, could feel unsure and even a bit afraid.

And yet, all too well she recognized the raw vulnerability beneath the glib words.

It betrayed a very different side of the Marquess of Sterling, one that she had hardly expected.

Without thinking, she was moved to respond. “It seems to me, milord, that the man you once were has only changed for the better. The things you refer to are of no real importance at all.”

He looked at her with an intensity in his deep blue eyes that caused her own face to flame. She rose hastily to cover her embarrassment. What had prompted her to say such an idiotic thing, she wondered? No doubt he would think her a fool—or worse.

“It’s getting late. I must go check on Justin.”

She rushed of, leaving the marquess trying to digest all that had been said.

Sykes reined his mount to an easy walk, letting the big chestnut hunter cool down from the gallop over the moors. He fell to whistling a lively marching tune as he contemplated the bright blue sky and the scudding clouds?—

“Mr. Sykes?”

Miranda’s tentative greeting jerked him out of his reverie. He drew to a halt and tipped his cap. “Why, good day to you, Mrs. …” There was a noticeable hesitation before he added, “um, … Ransford.”

Her mouth set in a grim line. “It seems that His Lordship has informed you of who I am.”

He nodded.

“Well, I don’t know who else he has seen fit to tell, but I would be grateful for your discretion, at least. I must live in these parts long after you and the marquess have returned to London.”

Sykes slipped from his saddle to walk beside her. “I have never been known for loose lips, my lady. And you may rest assured that His Lordship has no intention of causing any unwanted talk.”

“Ah yes, naturally I appreciate his concern for my reputation.” She immediately regretted her obvious sarcasm. “Forgive me,” she murmured. “That was uncalled for.”

He remained tactfully silent.

She cleared her throat and went on. “I had wanted to ask you about … the marquess’s leg. Has he seen a good physician?”

Sykes scratched at his chin. “Hates them,” he answered. “Ever since that first night, when I had to hold the sawbones off with my pistol. Wanted to cut it off, they did. The guv won’t have any truck with ‘em—any of them.”

Miranda’s face paled. “Cut it off? My God.” She walked on a few paces. “Are the tendons severed in his knee?”

“I don’t rightly know about anything like that, ma’am. But I do know there are still a goodly amount of splinters left in there. I could see—” He stopped. “It’s not something bears describing.”

She bit her lip. “Does he take laudanum for the pain?”

“We try to avoid it—I imagine with your knowledge of such things, you’re aware of what prolonged use does to a person.”

She nodded. After another moment, she dug into the pocket of her gown and withdrew a small vial filled with a brownish powder which she thrust into his hand. “Two teaspoons in a glass of warm water. No more than three times a day. It may help, and has none of the side effects of opium.”

Before he could utter a word, she quickened her steps and turned off onto a narrow dirt path that led into the woods.

The dark smudges under the marquess’s eyes, coupled with the lines etched deeply at the corners of his mouth told Sykes that the evening was not a good one.

Unaware of his valet’s presence, Julian attempted to shift his outstretched leg on the hassock, stifling a groan at the stab of pain that even such a slight movement caused.

Beads of sweat broke out on his forehead, and his hand groped for the glass of brandy sitting next to him on the sidetable.

Sykes walked quietly to the fire and stirred the logs into a cracking blaze. “Bad tonight, is it, guv?”

Julian took several long swallows of brandy. “Bring me the bottle,” he said in a rather unsteady voice.

“No. I’ve a better idea.”

“What the devil?—”

Sykes had already left the library before the marquess finished speaking. He returned a short while later with a glass of steaming liquid whose color was not so very different from the spirits clasped in Julian’s hand. Julian wrinkled his nose at the pungent, woodsy aroma that filled the air.

“What in the devil’s name is that?” he demanded.

“Drink it.”

Julian’s face took on a mulish expression. “I’ll be damned if I will!”

“No ill effects, I promise. What do you have to lose?”

He eyed it with lingering suspicion. “Where did you get it?”

“Come on now, trust me, guv.” The marquess still hesitated. “Or would you rather I take hold of your jaw and dump down your throat? It’s your choice,” he growled.

That drew a grudging bark of laughter from Julian. “You would, wouldn’t you?”

“Aye. Because I think it will help.”

Julian drained the contents and set the glass down with a thump. After a moment, he made a show of examining the palms of his hands. “Well, I haven’t started to sprout fur or claws, so perhaps there is hope.”

He settled back deeper into the soft leather of the wingchair and rearranged the knitted throw that covered his legs.

Then he picked up the slim volume of poetry he had set aside earlier and found his place.

“You needn’t hover over me,” he murmured from behind the pages.

“If I am about to expire I will let you know.”

When Sykes poked his head into the room a short while later, he was greeted by a most unusual sight.

The book had slipped from the Marquess’s fingers, and his chin had fallen down to rest on the folds of his cravat.

The easy rise and fall of his breathing gave further testimony to the fact that he had actually fallen asleep.

He carefully slipped a pillow behind the marquess’s head and straightened the blanket as he regarded Julian’s face, the tension ebbing away with every restful moment.

“Thank you, milady,” he whispered as he extinguished the candle.

Light was streaming in through the tall mullioned windows before Julian awoke. Sykes stood in the doorway, watching as the marquess gingerly flexed his leg and rose with a bemused smile.

“Awake, are you?” he asked softly. “Thought you might stay here snoring the whole morning. How do you feel?”

Julian rubbed at the stubble on his chin. “You are a bloody miracle worker, Sykes. I owe you yet another debt of gratitude.”

Sykes lingered at the door for a moment. “There is hot water upstairs for your shave when you are ready, guv. Oh, and it’s not me you should thank, guv. It’s your wife.”

As he left Julian standing mouth agape, a slight smile crossed his grizzled face.