Part 12 (2/2)

Limbs leaden and mind numb, Ca.s.sie folded her bedraggled clothing and set it outside the door, did a quick but much appreciated wash at the basin, then pulled on a soft cotton nightgown. After eating a piece of cheese on bread, followed by a few sips of wine, she crawled under the covers.

The mattress was soft and comfortable, but the bed was far too empty. She thought, with a sharp pang, that holding Grey in the fis.h.i.+ng boat as they crossed the channel would be her last night with him. Viscount Wyndham, heir to the Earl of Costain, had been returned to his rightful rank. There was no place in his life for a spy with no name or reputation.

She must be grateful for what they'd shared. For Ca.s.sie the Fox, there was more work to be done.

Suffocating, falling into endless night ...

Grey jerked awake, heart pounding. ”Ca.s.sie, Ca.s.sie? Where are you?”

A wet tongue slurped his face. Shaking, he reminded himself that he was safely back at Westerfield. He'd been well taken care of and left to sleep, but now he wanted Ca.s.sie. She wasn't far away, but he wasn't sure where, and he was too exhausted to wander till he found her.

Besides, she deserved her rest, too. She'd practically carried him most of the last stretch of their journey. He must settle for Regine, who was burrowed under his right arm.

He forced himself to relax, not easy when he was craving Ca.s.sie. He'd known she was his s.h.i.+eld and defender as he adapted to the world outside of prison, but he hadn't realized just how much he needed her strength and calm intelligence.

He was weak and wrong to need her so much. But that didn't stop him from wanting her.

Chapter 23.

Grey was jarred awake by screaming. It took a moment for him to remember where he was, and to recognize the cries as boys shouting while playing some game outside.

He relaxed, remembering when he'd shouted on those same playing fields. Lady Agnes and General Rawlings were firm believers in young males burning off their energy in sports. There was a place for everyone on the teams, even the least athletic, and no bullying was allowed, ever, which made it better than any other school in Britain. Those had been good days.

He ached all over and the bullet wounds in his head and side throbbed painfully, but that was mitigated by the comfort of a soft bed and safety. He allowed himself to luxuriate even though the warm weight against his side was Regine, not Ca.s.sie. Ideally, they'd both be here; the bed was large enough.

He'd missed animals for so long that he'd almost forgotten the pleasure of their company. Perhaps he'd buy a small cottage like the one Ca.s.sie wanted and live there with numerous animals. And her.

He sighed, knowing the dream was impossible. Eventually he'd have heavy responsibilities that couldn't be ignored. Worse, someday all too soon she'd vanish back into her mysterious, dangerous world. But not quite yet.

Regine made a small canine noise that made it clear that she needed to go outside and then eat and no s.h.i.+lly-shallying. ”Soon, my furry little queen,” he said as he ruffled her ears. He was so tired that he could barely move. Partly relief at the end of his long journey, he supposed. Not to mention the amount of blood he'd lost. It would take time to recover from that. He'd have to eat plenty of beef.

Like Regine, he required both bodily relief and food, so he swung out of the bed. The long mirror on the wardrobe reflected a complete savage.

He vaguely remembered arriving at the manor, struggling to this room, then sliding into unconsciousness. Efficient hands had cleaned him up and dressed his wounds, and d.a.m.ned painful it had been, too. After the superficial blood and dirt were gone, they'd managed to get clean drawers on him.

He was otherwise naked except for neat bandages around his head and ribs. His hair and beard were matted disasters, and far too many bones were visible under his pale English skin.

Giving thanks that a razor and hot water were only a bell pull away, he lurched to the washstand, which was to the left of the door. He was pouring water into the basin when the door opened and a deep male voice said, ”Breakfast, Lord Wyndham.”

The unexpected, startlingly familiar voice was such a shock that Grey dropped the pitcher. As the china shattered, he instinctively jerked away from the opening door. He banged into the solid wing chair behind him and lost his balance. As he pitched to the floor, he swore, ”Merde!”

The elegant, dark-haired man who entered with a large tray of covered dishes and a steaming teapot breathed an oath of his own as he set the tray on a small table. ”Sorry, I didn't mean to startle you, Wyndham. Are you all right?”

”Of course I'm not all right!” Grey pushed himself up on all fours, shaking. He'd thought he was becoming used to the normal world, but apparently not. Humiliating. ”I have two bullet holes in my hide and I'm near as dammit to feral.” Trying for lightness, he added, ”You've come down in the world if you've hired on as a footman, Kirkland.”

”I thought I might be more welcome if I arrived bearing food.” Kirkland offered a hand. ”Shall we start over again?”

Grey pulled away from the proffered help until his back was against the wing chair. ”I'm not ready for this,” he blurted out, heart pounding. Kirkland was getting a d.a.m.ned poor return on the time and effort he'd put into Grey's rescue.

Kirkland dropped his hand, his face ashen. He looked much older than his years. ”I'm sorry,” he said again. He reached for the doork.n.o.b. ”I should have known you wouldn't want to see me. I swear that you won't have to again.”

Grey frowned, surprised. ”Why wouldn't I want to see you in particular? It's the whole world I'm having trouble with.”

”Because of me, you spent ten years in h.e.l.l,” Kirkland said, his eyes bleak. ”You'd be ent.i.tled to call me out.”

Grey blinked. ”That is the most idiotic thing I've ever heard.” He'd forgotten how b.l.o.o.d.y conscientious Kirkland was. Too much Presbyterian responsibility and guilt. ”The ten years of h.e.l.l were because of my own stupidity. I never blamed you.”

He'd have been happy to stay on the floor because he felt weak as a kitten, but speaking to Kirkland's kneecaps was a further embarra.s.sment. He grasped the arm of the wing chair behind him, hissing at the pain that blazed through his injured side.

Seeing him struggling, Kirkland again offered a hesitant hand. This time Grey took it, shaken by nerves, emotion, and physical weakness.

As Kirkland lifted Grey to his feet, he said in a low voice, ”Dear G.o.d, I'm glad to see you alive again!”

Swaying, Grey steadied himself with his other hand on Kirkland's shoulder, and suddenly they were hugging each other. Very unlike an English gentleman, Grey thought, but he was no longer a gentleman, so he appreciated the warmth and strength Kirkland was wordlessly offering. Kirkland had always been ironic, cerebral, and frighteningly intelligent, but one couldn't have asked for a better or more loyal friend.

”Forgive my strange behavior,” Grey said as he ended the hug. A warm banyan had been draped over the chair, so he put it on before sagging wearily into the chair. ”It doesn't take much to set me off these days.”

Kirkland efficiently moved table and tray in front of Grey's chair, then brought the wooden chair from the desk and set it on the opposite side of the table. As he took silver covers from the dishes, he said, ”I wouldn't have recognized you under that facial thicket. Do you intend to keep it?”

”Lord, no. I would have cut it off by now, but Ca.s.sie thought it a useful disguise.” Grey discouraged Regine from putting her paws on the table. Not that he blamed her. The English bacon smelled like heaven. ”How did you get here so quickly?”

”I left London as soon as I received Lady Agnes's message,” Kirkland said simply. He set a couple of pieces of ham on a bread plate and placed it on the floor for Regine. ”Help yourself. There's enough food for both of us and a hungry dog as well.”

If Kirkland had spent half the night traveling, it was no wonder he looked tired. Grey served himself bacon, ham, fried potatoes, and eggs scrambled with cheese.

Eating was easy, but being with an old friend was unnervingly awkward. Before becoming imprisoned, he'd never been ill at ease with other people, but he wasn't that relaxed, confident young man anymore. He'd desperately wanted to return to Westerfield because Lady Agnes was like a beloved, tolerant aunt. She was sanctuary.

Old friends with ten years of complicated living behind them were different. He settled for, ”After ten years, you could have slept another few hours before charging down here.”

”Seeing is believing.” Kirkland looked down at the toast he was b.u.t.tering. ”I needed to see that you were really alive.”

Grey guessed that he'd also needed to learn if Grey hated him. ”Why did you think you might be an unwelcome sight?”

”Because I asked you to keep an eye out for information in France, and it cost you ten years of your life.” Kirkland's expression was bleak. ”Bad years, judging by all the bones and bandages. As you said, you look feral.”

”Only half feral, thanks to Ca.s.sie. She's been slowly reintroducing me to the world.” Wanting to know more about her, Grey continued, ”She's an amazing woman. Where did you find her?”

”Ca.s.sie found me. She's one of my most valuable agents.” Kirkland poured two steaming cups of tea. ”Do you still take milk and sugar?”

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