As promised, a bath was delivered to her chamber. She felt like a new person afterward. Clean and less achy; her head less throbbing. She ate dinner alone at a small table before the fire, a maid standing close in case she had need of her. She wore naught but a silken dressing robe with fine ermine trim, her hair plaited in a neat coil about her head.
She tried to pretend the situation wasn’t awkward. Any time she glanced at the maid, her gaze was fixed somewhere on the wall above Alyse’s head. Apparently she was trained in stoicism.
Alyse tried not to think about how that girl was likely more cultured and sophisticated than she could ever hope to be and a reversal of their roles would probably make much more sense.
She dipped her spoon into the bowl and lifted the soup to her lips. It was rather tasty, heartier than the thin broth delivered to her when she first woke. It warmed her from the inside and she greedily ate it to the last drop.
Despite having slept for three days, she went to bed again and slept another twelve hours—a deep, dreamless slumber. When the morning dawned, she woke up refreshed and ready to face the world again. Only she couldn’t.
A maid stood sentry at the door, stopping her from leaving her room.
“I feel fine,” Alyse protested.
“I’m sorry, miss. The gent said ye must—”
“Who?” she demanded, determined to know who was controlling her actions.
The maid swung her wide eyes to the adjoining room.
She followed her stare to the adjoining chamber. “Him?” Marcus?
He said she couldn’t leave her chamber? She squared her shoulders. “Very well. I will address it with him.” And then she would leave this room. She hadn’t stepped from it in four days. It was starting to feel too much like a prison for her taste. Even if she had been unconscious most of the time, she felt a little itchy. Trapped.
Turning away, she strode across the room and knocked briskly on the adjoining room door. No answer. She attempted several times over the next hour, all to no avail. She considered storming past her guard, but it was hardly dignified. She was a guest in this home. She didn’t want to tussle with one of their servants. Certainly Marcus would stop by to see her. If he had stuck to her side for three days, then she couldn’t imagine he wouldn’t want to check in on her.
Except he did not visit her. Not all day. Servants popped in and out. Her meals were brought to her.
Desperate, she decided to risk appearing undignified. She attempted to emerge from her chamber, but a new maid stopped her—a much taller and broader maid than before. The very formidable female ushered her back inside with a stern look.
Alone in her room again, she glared at the adjoining door. Perhaps he was in there and ignoring her.
She crept across the room and pressed her ear to his door. She listened for several minutes. Nothing. Even after everything he had done for her, never leaving her side as Poppy claimed, she began to wonder if he had gone. If he left her here? Perhaps he had decided she was more trouble than she was worth, after all.
She supposed being abandoned here was better than being left stranded in the countryside. Or up on an auction block before a jeering crowd. Perhaps Poppy would give her a position as a maid. Of course in that event she would have to move into the servants’ quarters. She glanced around the well-appointed bedchamber. Understandably, she would not be treated to such luxury as this.
The lady of the house visited her in the afternoon, thankfully breaking up the monotony of her day. She even brought an assortment of books for her to read. When Alyse explained to Poppy that she was more than ready to be up and about, Poppy replied, “You feel strong enough then? I will put the matter to Marcus.”
Well, that answered her question. He was still here. He had not left her. He was simply avoiding her. That stung more than it should have. She bit back the impulse to demand why he was in charge of her. He was her employer. Technically he was in charge, and she might look like an ungrateful shrew for objecting. He’d brought her here—an action that likely saved her life. If he wanted her to recuperate in an unhurried fashion, who was she to object?
She availed herself of the books Poppy brought her. It helped pass the time until dinner. Dinner was a lonely affair yet again. The food was delicious, of course, but she ate alone at the small table before the crackling fire, a maid nearby staring at a fixed spot on the wall as before.
After dinner, she took another fragrant bath.
This life was not hers. It was beyond extravagant, but she could not resist reveling in it. She did not know when she would ever receive such pampering again. She was determined to enjoy it and not feel guilty about it.
Curled up in a great oversized armchair, she brushed her hair out before the fire and sighed in contentment. As the mass dried, she read again from a book Poppy had been kind enough to bring her from the library. She tucked her feet under her and snuggled deeper into the fine lawn of her nightgown. A tartan was draped over her lap. The only thing missing to make it truly idyllic was a dog. A furry little mongrel to nestle in her lap or at her slippered feet.
Perhaps as the housekeeper at Kilmarkie House she could have a pet of her own and then take it with her when she left. It would be a lovely companion in whatever humble dwelling she occupied. A constant in her life.
The hour was late. She should go to bed, especially if they were leaving on the morrow. She would need her rest. And yet she could not drag herself away. The chair, the fire, the lovely nightgown that smelled freshly laundered . . . it was all so nice. So cozy and indulgent.
She turned a page and then paused, lifting her head. She thought she heard a sound. Turning, she fixed her stare on the adjoining door. It remained closed, but she watched it as though it might open or perform some miraculous feat. Moments ticked by and nothing happened. She sighed and turned her attention to the book in her lap.
A muffled cry passed through the door. There was no mistaking it. It sounded as though someone was in trouble. Or hurt. Whatever the case she needed to help whoever was on the other side of that door. The door to the room that belonged to her Not Husband.
Setting the book down, she rose to her feet. She had to do something. She had to check on him. It was the least she could do. He would do the same for her. She rubbed her palms at her sides.
Taking a breath, she knocked lightly. Nothing. No response. She knocked a little bit harder, stinging her knuckles a bit. This time, almost as though in response, she heard it again. Him. Marcus. Was that his muffled voice? Was he bidding her enter?
Closing her hand around the latch, she pushed the door open and stepped inside the dark room.
Chapter 18
The dove pecked at the twine holding her cage door closed, ready to fly.
She was growing impatient and tired of watching the wolf prowling on the other side.
Marcus lurched upright in bed, his chest heaving, sheets pooled around his waist. Something clattered to the floor beside the bed.
“What the . . .” He sat up, peering into the gloom, trying to place his location.
He wasn’t at his home in London. The room dimensions were all wrong to be his bedchamber. The dimly lit fireplace was on the wrong wall, as was the large balcony window.
The back of his hand mildly stung as though it had collided into something. Rubbing at his knuckles, he glanced down to the floor. Darkness swam there. He could see nothing.
He stretched out his arm and gingerly felt around the rug until his fingers brushed against something hard. His hand closed around it, assessing, measuring. It was a vase. Several sharp-edged porcelain flowers decorated the outside of it. That must be why the back of his hand stung. He’d scraped his knuckles when he knocked it off the nightstand in his sleep.
He recalled it had held actual flowers, too. His hand continued its search over the rug until he met dampness and flowers and stems.