When he woke again, the harsh light was gone. Pushing back the bedclothes, he rose up on one elbow. He was alone in the bedchamber. A single flickering taper in a candlestick provided the room’s only light.
Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he sat up and swung his bare feet onto the floor. How much time had he lost? He peered at the clock on the bedside table. The clock read half-past seven. But if that were the case, the sun should be up. Unless . . .
Unless it was evening again. Wednesday evening. He massaged his aching temples. Damn it. He’d lost an entire day.
His officer’s coat hung on a hook near the door. Draped over a chair nearby were a shirt, trousers, and waistcoat. He recognized them as his own, but they weren’t the ones he’d been wearing yesterday. Thorne must have come by and taken his sea-drenched clothes, replacing them with new.
Perched on the mattress edge, he tested his knee, flexing and straightening the joint. Remarkably, his leg pained him no worse for the long day of marching. In fact, it felt measurably better. Whether he could attribute that to Susanna’s liniment, her noxious potion, her soothing touch, or simply a full day’s sound sleep, he couldn’t guess. One way or another, he had her to thank.
With sudden, visceral force, a memory yanked him back some twenty hours. He was in this bed, and she was under him. He had her taut, plump breast in his hand, and her fingertips were soothing over his back, lulling him to sleep.
He’d been swamped by emotion, dragged underwater by its vicious undertow. Aroused by her touch, comforted by her whispered words, touched by the secrets she’d confessed. He’d simply felt close to her, in every possible way.
Out of habit, he pushed both hands through his hair, as if to smooth it back into a queue. Of course, his fingertips only brushed the bandage wrapped about his head and whatever meager fringe had escaped her shears the other day.
This woman was changing him.
After draining a glass of water, he made good use of the washbasin and soap. He toweled himself dry, then dressed in the fresh clothes. After two days laid up in bed, he needed a shave, but that would have to wait. With a quick check of his cravat knot in the tiny mirror, he left the room.
Summerfield was well-appointed, but it wasn’t a large house. He easily located the back stairs and descended them with a brisk step, confident he’d find the kitchens nearby. Etiquette and simple decency demanded he search out Susanna and thank her for her care and hospitality—but he could better stomach that slice of humility after he’d found a morsel to eat. His stomach rumbled with hunger, and his head was light with it. Wouldn’t do to reach the castle only to collapse in front of his men, yet again.
“Ho, there. Is that Rycliff?”
The question stopped him dead in the corridor. “Sir Lewis?”
The short, stoutish man emerged through a doorway, wearing a leather apron and wiping his hands on a rag. The few tenacious wisps of silver hair that still clung to his scalp were flying in all directions.
“Forgive me,” he said, waving toward his disheveled state. “I’ve been working in my laboratory.”
Bram nodded. The small action hurt.
Sir Lewis wadded the grease-stained rag into his apron pocket. “Susanna mentioned that she’d quarantined you in the house.” The older man’s blue eyes slid to Bram’s bandaged crown. “Feeling better?”
“Yes.” He tilted his head and looked past the man, into a large, lamp-lit space. “Your workshop?”
“Yes, yes.” Sir Lewis’s eyes gleamed as he jerked his head toward the room’s interior. “Come have a look, if you like.”
“I don’t wish to disturb you.”
“Not at all, not at all.”
Bram followed him through the door, ducking to avoid bashing his head on the lintel. This room must have been a scullery at one point, or perhaps a laundry. The floor was ancient scoured slate, not wood parquet as in the corridor. Exposed brick covered the walls. A large, high window occupied much of the room’s south side, admitting a purple gleam of fading daylight.
On the walls, all sorts of weapons were mounted on hooks. Not just the standard rifles and dueling pistols, but blunderbusses, crossbows . . . Above the door hung an ancient mace with spikes.
“If you’d like,” Sir Lewis said, “I’ll show you the medieval hall later. Shields, chain mail, and so forth. We don’t get so many young men coming around to Summerfield, but those who do always take an interest.”
“No doubt.” Bram was beginning to understand why Susanna Finch remained unmarried. This house would frighten all but the most intrepid suitors away.
The thought of Susanna made him wince. He turned his gaze to a mahogany plaque above the hearth. On it were mounted a pair of gleaming, polished pistols. Pistols exactly like the one Bram, along with every commissioned officer in the British army, carried as his personal sidearm.