Ellen put her arms about her and hugged her. “Yes, he will live,” she said. “And it is only after a long period of anxiety is over that one realizes how much of a strain one has been under. I have never doubted your devotion to your brother. Not for one moment. He is sleeping. Go and see him.”

“You have shaved him,” Madeline said with a laugh when she came back out of the bedchamber. “And did not cut his chin even once. How clever of you.”

“I was allowed to do nothing for him this morning except bring him a food tray,” Ellen said. “If he had had his sword beside him, I believe he would have held me off with that.”

Madeline laughed again. “Oh, you do my heart good,” she said. “Dearest Dom. And I suppose he was demanding kidneys and ale for breakfast?”

“Beefsteak and porter, actually,” Ellen said.

Both women giggled and felt strange doing so, as if they were performing some long-forgotten skill. They looked at each other in some embarrassment, and both ended up with tears in their eyes.

“I do wish Lieutenant Penworth were roaring with such discontent,” Madeline said. “Oh, I do wish it. But then, his injuries are in many ways worse than Dom’s, though I do not believe he was ever as close to death. He has to learn to live without a leg and an eye. It is bound to take longer, is it not?”

“He is fortunate to have someone who is willing to spend her time and sympathies on him,” Ellen said with a smile.

“And Dom is fortunate,” Madeline said. “But I cannot help feeling that we are imposing upon you now, Mrs. Simpson. Perhaps you would like to be free to leave here. Shall I make arrangements to have him moved to Lady Andrea’s? I am sure she will not mind. I was hoping to have heard from Edmund in England by now, but still there is nothing. I suppose the mails have been disrupted in the past two weeks.”

“I have no plans,” Ellen said. “And I would not want Lord Eden moved before he has regained some of his strength. Please leave him here.” Her voice shook a little. “I believe I need something to keep me occupied for a while yet.”

Madeline bit her lip and looked away. “Yes, of course,” she said. “I shall leave him here, then. And thank you. Will you tell Dom that I have been? The lieutenant was asleep when I left, but he does not sleep for long. He will be needing me again. I shall call again tomorrow if I may.”

She hurried away again soon after, eager to return to her main patient. She felt so very sorry for him. He was very young to have lost both his looks and his fitness. And he had been a vigorous young man who had enjoyed exercise and outdoor activity more than anything. She tried to imagine the same thing happening to Dom, and she knew that he would rather be dead. As Lieutenant Penworth would. He had told her that more than once.

He needed her now. She was the only person he would respond to, the only one he would listen to. She sat by his bedside sometimes for an hour or more, chattering away about her childhood, her girlhood, Amberley, the strange circumstances that had brought Edmund and Alexandra together, anything she could think of to distract his thoughts for a few minutes. And talking was something she had always been good at.

It felt lovely to be needed. Although she would many times prefer that the lieutenant had not been so wounded, since he had, she was glad that chance had brought him to Lady Andrea’s house and her. For the time, at least, purpose had been given to her life. It would be many weeks, perhaps months, before he would be fit enough to return to England. In the meanwhile, she would stay with him. Lady Andrea had no intention of removing from Brussels while her husband was with the army in Paris anyway.

She herself had nothing to return to England for. Even when Dom was well enough to travel, he would have Mama and Edmund to go back to. She would not be essential to him. She would be her old restless self again. Here she would be needed, perhaps for the rest of the summer.

And it was good to be needed.

She wondered why Edmund had not written. She wondered if he had yet received any of the three letters she had sent. But it did not matter. Dom was safe. And she was so busy that she had very little time to fret for family and home.


LORD EDEN MADE A determined effort over the next few days to regain some of his health and strength. His chest wound was healing nicely now that the abscess had broken, and his ribs were knitting together again. But there was still an annoying amount of pain. He could not move without wincing and gritting his teeth.

He was appalled at his own weakness. Just the effort of standing to wash himself in the mornings exhausted him. He could not walk without leaning heavily on Ellen’s shoulder, and the ten steps to the doorway of the bedchamber and back were almost beyond his endurance. After sitting up in bed for a meal he would slide gratefully back to a lying position again. And he seemed to be sleeping his life away.

He offended the doctor the afternoon after his abscess burst by flatly refusing to be bled, and added insult to injury by laughing at the man outright when he had turned to Mrs. Simpson and recommended a continuance of the diet of toast soaked in weak tea for another two weeks at the least. The surgeon washed his hands of him there and then and did not return after.

He determinedly ate whatever was put in front of him, and would several times have asked for more had he not had the uncomfortable feeling that he was living on Mrs. Simpson’s charity. She had not answered his question about whether he had any money or not. He had no idea where his clothes and gear were. His coat at least, he supposed, must be in sorry shape if the appearance of his chest was any indication.

But he did not worry a great deal about anything except regaining his strength. Those days seemed almost suspended beyond time, and he was not sure that he craved the day when he would be ready to leave those rooms and return to normal life.

They were alone together. Only once-on the morning after his first full day of returned consciousness-did a manservant appear from the other part of the house to stay with him while she went out, presumably to buy more provisions. He told her afterward that he had felt decidedly uncomfortable with the man standing silently just inside the door of the bedchamber, just like a large and humorless jailer. She laughed and left him alone after that during the few spells when she was out of the rooms. Madeline, of course, made whirlwind visits about every second day.

Most of the time, however, he and Mrs. Simpson were alone together. But his self-consciousness disappeared after the first day, once he had taken over looking after his own bodily needs. And he found her a cheerful and gentle companion. She spent most of her days in the room with him, sitting quietly sewing much of the time.

They talked. He told her-at her request-about his childhood and all the numerous scrapes he and Madeline had almost constantly been in. She even told him something of her own childhood, a happy one, she claimed. The man she had called father had always been kind to her, though as the years went on she had seen less and less of him, and sometimes when he came he had been in his cups. He had never mistreated her even then, she said, but she had not liked his glittering eyes, the smell of liquor on his breath. Her mother had always been a lovely, vivacious, seldom-seen presence, admired and adored from a distance.

“It is only looking back from an adult vantage point that I can realize what an unhappy household it was,” she said quietly, stitching at her embroidery. “Children very readily accept almost any kind of life as normal. I used to hate to hear them quarrel, but I did not hear it so very often. Tell me more about your own parents. It must have been dreadful to lose your father when you were only twelve.”

And so he talked on and sometimes even brought a smile to her eyes and a laugh to her lips.

But they did not always talk. Sometimes she sat quietly, her head bent to her work, and he watched her until he fell asleep. And sometimes he would open his eyes to find her sitting watching him.

It should have been embarrassing, the silences, the meeting of eyes in a quiet room in an empty house. But it was not so. Not at all. Sometimes their eyes would hold for several seconds before one of them would say something or smile or before he would close his eyes. There was never any feeling of discomfort.

She was an amazingly strong woman for someone so slender and of no more than average height. She never stumbled, though he leaned heavily on her at first when he walked. And she could take much of his weight on her arm as he sat up in bed or lay down again, so that he would not have to put so much strain on his chest muscles.

Often when she thought he slept, he would hear the rustle of her skirts and feel the coolness of her hand on his brow, checking for a return of his fever. He would never show her at such moments that he was not sleeping. He liked the nearness of her, the touch of her.

IT WAS FIVE DAYS after the end of his fever when he woke up one night to the sound of his own voice. He was sitting up in bed, the pain from his ribs only just penetrating his consciousness and robbing him of breath. He was cold with terror.

Ellen had been sleeping in Jennifer’s room, as she did each night, the doors open so that she would hear him if he called. He had yelled several times in succession, and she had come running.

“What is it?” she said. She bent toward him in the darkness, a hand on his shoulder. “Is there something wrong?”

“God!” he said, gasping through his pain. “God!”

“Was it a nightmare?” she asked. Her other hand was cool on his brow.

“God!” he said again. He had been bending over dead eyes with all hell breaking loose about him. “Yes, a nightmare.”

“It will be all right now,” she said gently. She helped him to lie down again, and smoothed the hair back from his brow. She was leaning right over him, a slim young woman with a shawl thrown over her white nightgown, and heavy fair hair falling forward on either side of her face and over her shoulders. He could see her quite clearly, used as his eyes were to the darkness.

He felt instantly comforted. “I woke you,” he said. “I am sorry.”

“You need not apologize,” she said. She was stroking his cheek with her fingertips. She had done that before. He could remember. “Would you like me to sit by you for a while?”

He shook his head. “I have kept you up long enough,” he said. He did not know he had lifted his hand until he saw it put one side of her hair back over her shoulder. He touched the backs of his fingers to her cheek. Soft warm skin.

She did not move. His fingers were warm and gentle on her cheek.

“Ellen,” he whispered.

Neither of them knew afterward if he drew her head down or if she brought it down of her own accord, or if perhaps they both moved with that strange togetherness that had grown between them in the past days. However it was, their mouths met. And held together. And opened and caressed and explored. And one of his arms moved around her shoulders and the other hand to cup the back of her head. Her hands were on the pillow at either side of his head. Her wrists rested against his shoulders.

Thick silky hair. The scent of her that he had been aware of for weeks. The beauty and warmth and softness of her. The gentleness and sweetness and womanliness of her.

“Ellen.” His hand was at the buttons down the front of her nightgown, and she raised herself on her arms to help him. She was not stopping him. She was helping him, encouraging him. “Ellen.”

He pushed the linen away from her shoulders to her arms and took her breasts in his hands. Full and firm. Silky smooth. Nipples already taut. Taut for him. She wanted him.

She wanted him. His hands were warm and gentle, as she had known they would be. They knew where to touch her. How to touch her. His thumbs brushed the peaks of her breasts, creating a sweet agony that rose into her throat and spiraled down into her womb.

“Ellen.” He was staring up into the shadows of her eyes. She had raised herself the full length of her arms, but she made no attempt to cover herself or move away from him. He reached across himself to grasp the bedclothes and pull them back. She looked down at them and stood up beside the bed. She wriggled her shoulders so that the nightgown slid down her arms and fell away from her completely, and she accepted his invitation by climbing into the bed beside him. He covered her with the sheet and turned onto his side, biting his lip as he did so.