Chapter Three

A shadow hovered over Rowena, hands trapped her. Fighting did no good, though she struggled with all her power.

A voice, distant and far off, said, “Rowena, don’t try to get up.” Tyra. But what was going on, and where was she?

Others fussed about, peered down at her through a wavery haze. She cried out and cupped a hand over each ear, as if to shut out the excruciating pain. It didn’t help. Humming low in her throat, squeezing her eyes shut, neither did any good. Her face throbbed with every movement. The world around her continued to whirl. Why didn’t someone do something? Tell her where she was, what had happened?

Help me, please help me. The words ran through her head but wouldn’t come out. What had happened? Where was she? Opening her eyes to look wasn’t an option, the pain in her face, her head, was too intense to make the effort. Something or someone had hit her. Hard. But who and why and when?

Oh, dear God. Was she back at St. Ann’s, lying on the cold stone floor, her back afire?

After a while that seemed an eternity, a lean man knelt beside her and eased her hands away from her face. “Caught you a good one, didn’t he?” His fingers tenderly massaged the area. “Nothing broken, but you’re going to have a shiner and some bruising.”

She wanted to bite him, but instead groaned. “What happened?” The words came out and startled her, sounded like she had mush in her mouth.

“Well, they’ve taken Lizza to the surgeon’s offices, and that big brute of a man has gone off to jail with Sheriff Calumet. Doctor Weatherby has asked that I accompany you to his surgery for a quick look-see.”

Lizza? Big brute of a man? This man was talking gibberish. “Who are you?”

“I’m Creighton Holmes. I own the chemist shop.” He placed one hand under her elbow, the other around her waist, and helped her stand. Oh, God. The top of her head would come off. She swayed, leaned into him for a moment. He was lithe but strong and easily supported her down the stairs. If only he had some magic to make the pain go away.

“Where’s Tyra?” Her words were muffled, but he managed to understand.

“Would that be the young lady who fetched the surgeon?”

“Don’t know. Not sure. Can’t remember.”

“A young lady accompanied the injured one. The doctor asked me to bring you in so he could make sure you have nothing broken.”

Broken? Everything is broken. Attempting a nod shot a lightning strike through her head. She settled for letting him lead her along the boardwalk to the chemist shop and up the outside stairs to the surgeon’s office. Inside, he lowered her gently to a comfortable chair.

“If you’ll be all right to wait a few moments, I’ll let Doctor Weatherby know you’re here.”

She touched his arm. “Thank you very much.”

“You’re welcome.” With that he disappeared into another room.

She leaned back against the chair cushion and closed her eyes. All she could remember was bending over Lizza, then nothing, until Mr. Holmes helped her up off the floor. Whoever beat Lizza so badly must have hit her. At least someone did. Holmes had said “that big brute of a man,” so it made a bit of sense. If anything could make sense to her addled brain.

If that poor child survived, she would ask Tyra to bring her out to Fairhaven for a few days to recuperate. The idea brought a chuckle. Perhaps they could do their mending together. Earlier Blair had seemed amenable to helping Lizza. Perhaps she could get him to give her shelter for a while, since the girl had no place else to go. She let go the thought. It seemed as if nothing could happen but that she managed to think of Blair.

It was quiet in the surgery, but a mixture of gassy odors mixed with something sweetish made her gag. She swallowed hard and fought the urge to vomit.

The door swung open. She squinted to focus on Marguerite, who hurried to her side, followed closely by Grady, who hovered in silence. “Mercy, child, what happened?”

“How did you—”

“Find you? I was coming to see about you and Tyra when I saw all the people gathered around the millinery. Someone there told me about that horrible man and what he did to you and that poor little Lizza. And then your driver here wanted to come along, to make sure you are all right. Will she be all right? Are you all right?”

“We don’t know yet about Lizza, but I’ll be fine. The doctor wants to see me, just to make sure.”

“Well, that may well be, but I’ll ask Mr. Chesshire to take over the store while I go to Fairhaven with you for a few days. That idiot Simmons has no notion of how to care for a lady, nor does he have any business doing so. And as for that witless Annie girl, all she knows is curling your hair and tying your corset strings. It’s beyond me why his lordship doesn’t employ a decent housekeeper and cook.”

Rowena often wondered that as well, and she certainly wouldn’t object to Marguerite’s presence. Yes, yes. For a while there she’d forgotten why she was in town. This was a perfect opportunity to get Marguerite to Fairhaven to help Blair, and she wouldn’t even have to talk her into it.

“Your driver has moved the buggy. I’ll take care of the business and return here while you see the doctor, and then we’ll go.”

“Tell Tyra. She rode in earlier.”

“Of course. I’ll take care of everything.”

Grady held his hat over his stomach and gazed at her as if this were somehow his fault.

“I am fine,” she told him. “Thank you for your concern.”

With a nod of his head, he said, “I wish you had fetched me to accompany you, miss. I’d have given that lout a lump on his head.”

“It’s all right.” A dizzy spell kept her from saying more, and when she opened her eyes, Grady had gone.

It was easy to relax and let Marguerite take over, for she was good at arranging things. Rowena was nearly asleep when someone took her arm, startling her. “Let’s get you inside so the doctor can check you out.”

She opened her eyes to the sweetest wrinkled face and bluest eyes she’d ever seen. “I’m Mrs. Weatherby, Doctor’s nurse and wife. Let me help you up.” The tiny woman had no problem supporting her inside, where there were several beds, divided by curtains. The nurse led her to one and seated her. “Lie down, if you wish. Doctor will be here straightaway.”

“Where’s Tyra? Is Lizza all right?”

“I’m sure she will be. Your sister is by her side. If you’ll just wait here a moment.”

Cousin, she’s my cousin, she imagined herself saying, but heard nothing except the eerie stillness of the surgery. If she lay down, she might not be able to get up, so she waited, hanging on to the side of the bed with both hands to keep it from floating out from under her. The doctor, a short neat little man with a few tufts of hair on his head, came in soon, examined her in silence for what seemed forever, then pronounced nothing broken, recommended a poultice for her eye and cheek, gave her a dose of laudanum for the pain, and dismissed her.

“Take this when you need it for a few days. You’ll be all right.” He left the small brown bottle sitting beside her on the table.

She sat there for a moment, not wanting to stand, for fear of falling, but not sure what to do next. Whatever had happened to Creighton Holmes? She could use his strong arm to lean on. About then Marguerite returned with Tyra, who was objecting to leaving Lizza.

“You’ll come with us, child,” Marguerite said, “if you have no means to return to Fairhaven. You may come back to town, if you wish, under your own steam, so to speak.”

“I have my horse. No need for you to worry about me. I’ll help get Rowena to the buggy.” Tyra long ago had declared a sort of independence from anyone’s bossiness, including that of the stalwart Marguerite.

Together the three women made their slow way down the stairs, Tyra on one side of Rowena, Marguerite on the other. Grady hopped down and tried to help, but Marguerite refused to let him lay hands on Rowena. When they were loaded in the buggy, an act that challenged Rowena to the point of collapse, Grady took up the reins and drove them back to Fairhaven.

Halfway up the winding lane to the castle, Blair approached on horseback from the far field. A brisk wind tousled his dark hair, his cheeks were ruddy, and his eyes sparkling, until he saw Rowena’s condition. Jumping down off his mount, he climbed onto the buggy’s step.

“What in God’s name happened to her?” With one finger he tipped up her chin to inspect the bruises. “Who did this?”

“I’m all right, Blair,” she managed to say before he began his tirade again.

“No doubt one of those wild cowboys. Why Grant hires them to do work in town is beyond me. They all ought to be run out. Was the coward arrested? How did this happen? Dammit, Grady.”

She caught his hand, held it in hers. “Not his fault. Yes, they arrested him. Please don’t worry. The doctor says I’m fine.” Unable to utter another word, she turned to Marguerite.

“Yes, the brute is in jail. You’re not to worry,” Marguerite said. “Follow us so we can put the dear child to bed. Then I’ll tell you all I know about the incident.”

He glanced from Rowena to Marguerite, then back again. With a curt nod he kissed the back of Rowena’s hand, stepped down, leaped on his horse, and rode ahead of them the remainder of the way.

Grady guided the buggy to where Blair stood waiting. He helped Marguerite down, then, as Rowena lowered one foot to the step, gently curled her into his arms. The move so surprised her that she made a small sound against his chest.

“Have I hurt you?”

“No, you didn’t hurt me.” He smelled of whiskey, but he seemed steady as a rock, and she twined her arms around his neck. Snuggled there, she closed her eyes and allowed the dose of laudanum the doctor had given her to take over. Blair would care for her.

He had settled her in her bed when she roused enough to realize Marguerite was unlacing her shoes while Blair sat beside her holding both her hands in his. He gazed down at her with so much caring in his eyes her world nearly toppled. Maybe it was just the medicine, or perhaps her injuries, that made her heart skip around so. He leaned forward, kissed her forehead, then stood. She wanted to reach for him, hold him there a moment longer.

Marguerite shoved him aside. “You’ll have to leave now, sir. This child needs to sleep.”

“I don’t want to…” she murmured, and darkness enclosed her.

Later, alone in the dark, covers snugged up to her chin and wearing a nightgown, she stirred awake to an awesome silence. A dreadful thirst had dried her tongue and mouth. Something was tied to one side of her face. With fumbling fingers she removed the smelly poultice and dropped it to the floor. Her arms and shoulders hurt when she turned to lower her legs over the edge of the mattress. In the dark she fumbled on the bedside table for the water she always kept there. When she found it, she drank the glass dry. How long had she slept?

“You are awake.” The deep voice, coming out of the darkness, startled her, but she realized it was Blair.

“Yes.”

“Do you need anything?”

Only you. But she dare not say that.

A match flared, the odor of sulfur strong in the room. A candle flickered to life next to her, and he was there, lowering himself to the bed, sitting so close to her the heat from his body washed through hers. He wrapped one arm around her waist.

“You must not get out of bed. You might fall. What can I get you?”

Embarrassed to tell this man she had to relieve herself, she kept quiet.

Without saying more, he intuited her need, knelt beside the bed, and pulled out the chamber pot.

“Can you manage, or shall I help you? I told Marguerite I could do anything you needed and sent her off to bed. I have to admit I did not anticipate this. If you’d like, I’ll go get her. Installing an indoor water closet at the earliest possibility is my intent. These Americans are far behind the times. I’m told the tub and toilet I ordered last year from England will arrive soon, and we shall have indoor facilities.”

Nerves must be making him chatter on. It wasn’t usual. She tried to reassure him. “It’s okay. Please don’t bother her. Thank you, Blair. I can do this myself.”

He rose. “I want to make sure you can stand before I leave you to it.”

She pushed upward, swayed on her feet, then steadied herself with both palms against his chest. He enclosed her waist in both hands. The feel of him sent a wave of desire through her. A desire to have him take her once more into his arms. Surely it was only the medicine. “I’m fine, Blair.”

He stepped out of the circle of light but didn’t leave the room. She could feel his presence, hear him breathing. Pretended to think he was gone when she didn’t want him to go, oddly she didn’t mind that he was there. He would not watch her perform this most intimate of acts.

When she finished, she supported herself by holding onto the bedpost. “I’m done.”

From out of the darkness, he chuckled. “You knew I didn’t leave.”

“Yes, I knew.”

“May I help you back to bed?” With one foot he slipped the chamber pot back under the bed.

“I would like to sit by the window for a while and watch the moon set. Would you mind joining me?”

Before she had finished the sentence, his arm was once more about her waist. Though she was sure she could walk unaided, she didn’t say so. It felt so good to have him hold her. She would do most anything to keep him close. But it would not last. It could not. Still, as long as it did, she would accept that he cared for her, if only momentarily.

This man was not the same one who ranted and raged and stalked the night roaring like an animal in search of prey. This was the man she had fallen in love with when he came to St. Ann’s in Manchester to visit the Duncan girls, finally choosing Wilda instead of her as his bride. Breaking her heart.

****

She looked beautiful by the light of the moon, so serene, so lovely, her hair loosened from the bun and seemingly putting forth its own light. He fetched a coverlet off the bed and laid it over her in the chair. He continued to gaze at her, pleased she could not see his features in the shadows. Or read his mind. Rowena was sweet and naïve, so tenderhearted she would hurt easily. He could hurt her. Now, despite all his well-thought-out plans, she sat here close to him, and he could barely keep his mind or his hands off her. If only they could marry, but he could not have her sleep in the same bed and see what a monster he could become.

“I like the night,” she said, lisping a little because of her swollen lip.

He’d kill that son of a bitch, if he ever caught him. If they let him out of jail, he’d hunt him down. One thing he knew how to do was kill.

“The dark hides many things.” He stared out into the inky blackness.

She didn’t reply, and when he glanced from the window toward her, her eyes gleamed in his direction. “What does it hide for you, Blair?”

“Death,” he said without thinking. Damn fool that he was. He hadn’t meant to reveal that to her. Held his breath in apprehension. What would she think of him? Probably realize the truth. That he was half-mad? That most nights he could not sleep for the past that haunted him. The dead who gathered around to mock him? How could he tell her they could never be together for that reason?

She finally replied. “Surely there is more to the night than that. It’s soft and sweet. Darkness equalizes us all. We become the same. What is ugly about each of us is softened, made beautiful.”

He caught his breath. How foolish, how naïve she was. “But we aren’t the same. You must know that.”

“We are all created the same.”

“You learned that at St. Ann’s, but that’s Catholic thinking. Religious claptrap. Some of us are born with evil inside, and there’s no hiding it. Not with darkness or masks or ridiculous rantings of forgiveness by priests or nuns. Madness is given to some of us, a grotesque gift we cannot deny.”

“I don’t believe that.” She reached for his hand, but he pulled away.

“Doesn’t matter what you don’t believe. Belief does not make a thing so. Evil is all around us. It’s in me.”

“No, Blair, I refuse to accept that.”

He ought to leave her, get up and go. But he couldn’t. He was drawn to something that surrounded her. Perhaps that very naivety he mocked. But he remained dark and evil, for she could not cure him. In the end he would hurt her.

“That man who beat the young woman… What is her name? Lizza. He is evil, too.”

“But you would never do a thing like that. I know it.”

A deep rage enclosed his soul, and he came out of the chair. The anger was aimed not at her but at those who had taught her to trust. At those who had taught him to kill without mercy. How could she protect herself from such brutality?

“Then you are a fool. Stay away from me, Rowena. It’s for your own good.”

In the darkness, lit only by the glow of the single candle, he stalked across the room, bumping a table and kicking it aside. By the time he closed the door behind himself, his breath came in great ragged gasps, and lurking nearby the dead, waiting, always waiting for him. He didn’t give a damn about anything, nor could he allow anyone to give a damn about him. Especially not Rowena. He simply couldn’t.

Running down the hall, he hit the top of the stairs and leaped to the bottom in long strides, wrenched open the great door, and plunged out into the darkness of a world he knew only too well. A world where he could escape death and killing, suffering and pain. Riding faster than the Kansas wind into the darkness. The world where he was doomed to belong.

****

Teary-eyed, Rowena watched Blair through the window. He took long, determined steps across the lawn and disappeared into the barn. Soon he would emerge on a beautiful horse and ride off into the darkness. A man too lonely to comprehend that love might help make him whole again. There must be something she could do for him. Something someone could do for him. She did not believe for one moment that he was born evil, or for that matter that he was evil now. True, something horrible haunted him, but that did not make him evil.

At the convent she had heard whisperings, among the nuns and priests, of men driven so insane by war that they took their own lives. A thing not condoned by the church, no matter the reason. Some of the nuns felt that it should be forgiven of men who had fought in wars, for their hell had been one on earth, and they had no need to be further punished in the hereafter.

Sitting there in the moonlight, she shed tears for the man she had grown to love. His burden, whatever it was, became hers as well. When Marguerite entered some time later, she still sat by the window, staring out into the breaking daylight, wondering where he was and what hell he was going through.

Marguerite entered talking and carrying a tray. “I’ve brought breakfast for you.” She stopped short. “Why, dear child, what are you doing out of bed? That Blair. I should’ve known better than to trust you to his care.”

“I’m fine. I wanted to sit here. He took very good care of me. Oh, Marguerite, please help me to help him.”

The aroma of bacon, curled on the plate around scrambled eggs, made Rowena’s mouth water, but her stomach lurched at the thought of eating.

“Concentrate on getting yourself well. Eating is the first step. Then we’ll talk about his lordship.”

“He spent the night in the chair beside my bed. He carried me up the stairs. He cares for me, and I can’t let him down.”

“Pshaw, child. It’s not up to you to cure his ailments, whatever they may be. Only he can do that.”

“No, I refuse to believe that. You know him—you have known him since he was a child. Don’t you want to see him return to the kind of man he was? If we love someone, we need to care for them in every way, not just the superfluous vocal declarations. Don’t you love him?”

“Of course I do, but I’m smart enough to know I can’t repair what’s been done to him. He’s broken, child.”

“Then why in God’s name did you bring him to St. Ann’s to choose us…to bring us here? When he’s with me, he’s the kindest, most gentle man I’ve ever known.”

“Because then I had not seen him like he can be. Eat your breakfast before it gets cold. How is your head? Still spinning?”

Gently Rowena turned her head, first one way, then the other. No sense in arguing with Marguerite. “Much better. My jaw is sore and my nose hurts some, but otherwise I’m all right. I should like to dress, after I eat, and go downstairs.” She didn’t tell Marguerite she wanted to find Blair, to make sure he was also all right.

Marguerite agreed with her stated purpose, and remained with her until she finished breakfast.

****

Blair sat astride the Morgan he called Sarge, after one of the many men who lay dead on the battlefield. The cold wind had cleared his head, and he tried to imagine his life before the war. Before he grew so angry with his father that he fled England to join les Zouaves and take part in the brutal wars of the elite French forces. When he was a young man full of dreams.

The Franco-Prussian War toppled the empire of Napoleon III. Les Zouaves were bloodied in battles at Worth, St. Privat, Mars la Tour, and finally the Siege of Paris, where he was wounded to near death. Men giving their lives to halt Prussian aggression, all to no avail. In the end they had lost and Napoleon was defeated. Many times Blair wished he’d also given his life. But he survived, barely, and spent six months recovering in a hospital in Paris before Simmons came for him. Rescued him from being locked away.

From Simmons he’d learned about George Grant and the settlement of Victoria, in America, and so he bought tickets for the two of them. Barely able to function, he fled forever his angry father and brother Gerald, writing off his family as they had done him. His new life began with slow recovery under the tender care of Simmons, during the long voyage to America. In the spring, dear Marguerite wrote, urged him to return to England, meet Wilda, Rowena, and Tyra, and choose a wife. Because he had some business in England, he heeded her advice that what he needed was a wife. Or the pretense of one. Eventually he sent for the young women, as well as Marguerite and her husband. They could all find a new life in the American West.

Bloody fool. Damnable bloody fool. He should’ve stuck to his plan to drink himself into oblivion and remain alone for what remained of his time on earth. Stay as far away from women as he possibly could. After he’d succeeded in driving Wilda away, there was Rowena, who would not be easily deterred. Especially since he found it so difficult to convince himself he did not want her. Maybe they could marry. She could remain in her own rooms at night, after being warned about his so-called episodes.

Muttering under his breath, he dug in his heels and Sarge bolted forward into the night. Some time later, he raced toward the dawn back to the castle and his rooms, where he downed a healthy shot of whiskey, took off his boots, and fell into bed.

The familiar nightmares crawled from every black corner of the room. Attacked like soldiers swarming over a battlefield, bloodied and dying. Accusing him with staring eyes.

Unable to breathe, he clawed at his throat. Moonlight touched his eyelids, and he tossed, groaned, and tried to escape by waking. In the shadows, something shifted, moved forward. Half-awake, he struggled to make out a white filmy dress clinging to full breasts, supple hips, face hidden in darkness.

Sitting up, he tried to go to her. Gather her close. Covers tangled around his legs, trapped his arms. No matter how he bucked and lurched, he couldn’t move.

The woman floated across the room. A voice, one he knew all too well, murmured his name.

“Rowena?”

Her cool fingers closed around his arm. “I am whoever you want. Lie still. I’ll come to you.”

She drifted onto the bed, lifted one knee and straddled him, bare thighs touching his skin. He halted the struggle to untangle himself. Gently, without speaking, she welcomed him inside her warm sweetness, and he settled there. Both hands spanned her waist, and she moved rhythmically, slowly at first. Then when he began to respond, she whispered, “Lie still. I’ll do this.”

She was all around him, hands holding him, rocking, rocking, until the nightmares receded, like a storm drifting off across the prairie.

“Stay with me.” His voice thick and hoarse.

“I will.” She leaned forward, hair brushing across his cheek, and rocked to and fro, gently, till he thought he might burst. And then he did.

“Oh, dear God.” Truly a worshipful thing.

She made not a sound but kept moving long after he was finished. When she came, it was with a tiny cry and a gripping of her insides that sent tremors through him.

He shouted himself awake, head rolling from side to side on a pillow soaked with his sweat, sheets wadded between his legs, groin aching with spent passion.

Like before, it was a dream, the same damn dream. Not real at all. Certainly not Rowena, though he could have sworn it was. He fought losing control. True, it was the same as all the other nights except, this time, in his heart he had pleasured Rowena. Which wasn’t possible. He wanted her to the point of distraction, and he had no idea what to do about it.

Knowing what would come next, he closed his eyes in an effort to recapture her, to hold on. Keep his lips against her heated flesh, his arms curled around her. Like always, his dream lover disappeared, leaving his arms empty, fists gripping so tight the nails cut into his palms. She’d promised to stay but had lied to him. Why was he surprised?

Once more the unholy screams. Smoke and the stench of gunpowder filled the room. The floor shook with the sound of cannons firing. He couldn’t move. Couldn’t escape. Was he awake or asleep? He could never tell. And the fear. God, the fear that he would be trapped in that nightmare forever.

Startling awake, he fumbled for the whiskey glass on the nightstand. Enclosed it in his fist and, propped on one elbow, belted the liquid fire. His body was soaked in sweat, the nightshirt clinging to him. He shivered.

Rowena in his bed holding the horrors at bay? A dream or reality? Foolish thought. Of course it was a dream. She would never come to him like that. Never. And even if she did, he wouldn’t allow it. Could not chance hurting her in the process of killing himself. He groped for the bottle, his fingers closed around the cool glass, and he poured himself another healthy swig.

Next he knew, dawn silvered the sky. Fully awake, he rose and carried the drink to the window, sipped it, and remembered sitting with her in the light of the moon. How sweet she had looked, gazing at him, eyes reflecting the golden glow. Dear God, what a fool he was. Allowing himself to desire someone so delightful, to think he could possibly lead a normal life. Tilting the glass, he downed the remainder and sank into the chair, leaned back, and closed his eyes, head throbbing.

The child lay in bloody mud, tiny fists clutching the dead woman’s skirts. Had his bullet struck her down? What did it matter who had killed her? He was a part of it. He turned away from the grisly sight and vomited into the bushes before taking up his rifle and moving to follow the men of his regiment to the next killing fields.

He jerked awake, rose, and fetched the half-empty bottle, turned it up, and drank until he could no longer swallow the burning liquid. Staggering, he dropped the bottle to the carpet, stumbled to the bed, and fell onto his face. Could he no longer close his eyes without falling into that lurking world of death and destruction? Maybe he would one day drink enough to drown out their screams, but only death would finally bring that blessing.

****

Rowena finished her breakfast and allowed Marguerite to help her slip into a Balmoral petticoat and a simple frock suitable for the house.

“You should stay in bed, so promise me you will remain in the parlor and rest.” Marguerite pinned a last curl high on Rowena’s head. “There. You look fine.”

The reflection in the mirror didn’t look fine at all, though Marguerite had styled her hair so that she looked somehow different. If it hadn’t been for her swollen face and the bruises around her eye, she would have been almost pretty. She stuck out her tongue. Foolish, foolish thoughts.

If she kept quiet in reply to Marguerite’s request that she remain in the parlor, perhaps the woman would take it for a promise. A promise she had no intention of keeping.

“I swear, if that man would get a hold on himself…” Marguerite took her arm and walked with her into the hallway, continuing her rant. “This place is a disgrace. Dust and cobwebs everywhere. The kitchen is in total disarray. Where is that housekeeper I hired for him? And the cook? I suppose neither one of them could stand his tirades.”

“I’m afraid that’s precisely what happened,” Rowena said. “They resigned. Said they were afraid of being chopped up in their beds. Nellie remained, and Annie. I believe I saw a new girl yesterday under Simmons’ tutelage.”

“Well, he’d better not expect you to do the housework. If that’s the case, I’ll have some words with his lordship. That will never do at all. That wasn’t the arrangement we had.”

It was a good thing she hadn’t told Marguerite she had been helping out. She would blame Blair, and there was no use explaining that Blair did not request anything of anyone but to be left alone. Simmons ran the household, and that’s who Marguerite should speak with. Rowena wanted so badly to question Marguerite as to precisely what arrangement she and Blair did have when she brought him to St. Ann’s to look over the three Duncan girls for their suitability, as if they were sweets in a store window. But she kept her silence. He had rescued them from a life of drudgery in the convent workhouse. A life so brutal for her she’d never spoken of it. This one had to be better in that respect, but dealing with Lord Blair Prescott was proving to be not only difficult but heartbreaking.

Before they started down the stairs, Tyra came bounding from her rooms, dressed in men’s corduroy riding breeches, a cropped jacket, and boots. Wherever she’d bought that outfit, Rowena couldn’t guess, but she looked quite stunning, with her tumble of golden-red curls flowing loose down her back.

“When did you return?” Rowena asked, always happy to see her feisty cousin.

“Late last night. Lizza is some better, but the doctor wants her to remain under his care a while longer. She won’t eat, so I thought I’d take her something from our kitchen. Annie is such a good cook.”

“That’s sweet of you. Yes, Annie is indeed turning out to be adept in the kitchen. I may end up in dressing myself without her help, which is not a bother at all.”

“Oh, child, child,” Marguerite scolded, interrupting their conversation. “Aren’t you a bit too old to wear your hair unpinned like that? And since when do we dress like a gentleman?”

“Margy, don’t you start on me. It’s too beautiful a morning. Besides, I’m only going to Victoria City to check on Lizza; I’m not attending a ball or dinner with Queen Victoria, now am I? Did you ever try to sit astride a horse in crinolines, laces, and satins?”

The woman flushed and started down the stairs, arm in arm with Rowena. “I dare say I would never sit astride a horse. Is that something now acceptable in the Queen’s company? I think not.”

“Well, Margy,” Tyra said, dancing on down the stairs ahead of them, “we aren’t in the Queen’s company here in the American West, now are we? Old Victoria will never know, will she? See you.” She waved and ran toward the kitchen. Rowena envied the girl her ability to walk away from any difficult situation with such ease. And calling Marguerite “Margy”? She would never get away with that.

Later, having settled Rowena in the parlor, Marguerite bustled away to interfere properly with Simmons’ running of the house. After a few minutes, to make sure the woman wouldn’t return, Rowena rose and crept in silence toward Blair’s den on the main floor, a place he liked to hide out. Though he might still be riding that magnificent horse over the grounds, she hoped to find him there. Perhaps he would be amenable to talking with her.

At his door, she tapped lightly, waited a moment, then cautiously opened the door. The room was empty, but the fresh scent of the occasional cheroot he liked to smoke hung in the air. He must be up. For a moment, she stood with her hands on the back of his chair, remembering the way he’d cared for her the night before with such tenderness. If only she could uncover that side of him for good and all.

“What is it?” he said, scaring her so badly she nearly fainted. He’d walked silently from the door, across the Egyptian carpet, to come up behind her.

Hand splayed over her racing heart, she faced him, scarcely able to remain upright, her knees trembled so badly.

“Well, what are you doing in here?” He took another step toward her, his features stern, his eyes hard as agates.

Back against the chair, she had nowhere to retreat. Though his mannerisms were violent, she wasn’t afraid of him. Should she be?

With an unexpected suddenness her knees went out from under her, and he caught her before she could fall. His chin touched the top of her head, his long body leaned into hers, his arms folded around her. For the briefest time she relaxed into his embrace before he grabbed her shoulders in both hands and held her away.

“You should be in bed if you can’t remain on your feet.” His gaze chased across her damaged face and he looked away.

“Blair.” Pleading, like a fool.

“No, Rowena. No, dammit.”

“I was only trying to make sure you were all right.”

“I am a grown man in no need of a mother. Shall I call Marguerite to take you back to your rooms?”

Stiffly, she backed out of his reach. “No, I too am grown and quite capable of going where I want to go. And it isn’t to my rooms. I’m not an invalid. A man saw fit to beat on me, but nothing is broken, and I don’t intend to retire to my bed.”

He kept his back turned, his shoulders rising and falling.

“Thank you for taking care of me last night. I appreciate it.” Her voice caught and she couldn’t continue, so she stumbled from his presence, sure he could hear the sound of her heart cracking apart.

Behind her, something crashed and broke. She flinched, straightened her shoulders, and strode toward the front door. Don’t turn around. You don’t care what happens to him. You don’t.

But that was a lie, pure and simple.