Caroline woke with a dull throbbing in her arm. Everything around her was white and drenched with light. It took several moments for her eyes to adjust, to realize she was lying in a bed, whitewashed walls beyond. A soft length of linen hung from the single window, the thin fabric filtering the sunlight that poured into the room.
Where was she? Would the pain engulf her if she lifted her head? No, at least not too badly. Her right arm was wrapped and bound into a sling. Carefully, using her legs and good arm, Caroline inched herself up on the pillow. The sheets felt wonderfully soft against her bare legs. She glanced down, relieved to see she was clad in her chemise—not completely naked in some stranger’s bed. She eased up a trifle more, ignoring the buzzing in her head, until she could see past the bed linens.
This was obviously someone’s bedroom, but a very plain one. No bright hangings on the wall or knick-knacks adorning the top of the spare wooden bureau. The room was without decoration but for a small ceramic vase painted with a motif of bulls on the bedside table. It seemed the room of someone who had stripped life down to the bare essentials. Not ascetic, though—she had to admit the bed was quite comfortable. There was a door made of planks that had been smoothed and oiled to a golden luster. It was a very beautiful door, she decided.
Memory came flooding back. She had been injured and brought here. How long had it been? Days? Panic bolted through her. Where was Maggie? Had the boat for Malta sailed without Caroline?
She struggled with the sheets and levered herself up, fighting the wave of aching dizziness her movements triggered. Keep breathing. She pressed her lips tightly together.
Beyond the half-open door a man was sitting at a table writing, his face in profile to her. He looked stern, with his thick dark hair and sun-bronzed skin, like a warrior on some ancient fresco. Stern, but familiar…Yes, she remembered now. The unwilling doctor with the careful hands. Mr. Trentham.
“Sir, I beg your pardon,” she called. Her voice emerged more quietly than she had expected, but he heard. He glanced up and she was startled once again by the intensity of his gaze.
“You’re awake.” He closed his book and rose from the table, expression both grim and relieved as he entered the room. “Is there much pain?”
“A small amount.” She would not admit how the room had begun to spin. “What day is it? Would you help me rise?”
His brows drew together and he made no move to assist her. “Do you recall what happened? Your friend told me she thought you had been thrown by your horse. Riding out alone—why is it tourists behave so foolishly when they leave home?”
“I’m not a tourist,” she protested, but it was not true. She had accompanied Maggie to the Mediterranean to help with her friend’s orphanage project, but she was the one who had insisted they detour to Crete for a holiday. A week to revel in the sun and antiquity of the island—it seemed now to have been quite a foolish idea after all. “Where is Mrs. Farnsworth?” Surely Maggie would not have abandoned her here.
“You’re lucky they found you. And no doubt Mrs. Farnsworth will be arriving soon, as she has every day, to check on your condition.”
Her condition…“Is my arm broken?”
“No. You dislocated your elbow.” A frown marred the strong lines of his face. “I’ve splinted it, but am more concerned about the injury to your head. You’ve been unconscious for nearly two days. Do you know who you are, where you are?”
“Of course I do. I’m Caroline Huntington, and I am in some cottage on Crete.”
He made no reply to that, only leaned in and placed his hands on either side of her face, the touch unexpectedly gentle. His hands were warm, and this close she caught the scent of him: soap and sage, and beneath that, something deeply male. She swallowed as he held her still, his gaze moving from one eye to the other.
“Difficult to tell how severe the concussion is.” The feel of his touch lingered as he lifted his hands. “You’ll have to go slowly—bed rest for at least a week.”
Caroline gave a small shake of her head and regretted it as the whirling redoubled. “That’s impossible. I need to accompany Mrs. Farnsworth to Malta. She has an important meeting to attend in the capital.”
“Valletta?” He raised one brow. “Unlikely.”
Irritation banished some of her pain. “I do not appreciate your skepticism, sir—and I will not take orders from a reclusive Englishman masquerading as a Greek olive farmer.” She bit her lip. It was an unkind thing to say, but he could at least consult her before making pronouncements regarding what she could and could not do. She softened her tone. “Whatever are you doing here, so far from anything that could be called civilization?”
“That is none of your concern.” He took a step back. “What does concern you is that both your arm and your head are in need of mending.”
“If you will fetch my clothing…”
He made a sharp gesture of negation. “You are not well enough to travel across the room, let alone to Malta. I have tended you, Miss Huntington—reluctantly and at some personal cost. The only fee I require is that you rest until you are fit for travel.”
Caroline returned his frown. What a contrary man. Her head hurt and he was beginning to annoy her. Besides, clad only in her chemise with the coverlet providing little concealment, he had her at a distinct disadvantage.
“The only reason I’m not fit for travel is that someone has made off with my clothing! There will be competent medical care in Valletta. Malta is a British protectorate after all. I am certain Mrs. Farnsworth can—”
“Mrs. Farnsworth is useless as a nurse.” He folded his arms. “I cannot release you into her care, certainly not for a sea voyage.”
“Malta is only—”
“Enough. Believe me, I would be happy to see you go, if my conscience would permit it.”
“What do you propose? That you keep me here as a captive in your…” She felt her cheeks flame. It would not do to end the sentence with the word bed. Covering her confusion, she pleated the covers with her good hand, then finally met his deep blue eyes. “Sir, please fetch my clothing. While I appreciate your concern, I assure you I would make a most disagreeable captive. If you insist on imprisoning me, I will be forced to contact the authorities.”
“Damnation!” His mouth thinned at the corners. “You’re not my captive—you were forced on me—and I’ve no doubt you can be disagreeable. You’ve already demonstrated that fact.”
He kept his gaze locked with hers a moment longer, then turned and strode to the wardrobe. With a yank, he threw the door open and pulled out her wrinkled riding habit and crinoline. “I have no desire to hold you here against your will, but I will not help if you insist on reinjuring yourself. Here.” He tossed her clothing beside her on the bed, then stalked out of the room, closing the door forcefully behind him.
Caroline drew in a deep breath. Good riddance. She had feared he would insist on standing by, and the thought of him watching as she dressed sent another blaze of heat into her face. At least she had finally made him understand she was well enough to clothe herself.
One-armed, she pushed back the covers and scooted herself down the bed. As long as she did not jostle her right arm it was bearable. She reached for her crinoline and shook it free of the dress, but there was no way she could pull the dratted thing on one-handed while lying down. There was nothing to do but to stand.
The tiled floor seemed terribly far away. She swallowed and fought for balance. Think of Maggie. If her foolish injury jeopardized the project in Malta, how could she ever face her friend again? Maggie had been focused on nothing but the orphanage in Valletta for months. They could not miss that meeting.
A moan escaped as her feet touched the floor, and for a moment she thought the dizziness would prevail. She pressed her lips tightly together and leaned—nearly collapsed—against the bed frame, knocking the bedside table as she did. The small vase on the table teetered, and Caroline could only watch as it tipped over the edge to shatter on the floor beneath. She hoped it had not been very dear to him.
“Miss Huntington?”
“No—don’t come in! I’m all right.”
There was a censorious silence. He was no doubt standing just outside the door, waiting for her to admit defeat. Well, he would be waiting a very long time. She did not think much of his treatment, one moment professing she had to rest and stay abed, the next flinging her clothes at her and bidding her dress herself when he did not get his way. What an impossible man.
Now, to don the crinoline. She dragged it off the bed and managed to put first one bare foot through, then the other. The cloth felt thick and unwieldy, threatening to slip off as she inched it up with one hand. There. She was shaking from the effort and could feel perspiration dampening her forehead, but she had done it.
The dress next. She reached, but it slithered out of her grasp to huddle on the floor. Poor thing—she knew just how it felt. Very well, she would pick it up. Just bend over and—
She let out a cry and grabbed at the bedcovers as her vision swam, darkness filtering her vision and pulling her down. The bedroom door slammed open, and Mr. Trentham was there, catching her in his arms and cursing under his breath.
“Stupid, stubborn woman.”
Despite the rough words he lifted her gently back to the bed. With one move he stripped the crinoline off, leaving her legs bared to the thigh. Before she could protest the immodesty of it he pulled the covers up, then laid the back of his fingers against her cheek, his expression unreadable. “Don’t move.” He then left the room.
No need to caution her. She was not certain she could move even had she wanted to. Caroline closed her eyes. She almost wished she had lost consciousness—anything to elude the horrible feeling in her head.
Faint sounds came from the room beyond, dishes clinking together, a chair scraped across the wood-planked floor. She heard him return but could not manage to lift her lids.
Perhaps she had pushed herself too far. But really, a week in bed? It was out of the question. She had promised to help with Maggie’s orphanage project, not make it impossible for her friend to succeed.
“Drink this.”
She opened her eyes to see him holding out a clay cup. “What is it?”
“Water.” He slipped one arm behind her and held the cup to her lips. “You’ve exhausted yourself.”
He set the cup down and tucked the covers closely about her, then gathered up her clothes and returned them to the wardrobe, making no mention of her failure to dress. In fact, he did not speak at all as he fetched a broom and swept up the broken vase. Caroline watched him from behind heavy, half-closed lids—the unyielding set of his lips, the pull of his shirt against the strong muscles of his arms….
~*~
Blast it. Alex paced, more concerned about Miss Huntington than he wanted to admit. She was weak and seemed intent on doing herself harm. He had not expected she would have been able to sit up, let alone actually get out of bed and tumble to the floor. Her strength of will surprised him. He had been a fool to let her try to dress herself alone, but something about the woman goaded him unreasonably.
Hold her captive? Not bloody likely.
Still, temper or no, the image of her clad only in her chemise would not leave him, nor the feel of her soft curves against him, her naked legs…. He swallowed. Now that she had regained consciousness he needed to get her out of his bedroom, and out of his house, as soon as possible.
The sound of the mule-drawn cart creaking up the hill interrupted his thoughts. He ran a hand over his face and went out to the stoop. His home—chosen for its seclusion—had never seen so many visitors. It was patently impossible to work with her under his roof.
The gnarled olives on one side of the cottage cast dappled shade over his garden: sunflowers and pole beans and a scatter of wild poppies mixed in with the rioting greens. Beyond, hills ran down to the sun-spangled blue of the Mediterranean, with a distant glimpse of the village nestled between the cliffs and the sea.
There was Manolis driving his ramshackle cart, which always looked as though it would go to pieces if it hit a stone. Somehow, though, it never failed to make the journey up the dusty, winding track to his door. The serious Mrs. Farnsworth sat on the bench beside him.
Alex straightened his shoulders and stepped out into the light as she disembarked, tweed skirts uncreased from her ride up the hill, her sand-colored hair neatly in place and not a smudge on her gold-rimmed spectacles.
“Good day,” he said.
“Is it?” Her voice was shaded with worry. “How is Miss Huntington?”
“Awake at last.” And perfectly stubborn.
The anxious lines on Mrs. Farnsworth’s face eased. “I am much relieved to hear it. Thank you for caring for her so capably, Dr. Trentham. We are scheduled to depart for Malta on Monday’s boat, and I am sure she has told you of the importance of our project. The orphans there…”
He gave her a stern look. “I have explained to her, and I will explain to you. Miss Huntington will not be traveling for some time yet, and certainly not on the next boat.”
Mrs. Farnsworth paused at the doorstep. “Oh dear. But it is essential—”
Alex caught her elbow. Surely Mrs. Farnsworth would be more reasonable than her younger companion. “What is essential is that Miss Huntington makes a full recovery. You are responsible for her welfare here, are you not?”
“Not precisely.” She gestured with one hand. “We are traveling together, but Caroline is not my employee, nor my dependant. She has a will of her own.”
That much had been amply demonstrated. He tried again. “You must make her understand. She cannot embark for some time yet.”
Distress settled around the corners of Mrs. Farnsworth’s eyes. “But the nature of our errand is urgent. You have no idea how difficult it was to obtain an interview with the governor. If we are not there at the appointed time…” She pulled away and stepped into his house. “That appointment must be kept.”
Alex pressed his lips together and gestured Mrs. Farnsworth to the bedroom. Perhaps seeing how weak her companion was would make the woman see sense.
Miss Huntington’s face was pale, but her expression warmed when she saw her friend. “Maggie! I’m so sorry about all of this.”
Mrs. Farnsworth hurried to the bed. “Don’t be sorry. I am so glad to see you’re awake and recovering.” She set her hand lightly on her friend’s shoulder. “Whatever shall we do? The doctor says you are not fit to travel to Malta, and I cannot possibly leave you.”
“We will…” Miss Huntington stopped and glanced to where he stood in the doorway. “Mr. Trentham, I desire a private word with Mrs. Farnsworth, if you would be so kind.”
How easily she dismissed him, as if his bedchamber were her private domain, and he nothing more than an unwanted errand boy. He gave a curt nod. “Ten minutes.” He strode out of the room.
Her voice followed him. “Mr. Trentham.”
“Yes?”
“Please close the door behind you.”
Alex shut the door on the two women, resisting the urge to slam it. Of all the irksome…He left the house for the sunshine outside, but not even the fresh, salt-edged air could ease his irritation with Miss Caroline Huntington. He could tell she was plotting something in there with her friend. Perhaps they needed a demonstration of where, exactly, the limits of her strength lay.
Manolis waved to Alex from where he had pulled his cart into the shade. The cart driver was eating his lunch: flat bread, a white slab of feta, and oil-cured black olives. Alex went to join him and leaned against the side of the cart. He studied his cottage, sturdy and serviceable with thick, earthen walls washed white to reflect the summer heat. Moving Miss Huntington to the village would do much to restore his refuge.
“Manolis, could you transport the Englishwoman to the village as you brought her here the other night?”
“The road is steep and rocky.” The older man gave him a curious look. “She is so bitter then that you do not want the taste of her in your home?”
Involuntarily, Alex recalled the warmth of her hand in his as she spoke through the laudanum that first night, the way her unbound hair spread across his pillow. He frowned. “It is best if she recuperated at the villa.”
“I see.” Manolis inclined his head. “Perhaps she is too much like honey, and iatros, you deny yourself the sweetness of life.”
“Life is not sweetness.” The words sounded harsh even to his own ears. Yet he could not banish the image of Miss Huntington in her thin chemise as he had lifted her that morning, nor forget the feel of her body pressed against his.
Perhaps there was sweetness in life—but not for him.
He pushed away from the cart. “Come in the early afternoon. Sweet or bitter, I will have Miss Huntington out of my house.”
The two women glanced up, startled, as he entered the bedroom without knocking. “Starting tomorrow the two of you will have all the privacy you desire. I am moving you back to the village, Miss Huntington.”
“Oh?” Her brown eyes lifted to his. “Of course, it’s welcome news. I will be able to assist Maggie—and she can help me.”
Mrs. Farnsworth nodded, then added, “It is for the best, especially as you appear to be an unmarried man, Mr. Trentham.” Her voice was firm, but she flushed after delivering the words.
“Maggie is right,” Miss Huntington said. “It would be unseemly for you to keep me here any longer than is necessary.” She dropped her gaze to the coverlet, and he guessed she, too, was remembering the events of the morning.
“Then it is agreed. Manolis will move you in the cart—tomorrow. But I warn you, it will be a difficult ride down. You’ll need to be well rested, and be tended to afterward. You’re in no condition for extended travel.”
The two women shared a glance, then Miss Huntington laid her head back against the pillow. “I trust this will work out for the best. For all of us.”