London, March 1848
Reginald Huntington, Viscount Rowland, paused at the top of the steps outside his club and turned the collar of his greatcoat up against the rain. Behind him the doorman bowed good night, then pulled the mahogany doors closed, sealing away the warm light and polished comfort. Reginald turned with exaggerated care and made his way to the line of carriages waiting at the curb. Not that he felt the cold, at least not physically. More than enough whiskey burned through his blood to keep the night at bay.
It was the knowledge of his father’s latest betrayal that chilled him. His cousin Caroline was going to become his sister! The old man was going to formally adopt her.
It was a fate he would not wish upon his worst enemy—no, it was precisely the fate he would wish upon his worst enemy. The insufferable chit. His father would do well by her, providing a dowry and annual income and leaving Reginald—the heir—with a substantially reduced portion. His cousins had wormed their way into his father’s affections and the old man had treated them as his own. Reginald scowled. Better than his own.
Where was his bloody carriage? He squinted into the darkness, finally locating it near the back of the line. His driver, bundled against the pervasive drizzle, climbed down to open the door without so much as a “Good evening, my lord.” The fellow kept his head bent and whisked away the step before Reginald even had a chance to settle himself. He had half a mind to call him back and remind the scoundrel who it was who paid his salary, but the carriage had already lurched into motion.
He settled back onto the leather seat and closed his eyes. It was sour, the knowledge that he had never been enough for his father. But life was sour. The real problem was the reduction of the Twickenham estate. Given his father’s fondness for Caroline, her portion would be substantial.
Which was most unfortunate, since Reginald had already pledged nearly the entire inheritance as security for his loans.
The carriage veered around a corner. Damn his driver, was the man drunk? Reginald raised his fist and pounded on the carriage roof.
“By God, watch your driving! Why aren’t we there?” He pulled back the curtain and peered out at run-down buildings crowding a narrow, dirty street. Windows were cracked and boarded, and the few pedestrians out in the rain looked bent and ragged. Not a neighborhood he would wish to visit even by daylight, and certainly not a neighborhood they should be passing through on the way to his town house in Grosvenor Square.
A needle of fear pricked him and he wrenched on the door handle. The door was fixed shut from the outside.
“Stop at once!”
In response, the driver whipped up the horses, sending the carriage careening through the back alleys of London. One wheel went up over the curbstone, jolting Reginald to the floor. He braced himself against the corner and kicked repeatedly at the door, splintering the wood beneath the fine-tooled leather, but it would not give. The coach slowed, then halted as he gave one last kick, sending the door flying open.
“Well, well. Look who’s being a feisty lad.” Figures loomed in the opening, one holding a lantern. The light showed a blunt-nosed man wearing an unfriendly smile and a garish green waistcoat. “Viscount Rowland, I presume.”
Reginald slowly sat upright, taking in the menacing faces, the yellow-wheeled cab parked behind them. Fear laid a clammy hand on the back of his neck. He swallowed and made a show of straightening his clothing. “You are mistaken. The name is Crawford. Anthony Crawford.”
The man raised the lantern. “Crawford, is it. Well, Mr. Crawford, why would you be riding in Reginald Huntington’s carriage in the wee hours?” He turned and spoke to the driver. “This is Huntington’s carriage, isn’t it?”
“Aye, the driver said so hisself before I knocked him down and took his clothes.”
“If that is the case,” Reginald said, “then I must have entered the wrong carriage by mistake.”
“Did you? Well then Mr. Crawford, it’s a bigger mistake than you know. Our employer told us to deliver a message to the occupant of this carriage,” said the man with the lantern.
“What message is that?”
“Come out here and we’ll tell you.”
Reginald backed against the seats. “I think not.” He kept his voice steady. “The weather outside is positively dreadful. Besides, I am tired and drunk, and unlikely to remember much of your message. Perhaps you can call on me at a more propitious time.”
“Perhaps you can stop your yammering.” The man turned to one of his companions. “His lordship wants us to call on him another time. Jenks, are you free for Tuesday Tea with Lord Rowland?”
“I’ll have to check me datebook. No, no, I’ve a luncheon with the Queen on Tuesday.” The laugh that followed sent an unpleasant shiver up Reginald’s spine.
“Well then.” The blunt-nosed man slammed his fist into his open palm. “We’ll have to deliver our message as scheduled.”
The lunge through the carriage door came an instant sooner than Reginald expected. He twisted aside, but hard hands yanked him from the coach.
“Here now.” The man called Jenks fetched him up against the wheel. “Glad you decided to join us, yer lordship.”
The other men snickered, and Reginald ceased struggling. The odds were so far out of his favor that it was belittling to even try. “Very well. Say your piece.”
“Oh, our message ain’t in words.” Jenks plowed his fist into Reginald’s midsection. He doubled over, breathless, as blows rained down. He covered his head and dodged as he could, but soon enough ended up on the ground, a warm trickle of blood scoring down his cheek.
“Tsk, tsk,” Blunt-Nose said. “Seems you’ve ruined a fancy set of clothes. Hard to get bloodstains out of fine linen, I hear.” He bent and grinned into Reginald’s face. “Now listen. Our employer has heard some disturbing news about your inheritance. Seeing as you owe him a fair bit, he wanted to make sure you understood how serious he views the situation.”
Reginald wiped his mouth and stared straight into the man’s muddy brown eyes. “I assure you, whatever rumors your employer has heard are unfounded. You may tell him I will see to the matter.”
“That’s what the boss is afraid of, seeing how last time you said that you went chasing off to Africa. That’s not going to happen again.”
“Let me take care of it.”
The other man turned his head and spat on the ground. “You’d better be quick about it. Our employer ain’t going to wait for you to muddle things this time. He’s sending someone to handle it, ain’t it so Simms?” He tipped his head to Blunt-Nose.
The man smiled. There was no mirth in the expression. “Time for a bit of game hunting, I think. I hear those Mediterranean islands hold plenty of good sport.”
Reginald lifted himself off the unswept cobbles. “What are you saying?”
Simms gave him an unpleasant grin. “Only that it might not be healthy for your cousin to come between the boss and his interests. And it might not be healthy for you to let that happen—if you get my drift.” His booted foot caught Reginald squarely in the ribs. As he gasped for air, the other men hauled him up and flung him back into the carriage, which set immediately into motion.
He lay on the floor gasping as the vehicle jolted over the cobbles. They could not threaten him like this—him or his family. Much as he disliked his cousin, she was his cousin, to deal with on his own. There had to be some way to stop Caroline’s adoption. He had to find a way. His life depended on it.
The carriage halted again and Reginald braced himself for another encounter, but there was only the shifting weight as his driver dismounted, followed by the sound of running footsteps fading into the night.
Crete, March 1848
Caroline lay quietly, trying to will away the aching in her head. She should be feeling far stronger. Maggie needed her, and right now she was hardly able to sit up. One thing was certain, though: no matter how weak she might actually feel, she could not reveal it to Mr. Trentham. If he thought her unfit to travel to the village today, she would become his captive. She could not afford his interference. Once she and Maggie reached Malta she would rest, but not before.
Besides, being here was not truly restful. She was too aware of his presence—his footsteps as he crossed the front room. Even now she could tell he was coming to the bedroom. A quick knock at the door, and he entered. His dark hair curled over his collar and his simple shirt was open at the neck. She tried not to stare at the tanned skin revealed there. Did the man not own a cravat?
“Manolis will arrive soon.” He strode to the wardrobe and gathered her clothing. “We’ll have you convalescing in your rooms at the villa before suppertime.”
Convalescing. She hated that word. But now that she was about to leave she did owe him her gratitude.
“Mr. Trentham.” She lifted her eyes to his. “Thank you. I know I have been a burden, and I shan’t forget your kindness. You are a skilled physician.”
He looked away. “I did very little. Thank Legault. I would have sent you away.”
“All the same, you did care for me. I know your presence here will be of great benefit to the people of the village. I have always thought England should produce more doctors and send them out to teach and heal. Like you. Imagine the benefit to the people of this village if it had a clinic with you at its head.” She smiled.
Heavens, she was starting to sound like Maggie. First, a boarding school in London, now she was converting doctors with a missionary-like zeal. She glanced up at him and her smile wilted at the harsh look on his face.
“I am no longer a doctor, Miss Huntington.” His voice was tight. “This village needs no clinic because it has no physician. You are the last person I shall treat.”
Caroline returned his frown. “What? You will turn away those in need? If that is your attitude, then perhaps the villagers should expand the cemetery. They will no doubt need the extra room.” It was difficult to fathom how a man with his obvious skills could retreat here and do nothing. “Why are you here on Crete, Mr. Trentham, if not to help?” She did not understand him at all.
He laid her dress and crinoline on the bed. “There was no doctor here before I came, and there will be none after I am gone. I thank you to not rest the weight of the world on my shoulders, Miss Huntington.”
Something in his tone, some underlying shadow, made her hold her tongue when she normally would have pursued the argument. This man carried a burden; she could feel it, though she had no idea what it possibly could be, or why he would feel compelled to carry it all the way to Crete.
Finally he cleared his throat. “I apologize that there is no woman to help you dress. Madame Legault will not be accompanying Manolis, as we need to keep the cart as light as possible for the journey down.”
“You mean to say you will be helping me dress?”
“Would you prefer to wait for Manolis instead?”
“I think not! I can do it myself.” Caroline lifted her chin. “You are an unmarried man—it’s beyond proper. Just help me to my feet, Mr. Trentham.”
“You’re not—”
“Please.” She looked directly into his dark blue eyes. He stared back and she could hear her own heartbeat thudding. “If I cannot, I will call for you. I promise.”
He studied her face for a long moment, some turmoil behind his eyes, as if he was inwardly debating with himself. Finally he nodded. “You will let me know immediately if you need aid.”
“Yes. I trust you’ll be waiting outside the door again, ready to spring to my rescue.”
“I am not your knight errant, Miss Huntington. Call for help before collapsing this time.”
He slipped his arm behind her. Caroline took a breath and swung her legs over the side of the bed. The world started spinning, but she bit her lip, determined. She was grateful to have his arm bracing her, strong and steady.
There, she was on her feet! She gave him a weak grin.
He did not smile back. His gaze was fixed on her, serious and intent. “Any dizziness? Can you stand alone?”
“I’m well,” she lied.
He carefully withdrew his support. “Then I will leave you to dress.”
She took a steadying breath as the door closed behind him, then reached for her crinoline. It was easier to pull on this time, though the fabric bunched about her hips and would not lie straight. One-armed, there was little she could do about it—and the dress would cover it anyway. It was tricky trying to keep her balance, hampered by the bulky petticoat as she lifted first one leg then the other to step through the skirt of her russet riding habit. She had to stop and swallow furiously midway through but kept the sickness at bay—just.
“Miss Huntington? Are you still well?”
“Um. Yes, quite all right,” she called back. “I just need another moment or two.” She had to get her good arm through the dratted sleeve, and it was like trying to catch a fish barehanded. There. Her left arm slid through and she shrugged the dress up to her shoulder. Oh dear. Caroline drew the fabric around her other arm. There was no way it would fit through the sleeve, not in the sling, but perhaps the dress would fasten closed around it. Ah, the dratted buttons. There was no way to do them up without help.
“Mr. Trentham?”
He was through the door and beside her in an instant, hand at her elbow. “Good. Still on your feet, I see.”
“I make it a habit not to collapse more than once a week. However, I do need assistance with my buttons. Would you?” She presented him with her back.
He was silent for a long moment and she could feel a flush come to her cheeks. The dress was barely covering her, one shoulder completely bare, the thin cotton of her chemise doing not a thing to make her feel less vulnerable. It was quite immodest, but what choice did she have?
She felt him take hold of the fabric and pull gently. Her injured arm was trapped uncomfortably against her side and she froze, anticipating pain. He stopped.
“I need to make some alterations,” he said. “Stand still.”
Perhaps it was the command in his voice or the absurd nature of the situation, but she trembled a little and obeyed.
He slipped the shoulder of her dress off and Caroline clutched the neck of the bodice just as it began to slide down. “Ah…what are you doing?”
“Fixing your dress.” He took the empty sleeve in his hands and tore, ripping it free of the bodice.
She stared at him for a shocked moment before finding her voice. “Sir! You’ve ruined a perfectly good dress!”
“You have ruined a perfectly good arm.” His face was stern, but she thought she glimpsed the barest light of humor in his eyes. He dropped the sleeve to the floor, then turned his gaze on her, studying her form.
Heat scalded her face.
“One more adjustment, I think.” His hands skimmed her side and took hold of the dress. Caroline held her breath at the sound of tearing cloth as he ripped the seam open. “That should do,” he said.
“I would think so.” She felt quite unsteady. “You owe me a new riding habit.” Imagine, him tearing her dress to pieces while she was still in it!
He eased her sling through the rent he had made, then turned her and drew the dress closed. “There. Not the height of fashion, but serviceable enough.” His fingers worked deftly up her back and he brushed her hair away from her nape to do up the final buttons. The touch of his hands left a fleeting warmth.
Caroline glanced in the mirror mounted on the wardrobe door, noting the pinkness in her cheeks. “My dress looks like it has been mangled by wild beasts, and my hair…” It was a fright, cascading loose and untamed over her shoulders. She swayed.
He slipped one arm around her waist to steady her, then guided her back to the bed. “Sit.”
Caroline tried not to cling to him as she lowered herself, but the edges of her vision were beginning to blur.
“I’m not certain we should attempt to move you.” His breath ruffled her hair. “You are still too weak.”
She stiffened. “I can hardly remain here.” Not alone with him. And certainly not if she and Maggie were to make the boat to Malta.
He studied her for a long moment, the shadows returning to his eyes. “Very well. Let’s see what I can do about your hair.”
The right side of her head was tender, but he was gentle as he combed. She sat motionless under his touch as he plaited the strands and tied off the braid.
“There. You look quite the thing, Miss Huntington.”
“For a beggar’s ball, perhaps. You seem to have missed your calling as a lady’s maid.”
“It’s good to know I have a profession to fall back on, should I ever require one.” He helped her recline against the pillows. “Conserve your strength. You’ll need it for the journey down.”
She must have slept, for it seemed moments later that Mr. Trentham returned, though the sun was slanting through the bedroom window in the way of afternoon light.
He offered his arm. “Manolis is here. Let’s get you to the cart.”
Caroline rose, glad for his support as the room teetered, then righted itself. A few careful steps and she was across the bedroom threshold. The room beyond was a confused blur of rustic furniture and a brightly colored rug. All her attention was focused on the simple act of moving one foot, then the other, of keeping her balance while the floor slanted beneath her.
“Oh!” She lurched forward and the world tilted crazily.
Mr. Trentham’s arms instantly came around her, steadying her. No longer in imminent danger of falling, she closed her eyes and leaned against him, trying to absorb some of his strength.
“Almost there,” he said. “A few more steps.”
The cart was waiting, the back filled with bedding. He eased her in, considered for a moment, and frowned. “I’ll fetch more blankets. I want you as cushioned as possible.”
“I am not such a fragile parcel,” she began, but he had already turned and gone. And she had to admit she did feel rather breakable.
“There is no telling the iatros what he can and cannot do,” the cart driver said from his perch on the bench.
“What does it mean? Iatros?”
“Mm…one who cures others. I do not know your word for it.”
“Doctor,” Caroline supplied. “Although it seems he does not care to be called that. I wonder why.” The more she felt returned to herself, the more curious she became about the mysterious Mr. Trentham.
He returned, arms laden again with cushions and blankets. “There. The best we can do.” He braced the pillows around her and rolled the blankets to support her arm. “Try to keep from moving.”
“Perhaps you could have found a better-sprung cart.”
“This is the better-sprung cart.” He nodded at the driver.
“I have the best cart on the entire coast,” Manolis said. “It hauls only the finest olives and fish.” He sent her a wide grin. “Hold on, little fish. We go now.” With a lurch, the cart began moving down the narrow track.
Caroline braced her feet against the weathered backboard. Her legs would be tired by the time they arrived, but she felt secure. If only the dizziness would not rise every time they bounced over a stone.
The driver turned to look back at her. “She is well, iatros,” he called.
“Good. I’ll be right behind you.”
At first it was quite bearable. The slanting sun felt warm and lazy on her limbs, and the gentle rocking of the cart lulled Caroline into a half doze. The nearby hills folded down to the sea, and Mr. Trentham rode his rangy brown horse behind the cart. He was a splendid rider, she noted, watching him guide his mount one-handed down the rough track. He did not sit his horse so much as become part of it. In her sleepy eyes the figure became a centaur, the torso of a man, the body of a horse, following along a track that skirted the cliff’s edge and the bright sea.
A jolt roused her, the flash of pain making her cry out. They were descending steeply and the track had become much rockier. Caroline grit her teeth as the wheel jarred again.
“How are you holding up, Miss Huntington?” Mr. Trentham had guided his mount beside the cart and was watching her intently.
She forced a smile. “Splendidly. How much longer?”
“Another mile.” He urged his horse forward and bent to speak to the driver. Caroline squeezed her eyes closed, concentrating on simply breathing, trying to block out the spinning sky, the roaring in her ears. The cart moved more slowly now, rocking and tilting like a boat in rough seas. The ride would never end—she was sure of it.
The cart was rounding a curve when suddenly it canted sideways. She heard the sharp crack of wood splintering, and the world skewed. The blackness in her head turned to a sickening maelstrom and she shrieked as the bedding slid around her, carrying her in a landslide of fabric until she fetched up hard against the side of the cart. Mr. Trentham was shouting but his voice grew more and more distant until everything went blessedly quiet.
“Miss Huntington?” His voice sounded worried.
She opened her eyes. She was lying on the ground beside the tipped vehicle and his face hovered just above hers, mouth tight. She blinked, trying to focus on his blurred features. Velvety blackness trailed around her senses—warm and dark and comforting. Just let go, it urged. Retreat from the pain.
“Damn it, Miss Huntington!” His hands cupped her face. “I don’t need you unconscious.”
Her eyelids fluttered open and she dredged up the strength to speak. “Caroline. If you are going to swear at me, then call me Caroline.”
“Good girl.” The lines bracketing his mouth eased.
“I’m not a girl.” It was the best she could manage, but already she could feel the lovely soft darkness retreating. “Oh, but I feel sick….”
He lifted her to her knees and supported her, while Manolis came quickly with a jug of water. Dear heavens, she was shaking so badly she could scarcely manage a sip. It would have been dreadfully humiliating had she the energy for such emotions.
“There now.” Mr. Trentham held her gently. Below, the blue eye of the Mediterranean winked boldly under the sun. She let her head fall against his shoulder. It was enough just to breathe in his embrace. A tiny sigh escaped her.
“Just a little farther.” Gathering her closely against him, he stood, bearing her in his arms.
She let out a small breath, but he did not seem uncomfortable holding her so. It was not worth protesting, so she slipped her left hand around his shoulder and held on.
Manolis had unhitched his mule from the cart and was fastening splintered pieces of wooden wheel across the animal’s back.
“Oh,” she said. “Is that what happened—did the cart break?”
“Yes, the wheel.” Mr. Trentham’s voice thrummed against her.
Manolis checked the burden and nodded. “I will meet you in the village, iatros. The steps are too steep for my mule.” He gave them a wave and set off down the track.
“Is he abandoning us?”
“Hardly. The village lies just below, but the cart track circles all the way around. There are steps cut into the cliff, leading directly down. I’ll carry you.”
“Carry me? The whole way?” She swallowed.
“Never fear, Miss Huntington. I promise not to drop you into the sea. Now, hold tight.”
She took a deep breath, hoping it would make her lighter. He strode out confidently, the slight hitch in his walk barely noticeable.
“Better?” His breath brushed her cheek.
“Yes.” Anything was better than being joggled about in the cart again, and there was something rather pleasant about being held in his arms.
Caroline tried to ignore the pressure in her head and concentrate instead on the unaccustomed sensation of being carried: the splay of his hand across her ribcage, the strong arm supporting her legs, the warm breadth of the chest she lay against. He moved nimbly, navigating the uneven steps cut into the stone and obviously taking care to jolt her as little as possible. Halfway down he paused. The afternoon sunlight reflected off the water and warmed the whitewashed buildings of the village below. She glanced up into his face, noting the set of his jaw, the drop of perspiration trailing down his lean cheek.
“We could rest….”
“Almost there.” Though his breathing had deepened, he spoke without apparent strain. “Think of your nice, soft bed.”
The steps widened and gentled as they entered the village. A few men greeted the doctor casually, as if he carried injured Englishwomen through the village on a regular basis.
“Put me down. I can walk from here.” The Villa Thessalo lay just ahead, a pleasant, foursquare building with pots of riotous red geraniums gracing the entry.
He did not comply, only went up the steps, pushed open the door, and carried her inside. The dim coolness soothed her heated face.
“Mr. Trentham—”
“Hush.” He tightened his hold on her and mounted the treads without faltering.
“There you are!” Maggie hurried into the hall and flung open the door to Caroline’s rooms. She did not seem to think it odd that Mr. Trentham was carrying his patient. “The bed is just there. Let me fetch some water.”
He lowered her and Caroline uncurled her fingers from around his neck.
“Thank you,” she said softly, meaning it with all her heart. His attention and concern, the absurd way he had carried her down the cliffs—it was not something she was accustomed to, but it was a great kindness.
“The pleasure was mine.” And to her surprise, he smiled.
The expression nearly stole her breath. Mr. Trentham’s smile was dazzling.
It was a good thing he so rarely smiled.