Amanda Rose Read online

  “That was good. Did you bring anything else?” Matt asked after he had sucked the marrow from the round bone of the gammon. The bread and cheese had vanished long since.

  “Some slices of roast lamb. And an apple. And more bread and a piece of cake.”

  “Well, don’t just sit there staring at me, pass them over. Haven’t you ever seen anyone eat before?”

  “Not like you,” she answered truthfully, handing over the rest of the food, which he wolfed down almost as soon as he got his hands on it. Fascinated, Amanda watched as those white teeth made quick work of her offerings. He was clearly ravenous. Much of his weakness, which she had attributed to his wound and the resulting fever, might have sprung instead from starvation, she thought. He was a big man, tall, with large bones, still well-muscled despite his leanness; undoubtedly he required a lot of food. She wondered how long it had been since he’d had a decent meal. As he finished the cake and started on the apple she asked him.

  “About four months, give or take a week or two,” he answered absently, his teeth crunching pleasurably into the apple.

  Amanda was horrified. “Four months! But you escaped only a couple of weeks ago. Surely they fed you while you were in . . . while you were waiting?”

  Matt chuckled. It was the first time Amanda had heard him laugh, and she liked the wry, husky sound.

  “Of course they fed me. Two slices of bread and a mug of scummy water a day. Once a week they added a slice of what they called meat, and occasionally they would provide a few moldy vegetables so we wouldn’t die. It got so bad that I was actually fantasizing about food. Have you ever dreamed about a haunch of venison and gravy? No? Well, it was quite a switch from my usual fantasy companions, too, I can say. Since I escaped, I’ve eaten anything I could get my hands on. It’s been difficult because I don’t dare walk into an inn and ask to be served a meal. Then, a few days ago, I got this damned fever, and I became too weak to trap anything or fish. So I haven’t eaten.”

  Amanda’s brow crinkled. “If you were so weak, how on earth did you get down onto the beach? You could never have made it down the path.”

  “No,” he agreed, finishing the apple and eagerly licking the juice from his fingers. “I fell.”

  “You fell?”

  He nodded. “I’d been hiding out on a ledge about halfway down one of those cliffs since I felt the fever coming on. Last night I thought I saw something I’d been waiting for. I stood up, moved closer to the edge so that I could see better, and my damned knees buckled. I half slid and half fell down to where you found me. I must have hit my head, because I’ve got a bump the size of an elephant.” He touched the bruise above his temple. “And I don’t remember a damned thing until I woke up to find an angel leaning over me, tickling my face with her red hair.” He grinned teasingly. When Amanda didn’t smile back, he added softly, “I’m sorry if I scared you.”

  “‘Scared’ doesn’t suffice. You terrified me. I thought you were going to murder me at any minute.”

  “Yes, well,” he said apologetically. “How was I to know that you were the one female in a million with a kind heart? I was sure you were going to run screeching for help as soon as you got away from me. The only thing I could think of to do was to scare you into keeping your mouth shut.”

  Amanda looked guilty as she met those silvery eyes.

  “I almost did—run screeching for help, I mean,” she confessed.

  “Why didn’t you?”

  Amanda looked at him, considering her answer. He still looked extremely fearsome—that bristly black beard and thin white scar had a lot to do with it, she thought—but she was somewhat surprised to discover that she no longer felt afraid of him. Why, she wasn’t quite sure. Maybe it was the way he had devoured the food she had brought him. Nobody who ate with such greedy enthusiasm could be the inhuman monster she’d pictured.

  “I suppose I felt sorry for you,” she replied truthfully. His eyes darkened.

  “As I said, a kind heart,” he said after a brief pause. “I hope somebody treasures you, Amanda. What you have is more precious than rubies.”

  Amanda half smiled as she recognized the amended passage. She was right in her new assessment of him, she thought. No one who knew the Bible well enough to misquote it could be all bad.

  “Thank you,” she said softly. As her smile warmed on his face she noticed that he was starting to shiver. He gritted his teeth in an effort to control the spasm as it gained strength.

  “I brought some medicine with me, too,” she said, getting up from the rock and fetching the rest of the supplies she had brought. Sister Agnes swears by this for fever”—she held up a small glass vial containing a brownish fluid—“and I brought some basilicum powder and some real bandages for your wound.”

  He eyed her somewhat dubiously. “Are you sure you know what you’re doing?” he said through clenched teeth. “I’d hate for your cure to succeed where the hangman didn’t.”

  Amanda looked affronted. “I help Sister Agnes nurse people all the time,” she replied with dignity. “However, if you’d rather not trust me . . .”

  The spasms seemed to be growing stronger. She could see his limbs trembling despite his obvious efforts to control them.

  “Oh, for goodness’ sake, stop being so silly,” she said, losing patience. “Drink this and lie down. I promise it won’t poison you.”

  She held out the opened vial as she spoke. He took it, looked at it with loathing, then, with the air of a man throwing his cap over the windmill, bolted it down. Removing the now-empty bottle from his lips, he grimaced horribly.

  “Now lie down,” she ordered, taking the vial and standing over him with a vaguely threatening air.

  “Bossy little thing, aren’t you?” he murmured, grinning as he stretched out on the mattress. Amanda chose to ignore that, setting the vial aside and reaching for the blanket, which she spread over him. He was still grinning when she finished.

  “Now, if you don’t object, I think I should clean those scratches on your face,” she said, pouring a little water into the bowl she had brought. “They could get infected.”

  “I’ll probably be scarred for life,” he said, his voice mocking. “You’ve put your mark on me forever, Amanda.”

  She looked at him, frowning. “I’m teasing you,” he assured her in a resigned voice, seeing her troubled expression. “You shouldn’t take everything so seriously, Amanda. Learn to laugh a little. It makes life a lot easier.”

  Amanda gave him a wry look. “Hold still, please,” she said crisply, kneeling beside him, and half smiled when he jerked away as she dabbed at his scratches with water and strong lye soap.

  “That stings,” he said accusingly, huddling closer in his blanket.

  “Laugh at it,” she advised, and proceeded to clean each scratch thoroughly despite his occasional wince. When she had finished with the scratches, she carefully wiped the rest of his face clean and then sat back on her heels.

  “Did I call you an angel? I mean fiend,” he said feelingly. Then he smiled at her. Sitting so close to him, she noticed how the corners of his eyes crinkled when he smiled. He was really quite an attractive man, she thought. Of course, he was far too old for her—from the silver hairs that glinted among the coal-black ones she guessed that he was in his forties, although that ubiquitous beard made it difficult to be certain—and not at all the type that she found appealing. However, she didn’t doubt that many women would differ with her there . . .

  His shivers were easing, she noticed with relief. She let him rest quietly for a few minutes, until they seemed to be completely gone. Then she spoke again.

  “Matt, you’d better let me dress the wound for you. Properly this time.”

  His eyes flicked open to meet hers. “Are you sure your maidenly modesty can stand it? I thought you were going to burst into flames, you became so red the last time.”

  To her chagrin Amanda felt herself blushing at the mere reminder. He grinned, his eyes gleaming wi
ckedly.

  “I have my answer,” he said dryly. “Don’t worry, Amanda, I’ll do it. I’ve recovered quite a bit since this morning. If you’ll pass me the powder and bandages and turn your back . . .”

  “I’ll do it,” she replied, determined despite the warm rosiness that obstinately refused to fade from her cheeks. “It needs to be done properly if you don’t want that wound to get infected. And if it gets infected you could die—and I’d be left with a body to dispose of.” A glimmer of a smile curved her lips. He looked at her strangely for an instant, then grinned back, his eyes warming.

  “You’re learning,” he said approvingly. “All right, Amanda, do your worst. I can stand it if you can.

  It didn’t take her long to fetch the powder and bandages, and pour fresh water in the bowl, but by the time she was finished he was ready for her. As though to spare her as much embarrassment as possible, he had unbuttoned his breeches and rolled them down just far enough so that she could get at his wound. He had pulled up his shirttails no farther than his waist. Amanda appreciated the care he had taken to spare her blushes, but she couldn’t control the wave of color that crept up her face as she surveyed even that small expanse of hair-roughened, muscle-ridged, and unmistakably masculine flesh. She was thankful that he made no comment, although he eyed her pinkening cheeks sardonically. Amanda forced herself to concentrate on removing the makeshift bandage without hurting him. But it was stuck to his skin with dried blood, and despite her best efforts, his forehead was beaded with sweat when at last she succeeded in prying the bloodied pad from his skin. Seen by candlelight instead of moonlight, the wound looked worse than she remembered, raw and jagged and caked with crusts of dried blood. Fresh blood welled where she had torn away the bandage, and the flesh around the wound was reddened and obviously very tender.

  “This may hurt a little,” she warned as she moistened a folded section of bandage and began to gingerly wash away the crusts of blood that clogged the wound. He said nothing, but shut his eyes as she worked. By the time the wound was clean he was sweating profusely; Amanda felt the moist heat of the skin beneath her fingertips and bit her lower lip hard. Clearly he was in pain, and she hated to watch anyone suffer. But if the wound was to heal properly, it had to be done, so she set her teeth firmly and did it.

  When finally the ugly gash lay open, she sniffed at it cautiously. So close to his skin she smelled sweat, and man, but no sickly, putrid odor that Sister Agnes had taught her meant gangrene. Satisfied, she sat back and sprinkled the basilicum powder liberally on the oozing wound. As she had expected, he yelped, and his eyes popped open to glare accusingly at her.

  “That burns like the devil.”

  “I told you it might hurt,” she said apologetically, folding a clean section of bandage into a pad and pressing it against the wound as she spoke.

  “You were right—it did,” he answered through set teeth, but as she began to wrap more bandages around him to hold the pad in place his tense muscles gradually relaxed. By the time she had finished and was securing the whole with a knot, he was breathing normally and watching her through speculative and slightly teasing eyes.

  “Very nice,” he said approvingly as she sat back, having completed the task. She smiled at him, and a devilish glint appeared in his eyes as he continued smoothly. “If you’ve finished, I could use a bath.”

  Amanda’s eyes widened on his face, her horror at the implication evident. He chuckled, clearly pleased to have elicited a response from her.

  “You mean you still have a few maidenly scruples left?”

  “I’m certainly not going to bathe you, if that’s what you’re suggesting. You’re not that helpless.”

  “I suppose I’ll have to do it myself, then,” he said placidly, and from the satisfied curl to his mouth she deduced that that was what he had intended all along. “If you’ll just turn your back . . .” He was sitting up, his movements slow and careful, as if his wound pained him.

  “You really shouldn’t be moving around,” she said, her eyes worried as she watched him. “If nothing happens to break the wound open again, it should heal without any problems. I won’t change the bandage for a week or so—if you behave. But if it starts to bleed again . . .” Her voice trailed off, but the implication was obvious.

  “After this I’ll be still as a corpse,” he promised. “But I’ve been sweating like a pig, and I stink so much I offend myself.” He finished with the buttons. The shirt hung open, revealing such an expanse of black-furred muscles that Amanda’s eyes widened. “Pass me the soap, will you?” he added casually. “And then turn your back, Amanda.”

  Amanda passed him the soap, then obediently turned her back. She heard the splash of water and out of the corner of her eye saw him lift an arm to scrub beneath it. She shut her eyes, and immediately the tantalizing image of the hair-roughened masculine flesh his opened shirt had revealed was imprinted against her closed lids. How would he look with his shirt off entirely? she wondered. And, cheeks pinkening, immediately banished the thought. It was positively unseemly to be so curious about a man . . .

  “Oh, I brought you some clean clothes,” she said, recollecting. Her eyes opened as she spoke, but she carefully kept her back to him. If he should somehow divine the incomprehensible curiosity the thought of his unclothed body inspired in her, she would die of shame.

  “Pass them here, would you?” he asked. Amanda did so, careful not to look at him as she complied. Out of the corner of her eye she got a hazy impression of wide shoulders and flexing, sinewy arms . . .

  “You can turn around now—I’m decent.” Amanda heard the amusement in his voice, and as she turned rather hesitantly to look at him she saw it in his eyes as well, although they were not unkind. But they left her in no doubt that he was aware of her embarrassment and found it funny. To her chagrin she blushed furiously. He was watching her with keen eyes. In the clean and whole white shirt with loose black trousers she had brought he looked slightly less disreputable, despite the bristly beard, scratched face, and tumbled hair.

  “How old are you, Amanda?”

  Matt lay back on the feather tick as he spoke, folding his arms under his head and surveying her from beneath raised brows. Amanda was all too conscious of his gaze as she knelt on the stone floor some few feet away. She had to force herself to meet those too-knowing eyes.

  “Almost eighteen.” Her voice sounded strangled.

  “And shy with it, hmm?” He laughed, but the sound was comforting rather than mocking. “Don’t worry about it, Amanda. You’ll outgrow it soon enough. All you need is a little more experience of men. Don’t you have a father, brothers?”

  “My father died almost five years ago. I have a half brother, who inherited his title.”

  “Title?”

  Amanda nodded. Her embarrassment was fading somewhat as the subject changed. “My father was the fifth Duke of Brookshire. My half brother is the sixth.”

  His eyes widened, and his lips pursed in a soundless whistle.

  “So you’re ‘milady,’ are you? You should have told me at the outset—I would have been more polite.”

  “You weren’t polite at all,” she retorted, meeting his eyes without discomfort now.

  “I wasn’t, was I? You’ll have to excuse me on the grounds that I’ve never met a titled lady before. In America, where I’m from, we don’t have such things.”

  “What part of America?”

  “New Orleans. That’s in Louisiana, in case you don’t know, milady.”

  She gave him a look designed to tell him what she thought of his mocking use of her title. “And Louisiana’s in the South, I know. I’m not ignorant. And even if I were, I’d be able to tell where you’re from by the way you talk. That slow drawl is very . . . distinctive.”

  “So are your clipped English vowels, milady, believe me. Tell me something: if your brother is a duke, why are you buried in this godforsaken place? It’s not exactly the hub of English high society.”

&nbs
p; “My brother hates me.” Amanda tried to make a joke out of it, but she could not quite prevent the forlorn thread of truth that laced her words. Matt’s eyebrows lifted questioningly.

  “Does he indeed? The man must be insane—you’re the most eminently lovable person I’ve ever met.”

  Amanda smiled at him. It was a nice thing to say, even if he didn’t mean it. With a shock she realized how very few people had thought her lovable since her father died . . .

  “Tell me about it, Amanda,” Matt commanded softly. Amanda looked at him for a moment, hesitating. Keeping her troubles to herself was second nature to her, partly because there was only Susan who was really interested in hearing about them, partly because of her innate pride. But Matt’s eyes were kind as they met hers, and she suddenly found herself craving that kindness. So she crept closer to the fearsome murderer who had practically terrified the life out of her scant hours before, and soon she had poured out to him everything that had happened from the time of her father’s death to Edward’s recent plan to marry her to Lord Robert Turnbull. By the time she had finished she was sitting on a corner of the mattress near his head, and he had taken her hand in his. She was vaguely conscious of the warmth and strength of that big hand cradling hers, and comforted by it.

  “Poor little angel,” he said softly. His hand tightened around hers and then he lifted it to his mouth, pressing his lips against the back of it briefly before releasing it. “And what do you plan to do if you do manage to avoid being married off to this Lord Robert?”

  Amanda made a face. Her hand tingled slightly where he had kissed it and she pressed it absently against her skirt. “That’s the thing: I don’t know. My father left me some money, but Edward controls it until I marry—with his consent. And then it will pass directly to my husband. I could stay here, I suppose. I know Mother Superior would let me, but I’d almost rather be married to Lord Robert than become a nun.”