The Virtuous Widow

Anne Gracie was born in Australia, but spent her childhood on the move, living in different parts of Australia, Scotland, Malaysia and Greece. Her days, when not in school, were spent outside with animals and her evenings with her nose in a book – they didn’t have TV. She writes in a small room lined with books surrounded by teetering piles of paper. Her fi rst book, Gallant Waif, was a RITA® Award finalist for best first book. Anne lives in Melbourne. She has a website, www.annegracie.com, and loves to hear from readers.

The Virtuous Widow

by

Anne Gracie

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Chapter One

Northumberland, England, December, 1816

“Is my wishing candle still burning, Mama?”

Ellie kissed her small daughter tenderly. “Yes, darling. It hasn’t gone out. Now, stop your worrying and go to sleep. The candle is downstairs in the window where you put it.”

“Shining out into the darkness so Papa will see it and know where we are.”

Ellie hesitated. Her voice was husky as she replied, “Yes, my darling. Papa will know that we are here, safe and warm.”

Amy snuggled down under the threadbare blankets and the faded patchwork quilt that covered them. “And in the morning he will be with us for breakfast.”

A lump caught in Ellie’s throat. “No, darling. Papa will not be there. You know that.”

Amy frowned. “But tomorrow is my birthday and you said Papa would come.”

Tears blurred her eyes as Ellie passed a gentle work-worn hand over her daughter’s soft cheek. “No, darling, that was last year. And you know why Papa did not come then.”

There was a long silence. “Because I didn’t put a candle in the window last year?”

Ellie was horrified. “Oh, no! No, my darling, it had nothing to do with you, I promise you.” She gathered the little girl into her arms and hugged her for a long moment, stroking the child’s glossy curls, waiting until the lump had gone from her throat and she could speak again. “Darling, your papa died, that’s why he never came home.”

“Because he couldn’t see the way, because I didn’t put a candle out for him.”

The misery in her daughter’s voice pierced Ellie’s heart to the core. “No, sweetheart, It wasn’t the candle. Papa’s death was nobody’s fault.” It wasn’t true. Hart’s death had been by his own hand, but gambling and suicide was too ugly a tale for a child.

“Now stop this at once,” said Ellie as firmly as she could. “Tomorrow is your birthday and you will be a big girl of four. And do you know what? Because you’ve been such a good girl and such a help to Mama, there will be a lovely surprise waiting for you in the morning. But only if you go to sleep immediately.”

“A surprise? What surprise?” asked the little girl eagerly.

“It wouldn’t be a surprise if I told you. Now go to sleep.” She began to hum a lullaby, to soothe the anxieties from her daughter’s mind.

“I know what the surprise is,” murmured her daughter sleepily. “Papa will be here for breakfast.”

Ellie sighed. “No, Amy, he won’t. Papa has been dead for more than a year. You know he is, so why do you persist with this?”

“It’s a special candle, Mama. The lady said so. A wishing candle. It will bring Papa, you’ll see.” She smiled and snuggled down under the bedclothes, curling up like a little cat.

Ellie frowned. That wretched gypsy woman with her false tales! Unbeknown to her mother, Amy had traded half a dozen eggs and some milk for a thick red candle. A wishing candle, indeed! More like a rather expensive Christmas candle. And a hurtful candle, if the old woman had put the notion in Amy’s head that it could bring her father back.

Amy’s few memories of her father were idealised fairy tales. The truth was too painful for a little girl. Hart had never been an attentive father or husband. Sir Hartley Carmichael, Baronet, had wanted a son—an heir. A small, spirited girl with tumbled dark curls and bright blue eyes held no interest for him. Was quite useless, in fact, and he’d said so on many occasions—in front of Amy herself.

Ellie looked at her sleeping daughter and her heart filled. There was nothing more precious in the world than this child of hers. She picked up the candle and went into her own room. Shivering in the bitter December cold, she hurriedly slipped into her thick, flannel nightgown and climbed into bed.

She was about to blow the candle out when she recalled the one burning in the downstairs window. Candles were expensive. She couldn’t afford to let one burn down to a stub for no purpose. No practical purpose, that is. She recalled her daughter’s face, freshly washed for bed and luminous with hope as she placed the candle in the window. A lump filled Ellie’s throat. She got out of bed, slipped her shoes back on and flung a shawl around her for warmth. She could not afford the happy dreams that came so easily to children.

She was halfway down the steep, narrow staircase, when suddenly a loud thump rattled the door of her cottage. She froze and waited. Bitter cold crept around her, insidious drafts of freezing air nibbling at her bare legs. She scarcely noticed.

The thump came again. It sounded like a fist hitting the door. Ellie did not move. She hardly dared to breathe. There was a swirl of air behind her and a small, frightened voice behind her whispered, “Is it the squire?”

“No, darling, it isn’t. Go back to bed,” said Ellie in a low, calm voice.

A small warm paw slipped into her hand, gripping it tightly. “Your hand’s cold, Mama.” The thump came again, twice this time. Ellie felt her daughter jump in fright.

“It is the squire,” Amy whispered.

“No, it’s not,” Ellie said firmly. “He always shouts when I don’t open the door to him. Doesn’t he?” She felt her daughter’s tight grip on her hand relax slightly as the truth of her words sank in. “Wait here, darling, and I shall see who it is.”

She crept down another six steps, to where she could see the front door, the sturdy wooden bar she’d put across it looking reassuringly strong. Ellie had soon learned that the cottage keys counted for little against her landlord.

Light flickered and danced intermittently across the dark room from Amy’s wishing candle.

Someone banged again, not as loud as before. A deep voice called, “Help!”

“It must be Papa,” squeaked Amy suddenly, from close behind her. “He’s seen my candle and he’s come at last.” She slipped past Ellie and raced towards the door.

“No, Amy. Wait!” Ellie followed her, almost falling down the stairs in her rush to prevent her daughter from letting in who-knew-what.

“But it’s Papa, Mama. It’s Papa,” said Amy, trying to lift the heavy bar.

“Hush!” Ellie snatched her daughter to her. “It isn’t Papa, Amy. Papa is dead.”

Their cottage was isolated, situated a little off the main road and hidden behind a birch spinney. But further along the road was the Angel, an isolated inn which attracted the most disreputable customers. Ellie had twice been followed home… With that den of villains down the road, there was no way she would open her door to a stranger at night.

The deep voice called again, “Help.” It sounded weaker this time. He hit the door a couple of times, almost half-heartedly. Or as if he was running out of strength, Ellie thought suddenly. She bit her lip, holding her daughter against her. It might be a ruse to trick her.

“Who is it?” she called. There was no reply, just the sound of something falling. Then silence. Ellie waited for a moment, hopping from one foot to the other in indecision. Then she made up her mind. “Stand on the stairs, darling,” she ordered Amy. “If it’s a bad man, run to your room and put the bar across your door, as I showed you—understand?”

Amy nodded, her heart-shaped little face pale and frightened. Ellie picked up the heaviest pan she had. She turned the key and lifted the bar. Raising the pan, she took a deep breath and flung open the door.

A flurry of sleet blew in, causing her to shiver. She peered out into the darkness. Nobody. Not a sound. Still holding the pan high, she took a tentative step forward to look properly and encountered something large and cold huddled on her doorstep.

It was a man, lying very, very, still. She bent and touched his face. Cold. Insensible. Her fingers touched something wet, warm and sticky. Blood. He was bleeding from the head. There was life still in him, but not if she left him outside in the freezing weather for much longer. Dropping the pan she grabbed him by the shoulders and tugged. He was very heavy.

“Is he dead, Mama?” Amy had crept back down the stairs.

“No, darling, but he’s hurt. We need to bring him inside to get warm. Run and fetch the rug from in front of the fire, there’s a good girl.”

Amy scampered off and returned in a moment dragging the square, threadbare cloth. Ellie placed it as close as she could to the man’s prone body, then pushed and pushed until finally he rolled over onto the rug. Then she pulled with all her might. Amy pulled too. Inch by inch the man slid into the cottage. Ellie subsided on the floor, gasping.

She barred the door again and lit a lantern. Their unexpected guest wore no jacket or coat—only a shirt and breeches. And no shoes, just a pair of filthy, muddied stockings. And yet it was December, and outside there was sleet and ice.

Blood flowed copiously from a nasty gash at the back of his head. Hit from behind; a cowardly blow. He’d been stripped of his belongings, even his coat and boots, and left to die in the bitter cold. Ellie knew what it felt like to lose everything. She laid a hand on his chest, suddenly possessive. She could not help his being robbed, but she would not let him die.

His shirt was sopping wet and freezing to the touch, the flesh beneath it ominously cold. Quickly she made a pad of clean cloth and bound it around his forehead as tight as she dared to staunch the blood.

“We’ll have to get these wet clothes off him,” she told Amy. “Else he’ll catch his death of cold. Can you bring me some more towels from the cupboard under the stairs?” The child ran off as Ellie stripped the man’s shirt, undershirt and wet, filthy stockings off.

He had been severely beaten. His flesh was abraded and beginning to show bruises. There were several livid, dark red, curved marks as if he’d been kicked and one clear imprint of a boot heel on his right shoulder. She felt his ribs carefully and gave a prayer of thanks that they seemed to have been spared. His head injury was the worst, she thought. He would live, she thought, as long as he didn’t catch a chill and sicken of the cold.

Carefully, she rubbed a rough-textured towel over the broad planes of his chest and stomach and down his arms. Her mouth dried. She had only ever seen one man’s naked torso before. But this man was not like her husband.

Hart’s chest had been narrow and bony, white and hairless, his stomach soft, his arms pale, smooth and elegant. This man’s chest was broad and hard, but not bony. Thick bands of muscles lay relaxed now in his unconscious state, but firm and solid, nevertheless. A light dusting of soft, curly dark hair formed a wedge over the golden skin, arrowing into a faint line of hair trailing down his stomach and disappearing into his breeches. She tried not to notice it as she scrubbed him with the towel, forcing warmth and life back into his chilled skin.

He was surprisingly clean, she thought. His flesh did not have that sour odour she associated with Hart’s flesh. This man smelt of nothing—perhaps a faint smell of soap, and of fresh sweat and…was it leather? Horses? Whatever it was, Ellie decided, it was no hardship to be so close to him.

Despite his muscles, he was thin. She could count each of his ribs. And his stomach above the waistband of his breeches was flat, even slightly concave. His skin carried numerous small scars, not recent injuries. A man who had spent his life fighting, perhaps. She glanced at his hands. They were not the soft white hands of a gentleman. They were strong and brown and battered, the knuckles skinned and swollen. He was probably a farm labourer or something like that. That would explain his muscles and his thinness. He was not a rich man, that was certain. His clothes, though once of good quality, were old and well worn. The shirt had been inexpertly patched a number of times. As had his breeches.

His breeches. They clung cold and sodden to his form. They would have to come off. She swallowed as she reached for his waistband, then hesitated, as her daughter arrived with a bundle of towels. “Good girl. Now run upstairs, my love, and fetch me a blanket from my bed and also the warm brick that’s in it.”

Amy trotted off and Ellie took a deep breath. She was not unacquainted with the male form, she told herself firmly, as she unbuttoned the stranger’s drenched breeches. She had been married. But this man was not her husband. He was much bigger, for a start.

She grasped the breeches and tugged them over his hips, rolling him from side to side as she worked them downwards. The heavy wet fabric clung stubbornly to his chilled flesh. Finally she had them off him. Panting, she sat back on her heels. He was naked. She stared, unable to look away.

“Is Papa all right?” Amy came down the stairs, carefully lugging a bundled-up blanket.

Hastily, Ellie tucked a towel over the stranger’s groin. “He’s not your papa.”

Amy gave her an odd look, then raced back upstairs. Ellie dragged the man as close as she could to the fire. When Amy returned with the brick, Ellie placed it in the hearth. She heated some soup, then strained it through a piece of muslin into the teapot.

“Soup in the teapot?” Amy giggled at something so silly.

Ellie smiled, relieved that her daughter found something to laugh at. “This is going to take some time, so it’s back to bed for you, young lady.”

“Oh, but, Mama—”

“The man will still be here in the morning,” Ellie said firmly. “We already have one sick person here—I don’t want you to catch a chill as well. So, miss, off to bed at once.” She kissed her daughter and pushed her gently towards the door. Reluctantly, Amy went. Ellie hid a smile. Her curious little puss would stay up all night if she could.

She cleaned his head wound thoroughly, then laid a pad of hot, steaming herbs on it, to draw out any remaining impurities. He groaned and tried to move his head.

“Hush.” She smoothed a hand over his skin, keeping the hot poultice steady with her hand. “It stings a little, but it’s doing you good.” He subsided, but Ellie felt tension in his body as if part of him was awake. Defensive. She soothed him gently, murmuring, “Rest quietly. Nobody will harm you here.” Slowly his big body relaxed.

His eyelids flickered, then his eyes slowly opened. Ellie bent over him earnestly, still supporting his head in her hand. “How do you feel?” she asked softly.

The stranger said nothing, just stared at her out of blue, blue eyes.

How did he feel? Like his head was about to split open. He blinked at her, trying to focus on her face. Pretty face, he thought vaguely. Soft, smooth skin. His eyes followed the fall of shining dark hair from her smooth creamy brow, down to a tumble of soft curls around her shoulders.

Who was she? And where the devil were they? With an effort he glanced away from her for a second, taking in the room. Small…a cottage? Had he been billeted in some nearby cottage? They did that sometimes with the wounded. Left them to the dubious care of some peasant woman while the fighting moved on… He frowned, trying to recall. Had they won the battle or lost it? Or was it still raging? He listened. No, there was no sound of guns.

His gaze returned to the woman. The cottage told him nothing. But the woman… He couldn’t take his eyes off her. Soft, worried eyes. Soft worried mouth. Pretty mouth. Worried? Or frightened? He had no idea.

He tried to move and heard himself groan. His head was killing him. Like someone had taken an axe to it. How had that happened? Was he bleeding? He tried to feel his head. And found he could not move. Trapped, dammit! He could not move his hands and legs. Someone had tied him up. He’d been taken prisoner. He began to struggle.

“Hush,” the woman said soothingly. She began to loosen the bindings around his arms as she spoke. “It’s all right. I just wrapped you tight in my blanket because you were all wet and I feared you would take a chill.”

He blinked up at her. His head throbbed unbearably. The rest of his body ached as well, but his head was the worst. Dizziness and confusion washed over him.

And then it hit him. She had spoken in English. Not Portuguese, or Spanish or French. English—not foreigners’ English, either—proper English. His sort of English. So where were they? He tried to speak, to ask her. He felt his mouth move, but it was as if someone had cut out his tongue. Or severed it from his brain. He felt his lips moving, but no words came out. He fixed his gaze on her face and tried to muster the energy to ask her the question. Questions. They crowded his splitting head.

The woman sat down on the floor beside him again and smoothed his hair gently back from his forehead. It felt so good, he closed his eyes for a moment to savour it.

“I don’t have any brandy,” she said apologetically. “All I have is hot soup. Now, drink a little. It will give you strength and warmth.”

Warmth? Did he need warmth? He realised that he was shivering. She lifted his head up and though he knew she was being as gentle as she could be, his brain thundered and swirled and he felt consciousness slipping from him. But then she tucked him against her shoulder and held him there, still and secure and somehow…cared for. He gripped her thigh and clung stubbornly to his senses and gradually felt the black swirling subside.

He recoiled as something clunked against his teeth. “It is only the teapot,” she murmured in his ear. “It contains warm broth. Now, drink. It will help.”

He wanted to tell her that he was a man, that he would drink it himself, out of a cup, not a teapot, like some helpless infant, but the words would not come. She tipped the teapot up and he had to swallow or have it spill down him. He swallowed. It was good broth. Warm. Tasty. It warmed his insides. And she felt so soft and good, her breasts against him, her arm around him, holding him upright against her. Weakly, he closed his eyes and allowed himself to be fed like a baby.

He drank the broth slowly, in small mouthfuls. The woman’s breath was warm against his face. She seemed to know how much to give him and when he needed to wait between mouthfuls. He could smell her hair. He wanted to turn his head and bury his face in it. He drank the broth instead. The fire crackled in the grate. Outside the wind whistled and howled, rattling at the doors and windows. It was chilly inside the cottage, and the floor underneath him was hard and cold, but oddly, he felt warm and cosy and at peace.

He finished the broth and half-sat, half-lay against her, allowing her to wipe his mouth, like a child. They sat for a moment or two, in companionable silence, with the wind swirling outside the cottage and the questions swirling inside his head.

Beneath the blanket he was stark naked, he suddenly realised. He stared at her, another question on his unmoving lips. Who was she, to strip him of his clothes?

As if she knew what he wanted, she murmured gently in his ear, “You arrived at my cottage almost an hour ago. I don’t know what happened to you before that. You were half-dressed and sopping wet. Frozen from the sleet and the rain. I don’t know how long you’d been outside, or how you managed to find the cottage, but you collapsed at the door—”

“Is Papa awake now?” a little voice said, like the piping of a bird.

Papa? He opened his eyes and saw a vivid little face staring at him with bright, inquisitive eyes. A child. A little girl.

“Go back to bed this instant, Amy,” said the woman sharply.

He winced and jerked his head and the blackness swirled again. When he reopened his eyes, he wasn’t sure how much time had passed. He was no longer leaning against the woman’s shoulder and the little face of the child was gone. And he was shivering. Hard.

The woman bent over him, her eyes dark with worry. “I’m sorry,” she murmured. “I didn’t mean to bump you like that. My daughter gave me a fright, that was all. Are you all right?” A faint frown crumpled the smoothness of her brow. “The bleeding has stopped and I have bandaged your head.”

He barely took in her words. All he could think of was that his head hurt like the devil and she was worried. He lifted a hand and stroked down her cheek slowly with the back of his fingers. It was like touching fine, cool, soft satin.

She sighed. And then she pulled back. “I’m afraid you will freeze if I leave you down here on the stone floor. Even with the fire going all night—and I don’t have the fuel for that—the stone floor will draw all the warmth from your body.”

He could only stare at her and try to control the shivering.

“The only place to keep you warm is in bed.” She blushed and did not meet his eye. “There…there is only one bed.”

He frowned, trying to absorb what she was telling him, but unable to understand why it would distress her. He still couldn’t recall who she was—the blow had knocked all sense from his head—but the child had called him ’Papa.’ He tried to think, but the effort only made the pain worse.

“It is upstairs. The bed. I cannot carry you up there.”

His confusion cleared. She was worried about his ability to get up the stairs. He nodded and gritted his teeth over the subsequent waves of swirling blackness. He could do that much for her. He would climb her stairs. He did not like to see her worried. He held out his hand to her and braced himself to stand. He wished he could remember her name.

Ellie took his arm and heaved until he was upright—shaky and looking appallingly pale, but standing and still conscious. She tucked the blanket tight under his armpits and knotted it over his shoulder, like a toga. She hoped it was warm enough. His feet and his long brawny calves were bare and probably cold, but it was better than having him trip. Or naked.

She wedged her shoulder under his armpit and steered him towards the stairs. The first step was in a narrow doorway with a very low lintel, for the cottage had not been designed for such tall men as he.

“Bend your head,” she told him. Obediently, he bent, but lost his balance and lurched forward. Ellie clung to him, pulling him back against the doorway, to keep him upright. Fearful that he would straighten and hit his injury on the low beam, she cupped one hand protectively around his head and drew it down against her own forehead for safety. He leaned on her, half-unconscious, breathing heavily, one arm around her, one hand clutching the wooden stair-rail, his face against hers. White lines of pain bracketed his mouth.

There were only fourteen steep and narrow stairs, but it took a superhuman effort to get him up them. He seemed barely conscious, except for the grim frown of concentration on his face and the slow determined putting of one foot in front of the other. He gripped the stair-rail with fists of stone and hauled himself up, pausing at each step achieved, reeling with faintness. Ellie held him tightly, supporting him with all the strength she could muster. He was a big man; if he collapsed, she could not stop him falling. And if he fell, he might never regain consciousness.

There was little conversation between them, only the grim, silent battle. One painful step at a time. From time to time, she would murmur encouragement—” we are past the halfway mark,” “only four steps left”—but she had no idea if he understood. The only sound he made was a grunt of exertion, or the raw harsh panting of a man in pain, at the end of his tether. He hung on to consciousness by willpower alone. She had never seen such stubbornness, or such courage.