A Lady of Notoriety

He suddenly recalled that the woman he’d carried had weighed hardly more than a whisper. She’d curled trustingly against his chest, hiding her face from the fire.

He cursed the bandages covering his eyes. He wanted to see her. Face her like a man.

‘My name is Westleigh.’ He extended his hand, which seemed to float in empty space.

She grasped it.

Her hand felt soft, like the hand of a gently bred woman.

‘I know who you are,’ she said, her voice turning tight again. ‘We learned at the inn that you are Mr Hugh Westleigh. We have your trunk. Like ours, it was with the carriages and spared from the fire.’

Had she also learned he was the younger brother of the Earl of Westleigh? Was this a factor in bringing him here?

If only he could look into her eyes—he could read her character.

If only he could see.

He pressed the bandages covering his eyes. The pain grew sharper.

A soft, cool hand drew his fingers away as it had done before. ‘Please do not disturb your bandages. The surgeon said your eyes are to remain bandaged for two weeks. That is how long they will take to heal.’

‘Will they heal, then?’ he demanded. ‘Or am I to be blind?’

She did not answer right away. ‘The surgeon said they must stay bandaged or they will not heal. That much is certain. He said they could heal, though.’

Hugh laughed drily. ‘Could heal. That is not very reassuring.’

Her voice turned low again. ‘I am only repeating what he told me.’

He caught himself. She obviously had taken on the task of caring for him. He need not be churlish in return.

He lifted his throbbing head again and turned in the direction of her voice. ‘Forgive me. I do not customarily succumb to self-pity.’

‘Of course you do not.’ Now she sounded like his old governess. ‘Are you thirsty?’

Good of her to change the subject.

He was thirsty, by God. Parched.

He nodded.

He heard a swirl of her skirts again and the sound of pouring liquid. She lifted his hand and placed a glass in it. He took a sip.

It was water, flavoured with a touch of mint. Who took such trouble for a stranger?

He gulped it down. ‘Is there more?’

He held out the empty glass, again into nothingness. He waited for her to grasp it.

She took it and poured more, then again put it in his hand.

He drank and handed the glass back to her. ‘I detest feeling so helpless.’

‘Certainly you do,’ the governess responded. ‘But you must rest. You not only burned your eyes, you also suffered a blow to the head. The surgeon said you need rest to recover.’

He lay back against some pillows. The mere exertion of waking in strange surroundings and drinking two glasses of water had fatigued him. How annoying. How weak. He hated weakness.

‘Shall I bring you breakfast?’ she asked. ‘Or would you like to sleep some more?’

His stomach clenched at the mention of food.

He forced his raspy voice to remain calm. ‘Breakfast, if you would be so good.’

Again her skirts rustled. ‘I will be right back.’

Without his eyes, he must depend on this woman for food, for everything. How much more helpless could he be?

Her footsteps receded and a door opened. When he heard it close again, it was as if the room turned cold and menacing.

He’d never been afraid of darkness as a child. He’d never been afraid of anything, but this was a living nightmare. Had he traded the fiery dragon of his dream for darkness?

Blindness?

Carefully he felt his bandages. They were thick over his eyes and wound firmly around his head. He tried to open his eyelids, but they hardly moved, the bandages were so snug. The effort shot daggers through his eyeballs and he dared not try again lest he injure them even more.

Was his fate to be blind and helpless?

He pounded a fist on the mattress, but wished he could put his hands on something he could smash into a thousand pieces.

He didn’t fear darkness. He didn’t fear danger, but the idea of being helpless was too abhorrent for words. And he was, indeed, helpless. Helpless and confined.

He patted his arms and legs and torso—someone had put him in a shirt and drawers, he realised. He lifted the fabric of the shirt to his nose. Clean clothes. Not a hint of smoke. Someone had bathed and clothed him.

Had she undressed him and clad him in a clean shirt? In drawers?

He strained to remember. He recalled leading people out of the fire. Of fire blasting his face. He vaguely remembered being jostled in a carriage, but those memories were mere flashes, with no coherence at all.

His head throbbed and he pressed his temples. How injured was he? He stretched his arms, flexed his legs. The rest of him seemed in one piece. He felt the sting of burns here and there on his skin, but nothing of significance.

He could still walk, could he not? If so, he’d be damned if he remained bedridden.

He slipped off the bed. His legs held him, so he felt his way around the bed’s edge before stepping away. He hated not knowing what lay in his path. Waving his hands in front of him, he took tentative steps. Was this life without sight? Caught in emptiness? Unsure of every step?

A door opened.

‘Mr Westleigh!’ It was Mrs Asher’s voice. ‘You should not be out of bed!’

He heard the clatter of dishes—and smelled porridge. He felt her come near. Caught the scent of roses.