raised another issue that she had not previously considered. If Sir Roger was sleeping and drinking like a babe, there would be other needs that would arise. If it came to it, she would deal with those in the same manner she dealt with Robbie, but as she picked up her son and left the room she fervently hoped Thomas would return long before she had to assist with anything that involved more of Sir Roger’s body than she had already encountered.
Lucy went about her daily tasks. She fed the pig and the chickens and put Robbie out to play in the yard behind the house, a long rope around his waist so he did not stray to the stream. Once or twice someone passed by heading to or from Mattonfield. She greeted them with a wave, calling brightly that there would be new ale within the week. Noon passed and still Thomas did not return, but neither was there a sound from the bedroom. Robbie began to wail and she spooned boiled apple into his mouth, sitting him on her lap.
‘Mama will crush the malt next,’ she told him with a smile, ‘and you can go see if Gyb has caught anything.’
He burbled excitedly, pleased to be given permission to torment the burly orange tomcat that sometimes graced them with his presence. That would keep him busy while Lucy ran upstairs to check Sir Roger had not lapsed into a fever. His wound would need bathing and she should try him on some of her father’s draught. Perhaps he, too, would take some of the mashed apples that her son was busily smearing in his hair.
She frowned. Where was Thomas? She had hoped him to be back by now so she could be rid of her burden as soon as possible.
She went to the shed and began crushing the malt and tipping it into the bowl to soak. When she heard a familiar whistling coming down the road she forced herself to finish the task, covering the vat with a damp cloth before wiping her hands down her apron and emerging.
The visitor was Widow Barton, an old friend of Lucy’s father. She leaned on the stout stick she used for walking and tugged her cap into place, tucking wiry grey strands beneath it.
‘Good day, Lucy.’
She was one of the few inhabitants of the nearby town who had remained on good terms with Lucy after she returned home with a swelling belly and no husband to save her honour—and the only one who knew the identity of the man who had caused her shame. The old woman took the leftover ale mash to feed her pigs, in return for an occasional flitch of bacon, without which Lucy’s diet would have been scant indeed.
‘Did you hear about the commotion in Mattonfield last night?’
Lucy shook her head truthfully. The news had not reached her, but her nerves jangled as she imagined who might have been the cause.
‘Two men searching for two more. They tried to raise the hue and cry, but Lord de Legh refused as they would not account for why they were searching. He told them if they could not name the crime he would have no part in it.’
‘Did they catch the man?’ Lucy asked.
Mary gave her an odd look.
‘The men,’ Lucy amended. She averted her gaze, annoyed at her slip.
‘No one was found,’ Mary answered after a pause. ‘They must have come past your way before they arrived in town.’
‘I suppose they might,’ Lucy agreed, ‘though there are many ways to travel.’ More on her guard now, she stopped herself from finishing the sentence ‘...from Lord Harpur’s estates.’
Mary gave her a shrewd look. ‘You’ll meet a bad end living out here alone. Your father should have sold up when he knew his time was at hand.’
‘Should he have left my brother nothing to inherit when he returns?’ Lucy asked.
It was remarkably easy to speak of Thomas as if he was still in France. For years she had believed he would never come home and that most likely he was dead somewhere across the water. A guilty thought crossed Lucy’s mind that if Thomas did not return to claim his friend, he would not claim the inn, either.
Mary glanced towards the inn, which was showing more signs of disrepair as each month passed. ‘There’s not much to inherit,’ she said kindly.
Lucy’s lips twitched. ‘I keep it going as best I can.’
‘I don’t blame you. Your father should have found you a husband to help run it.’
‘He tried. I refused,’ Lucy reminded her. ‘Besides, no man of any regard wants a wife with a bastard brat hanging off her.’
Any husband, whether of good standing or not, would have been suitable in her father’s eyes to rid him of the shame of an unwed daughter with a child. Mary knew this already. Lucy suspected the widow even approved. She had five grown children and no husband for the past decade.
Mary sniffed, her beak of a nose flaring.
‘Are you brewing again?’
Lucy held an arm out, glad of an excuse to draw the older woman away from the house and off the subject of husbands.
‘Come see.’
She led Mary into the shed, talking all the while of the new mix of yarrow and elderflower she was planning to use as gruit to flavour the brew, of Robbie’s final emerging tooth—the goodwife had helped birth the boy and still took a keen interest—and of the fair to be held in Mattonfield at the end of the month.
Anything to keep the old woman from suspecting that upstairs she had a drugged nobleman tied to her bed who would very soon require her attendance.
Through the haze of pain, Roger became aware he was not alone in the room. He groaned weakly, trying to speak, but his throat was too dry. His arms were leaden and would not rise. He fought down panic.
Cool fingers stroked his forehead, brushing the hair from his brow and easing away his anxiety. A woman’s voice, soft and high, murmured soothing words that jumbled in his mind. He felt something cool and damp pressed to his brow, stroking gently and he sighed.
‘Joanna?’
The stroking stopped. ‘No.’
An unfamiliar voice.
The hands moved down to his jaw, firm strokes cleaning away the grime from his cheeks. Despite the coldness of the cloth, Roger’s skin began to burn hotter from within. He couldn’t remember the last time a woman had touched him unbidden with such gentleness and desire began to awaken, tickling with devilish fingers at his groin.
Good. If he could still contemplate a spot of swiving between the sheets he was not yet dead. He opened his eyes to see who was caring for him, but his lids felt unaccountably heavy. He forced them wide anyway, but the brightness hurt and the woman was silhouetted against the window so he could see nothing of her features. He screwed his eyes tight, wincing.
A pale face framed with fine, light-coloured hair and the impression of a grey dress filled his mind: the girl from the inn who had been half-terrified to death by their appearance.
Lucy Carew. He hoped it was she who was nursing him. He remembered her mouth, hot against his, resisting at first in alarm, but quickly giving in to his kiss and meeting him with as much fire as he was exuding. It would be pleasant indeed if it were she.
Lucy—Roger would assume it was until evidence proved otherwise—removed the cloth from his forehead and put it to his cheeks, freshly damp. She began to bathe his neck and chest, lifting each arm to wipe it before moving down towards his waist, which sent shivers of bliss cascading over him. The sensation was so unbearably erotic Roger felt he would be consumed by the sheer pleasure of it. However, when he gave himself up to the indulgence, he realised the reaction was in his mind alone. His body was refusing to acknowledge anything was happening to rouse him. Perhaps he was closer to death than he had realised after all. He lapsed into sleep with this troubling thought.
* * *
He