Song From the Sea (3 page)

In the last few months Nigel's concern had grown as Adam seemed to disappear even further into himself, sometimes vanishing from Stanton for days on end without explanation. On his return he would be exhausted and pale, as if he'd been off struggling with demons. Nigel imagined he had, and he had been deeply afraid that one day the demons would win and Adam wouldn't return at all.

Nigel lifted his head as a pounding started at the door of his house. He frowned, wondering who could want him at this hour. Surely it wasn't Adam. Adam never summoned him for anything anymore, save for reports on the concerns of Stanton.

“Mr. Dryden. Mr. Dryden, sir, you're needed!”

Adam
…With a sudden surge of alarm, he leapt to his feet and wrenched his door open. Young Albert the footman stood there, looking frantic.

“What is it, Albert?” he said, forcing his voice to remain calm. Dear God, but he hoped Adam hadn't gone and done something foolish. He'd been dreading something like this.

“There's been an accident, sir,” he panted. “A near-drowning. His lordship—his lordship …”

Nigel fought down panic. “What
about
Lord Vale?” he said, ready to throttle the lad. “Catch your breath, calm down, and tell me what's happened.”

“A woman, sir. She fell off a ship. He—his lordship rescued her from the sea and brought her to the abbey, and he just collapsed, sir, right there on the scullery floor. Now they're both in a stupor and Mrs. Simpson sent for the doctor and sent me for you. She said you're to come at once.”

“And so I shall,” Nigel said, breathing a sigh of relief that it was nothing worse. He pushed past Albert and took off out the door at a fast clip. Five minutes later he arrived in Adam's bedchamber where Adam lay on the bed, still clothed, and those clothes soaking wet. Two footmen stood on either side doing absolutely nothing.

“For the love of God, get him undressed,” Nigel snapped. “Where is Plimpton?”

“His lordship gave him the day and night off, sir. Mr. Plimpton went into the town to visit friends.”

“Not the best timing for a valet to go missing,” Nigel said, his tone dry. “Very well, one of you fetch hot, sweet tea, and bring up some cognac while you're about it. You go, Michael, and tell someone to heat water and have that brought in along with warm bricks for his lordship's feet. He'll need bathing and he'll need to be kept warm.” He moved over to the bed and took Michael's place, helping Henry to remove the rest of Adam's clothing.

Casting his eye over Adam's muscular body, he saw that Adam appeared to be unmarked, save for a sprinkling of bruises on his forearms and some blisters on his palms and thumbs. The doctor could do a more complete examination, but Nigel imagined that Adam suffered from cold and exhaustion rather than any physical damage.

“Right, let's get him under the blankets, Henry.” He lifted Adam in his arms while Henry drew the covers aside, then gently laid him back down and piled the sheets and blankets around him. “Build up the fire, then wait outside until Michael returns.” Pulling up a chair, Nigel sat down to wait for the requested provisions to appear. For the moment there was nothing more to be done.

“So, Adam,” he murmured. “You actually rescued someone. That's more effort than you've put into anything for a very long time. I suppose as a gentleman, though, you had no choice.” He contemplated Adam's face. Still and pale, at least he looked peaceful—or if not entirely peaceful, at least he didn't wear the cold, hard expression Nigel was accustomed to.

For one very bad moment, he'd thought that his fear might have been realized when the footman had appeared at his door so shaken he could barely speak. He could only thank God that was not the case, although he had to wonder what Adam had been doing out on the sea to begin with in this nasty weather.

He doubted he'd get any explanation, but right now that wasn't his concern. He wanted only to see Adam awake and well, if not in heart, at least in body. Adam was strong and fit, and that ought to go a long way toward helping him recover. His emotional injuries were another story altogether.

“What the devil …” Adam forcefully pushed away whatever was moving over his face like a warm, soggy stocking. He spluttered and sat up, glowering at the culprit, who turned out to be none other than Nigel, beaming at him as if pleased to be shoved aside. “What in God's name do you think you're doing, man?”

“I was
trying
to wash half of the English Channel off you, but be my guest and do it yourself. Or let it stay for all I care. Here, have some tea. I laced it with cognac, which should put you in a better mood.” He thrust a steaming mug toward Adam. “If you will go diving overboard for damsels in distress, the least you can do is take care of yourself after the fact.”

Adam took it, memory returning, and it wasn't a pleasant one. He was supposed to be dead by now and out of his misery, but oh, no. Here he was, back in his bed, being treated like an infant in need of scrubbing. The next thing he knew he'd have nursery food shoved down his throat— which was uncommonly dry and rather sore at that. “Bloody woman,” he muttered, gulping at his tea. “What on earth was she thinking, leaping into the heaving sea?”

“I have no more idea about that than I have about why you were out in the heaving sea to begin with.”

“It wasn't heaving when I went out,” Adam said in his defense. “How was I supposed to know I'd run into a squall?”

Nigel regarded him with a complete lack of expression. “For someone who was raised on this coast and can read the weather like the back of his hand, I'd say you've suddenly developed a remarkably blind eye.”

“Don't be absurd,” Adam snapped, feeling an unwelcome pang of guilt. “I wanted to do some fishing. The weather appeared perfect for my purposes.” That, at least, was true. He didn't like lying to Nigel, but he couldn't exactly tell him he'd gone out planning to put an end to himself, could he?

“In the future do us both a favor and confine your fishing to the river. I'd sleep more easily. So exactly what did happen out there? How did the woman come to fall off the ship?”

“She just … fell,” Adam said, still puzzled about that himself. “God only knows what she was doing out on the stern of a clipper in a howling storm. I don't suppose the idiot's come to her senses yet and explained?”

“Not that I've heard,” Nigel said. “I've been in here with you since you were brought upstairs. Apparently Dr. Hadley's been summoned. Perhaps he'll enlighten us.”

“I hope someone does. I have a raging headache and my muscles ache from all that unnecessary exertion.”

But Dr. Hadley had nothing to tell them when he eventually appeared to check on Adam's own health.

“The young woman is still unconscious, my lord, and likely to stay that way for some time,” the doctor said as he poked and prodded Adam, much to Adam's displeasure and discomfort. “She's suffered a severe blow to the back of her head. I fear that I cannot tell you with any certainty if she'll regain consciousness, let alone survive the incident. Swelling to the brain can often be fatal, and you'll both be fortunate not to develop fevers given the drenching you took.”

“I have no intention of developing a fever, Doctor, and I would thank you not to be so pessimistic. Now if you please, cease and desist your infernal examination. I've suffered nothing more than exposure to the elements and some muscle strain from which I shall recover by tomorrow.”

“Your diagnosis is correct, my lord,” Hadley said with a glimmer of what Adam sourly expected was amusement lurking behind his spectacles. “I am afraid I must insist, however, that you confine yourself to your bed for the next twenty-four hours just to be sure that you make a full recovery. I shall be back to check on the young woman tomorrow morning. I have instructed Mrs. Simpson to summon me if there are any developments in the night— convulsions are not unexpected in a case such as this.”

Adam, thoroughly fed up with the subject of “the young woman,” who had given them all more trouble than anyone needed, merely grunted.

As soon as the door had closed behind the doctor, Adam turned and glared at Nigel. “Why,” he said from between clenched teeth, “did this happen to me? I was going about my business perfectly happily, and now look what I've been landed with. A—a half-drowned, half-brained numbskull,” he said, although the truth of the matter was that he was feeling deeply concerned about the girl. He hadn't saved her to have her go and expire on him. As soon as he felt a little stronger, he'd go and have a look at her. After all, she wasn't the one who was supposed to die. That was his job, and he wasn't in the habit of passing his responsibilities off on other people.

Before Nigel could answer, Adam drifted back off to sleep. He didn't feel the hands that gently pulled the covers up around his neck or hear the voice that quietly said, “Sleep well, my friend.”

2

C
allie's eyes flew open in panic as her arms flailed wildly in the air, trying to get hold of something, anything. She couldn't manage to catch her breath to cry out for help— everything was dark, so dark, and she had the horrible feeling that she was suffocating.

“Breathe. Come now, take deep breaths. You can do it.”

A low, soft voice came from what seemed like a million miles away, but the reassuring sound steadied her and she obeyed, slowly inhaling, realizing that fresh cool air still rushed into her lungs. She somehow managed to gulp down that precious air, trying desperately to orient. Her head pounded furiously and her skin felt as if it was on fire, but at least she knew she was alive. She was quite sure that pain did not exist in heaven.

Her eyes slowly focused, taking in the soft flickering of candlelight on a mantelpiece directly across from her, where a fire gently crackled in the grate below. She couldn't think where she was or how she'd gotten there.

“So you're back with us. It's about time,” that same low voice said, only this time it sounded nearer, over to her left. Gingerly turning her aching head, she looked for its source.

A man, or what seemed to be a man, sat in an armchair, his hands folded on his lap, his legs propped up on what she realized was the bed she was lying in.

For a confused moment she thought he might be an angel, since a nimbus glowed around his head, backlighting his dark hair. He had the appearance of an angel—or at least what she'd always imagined one should look like: not that absurd blond version most painters tended toward, but rather the valiant fighter against evil. Saint George battling the dragon, sword in hand, determined and danger-ous—that was how this man looked to her. Only this man's eyes were a startling blue and trained directly on her in a most unangelic fashion. If anything, he looked irritated.

Still, she couldn't shake off the feeling that she was looking on an angel of mercy. She just didn't expect an angel to look so human—or so bad-tempered.

“Who—who are you?” she croaked, her throat feeling horribly dry and parched. She licked her lips in an attempt to moisten them. “Where am I?” she finished on a whisper.

“You are in England, in the county of Kent. To be precise, you are at Stanton Abbey. As for myself, I am Adam Carlyle. I live here. More to the point, who the devil are you, and what were you doing falling off a clipper ship into the English Channel?”

Callie blinked, not knowing what he was referring to. The last thing she remembered was … She didn't remember anything at all, she realized with deep alarm. She knew her name was Callie, but nothing else came to her. Everything was a blank, a confused gray void. “I—I …” Her voice trailed off and she swallowed hard. “I slipped,” she said, thinking that sounded like the most reasonable explanation, praying that her mind would clear before he asked her any more difficult questions. She tried desperately to suppress the panic that coursed through her veins, making her want to grab at him and beg him to hold her tight.

“That much I believe,” he said. “What I'd like to know is what you were doing out on the stern of a ship in foul weather, singing your heart out.”

Callie tried to think through the fog in her brain. She couldn't imagine anyone doing anything so foolish, and she wasn't a foolish person—at least she didn't think she was. Apparently she must be, though, for this man had no reason to lie to her about her tumble into the sea. As for singing, that did seem like an odd thing to do in the middle of a storm. She hoped that at least she'd been singing on key. “You were there?” she asked, stalling for time. Oh,
why
couldn't she remember anything? The fear threatened to take her breath away.

“I was out in my boat, yes. I saw you fall and decided that you needed rescuing, since the ship you were on was fast disappearing toward England.”

“Well, what were
you
doing out in your boat in foul weather?” she retorted, thinking that a good offense was in order at this point, since she had no defense, no defenses at all.

“Fishing,” he said, scowling at her. “I did not expect to land a silly young girl any more than I expected to be subjected to twenty-four hours of unwelcome bed rest for my trouble.” He leaned over to the bedside table, poured a glass of water from a pitcher, and handed it to her. “Drink this,” he said. “You've been out cold for the last two days and you are feverish on top of that.”