Lady Forsaken Box Set (Books 1 - 5), page 100
Alex did exactly what he’d said he wouldn’t do. He braced himself for the third strike, flexing his back and readying it to take the next blow—and allowed the sound of the rain above to fill his mind and transport him anywhere but here. He thought of the many hours he’d spent reading, first at Foldger’s Foals, then by candlelight at Drake House. He focused on the remembered touch of Ellie’s smooth skin when she’d grasped his hand in the alley. He concentrated on the feel of Ellie’s waist as he’d lifted her from her horse all those times. Ember, sitting upon the woman’s lap as Ellie stroked her fur; Ellie unaware of how calm she appeared without her shoulders tense.
“Stop!”
The single word, though spoken softly, thundered through the room, pushing the lull of the rain from his mind and bringing him back to the stables and his pain.
Words continued to fly into the room, yet he could not make any out for the blood pumping through his veins and thudding deafeningly in his ears.
New marquis…your master…drawn and quartered.
Ellie’s feet came into view as she clumsily rushed down the narrow rungs of the ladder. One foot, covered in a mud-stained kid boot, missed its purchase and she stumbled down three steps.
Instantly, he was no longer leaning against the grain bin but reaching to stop her fall, his throbbing cuts forgotten.
As he did, the next strike from the whip traveled past him, only slightly nipping his ear as it did.
Too late, Alex realized its course.
The searing pain didn’t confine itself to Ellie’s upper arm where the whip had struck her, but traveled through her body. Even her legs shook as wave after wave of fire rocketed through her, reaching every nerve ending.
She wanted to scream, to curse Eckles’ cruelty, to take responsibility for everything.
But first, she had to get her footing back—and suppress the fear that’d kept her frozen above, watching helplessly as the man took his drunken aggression out on Alex.
It was much like her father had done, but he’d used words instead of a whip—though that didn’t mean it injured her any less.
Ellie stifled her cry at the fiery hot current traveling through her—it was only one whip on her arm, and not the back-splitting lashes Alex had received. And endured.
She’d heard rumors of Eckles’ brutality within the stables, his need to keep all in their place—which was below him.
The marquis had lavished praise upon the man for his forthright nature and efficiency, never questioning the flow of help in and out of his townhouse. Little had she known both the marquis and the stable master suffered from a tendency to find comfort in a bottle.
No more, this would never happen again within her home!
His home.
The truth should have been more apparent, especially after the marquis had insisted on his deathbed that Ellie trust Alex.
He was not the stable hand he appeared—and was far more than he knew.
His injuries during childhood, his many moves during his youth—but it had been his caretaker’s name that had sparked the true recognition.
Alexandria Dutton.
Mrs. Dutton—the woman who’d raised Alex and even now resided at Foldger’s Hall with the rest of the children.
The woman that Drake had blamed for absconding with the baby of his one true love.
Lord Chastain, Peter Davis—a duke.
Born of Lord and Lady Chastain.
And Andrew Penton, the Marquis of Drake—her father—had given him everything that should be hers and Ruby’s.
She’d had Alex pretend to be exactly who he truly was.
Pushing the jumble of conflicting thoughts from her mind, Ellie refocused on her physical pain. Her feet were on the ground, and two hands held her waist securely, keeping her upright.
Her body had wanted to collapse when the fire had shot through her moments before.
“Alex?” It had to be his arms holding her steady.
His eyes were filled with such devastation she almost cried for him.
“Are you hurt?” The words were ripped right from his soul. “Your arm.”
She held back, her injuries nothing compared to the lashings he’d taken. His tattered shirt hung loosely about his waist and blood trailed down his torso—the red, drying now to a muddied brown, appeared as cracks in a desiccated riverbed.
“Lady Ellington,” Eckles squawked, his hand making an attempt to tuck in his loose shirttails. “I bid ye return to the main house while I be handle’n servant matters.”
She pushed Alex’s hands from her waist, stepping around him to face the stable master. The movement pulled at the gash on her arm, but she pushed the pain from her thoughts.
“I will do no such thing. You, you miserable excuse for a man, will gather your belongings and depart this stable.” When he only stared at her, the whip hanging at this side, she continued, “Now!”
“With respect, ye canna be tell’n me what ta do.” She shrank back at the foul odor on his breath. This man had no sense of what he was doing, too far gone in his cups. It would be similar to arguing with her drunken father—nothing penetrated the fog that enveloped his brain. “Run along, a’fore ye find yerself on the end a another lash, lass.”
Alex was around her before the stable master had finished his thinly veiled threat—a brief pause—and Eckles’ sneer dropped from his face, his eyes filling with alarm, some sense pushing past the haze.
The man focused on Alex as his body teetered back and forth.
“You will never speak to her in such a manner.” Alex’s face was a mere inch from Eckles’. “And you shall apologize for your actions and leave here as she requested.”
Ellie saw his back—a sight she’d come to know well from her many hours spent watching…and judging him as he worked endless hours. It appeared nothing as it had only hours before. His corded muscles were now splayed open with cross cuts in every direction, blood dripping in paths down into his waistband. The muscles flexed along his shoulders, re-opening the thin trails the whip had inflicted. She reached for him…to stop him…to protect him…to shelter him from more harm, knowing he could take more lashes from the whip.
For her, it was the harsh words that burrowed deeper than any physical whipping could. His movements were too quick, his determination taking over, moving him from Ellie’s reach.
Eckles hadn’t a moment to say anything before Alex had him pinned against the wall, his fingers—from his weaker, injured hand—trapping the man’s throat to the wall. His other arm held the stable master solidly at his chest. Alex’s back rippled with the strength it took to hold the man in place.
The man’s face turned a deep scarlet and his mouth opened and shut as if he wanted to issue a retort, but couldn’t find the words or the breath. His nostrils flared in anger. To be ordered about by a stable hand, and one as damaged as Alex, must be the ultimate insult to one of Eckles’ position.
Alex lessened his hold, allowing the man to speak. “I will not—“
“That is an incorrect response.” Alex increased his hold once more. “I would’ve accepted your beating, but I could never accept this. You will apologize to the lady, or I can keep at this all night if you wish to be difficult.”
Eckles looked at Ellie. As if he were seeing her—and the injury he’d caused—for the first time, he winced as his eyes drifted over the torn arm of her coat.
“Alex,” Ellie breathed. “He is not worth your temper. Let him be gone and out of our lives.” Not once did she look away from Eckles as she spoke, favoring to turn a scolding stare on him. “If he ever seeks refuge here or speaks ill of you or I, you are allowed to do away with his miserable hide.”
She hoped her words were enough to help Alex calm himself and allow Eckles the chance to flee, yet his shoulders remained taut and his arm continued to press the man into the wall.
“Go,” Alex finally said. He dropped his arms, but his back never lost its stiffness. “And do as my lady says, never return.”
“O’course.” Eckles issued a lopsided bow and almost stumbled to the ground. Recovering, he turned on the heels of his worn boots and zigzagged down the long hall of stalls toward his boarding room beyond.
“Let me tend your back—“
Alex brushed away Ellie’s hands as they reached for him. “I will be fine.”
“It must hurt dreadfully, please.” She tried again, but her outstretched arms caused her own pain to flare and she winced.
“It is you who is hurt.”
“I—“ The sentiment eluded her. Ellie needed to explain all, tell him what little she knew before he recognized the significance of his position—and possibly used it against her. He had every right to throw her from Drake townhouse, as had happened to Eckles. If anything, he had more cause to expel her if what she’d read in her father’s papers were true. “Alex, please listen…“ she started up, catching the many thoughts going through her mind and mentally arranging them into some semblance of explanation. Something to encompass all she needed to say.
But no arrangement of words or phrases said exactly what needed to be said.
Please, do not leave me. You are the only constant I’ve had in a long while.
Please, do not throw me from my home. I’ve never felt welcome anywhere else.
Please, forgive me.
All things she longed to tell him, yet were inadequate in so many ways.
Her fright had nearly kept her hidden, never coming to Alex’s aid. She cringed at the thought of how badly Eckles would have beaten Alex had she not pushed past her own fear and stopped him.
“Your arm.” The softness in his voice had her looking back at him. “Are you hurt?”
They were the same words she’d asked him moments before. Blood, drying now, carved trails down his back, yet his only worry was for her and her minor, insignificant injury. She’d thought before, because of her birth—dubious as it was—that she was far above this man, destined to be more than anything he could give her. The truth was, it was she who did not deserve him.
“It is my fault.”
“It most certainly is not. You—nor I—can control the madness of a man in his cups.” He shook his head to dissuade her accusations. “Do not speak that way. If it hadn’t been me, it would have been another, less tolerate servant.”
“If I’d left the stable like you said—listened to you this one time—I never would have been here.” She couldn’t bring herself to tell him the truth, it had been she who’d pilfered from the grain box to help feed the two horses at Craven House. “Besides, it only stings a bit. Your pain must be close to unbearable.”
“You quite possibly saved me from months of agony,” Alex said as he inspected her arm pensively. “These will take weeks to heal, but imagine the scarring if he’d kept at it for another ten lashes. Does this hurt?” He pressed lightly on the area.
It did hurt…but she’d be damned if she’d admit it. Thankfully, the physical hurt was far less damaging than her father’s cruel words had been.
“Remove your coat.” He turned her as if she were a child and began to unfasten the long row of buttons. His fingers faltered. Ellie wondered if his childhood injury ailed him, or the pain from his back. “We cannot know the damage until we can see it. I will have Cook put together a salve for you.”
Ellie brushed away his hands. “It is you that is hurt and in need of care.”
His fingers returned to their task. “It would be wise to heed your earlier advice and listen to me. Infection can lead to greater discomfort.”
Many things ran through her mind; if something weren’t applied quickly, Alex’s back would scar and possibly fester, as well. If she could only send word to Madame Marce for a salve to ward off any infection. Her concoctions were far superior to any Cook would mix for Alex.
More importantly, how long until her angry shouts as she climbed down the ladder, sank in—and he began asking questions Ellie wasn’t prepared to answer—even if she possessed the information to give them to him.
Could the duke and Alex truly be one and the same?
Peter.
The name did not suit him as Alex did. It would take time for her to think of him thusly, if that were his true birth name…and if he decided to ever speak to her again. She could not—would not—blame him if he cast her from his life completely.
Ellie would do the same to anyone who kept such information from her.
Sadly, his preoccupation with her injury and his own pain would not last; yet she found herself unable to resist taking in his perfectly tousled hair as he inspected her arm.
“Why ever would you allow yourself to be beaten for something you did not do?”
“How do you know I had nothing to do with the missing grain?” His eyes searched her face.
Chapter 12
“Because…” Lady Ellington paused, her words laced with hesitancy. He couldn’t think of anything she could say that would garner this much reserve from her.
Alex expected her to declare her support for him, speaking to his honesty and integrity—he’d shown her nothing else during their short acquaintance, going so far as to pose as a marquis, despite the risks.
“I am the responsible person.”
Such simple words, leading to a hundred more questions and the pit of his stomach falling. If he could think past the pain, he’d find his legs shook.
“Why would you steal from your own stables?” Alex asked, puzzled. “You can take anything—and everything—and no one would dare deny you.”
“It is not so easy.” She avoided his stare.
“It is possibly the simplest thing.” A far easier thing would have been to step forward—before the dressage whip had hit him the first time. Damn it, but he would have accepted her intervention after the second blow.
Ellie continued to stare at the ground as her hand cupped her torn sleeve. “Be that as it may, why were you willing to take the whip for something you did not do?”
“Because that is my lot in life.” How to explain the life of a parentless, crippled, stable hand without a farthing to his name—to her, a girl brought up in one of the wealthiest homes in all of London, used to fancy dresses, well-hung bedsprings in rooms with blazing fires, and food, every meal of every day. But he would give her an answer in the hopes that she’d give him something in return—anything, let her guard down for only a moment. “Taking that whip was my duty, just as stepping in when you were in danger was my role as a man.” But there was that one night, not long after he’d come to London, when he’d heard Drake and Lady Ellington arguing and he hadn’t stepped in, but instead allowed the man to curse her over and over.
“But Eckles is my servant,” she said, lifting her gaze to his. “I can protect myself.”
“You should not have to when I am with you.” Had she never had someone look after her? Protect her from the world—and herself?
She only looked on questioningly.
“As your servant, I cannot allow any harm to come to you.” He hoped she took his words for their most basic meaning—the repercussions to him if she’d been seriously injured while he was present would have him remanded to Newgate—and not the deeper meaning they actually held.
“Did you say that Cook has a salve?” He noticed her sudden change in conversation; his answer satisfying her at last, and he breathed a sigh of relief. “Do come inside so we may cleanse your back. You must be in a great deal of pain.”
Surprisingly, he’d pushed his agony to the back of his mind the second the whip had licked at her arm. Even now, the throbbing, while excruciating, was kept at bay by the blood pumping through his veins. The pain was muted—surely to return with vigor the moment he knew Ellie was indeed out of harm’s way.
With little effort, Lady Ellie led him from the stables, through the kitchen, and into the late marquis’ private study—though he’d been gone over a year, the pungent odor of cigar smoke and fine bourbon still hung in the air like a thick cloud. The room was everything Alex had ever dreamed of in a home with inviting chairs, a large hearth, and more books than any one man could read in a lifetime. The wealth of knowledge in this room alone was staggering.
Behind the desk, many boxes were stacked, and Alex assumed they were the items Adams had promised to deliver.
Their surroundings made no impression on Lady Ellie—the room, its grandeur and stateliness, escaped her notice, glaringly pointing out another significant difference between the pair. But if that had been the last time he enjoyed this room, then he was a better person for it. If that night hadn’t occurred, he never would have seen the true nature behind the false façade Lady Ellie donned to keep others out.
“Sit, please,” she instructed when she returned to the room. He hadn’t noticed she’d left, his mind dizzy with the increasing pain. Her arms were weighted down with a wash basin steaming with hot water, strips of material, and two jars, one clutched under each arm. And she looked beautiful, breathtaking, her hair wild around her crown, and her face flushed from activity. “I will have you patched up in no time.”
“Allow me to assist you.” With only a sharp look, she allowed him to take the heavy water basin from her arms. The searing pain from the weight of the basin nearly brought him to his knees, but he quickly set it down and returned to her side to take the jars. Spots invaded his vision and his head rang with dizziness. “Could you not have rung for a servant to bring all this—or asked me to fetch it for you?” he asked to distract her from the agony that must show on his face.
She moved to the basin before answering. “And have someone see your condition?” She kept focused on her task of dipping the lengths of cloth into the heated water, avoiding him where he stood next to her. “I did not think you would be overjoyed to have the other staff see you in such a manner.”
Alex had already pondered his next move—he could not remain in his current position, for gossip moved quickly between London households. He would likely be branded a disloyal servant…and he cringed to think what would be said of Lady Ellington, plus, the new marquis would have no reason to retain a servant with his reputation now. It would not take long for word to spread to the Haversham servants. He could not risk Lady Haversham hearing of everything, nor Ruby blaming him for Ellie’s injury.
