after such a fall, Julianne.”
“Your hurting yourself again isn’t amusing—not at all. Have you forgotten how ill you were?”
His smile faded. “Actually, I have not.”
She took his arm, guiding him back to the stairs, glancing at him uncertainly. “Am I being too shrewish?”
“You could never be shrewish. I think I rather like being ordered about by you.”
She smiled. “I thought pale, fainting, compliant females were in vogue.”
He chuckled. They started up the stairs, this time going up them while abreast. Julianne had no intention of releasing him, and he leaned on her again. “I don’t care for vogues. And I have never cared for women who swoon.”
She was fiercely glad she had never fainted, not once in her life. They traversed the hall in silence. As they entered the bedchamber, he said, “And will you order me to bed?”
She saw the humor in his eyes. But she also thought there was another innuendo in his words. Now, she was afraid to look at the bed.
She wet her lips and managed to sound brisk. “You may sit at the table, if you wish, and I will bring us both a light luncheon.”
“Maybe,” he said, stumbling slightly, “I had better lie down.”
Julianne rushed to help him.
A FEW HOURS LATER, Julianne hesitated outside Charles’s door. When she had brought him a light luncheon earlier, she had found him soundly asleep. She had placed his lunch tray on the table, covered him with a thin blanket and left.
His door was ajar, and in case he was still sleeping, she did not knock. She peered into the bedchamber and was rewarded by the sight of him at the table, eating the stew she had left for him earlier. “Hello,” she said, stepping inside.
“I fell asleep,” he exclaimed, setting down his fork, his plate empty.
“Yes, you did. Obviously our small outing was far too strenuous for you. And I can see that you have enjoyed your late lunch.”
“You are an excellent cook.”
“Charles, I burn everything I touch—I am not allowed to cook. It is a rule in this house.”
He laughed.
“You are feeling better,” she remarked, pleased.
“Yes, I am. Come, sit and join me.” As she did so, he said, “I hope I was not as difficult as I recall, in demanding to go downstairs earlier.”
“You were not too difficult,” she teased. “Are you in a rush to recuperate fully?” She hesitated, reminded that he would leave Greystone Manor and return to France when he was well.
“As much as I enjoy your hovering over me—” he smiled “—I prefer being able to see to my own needs. I am not accustomed to being weak. And I am used to taking care of those around me. I can hardly take care of anything right now.”
She absorbed that. “This must be awkward for you.”
“It is. We must repeat our attempted outing tomorrow.” His tone was one of command, and she knew she would not refuse. He smiled. “However, you are the one bright light in this difficult circumstance. I like being here with you, Julianne. I have no regrets.” His gaze locked with hers.
She wanted to tell him that she was so glad he was there, in her care, and that she had no regrets, either. Instead, she hesitated.
“When you worry, you bite your lip.” He spoke softly. “Am I a terrible burden? It must be maddening, to have to care for a stranger day in and day out. I am taking up all of your time.”
Impulsively she seized his hand. “You could never be a burden. I am pleased to care for you. I do not mind, not at all.” And she felt as if she had admitted all of her feelings for him.
His green eyes darkened and he returned her grasp. “That is what I wanted to hear.”
She stared into his eyes, which were smoldering. Breathlessly, she whispered, “Sometimes, I think you deliberately guide me into making admissions and confessions.”
“Our conversations flow freely. That is your imagination, Julianne.”
“Yes, I suppose it is.”
“I wonder if I will ever be able to repay you for all you have done and are doing for me.”
When he looked at her that way, she felt as if she were melting. “I would never take any kind of repayment from you. When you are well again, you will take up arms for the revolution. Why, that is all the repayment I will ever need!” She touched his hand again.
He took her hand and suddenly clasped it firmly against his chest. She went still. For one moment, she was certain he meant to kiss her palm. Instead, he looked up at her from beneath his heavy dark lashes. She felt his heart beating, thickly, a bit swiftly. “What would your neighbors do, if they knew I was here?”
“They must never learn that you are here!” She added, “You have a disconcerting habit of changing subjects so suddenly.”
“I suppose I do. Your neighbors do not share your sympathies, I fear.” He released her.
“No, they do not.” She was grim. “There are a few radicals in the parish, but since Britain joined the war against France, patriotism has swept most of Cornwall. It is best if my neighbors never know that you are here—or were here.”
It was as if he hadn’t heard her. “And may I ask who your neighbors are and how close they are to this manor house?”
He was interviewing her again, she thought, but she did not blame him. If she were in his position, she would be asking him the same questions. “The village of Sennen is just a short walk from the manor, and it is much closer than the farms that border Greystone. We are rather isolated.”
He absorbed that. “And just how far is the closest farm?”
Did he truly think that he was in jeopardy from their neighbors? “Squire Jones leases his lands from Lord Rutledge, and he is about a two hours’ ride from us. Two other farmers lease their lands from the earl of St. Just, but they are perhaps fifty kilometers away. Penrose has a great deal of land to the east, but it is barren and deserted. The Greystone lands here are also barren—we have no tenants.”
“Does the squire call? Or Rutledge?”
“The only times Squire Jones has ever called was when his wife was terribly ill. Rutledge is a boor and a recluse.”
He nodded. “And St. Just?”
“St. Just has not been in residence in years. He runs in very high Tory circles in London, as does Penrose—who is rarely in the parish. I believe they are friends. Neither man would ever call, even if they were here.”
“How far away is St. Just? Penrose?”
