fabric and the scent of roses filled his nostrils. Cool hands clasped his.
‘Your eyes are injured.’ The voice was feminine and soothing, but not familiar. ‘The bandages need to stay on for you to heal.’
‘Who are you?’ He swallowed. His throat hurt when he spoke.
‘I—I am Mrs Asher. You carried me out of the fire—’
He remembered only one woman he’d carried out of the fire, down the flame-filled stairway, all the way to the cool night outside.
‘Where am I?’ he rasped.
‘You—you are in my cottage in—in Thurnfield.’
Thurnfield?
The village on the road to London? He’d passed through it many times.
She went on. ‘You cannot travel, so we brought you here.’
That made no sense. ‘I was in Ramsgate. If I cannot travel, how is it I came to Thurnfield?’
Her voice turned cautious. ‘We could not find a place for you in Ramsgate. Not one where you could receive care.’
She was caring for him? Who was this woman? He wanted to see her. Look her in the eye. Figure out the reason for the uneasiness in her voice.
But that was impossible.
He cleared his throat. ‘You said we.’
‘My maid and footman and me.’
She had a maid and a footman. A woman of some means, then. Of wealth? Were there more servants, perhaps? ‘A maid and footman. Who else is here?’
‘A housekeeper and her husband.’ She paused. ‘That is all.’
Modest means, then, but she was holding back something, he would bet on it. ‘Where is Mr Asher?’
‘I am a widow.’ Her voice turned low, and that provoked a whole new set of emotions.
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
