Read Jo Beverley - [Malloren] for Free Online Page A

happened to him?
    He forced himself to sit up and after a moment, found the pain in his head bearable. Massaging the dull ache, he still struggled with the idea that he’d drunk himself insensible.
    If he couldn’t change the damnable darkness in his mind, he could surely light that around him. Groping, he found a table, and searched with his fingers for the candle and tinderbox that should be there. Nothing. He stretched further. He felt the brushing chill of glass a moment too late, and cursed as it shattered on the floor.
    His fingers scrabbled over the smooth table for something else. Something he could use as a weapon. The door creaked open and a pale figure appeared, backlit by a weak nightlight in the hall.
    “Are you awake, sir?”
    At the soft, remembered voice, he almost wept with relief.
    Why this mad panic? What had happened to him?
    “Sir?” She was coming over and he realized he hadn’t answered.
    “Yes, I’m awake. Don’t come closer. There’s glass on the floor to the right of the bed.”
    She stopped, only a gray shape now, for she’d closed the door. He reviewed matters with a suppressed groan. First he’d thrown up. Now he’d created a dangerous mess. He’d better crawl away from here as soon as possible and never return.
    “Are you feeling sick again?” she asked. “The chamber pot’s down there.”
    He tested the idea, and was pleased to be able to say, “No. I must thank you for your care of me.”
    “It’s no trouble. Did you need something?”
    My mind back.
He could hardly say that. “Perhaps a light?”
    “It’s the middle of the night.”
    How could he say he was suddenly afraid of the dark? “I’m sorry for disturbing you.” He wished he could remember her name, remember what they were to each other. Anything.
    She came closer, round to the left of the bed. He watched the ghostly paleness of her hand and arm reach out so she could lay a hand on his forehead, and remembered the pleasure of her earlier touch.
    “I’m much better,” he said. A smooth hand. A lady’s hand, though many doxies had soft hands, too.
    “Certainly you have no fever.”
    “Where did you say this is?”
    “Gillsett.”
    Gillsett. He repeated it to himself a time or two, determined not to lose it this time. “And where is Gillsett?”
    “Arkengarthdale.”
    One of the more remote Yorkshire dales. Mostly sheep country. Strange to know geography and land use, but not where he had been recently and why. He felt strangely certain that he had no business reason to be in Arkengarthdale.
    He had to ask the obvious question. “And you are … ?”
    “Miss Gillsett.”
    He must certainly have dreamed the business of having this composed, well-bred lady in his bed. Miss Gillsett of Gillsett was doubtless a kindhearted lady of sensible years and impeccable virtue. She’d likely faint if she learned he’d imagined her in his bed.
    “Have you remembered
your
name, sir?” she asked.
    From embarrassment and a dislike of being fawned on, he’d rather not say. But he had no choice. “Malloren.” When she didn’t react, he relaxed and added his first name. “Brand Malloren.”
    “Do you have family or friends who will be worrying, Mr. Malloren?”
    He was actually Lord Brand Malloren, but certainly didn’t mind being thought a simple mister in this embarrassing situation. The question was an interesting one, however. If his family knew he was sick they certainly would worry. They were far away, however, and he’d left his entourage in Thirsk. With luck, neither family nor staff would ever find out about this debacle.
    “No. I’m traveling alone on business.”
    And, with another shift of the veils, he suddenly remembered some of his affairs. Visiting his brother’s estates around England. Checking accounts and the care of the land. Arguing with conservative tenants aboutchange. Reviewing breeding programs and the yield of experimental crops.
    He remembered, too, that he often left his staff