His Saving Grace Page 5

  “Nyet—ah, no. Not at all.” After all, he and Tarik were much the same way. He called Tarik his manservant, but their relationship was so much more and far more complicated.

  Michael looked down at his plate, filled with so much food that he was positive he couldn’t eat it all. He mentally assigned each food a name—something he did automatically now so he could put it to memory, although that often didn’t work well.

  Eggs, bacon, toast.

  Ida poured coffee. Grace picked up her utensil and began eating. Michael stared at the utensils lying next to his plate. He couldn’t remember what each was used for, nor what they were named. He knew that was due to the panic rising in him and the need to hide his deficiencies from Grace. Normally, he would have no problem with the utensils, but the pressure he was putting on himself was affecting what little memory he had left.

  He looked up at Grace and noted she was spearing her eggs with the pronged instrument. He picked his up and did the same, as he and Tarik exchanged a quick look. Tarik seemed to know what had happened, but luckily, Grace had not noticed.

  Though the food tasted excellent, Michael had little to no appetite and was soon full, pushing his plate away.

  “Was it not to your liking, my lord?” Ida asked in concern.

  “It was wonderful, Ida. I’m not hungry.”

  “If I may, my lord, you need to eat. Get some meat on those bones. Too skinny by half, you are.”

  “Ida,” Grace said in warning.

  Michael smiled up at Ida. “I know, Ida. I’ll leave it to you to fatten me up.”

  Ida harrumphed, but her lips twitched in a smile as she turned away.

  “My apologies,” Grace said. “Ida and George and I have been living together for so long that we’re more like family. Ida likes to speak her mind.”

  “I understand. Tarik and I are similar.”

  A shadow passed across her face, and she put her coffee cup down. Michael couldn’t imagine what Grace had been through the past year. She was thin as well, and the sparkle was gone from her eyes. The laughing, loving Grace he had known was buried somewhere in the somber woman before him.

  For so long, all he’d thought about was coming home to his Gracie. He’d just known that if he could be with her, everything would be fine. That thought kept him company through horrendous pain, nights when he was positive he wouldn’t see the sun again and had so many doubts that he couldn’t count them.

  “Was it terrible?” he asked. “When you discovered I had died?”

  Her beautiful blue eyes filled with tears, and he instantly regretted the rash question.

  “It was beyond terrible,” she whispered. “It was hell. I missed you so much.”

  He reached across the table and took her hand. Her hands were rough and calloused, as if she worked hard, but they were Grace’s hands. His wife’s hands. Her nails had dirt underneath them, and he was positive that she would smell of the flowers she fiddled with.

  “I’m sorry,” he said softly.

  The tears traveled down her cheeks one after the other, each one breaking his heart into a thousand shards of regret.

  “What happened? How did they think you were dead when you really weren’t?” she asked.

  He took a long time to think about that, to form the words. “I was wounded in battle. Severely wounded. Tarik found me, brought me to his camp, and nursed me back to health. I believe that when they didn’t find my body, or when I didn’t return from battle, they assumed I was dead.”

  It was such a short explanation for something so complicated that even he couldn’t grasp it. But it was all he could give her at the moment.

  Grace looked up at Tarik, but as usual, the man was stoic, appearing as if he weren’t listening, although Michael knew he was.

  “Why were you gone for so long?” she asked.

  He wasn’t ready for this yet. The questions. The answers he had to give. For a little bit longer, he wanted Grace to believe that his injuries were healed and that he was whole.

  “You should tell her,” Tarik said in Russian.

  “Not yet,” Michael snapped back, irritated that he was being pressured. Even more irritated that Tarik was correct. He should tell her. Tarik raised a brow, but Michael ignored him.

  “What language are you speaking?” Grace asked.

  “My apologies. I know it’s rude to speak in a different language, but sometimes it’s easier. We’re speaking Russian.”

  “I wasn’t aware you knew Russian.”

  There was a lot she didn’t know about him. “After living with Tarik for almost a year, I’ve become quite fluent.”

  “I see.” Grace pulled her hand away and picked up the bowl-shaped utensil.

  “Grace, I know you want explanations.”

  “That would be nice.”

  “And I will explain—”

  “Grace, I think I’ve discovered a solution to—” The back door flew open, and a brown-haired woman swept in, her cheeks rosy, her eyes bright. Grace stood quickly, as did Michael. The woman stopped short when she saw Michael. Her mouth opened in an O before she slapped a hand over it.

  “Sara.” Grace moved toward the woman named Sara, but she didn’t move fast enough. Sara’s eyes rolled into the back of her head, and she collapsed before Grace could get to her.

  Chapter Five

  “Oh, dear.” Grace knelt next to Sara and gently cradled her friend’s head in her lap.

  Tarik appeared at her side and effortlessly lifted Sara into his arms. He looked at Grace calmly, waiting for direction.

  “The sitting room,” Grace said, taking charge of the situation. “We’ll put her there.”

  Once Tarik had settled Sara on the settee, they all gathered around the unconscious woman and stared down at her.

  “Lady Sara Emerson?” Michael asked, pulling from his memory the woman who had been one of Grace’s good friends. It happened that way. He couldn’t remember what he’d had for breakfast, but past memories came easily to him.

  “Yes.” Grace tenderly brushed a stray hair off Sara’s forehead and looked up at Michael. “I fear this will be the reaction of everyone who comes to visit if we don’t announce your arrival soon.”

  The stab of panic that Michael felt was unwarranted and unwanted. Of course he would need to announce his arrival. It was, after all, one of the reasons he returned home.

  “It might be best if you two left the room for a bit,” Grace said. “She probably thinks she saw a ghost.”

  Michael and Tarik left Grace with Sara and stepped out into the hall.

  “What are you waiting for?” Tarik asked.

  “The right time.”

  Tarik rolled his eyes. “There is no right time. She needs to know.”

  “I know that, damn it.” Michael pressed his fingers into his aching temples and closed his eyes.

  “If you weren’t ready to return, you should have stayed away,” Tarik said.

  —

  Sara’s eyes fluttered open and she looked at Grace, who was seated next to her friend on the edge of the settee.

  “What happened?” Sara sat up and put a finger to her head. “Why am I lying here?”

  Grace smiled at her friend and patted her hand. “You fainted.”

  “I did not.” Sara sounded highly affronted. “I never faint.” She swung her legs off the settee and smoothed her skirts. She stared at Grace with narrowed eyes that suddenly widened. “I remember now. I saw…At least I thought I saw…”

  “Michael.”

  “Yes. Yes, I thought I saw Lord Blackbourne—or at least the former Lord Blackbourne. Not Lord Nigel. But that can’t be right—”

  “He’s alive, Sara.”

  Sara’s mouth snapped closed, and she stared at Grace for several long beats of silence. “What did you say?”

  “Michael is alive.”

  “But…how?”

  “I don’t know. He hasn’t told me much, just that he was so severely injured that he couldn�
��t return home until now.”

  “He stayed away an entire year? Grace—”

  “He’s not even been home a day. I haven’t pushed him for answers. Yet.”

  “But Grace—”

  “Not yet, Sara. In time.”

  “Very well. But what about Sir Timmons?”

  “I haven’t told Michael about Sir Timmons yet.”

  “Have you told Sir Timmons about Michael?”

  Grace sighed. “Not yet.”

  “Oh, Grace.” Sara squeezed Grace’s hand.

  “He has a man with him. A Russian. I don’t know, Sara. I don’t have a good feeling about any of this. For so long, I didn’t want to believe he was dead. And now that he’s not, now that he’s alive, it’s nothing like I imagined. It’s like we have to start over, getting to know each other. And there’s a barrier inside of him that wasn’t there before.”

  “He’s been gone a long time. War changes people. And we don’t know what his injury is. Maybe when you discover that, the rest will follow.”

  “Maybe. Please don’t tell anyone, Sara.”

  “You can’t keep his presence here a secret. He’s the earl. People need to know. Especially the current earl. Oh, Lord Nigel will have a fit. And Clara!” Sara put her hand over her mouth, though her eyes danced in merriment. She sat forward, suddenly very serious. “This is not good, Grace. Lord and Lady Blackbourne will not take it lightly.”

  “I’m aware.” Grace stood and paced to the other end of the room, her stomach a knot of dread. Nigel wasn’t nice when backed into a corner, and he would not welcome Michael with open arms when he realized he was going to lose the earldom to his older brother. “Michael has asked for more time. Just a few days. That’s all. I must honor his wish.”

  Sara looked at her sadly. “None of this makes sense. Why would he come home after a year away and not want anyone to know?”

  “He needs time to adjust.” That was what Grace kept telling herself. She was pushing him too hard, too fast, when Michael surely was reeling from everything that had happened. Despite Sara’s warning, Grace wanted to hold off on informing people that Michael had returned. She had a need to protect him from all of that, to hold him to her just a little while longer. With time, they would rediscover their relationship, but it would become much more complicated once the mantel of the earldom settled on his shoulders.

  “You have to tell Sir Timmons. This isn’t fair to him.”

  “I will. I promise. Just…let me get used to Michael being back and let him get used to being back.”

  —

  After Sara left, Grace remained in the sitting room, reluctant to search out Michael. She needed a moment to think about the events of the morning. She really did need to tell Michael about Clayton before he discovered her betrothal himself, but that would be a difficult conversation, and she was not quite ready for it. She would wait and would nurture Michael, help him gain some weight, help him readjust to being back.

  Determined to do the right thing, she marched out of the sitting room and into the kitchen, but the kitchen was empty, the breakfast dishes already cleaned up. Ida wasn’t there; neither was Michael or Tarik. Hearing movement above, Grace made her way up the stairs and stopped before Michael’s closed door.

  She hesitated, reluctant to knock. She could hear the rough rumble of Tarik’s voice speaking in Russian, and that made her feel disconnected from her husband. He’d been gone so long, he’d learned an entirely different language. It seemed he was more comfortable speaking to Tarik in Russian than he was speaking to Grace in English.

  She knocked before she allowed her mind to talk her out of it. Tarik opened the door just wide enough to peer out. The inside of the room was dark, the curtains pulled tight.

  “Yes?”

  She was taken aback by how curt he was. Michael claimed Tarik was his manservant, but Tarik acted far more familiar than servant to master. She felt a moment of resentment that this man had such a hold over her husband.

  “I’d like to speak to Michael. Please.” She added the “please” but didn’t feel she should have to. She was the mistress of this house, and he was a servant. She should not have to beg Tarik for anything. But he seemed to expect it, and he was just frightening enough that she said it.

  “He is resting.”

  She raised her chin and stared Tarik down, but the man never flinched, never wavered, never looked away.

  “Is he not feeling well?” she asked.

  “He will be fine after he rests.”

  He’d neatly sidestepped her question, and that infuriated her. “Can I help?”

  “No.”

  “Listen, Mr. Tarik—”

  The man shut the door in her face.

  Shut the door.

  In her face.

  She stood there staring at the closed door, stunned, humiliated, and beyond angry. She wanted to pound on it, to demand to see her husband. Instead, she stood there with her hands fisted at her sides. When it became obvious that Tarik was not going to open the door again, she walked away, furious with herself for being so weak.

  —

  “May I have this dance?”

  Grace looked up into the beautiful green eyes of Michael Ashworth and her breath left her. Just like that. One minute she was breathing and the next she was not.

  Slowly she stood and took the gloved hand that he was offering her. His eyes twinkled, and there was a lift to his lips that told her he was perpetually on the verge of smiling.

  They danced that night. The night of her first ball. It happened so fast that she almost didn’t believe it had happened at all. There were some boys she’d danced with and thought the music would never end, but with Michael, it seemed to have barely started before it ended.

  He seemed reluctant to stop as well, for he held his hand over hers on his arm and strolled through the ballroom with her.

  “Do you remember the night you had dinner at my house?” she asked. She had never forgotten that night. The wink had stayed with her.

  “I do,” he admitted. “I remember eating dinner with a precocious girl.”

  “I was not precocious,” she said, affronted.

  He laughed, and her heart nearly stopped at the wonderful sound. She could listen to him laugh forever.

  “You were,” he said with such conviction that she doubted herself.

  “Was not.”

  “Now you’re arguing for argument’s sake.”

  Her mother would die if she heard him. Ladies were not to argue. “Maybe,” she said with a grin.

  He chuckled. Not the full-throated laugh from before, but she would take it. “I like it,” he said.

  “You like what?”

  “I like that you like to argue. It’s invigorating.”

  “My mother would say it’s annoying.”

  “That, too.”

  She playfully punched him on the shoulder, and when he laughed, this time she joined him.

  Grace opened her eyes, jolted out of a fitful sleep. The fire had died to glowing embers that did nothing to warm her room, and she shivered despite the pile of blankets she was huddled beneath. A pervasive feeling of helplessness weighed her down.

  When she’d gone to bed, Michael’s door was still closed. She’d crawled beneath the cold covers alone and tossed and turned for hours before eventually drifting off to dream of their first dance and how instantly her connection to him had happened. But now she was awake, torn from the comfort of her memories, and she didn’t know why.

  There. A noise.

  It sounded like someone was moaning.

  She scrambled out of bed and slipped her arms into her robe, tying the sash as she made her way to her door and then down the hall.

  Once again she found herself in the humiliating position of having to listen at Michael’s door. Another moan. Without thinking, propelled by anger and fear, she opened the door and stepped in. Even though the house had been equipped with gas lighting, the room was dim, the light tu
rned down as low as possible and casting soft shadows on the walls.

  Tarik stood beside the bed, a cup in his hand, dressed as he had been earlier that day in trousers, a waistcoat, and a necktie. He’d forgone the coat, and his sleeves were rolled up, displaying heavily muscled arms. She supposed she should not be surprised to see a man’s bare arms when she was the one who had burst into their room uninvited.

  Michael lay in the bed, curled into a ball, moaning.

  “What is happening here?” Grace hurried to Michael’s side, shocked at how pale he was. She looked up at Tarik. “Explain yourself. What are you doing to him?”

  “He’s in pain,” Tarik said, clearly exasperated. She didn’t care. This was her house. She was the mistress and he was the servant. He answered to her.

  “I can see that,” she snapped.

  Michael moaned again, and Tarik set the cup he’d been holding on the bedside table. “It’s best if we speak outside.”

  “No. We will speak here, and you will tell me what this is about. So help me, if you are hurting him—”

  “I am not hurting him.”

  She looked down at Michael as fear curled through her. He was in quite a bit of pain. Excruciating pain. She dropped to her knees beside the bed and reached for him but stopped before she actually touched him. “Michael?”

  “Grace.” His voice was weak, rough. He licked his lips.

  “What can I do? Should I call for the doctor?”

  His face twisted in pain and he clenched his teeth. Muscles bunched in his jaw and tendons stood out on his neck.

  She looked up at Tarik, panic pushing away her anger. “We need to send for a doctor.”

  “No doctor,” Michael said. “Tarik.”

  “But Michael—”

  Tarik rounded the bed to stand next to Grace.

  “Grace.” Michael’s hands moved as if to reach for her but stopped, as though the motion was too much to handle.

  “What do you need, Michael? Tell me. I’m here for you.” She leaned close in order to hear him.

  “Go. Away.”

  She froze. Tarik took her upper arm and helped her stand. She looked down at her husband, this man whom she barely recognized, feeling as if someone had hollowed out her stomach.