Memories

Chapter 3-2

Maximilian Arthur George Dearne, Captain of the King’s Hussars, opened his eyes and blinked. His entire body felt as though he had been run over by canon with a burning, crushing pain screaming through his entire being. His pounding head was made worse by a thirst unlike anything he had ever felt. For a moment he thought he was back in the field, but a quick glance around told him he was in a small room somewhere, tucked in a comfortable bed. It felt worse than a hangover, he had experienced most variants of that particular hell, but this was worse, much worse. When he moved every muscle shrieked in agony, and his right thigh felt as though a red hot poker was being rammed into it. He grunted, and tried to move, but gave it up when sweat sprang out all over his ravaged body and the pain extended to his balls.

He experienced a moment of panic whilst he fumbled his way through the nightshirt to his groin and the relief at finding himself intact was considerable. He lay panting, but then his whole body seized as a memory claimed him at precisely the same moment his memory chose to walk through the door. His attention was on the cup he was carrying so Dearne had a moment to study the man. Not too tall, overlong, shaggy black hair that curled about a face with sharply defined cheekbones, and broad shoulders on an otherwise slender frame.

When Will looked up, Dearne stared into dark brown eyes, so dark they looked black. Will jumped and almost dropped the cup but then snapped his mouth shut, the mouth Dearne could recall kissing with alarming clarity. When the dark brows rammed down low into a ferocious scowl, Dearne’s heart sank. Christ, what had he done? A beating now might just finish him off.

“Good morning,” Dearne tried. His voice was ridiculously rusty and weak, so he cleared his throat. “You must be Will?”

The man nodded.

A man of few words? “Where am I?” Dearne tried again.

“Denton Hall.”

Ah, Yorkshire. That might explain the man’s dour demeanour. “Have I been here long?”

“A couple of days,” Will said, and placed the cup in his hand on the stand at the side of the bed.

Dearne looked around. “I am taking it I am not in the main house?” He hadn’t spent much time in the Hall, but like everything else which belonged to Holbrook the lodge was beautifully appointed and the room he was in looked like the servants’ quarters. Dearne looked again at Will.

“You are in my house. It’s the Steward’s cottage on the estate,” Will said. “Or it is my house for the next couple of weeks. Do you want to try and sit up?”

Dearne tried to decipher the caustic note to his voice, but decided he felt too weak.

“Yes, please?” He tried to keep the wariness out of his tone, but suspected he had failed when Will quirked an eyebrow. Dearne couldn’t stifle a groan when he pulled himself up and was glad of Will’s arms. When he was propped against the pillows he was panting as though he had run miles and perspiration trickled down his temple. His heart felt as though it might burst out of his chest. Whilst he fussed with the blanket he tried desperately to remember how he had come to be at the lodge in the home of the…what? Steward? But nothing came to mind.

“Who are you?” he asked eventually.

Will pulled in a breath. “My name is William Marsden and I am the Steward. Or I was.”

“Was?”

“Don’t you remember?”

Dearne tried to keep calm. The man was clearly angry about something, probably the kiss, so he couldn’t really blame him, but for crying out loud would it hurt him to tell him what the hell was going on?

“No, William Marsden, I don’t. If I did I would not be asking you.” He tried to keep his tone mild, but hell.

Dearne watched Will’s jaw tighten and his frown intensify. “You lost Denton Manor at a card game so it is changing hands. I am to leave next week so thanks to your love of gambling, but inadequacy in the art, I am out of a home and a job.”

Considerable anger bubbled beneath the words that were delivered in the same tone Dearne had used to ask the question.

“So,” Dearne continued with exaggerated patience, “Why am I in your bed, in your home feeling like I have been beaten half to death?” Dearne was impressed at the way Will maintained his stance with him through the exchange. By rights Will should be subservient, but Dearne was fast gaining the impression William Marsden was subservient to no-one.

“Because your sister turned up with you, half dead, and begged me to take you and look after you,” he said.

And that was a surprise. “Minty? Minty brought me here? He hadn’t seen his sister in years.”

“Yes. She offered me a good deal of money to keep you safe here, and away from Holbrook. Apparently your brother wants you dead. She said he did this to you.” Will gestured vaguely at him.

Dearne’s head was spinning. Holbrook. His brother? Flashes of images smashed into his skull. Agony; screaming agony. That was all he could recall. He certainly couldn’t remember what he might had done to Holbrook to precipitate such an outburst that he wanted to kill him. Dearne grabbed his head, now pounding, and realised he could remember very little about what happened to land him in Will Marsden’s cottage.

“Well,” he managed, pulling his eyes open to look at Will again and effected his best drawl. “If you are going to beat me, Mr. Marsden do you think we can get it over with, the suspense is killing me.”

Will’s frown remained in place. “Why the hell would I beat you? I’ve just spent the last day and night trying to keep you from dying.”

“And why would you do that?” Dearne asked softly. For a ridiculous moment he wanted to hear, well, he didn’t know what he wanted to hear, but it wasn’t what Will said.

“Because your sister offered me a considerable sum to take you in, and another if you were still alive by the end of the week when she returns for you. Seeing as you gambled away my livelihood it seemed like a fair exchange.”

Dearne rubbed his throbbing temple. “Indeed.” The beautiful man who had been his lifeline had been paid to be there. Wonderful.

“I was referring to the kiss, Mr. Marsden. I apologise for kissing you,” he said with a hint of challenge and watched Will blush furiously. It was surprisingly delightful.

“Oh,” was all he said, and Dearne watched him drop his gaze and fiddle with the cup he had put on the table.

“This is a draught that should help if you are in pain.”

“Is it laudanum?”

“No. It’s herbs the housekeeper used to give me for headache. It helps.”

“Thank you.” Dearne accepted the cup and drank the warm, bitter liquid straight down. He tried to hold his gaze but Will looked away. Was that all the reaction he was going to get to mentioning the kiss? Mentioning that moment of weakness where he had laid bare his darkest secret? Dearne handed the cup back but Will still refused to look at him.

“Apology accepted,” he muttered and fled the room, leaving Dearne staring at the closed door.