“Where does he sleep?” Durward asked.
“You don’t have to—”
“Upstairs?” Durward asked.
“The first door at the top,” she said, giving in. “I’ll bring the light.”
Durward all but carried the now gently singing drunk up the stairs, while the girl followed, holding the lamp high. On the landing, she slipped past and opened the first door. She lit two short candles from the lamp, while Durward dumped his burden onto the bed with some relief.
“Perhaps there’s something he needs? Food? Water?”
Rather to his surprise, the girl nodded and went out. The drunk co-operated like a child, so it was easy to get him out of his coat and breeches. At which point, the patient made use of the chamber pot, on his own initiative, then fell onto the bed.
Durward turned him onto his side. In contrast to the crisp, fresh sheets, the man smelled of stale rum, ale, tobacco, and sweat.
Durward had just pulled the covers over him when the girl came back with a large glass of water which she placed on the bedside table. Her father snored, oblivious.
Durward observed her as she cast a quick, assessing glance over her father. He suspected she had done this or something similar many times. The anger he had had sensed churning her up from their initial encounter, was of long-standing, as though she were so inured to it, it bored her.
Even as he pitied her, and wondered about her life, her status, and her father’s, her rare beauty hit him like a blow—large, brilliant green eyes gleaming in the candle-light, shining brown hair, pale, flawless skin, the delicate, refined features,that still somehow spoke of character and determination, a soft mouth that hovered between tenderness and fury.
Bugger off, she had snarled at him. And later, with so much more difficulty,I have to thank you for your kindness.
The girl was a mass of contradictions, and she was dealing with the impossible. Though even as he knew an urge to help, he was aware it stemmed as much from her beauty as from his own chivalry. He was a rake by nature and by present, urgent inclination; and neither of them needed that complication in their lives.
She walked briskly out of the room, so he followed.
In the hallway, she spun around to face him, drawing in her breath. And depriving him of his own.
“I’m sorry to be inhospitable, but despite my gratitude, I must ask you to leave. My reputation hangs by a thread as it is.”
And it was probably all she had left.
“So does mine,” he said.And with more cause.“May I at least know your name, so that I might call upon your father?”
Wariness entered her expression, but as if she decided he would discover easily enough for himself, she shrugged and replied, “My father is Captain Jasper.”
Durward bowed. “Miss Jasper. I’m Durward, staying at the Black Lion, should you have need of me.”
“Good night, Mr. Durward.”
It hardly seemed the right moment to correct her. He took his hat from her, inclined his head and opened the door. A curtain twitched at the house next door.
“Good night, ma’am,” he said, and sauntered off back down the street toward the Black Lion. He heard the door shut and lock immediately behind him. He was also aware of being watched from other windows on both sides of the street. It was a respectable if hardly wealthy neighbourhood.
Captain and Miss Jasper had come from better. Despite the one obscenity she had thrown at him, she spoke otherwise like an educated lady. And her face, by turns angry, vulnerable, proud, and ashamed, was the kind to haunt a man’s dreams...
And Durward had a couple of days to fill before his ship sailed for Lisbon.
CARINA JASPER FELTa prickle of shame as she recalled that obscenity uttered to the man who had proven to be such a good Samaritan. In truth, she had spat the word at him partly from temper, and partly from the knowledge that it would be the quickest way to be rid of him. She didn’t need a man making her lewd offers when she had a very limited amount of time to get her father home before he collapsed in the street and she would be forced to beg for help.
As she closed and locked the door firmly behind Mr. Durward, she knew an urge to peek through the parlour curtains and watch him. Which was ridiculous. So the man had a handsome face and enough courage to face up to a few footpads. There was no need to award him the status of hero, let alone ogle him for his grace of movement.
And yet she was aware of both.
She set about clearing up for the night, moving her father’s uneaten dinner from the oven to the larder—there wasn’t so much food in the house that she could afford to waste any —and washing up the few dishes and utensils she had left behind to go searching for Papa. As she climbed the stairs, lit by her last stump of wax candle, the face of the stranger still tried to intrude.
Mr. Durward. He was the first person ever to offer her practical help—if she didn’t count Papa’s drinking companions who occasionally deposited him on the doorstep before bolting,leaving her to drag his snoring body into the house on her own, under the glare of the twitching curtains.
