Read Online Rapture Becomes Her by Shirlee Busbee - Free Book Online
Authors: Shirlee Busbee
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mind. He’d thought her a pretty boy. . . . When he had time, it might be amusing to discover how she cleaned up.
Chapter 4
B arnaby woke the next morning and, despite the faint throbbing in the region of his head where he had suffered the blow he was convinced had been meant to kill him, he felt surprisingly well. Until he sat up and swung his long legs over the side of the bed. The room swam and for a moment he feared he’d black out.
He didn’t, but only by sheer stubborn effort was he able to stand up. Granted, he hung on to one of the bedposts for several moments and fought off the dizziness, but by God! He was standing on his own two feet.
With an unsteady gait, he walked to one of the chairs by the fire and sank gratefully into it. He was as weak as a newborn and he scowled at the fire on the hearth as if the exuberant red and yellow flames were at fault.
He heard a knock on the door but before he could reply, the door swung open and Flora, with a tray in her hands holding a pewter coffeepot, a white pottery mug and a plate heaped with fat golden biscuits, came tripping into the room. Catching sight of him sitting by the fire, she stopped abruptly.
“And what do you think you’re doing?” she demanded in a scolding tone, setting down the tray on the small table next to his chair. Hands on her slim hips, she declared, “You should still be abed. And you should let me dress that wound of yours. Ma says it probably should be wrapped.”
“Probably,” Barnaby agreed, feeling foolish sitting there swathed in yards and yards of cotton nightshirt that barely covered his knees. The deceased Mr. Gilbert, may God rest his soul, had been far rounder than he’d been tall.
Since Barnaby remained precisely where he was and the jut of his formidable chin told her he wasn’t going to climb meekly back into bed—or let her touch his head—after a moment Flora snorted and poured him a cup of black coffee. The rich scent of the coffee tickled his nose as she handed the steaming cup to him. Giving him a stern look, she said, “Stubborn, that’s what you are.”
Taking the cup, Barnaby smiled. “I see that in our short acquaintance you already have a correct reading of my character.”
She shook her head and grinned at him. “It’s a male trait. Now drink your coffee.”
Barnaby obeyed, taking a long swallow. Setting down the cup, he asked, “Is there someone you could send to Windmere for me? My man, Lamb, should have arrived and he will have a change of clothes for me.” He grimaced. “I assume what I was wearing is ruined.”
Nodding, Flora said, “Young Sam can take a message for you.” She shook her head. “As for your clothes . . . the shirt might be salvageable, but the sea water shrunk everything else.” She giggled. “Your pants might fit Sam and he’s only eleven.”
Barnaby half smiled. “You can give him everything—with my compliments.” He looked around. “Do you have quill and paper? I’d like to get the message to Lamb as soon as possible.”
John Lamb arrived some three hours later and her cheeks pink, a flustered Flora showed him into Barnaby’s room. Barnaby wasn’t surprised at Flora’s reaction. John might be his servant, and Barnaby often wondered who served whom, but women of all stations found his manservant most attractive.
As tall as Barnaby, he was a strikingly handsome man, the dark gold of his skin and the crisp curl of his black hair revealing an African ancestry not too far away in his background. But even more stunning were his azure eyes set against the deep gold of his complexion—that and his catlike grace and elegance.
After Flora reluctantly left, watching Lamb as he unpacked the valise he had brought with him, Barnaby asked, “And how was your journey?”
Lamb glanced over his broad shoulder at his employer and grinned, showing a gleaming set of even white teeth. “From your note, far less exciting than yours, it appears.”
“Be glad of
Chapter 4
B arnaby woke the next morning and, despite the faint throbbing in the region of his head where he had suffered the blow he was convinced had been meant to kill him, he felt surprisingly well. Until he sat up and swung his long legs over the side of the bed. The room swam and for a moment he feared he’d black out.
He didn’t, but only by sheer stubborn effort was he able to stand up. Granted, he hung on to one of the bedposts for several moments and fought off the dizziness, but by God! He was standing on his own two feet.
With an unsteady gait, he walked to one of the chairs by the fire and sank gratefully into it. He was as weak as a newborn and he scowled at the fire on the hearth as if the exuberant red and yellow flames were at fault.
He heard a knock on the door but before he could reply, the door swung open and Flora, with a tray in her hands holding a pewter coffeepot, a white pottery mug and a plate heaped with fat golden biscuits, came tripping into the room. Catching sight of him sitting by the fire, she stopped abruptly.
“And what do you think you’re doing?” she demanded in a scolding tone, setting down the tray on the small table next to his chair. Hands on her slim hips, she declared, “You should still be abed. And you should let me dress that wound of yours. Ma says it probably should be wrapped.”
“Probably,” Barnaby agreed, feeling foolish sitting there swathed in yards and yards of cotton nightshirt that barely covered his knees. The deceased Mr. Gilbert, may God rest his soul, had been far rounder than he’d been tall.
Since Barnaby remained precisely where he was and the jut of his formidable chin told her he wasn’t going to climb meekly back into bed—or let her touch his head—after a moment Flora snorted and poured him a cup of black coffee. The rich scent of the coffee tickled his nose as she handed the steaming cup to him. Giving him a stern look, she said, “Stubborn, that’s what you are.”
Taking the cup, Barnaby smiled. “I see that in our short acquaintance you already have a correct reading of my character.”
She shook her head and grinned at him. “It’s a male trait. Now drink your coffee.”
Barnaby obeyed, taking a long swallow. Setting down the cup, he asked, “Is there someone you could send to Windmere for me? My man, Lamb, should have arrived and he will have a change of clothes for me.” He grimaced. “I assume what I was wearing is ruined.”
Nodding, Flora said, “Young Sam can take a message for you.” She shook her head. “As for your clothes . . . the shirt might be salvageable, but the sea water shrunk everything else.” She giggled. “Your pants might fit Sam and he’s only eleven.”
Barnaby half smiled. “You can give him everything—with my compliments.” He looked around. “Do you have quill and paper? I’d like to get the message to Lamb as soon as possible.”
John Lamb arrived some three hours later and her cheeks pink, a flustered Flora showed him into Barnaby’s room. Barnaby wasn’t surprised at Flora’s reaction. John might be his servant, and Barnaby often wondered who served whom, but women of all stations found his manservant most attractive.
As tall as Barnaby, he was a strikingly handsome man, the dark gold of his skin and the crisp curl of his black hair revealing an African ancestry not too far away in his background. But even more stunning were his azure eyes set against the deep gold of his complexion—that and his catlike grace and elegance.
After Flora reluctantly left, watching Lamb as he unpacked the valise he had brought with him, Barnaby asked, “And how was your journey?”
Lamb glanced over his broad shoulder at his employer and grinned, showing a gleaming set of even white teeth. “From your note, far less exciting than yours, it appears.”
“Be glad of
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