The Sherbrooke Bride - Catherine Coulter [56]
“No, no,” she said, scrambling to her feet. She was shivering with cold and slapped her hands on her arms.
“That isn’t stinging nettles, thank the magnanimous Lord, or we’d he itching right now. Let’s hurry. It’s not far now.”
Tom O’Malley’s cottage sat at the end of the narrow path in the middle of a small clearing. It was clearly the home of someone who valued his privacy, a slope-roofed cottage of sturdy oak, but one story, and freshly painted, the grounds surrounding it clear of weeds. There were roses and honeysuckle, all well tended, climbing up the sides of the cottage. It looked like a mansion to Alexandra and as dark as a tomb.
“I don’t want him to shoot us,” Douglas said quietly, and began to lightly pound on the stout door, saying, “Tom. Tom O’Malley.” He pounded harder then. “It’s Lord Northcliffe! Come, man, let us in.”
Alexandra didn’t know what to expect, but the very tall, very gaunt-looking man of middle years, fully dressed, quite calm to see his master on his doorstep in the middle of the night, wasn’t quite it. He had a very long, very thin nose and it quivered as he said in a low gruff voice, “My lord, aye, but surely ’tis ye. And this be yer new countess? Aye, and certainly she is for Willie at the stables told me about her and how she was comely and a bit slight, and light-handed with a horse. Welcome, milady. I’ll build up the fire so that ye may warm yerselves. Nay, it matters not that ye are wet. The floor will dry, and ’tis but wood after all. Come in, come in. Don’t tarry in this miserable rain.”
“This is Tom O’Malley,” Douglas said to Alexandra. “He and his mother arrived at Northcliffe from County Cork some twenty-five years ago, thank the heavens.”
“Aye, ’tis me all right, milord, and ’twere twenty-six years before. Ah, ’tis blood on yer face, milord, and ye came to a grief, eh, and struck yer head.” He efficiently took Alexandra’s place, assisting Douglas to a plain high-backed chair in front of the fireplace. “Just rest yer bones, milord. Milady,” he added, turning to Alexandra, who was dripping very close to a beautiful multicolored handwoven cotton rug. She quickly stood aside, exclaiming, “Oh, it’s lovely, Mr. O’Malley.”
“Aye, milady, me blessed mother made it with her own caring hands, she did, aye, ’twere a wonderful woman she were. Come here now, and warm yerself. ’Tis dry clothing ye be needing now. Nothing fancy, ye understand, but dry.”
“That will be wonderful, Mr. O’Malley. His Lordship and I thank you.”
She moved swiftly to Douglas, who was sitting in the chair, staring blankly into the fireplace. “Your head still pains you, doesn’t it?”
He looked up at her. “Build up the fire, please.”
She did as he bid, then wiped her hands on her sodden skirt. He eyed her then said, “Actually I was just trying to credit that I was with you in the middle of the night in my gamekeeper’s cottage. It isn’t what one would expect. It isn’t even on my list of worst nightmares.”
Her chin went up and the broom handle down her back stiffened. “You wouldn’t be here if you weren’t so stubborn. You wouldn’t even be here if you were better able to handle your horse.”
As a verbal blow it wasn’t bad. Douglas wanted to give as good as she’d just given, but he felt too rotten. He said only, “Make no more sport with me. Hush and move closer to the fire. No, don’t look at me as if I’m drawing my last breath. My head hurts just a bit. Ah, Tom, with dry clothes.”
Alexandra wouldn’t move until Douglas went first into the small bedchamber to change out of his wet clothes. When he emerged, she smiled. He looked wonderful to her in his homespun trousers and handmade white linen shirt. The trousers were very tight on him and she found that she couldn’t quite turn away as quickly as undoubtedly a lady should. The shirt laced up the front, but Douglas hadn’t bothered lacing the rolled cotton strings all the way to his throat. For several moments, she forgot that she was wet and frowzy and bedraggled.