"I don't believe," he thought, "I've woken with such a screaming pain in my head since then. Odd, but I don't recall what I drank or with whom. I don't recall anything at all. If I open my eyes, though, my head will surely crack in two."

He moved slightly and emitted a wrenching groan. The pain in his head was familiar, but sharp spasms in his leg were not. His eyes flew open, memories flooding back. The room was too dark to see. "Damnation."

Catherine woke at the sound of his groan and moved silently to the bedside.

"My Lord?" Chadbourne heard fear and concern in her voice. "Are you awake?"

"Of course I..." The effort to give a biting retort sent spears of pain through his head.

More softly, "I, I'm awake. Where am I?"

"Songbird Cottage. Do you recall what happened?"

"Horses..." He knit his brow in the effort to recall more, causing his head to throb. When he attempted to roll over, the agony in his leg made it impossible.

"Still now, lie still. You've broken your leg. Would you like some water?"

His mouth was indeed very dry. "Yes, please."

Catherine went to the small washstand and poured a cup of water, adding as she did one of the powders Dr. Kendall had left for her hours before. The good doctor had set his leg and, after a careful examination, assured Arthur Wheatly he would recover.

"He'll have a dreadful head, but he'll do. Let him sleep as long as he can. Its the best thing for him."

It was Catherine who had sent for the physician, and Catherine had seen to it his lordship was transported carefully back to Songbird Cottage, strapped firmly to a stretcher. She was both relieved and alarmed when he remained unconscious as they carried the pallet up the front stairs to a small but cheerful bedroom on the second floor. She was pleased he was spared the pain of the jolting trip back to the cottage and up the stairs. Anxious at the depth of his loss of consciousness and its length, however, she had arranged his care with ruthless efficiency.

While she allowed MacLeish and Freddy to remove his clothing, it was Catherine herself who remained at his bedside when the physician left, and now she held the cup to his mouth, catching spills with a soft linen cloth. With gentle fingers she smoothed back the hair from his brow and rubbed skillfully at his temples soothing the tension.

"Go back to sleep. It is better if you rest."

His lordship began to drift away. As he did a recollection worked its way to the surface of his mind. "Putney. White Oak Inn."

"I know the White Oak. It is in Rousby. Who is Putney?"

"Valet."

"You want us to send for your man? At the White Oak Inn?"

"Obliged if...send..." The last was inaudible as his lordship fell into deep sleep.

The sun was high when he next awoke and it shone brightly through a pair of white curtains. The room in which Chadbourne found himself was tiny with gleaming white walls and sturdy furniture. In addition to the narrow bed it contained a chest of drawers on which was placed a bouquet of late summer blossoms, a washstand with a delicately wrought porcelain pitcher and bowl, and a spacious rocking chair.

It was the chair that drew his lordship's attention. Or rather, not the chair, but the figure in it. The window was open and a gentle breeze ruffled Catherine's hair slightly as she slept. His lordship watched the play of light in her hair and let his eyes roam slowly over the delicate blue lawn dress that wrapped softly around her womanly curves and clung closely to her legs. His gaze came to rest on the sight of one shapely ankle visible beneath the hem and a surprisingly tiny unshod foot perched a few inches from the floor. The sight of her gave him an unexpected sense of safety and well-being.

"My angel of the night," he murmured and a slight smile played at the edges of his mouth. His eyes retraced their leisurely path from the toes that curled innocently beneath the blue of her gown, passing admiringly over the fine cut of the gown itself as it passed along the curve of her legs and gathered in an ivory sash beneath her breast. He noticed absently that the shawl, which had fallen back to reveal a very fetching expanse of rosy skin above the bodice of her gown, was of an excellent silk and let his eyes linger there before coming to rest on her face.

Not at all the thing, he thought, for a respectable young lady to be here alone with a man. Not at all the thing for him to be admiring her charms so boldly. Chadbourne's conscience told him to wake her but he yielded to the tempting charm her innocence and peace presented. Sweet, yet somehow familiar. He realized he was watching the pulse in her throat with fascination, and returned his eyes to her face.

Definitely familiar. Chadbourne tried to remember a house party at which they might have met. It could not have been last Season. Her dress, if not the first stare of fashion, bespoke elegance and nobility. If a miss this lovely were out, he would inevitably have encountered her at one of numerous events expected of the fashionable set during the London Season. He would have remembered her if she had been out last Season.

She must be visiting with the Wheatlys. A relative perhaps? But they have no relatives, Chadbourne knew. None other than Charles.

She didn't look like Lady Allison but there was a certain family resemblance to the older daughter.

The older daughter!

The recognition startled him and the sudden movement caused an explosion of pain in his head.

"Damn and damnation!"

The vehemence of his cry, mixing with dreams of screaming horses and a man's face writhing in agony woke Catherine in a storm of fear. She bolted from the chair to his side with a cry of alarm.

"My Lord, what is it?"

In her concern, Catherine leaned over the bed, her hand pressing on the mattress. Even this slight pressure was enough to send spasms of pain through Chadbourne's shattered leg, yet he was barely aware of it. The nearness of the young woman leaning over him, her scent, her delicate breath, the warm green eyes wide with alarm and concern filled his senses causing a surge of desire so strong he forgot his other pain in the ache of it.

Misinterpreting his discomfort, Catherine turned to examine the splint. Chadbourne was suddenly acutely aware of his undress as Catherine's hand moved expertly along his injured leg. Desire warred with embarrassment til both gave way to a more comfortable emotion.

"I'll thank you to remove your hands from my person, Miss Wheatly!" The bite of Chadbourne's disapproving anger would have chilled the heart of younger members of the Landrum family and sent servants that failed to meet his lordship's demanding standards trembling. "Your ministrations are outside of enough," he continued dismissively, "You may send for my man."

An equal chill might have afflicted those who knew Catherine Wheatly well had they seen her face as she paused and, turning slowly to face him, rose to her full, imposing height.

Glaring down at him she announced, "Your man, Lord Chadbourne, has been summoned. He will arrive by midday. Should you have need of service before then, there is a bell on the washstand. You need only ring. As for myself, I have had a very troublesome night. I'll take my leave of you."

Whether it was the hauteur of her set-down, or awareness of his own rag manners that prodded him, his lordship could not afterwards say. Her stately exit was slow but the room was small and her hand was already on the door when he bit out, "It is wholly unbecoming for you to be alone with me. Have you no sense of propriety?"

Her back became a little straighter but she didn't turn. "A weakness, I admit. I cannot bear to see so much as a wounded dog suffer without ministering to it. Even one that has bitten me." Though the sound of the door closing was not audible to the rest of Songbird Cottage, the sharp echo made his lordship wince all the same. He squeezed his eyes tightly, but even through the ache he could see that proud back in its fine gown. Wounded dog indeed. He could do without the ministrations of Miss Catherine Wheatly. The breeze was soothing and the bed tidy and comfortable. Putney might not arrive til late afternoon but he could wait.

His lordship's resolution lasted the better part of an hour before thirst and hunger got the better of him. Able to doze only fitfully for the discomfort in his battered body, he found the dryness in his throat in the end to be the most unbearable torture. He moved his arm toward the signal bell his tormentor had indicated.

It was about five inches tall. Silver, he thought, and engraved with a pattern of roses and ivy. And it was, he found, just out of reach.

With a grimace he stretched his arm a little farther. Three attempts and three failures later, his lordship's temper became extremely short. William Landrum, Earl of Chadbourne, in his thirty-second year was not a man who accepted defeat lightly. He took breaths in deep gulps, preparing for a final attempt and pushed himself up on one elbow. Stretching the other arm toward his goal, he used his good leg to push his body forward and bridge the final distance. He snatched the bell in a grip of iron and fell back onto the pillow, his success somewhat tempered by pain so great he fought back nausea for a few moments.

"Oh, ingenious, Miss Wheatly. You will find I am not so easily overset." His eyes gave lie to his words as he gazed balefully at the prize it his hand. If he rang, would she come? Was she waiting outside the door, enjoying his discomfort? Chadbourne's eyes shown with malicious pleasure, anticipating the set-down he would give her.

The ringing summons did not get so immediate a response. Impatiently, he rang it again, louder and longer. "Do you mean to leave me here to perish of thirst?"

The door opened as though on command, but the person who came in had to stoop slightly to enter the door. The huge bulk of a man filled the room and went over to the water pitcher. "Here be yer water."

A servant, clearly, but dressed rather more for outside work than that of a house servant, Chadbourne thought. As Chadbourne took his water he wondered suspiciously whether the hooded eyes weren't insolent in their disapproval. "Who are you, and where is Miss Wheatly?"

"MacLeish." If the man heard the second question, he chose to ignore it. Wisely, so did Chadbourne. The man turned to leave.

"MacLeish." The servant hesitated. "Might I have some breakfast also?" A curt nod was the only response.

The tray arrived so quickly it was apparent Chadbourne's needs had been anticipated. That it contained only a steaming bowl of porridge confirmed his lordship's belief he was being poorly treated. "What is this? Would she starve me also?"

It was a silent MacLeish who had brought the tray. The look of pure condemnation he shot at Chadbourne was quickly masked. MacLeish did not see fit to enlighten him about Dr. Kendall's orders, but left the patient to fend for himself.

And later when his lordship rang again, complaining loudly about the quality of his breakfast and over the indignity of MacLeish cleaning the spills on his chin and borrowed nightshirt, MacLeish bore the tray away in silence.

Throughout the morning MacLeish came to fill his lordship's increasingly peevish requests. While Chadbourne's manners and breeding warred with his temper, the servant's silence was a speaking commentary on this situation.

When it came time to fetch his lordship's lunch MacLeish had no intention of sitting at the bedside spooning the prescribed broth ("Clear only, no bits of food.") into the mouth of this unwilling patient. He was, therefore, very relieved to turn the duties over to his lordship's valet.

Putney was a slender, impeccably dressed young man with a perpetual air of long-suffering who had traveled post chaise from the White Oak. Catherine has sent Freddy off to summon him at dawn, and he had come as quickly as was humanly possible, bearing his lordship's luggage. Four years with William Landrum had taught Putney not to fret over grass-stained breeches, muddy carpet, torn gloves, or rumpled cravats, but had not prepared him to respond to catastrophe. In matters of safety and responsibility, the Earl of Chadbourne was a careful man. Putney had had to tend misused clothing, cure the occasional but not habitual hangover, and prepare to travel between his lordship's estates and those of his charges with very little notice, but he had never had to minister to injury. Putney was, as a result, somewhat overset at the news.

His nerves were not improved by Freddy's garish description of the accident, told with relish as he trotted along beside the chaise on the return trip. Also unnerving was the ramshackle household into which he found himself being welcomed by a distressed elderly gentleman, yet another young boy anxious to describe painful details, and a delicate young thing who alternately added yet more description and threatened to swoon until the eldest daughter, clearly the only reasonable being in this place, sent her to her room. Nor were his nerves helped by the clear disapproval of the Wheatly's servants as they described his lordship's behavior and treatment of their "Miss Catherine." If that description of a man he knew to be correct in all things (if somewhat careless about his appearance in Putney's opinion) seemed unlikely, Putney had already concluded that Catherine was the sole presence of responsibility and gentility in this place.

But Putney was a man who knew his duty and he had read the doctor's notes for himself. It was, therefore, with considerable courage that he squared his shoulders and, bearing a tray of broth and bread, allowed MacLeish to usher him into the sick room.

"Putney! Where have you been? Did you think to leave me here at the mercy of that harridan who is starving me and her great hulking servant who is denying me care?"

Luckily for Putney, this outburst seemed to sap his lordship's strength. Placing the tray on the washstand, Putney snapped a smart square of linen up under his lordship's chin he said, "Shall we begin with the broth or the bread?"

The grumbling was mild. "Would she give you nothing else?"

"The doctor's orders are clearly written and posted in the kitchen. Clear broth and bread only today. He'll be round to see you tomorrow morning and perhaps we can do better then. May I suggest we begin with the broth?"

His lordship glowered but accepted a spoonful of broth. "There was a doctor?"

"But of course, My Lord. I understand you were unconscious when he was here, though he stayed until you came to briefly, I am told. Perhaps in your discomfort you have been unable to appreciate the professional splinting of your leg." Another spoonful successfully passed between them, and another.

"Show me."

"My Lord?"

"My leg. I want to see, help me up."

"I'm not sure that is best, My Lord."

"Now!"

"Yes, My Lord." Putney ignored the grimace of pain as he lifted his lordship's shoulders forward. Stubborn man, he thought, and eased him back down carefully.

The darkened blue eyes closed for a moment. "It looks well enough." The tone was grudging. "Did this doctor indicate the damage?"

"It is a clean break, I believe, and will heal. You may ask him yourself tomorrow."

"I will, oh, I most certainly will."