Destitute On His Doorstep. Helen Dickson

to have excellent health. Some people are not as lucky. In someone with a less robust constitution, a severe bout of the measles can be fatal. How are you feeling now?’

      ‘As bad as I look.’ She smiled, her expression open and direct. ‘I apologise for not looking my best.’

      Francis marvelled at the fact that she could actually joke about it, which gave him the impression that pretensions were completely foreign to her, which made her refreshingly unique. Unfortunately that realisation led quickly to another one, one that banished his pleasure at her recovery and made him take a step back from the bed. There was nothing natural about the way he was thinking about her. He was the last man on earth who had the right to think about her in any personal way.

      ‘I can see you are tired. I’ll leave you to Mary’s ministrations. And please don’t worry. So as not to upset or anger you, I shall make myself scarce.’ He turned and went to the door.

      ‘Thank you,’ Jane said quietly.

      Francis turned and looked at her. ‘For what?’

      Those candid eyes were levelled on his, delving, searching, and Francis had the fleeting impression that they could see right into his blackened soul. She obviously hadn’t got his true measure because she smiled and said, ‘For letting me stay.’

      ‘You were very ill. I was hardly going to turn you out.’

      Jane was very much on Francis’s mind as he left her. The shadow of the dark days of War and his own personal torment were never far from his tortured mind. War and death was an ugly business, the aftermath of battle always messy and merciless. No matter how he had tried to eradicate what he had seen and done from his mind, it had left its mark on him. Like a wound it was painful, deep and festering. War had hardened him and changed the man he once was, but on that fateful day when Jane Lucas had returned to Bilborough, for the first time he had paused to contemplate his meaningless life.

      Something had begun to grow within him. At first it was only a vague restlessness, then it had become interest—interest in Jane Lucas. Had he imagined it? Was it a dream that he had conjured from the depths of hopelessness that Jane Lucas had actually returned to her old home? The haunting image of soft, perfect features and rippling dark hair swirling around her shoulders, and ripe, curving breasts swelling almost free of a provocative red gown was branded on his memory with minute detail, stirring an agonising impatience that could only be relieved when he could hold her in his arms.

      In increasing frustration he flung himself on to his bed. Was it possible that where Jacob Atkins’s brutality had failed, the illusion of Jane Lucas came close to breaking him? In desperation he held the vision, for when it faded it would be replaced by a gruesome one of a dimly lit room, of being beaten and slowly tortured by a one-eyed sadist.

      True to his word Francis kept away, but he did enquire of Mary how Jane was doing. Wearily Jane knew he did so probably out of duty or an unexpected pity, or guilt that he had been the catalyst of the whole sorry business.

      Now the fever was gone she was restless and insisted on getting out of bed. After four days the measles rash had turned brown and began to fade, but her cough, though not as severe, persisted.

      One week after she had taken to her bed, the world still felt unreal. When she thought of the future a sudden fear threatened to engulf her. However, she was relieved there was no word, no sign of Jacob Atkins.

      The hardest and most painful thing of all was accepting that Bilborough Hall was no longer her home. She begrudged Francis Russell every stone and blade of grass, every fraction of his unearned possession, and she never expected to feel any different.

      It was early afternoon and she sat by the window curled up in a large chair, her feet tucked under her nightgown and feeling pretty miserable. Nothing stirred outside the window and the house was quiet. Leaving her perch, she paced the room. Intense boredom was beginning to drive her insane. Crossing to the door, she opened it and peered out, looking up and down the landing, vaguely aware of Scamp scurrying out and disappearing round a corner, delighted to be freed from the confines of the room. Immediately on the heels of his flight, something rattled and crashed to the floor.

      Wondering what her mischievous pet had sent flying, she hurried to investigate. Her curiosity went unappeased, for as she turned the corner she came to a mind-jarring halt against an obstacle firmly standing in her path. The following moments became a time of utter chaos. With dazed senses, she reeled away haphazardly. The threat of falling seemed imminent as her bare foot slipped on the highly polished floor. In the next instant, an arm stretched out and clamped about her waist in an unyielding vise. Before she could gather her wits, she was swept full length against a solid human structure that, by rights, should have made her hackles rise. The thin fabric of her nightgown seemed insufficient protection against the stalwart frame, and she had cause to wince within the unyielding embrace of the man who clasped her so tightly.

      In an attempt to regain her dignity, immediately she pushed him away, relieved when he let his arms fall and released her. Upon reclaiming her freedom, she stepped away from him, only to find that the object Scamp had overturned was a large vase of flowers, the water having formed a pool around her feet. She slipped once more and found herself completely off balance, her arms flailing wildly about her in a frantic attempt to catch hold of something to stop herself falling. The only thing within her grasp was the front of the leather jerkin the man was wearing and in desperation she clutched at it. Even then she failed to regain her footing and as she went down her shoulder made hard contact with Colonel Russell’s loins.

      Immediately he choked from her assault. Unfortunately Jane’s disgrace was not complete, for as she slid down his hard-muscled thighs and fell at his feet with a bump, her legs went in different directions and her nightgown rode up above her knees. It was difficult to know who was the more shocked or who winced more from the fiasco.

      Silently reproaching herself for her clumsiness, carefully Jane sought to regain her modesty. She scrambled to sit upright, bringing her legs together. Upon achieving that position, she pulled her nightgown down as she sought to hide the bare flesh from his eyes.

      ‘I’m so sorry,’ she uttered, shoving the heavy mane of her hair from her face as she tried to conceal her mortification and distress, hot colour mounting her cheeks. ‘My dog doesn’t like being shut in, but I can’t have him leaping about all over the place, as you see, for he seems to have knocked over a vase, and—’

      ‘Never mind,’ Francis managed to say, the tendons in his face taut as he fairly struggled to surmount his manly discomfort. Reaching out, he took her arm and pulled her up, his arm going round her waist once again as he set her on her feet. Her hair, which he realised had a life and direction of its own, was tumbling about her neck and down her back.

      Jane caught a vague scent of the cologne he wore, mingled with an underlying smell of leather and horses. The scent was pleasant and provocative and floated tantalisingly through her senses. A painful grimace was evidence of Colonel Russell’s continued discomfort, tightening his chiselled features as he endured the torment.

      In complete innocence, Jane enquired, ‘Is anything wrong? Did I hurt you when I fell?’

      To her shock he smiled at her enquiry, a slow, seductive, secretive smile that made his eyes gleam beneath their heavy lids. Jane was far too naïve to recognise the nuances of it, or she would have seen peril lurking behind that come-hither smile of his. It was the dangerously beguiling smile of a ruthless predator—a predator who wanted her to sense his power, his defiance of any who stood in his path, and to be seduced by what he represented.

      ‘Just a bit,’ he replied, diligently adjusting his trousers at the waist.

      Realising too late what had happened, Jane let a breathless gasp escape her throat and she suffered an endless moment of excruciating embarrassment. The maidenly blush that mantled her cheeks deepened. Purposefully she focused her gaze on the upper part of his chest. It seemed the only way she could marshal her thoughts. Her response to his closeness was as unwanted as it was lightning quick. She felt a hot pull of attraction deep inside that could not lead to any good.

      In