Happy Sunday lovely readers! It was a beautiful beach day in my little corner of the globe, but a cyclone is coming down the coast so we'll be seeing some much needed rain for the next day or two. Is it still freezing in the north?

I am glad you enjoyed last chapter as much as me, though it did end on a sad note. This one has some similar ups and downs.

Thank you so much for your kind words and smiley reviews. :)

xx Elise

Chapter 10

Pity

The atmosphere remained strained for the rest of the evening. When Isabella offered another apology, the viscount dismissed her concerns. "I am just tired," he said, but she thought it obvious her thoughtless words had affected him deeply.

"I appreciate your attentiveness, but there is no need for you to spend the night curled up in a chair," he said when evening came. "I assume you have been using one of the guest rooms for your clothing and such? You will get a much better sleep in a proper bed."

"But what if you should need assistance?"

Dawkins gestured to one of the doorways leading off the enormous bedroom. "There's a cot in the dressing room I can use. I'm a light sleeper, and I'll leave the door open, so I can 'ear His Lordship if 'e wakes."

"What an excellent idea." Isabella felt foolish, as she hadn't thought to check, not that she would have felt comfortable being even that far away from her previously fretful patient. Despite his improving condition, she was still wary of leaving him. "You will come and wake me if I'm needed?" she asked the young ex-soldier, who appeared quite capable despite his injuries.

"Of course, Miss Swan."

"Good night, Miss Swan." The viscount punctuated his words with a determined nod, and Isabella reluctantly took her leave.

After waking repeatedly throughout the night, each time with a start as she imagined she had heard him calling for her, Isabella felt decidedly anxious when she entered his bedroom early the next day.

"Good morning, my lord," she said, finding him sitting propped up in the bed. Having taken extra care with her appearance, she patted her hair to make sure no wisps had escaped her braided coronet. She paused halfway between the door and the end of his bed and curtsied.

He dismissed the action with a wave. "None of that. You're not a servant."

"Maybe not, but my rank is considerably lower than yours. It is expected for the daughter of a vicar to curtsy to a viscount."

"Well, at least wait until I can stand so I can show my respects in return with a bow. I feel rude enough as it is, laying abed with a lady present."

"We're not house guests at a garden party, my lord. I have been acting as your nurse."

"A situation I am unlikely to forget."

He did not sound pleased by the admission, and Isabella feared he was yet to forgive her insensitivity or for robbing him of his dignity. Taking a breath, she came to stand at his side. The nightshirt Dawkins had found for him was rumpled. Combined with his sleep-tousled hair and newly shaved face, it gave him an almost boyish appearance.

"May I?" She gestured to his brow. He nodded, closing his eyes when she pressed her fingers to his forehead. She kept her hand in place for a moment, relieved to find his skin cool and dry.

"Are you hungry?" she asked, and his eyes flew open.

"Pardon?"

"Are you hungry, my lord?" she repeated, puzzled by his hoarse tone. With a horrid start, realisation dawned. "You are in pain."

He had gone without his medicine during the night, because she had not been there. She stepped to the sideboard and prepared a glass of Alice's herbal elixir, making sure to add a hefty dose of willow bark.

"Why didn't you have Dawkins wake me?" she asked, looking over her shoulder. "There was no need to suffer. I would have come at any time of the clock."

After returning to his side, she sat beside him on the bed. But when she brought the glass to his lips, he surprised her by grabbing hold of her forearm.

"I am not in pain," he said. "Well, not overly."

"Oh." Isabella frowned. "I thought . . . It's just that you seemed . . ."

Her gaze lowered to where his fingers were wrapped around her wrist. While she watched, he brushed his thumb over the sensitive skin on the inside of her arm. Her stomach fluttered in a curious fashion, and she wondered at its origin. Surely not? It couldn't be desire, could it?

The viscount squeezed her wrist, and her attention returned to his darker-than-usual gaze.

"Do I still have to take this?" He tilted his head towards the tumbler held between them.

"You don't have to," she said, her voice oddly breathy.

"But you think I should?"

At her nod, he wrapped his fingers around hers on the glass and downed the contents in one swallow. A shudder ran through him at the taste. An answering one caused her body to tremble. It was sympathy . . . nothing more.

"Would you like me to see about your breakfast?" she asked when he lowered the glass. Her tone was still off, and she felt irritated by her discomfiture. She had sat beside in an identical manner countless times: spoon-fed him, held his hand, wiped his brow. She had also assisted him in the most intimate of ways, but she had never been so acutely aware of his masculinity before. It was unsettling.

"My lord?" she prompted.

Their gazes remained locked, his fingers still clasped around hers on the glass.

"Edward?" she whispered, taking leave to use his name when he did not respond.

After blinking twice, he released her hand.

"Breakfast. Yes. That would be good."

She stood abruptly, then excused herself and left the room. Isabella's hopes that she and the viscount might renew their childhood friendship were in a state of flux. The atmosphere between them seemed quite . . . fraught.

When she returned, he made good work of his breakfast, his strength and alertness greatly improved from the day before. She was unsurprised when he insisted on feeding himself with his good hand, only allowing her to help him when his fork started to tremble.

"About your hair cut, my lord . . ." she said after putting the breakfast tray aside.

He raised a hand to silence her. "I think it would be wiser if you arranged for the barber from Thornton to visit."

"Wiser?" She stared for a moment, then continued when he added nothing more, "Very well. If that is your preference. Shall I tell Dawkins you are ready for your bath, or would you prefer to rest?"

"Bath first, then I would appreciate if you could bring me up to date with the goings on in the district and whatever you might know about the estate. Has there been any word from Crowley?"

"He's not visited the manor or asked for an audience that I know of. I could send word that you wish to see him."

"Don't bother. He will be long gone."

Isabella was loath to defend the miserly estate manager but felt compelled to say, "He was away when you arrived, but he did send for Dr Gerandy on his return."

"Probably in hopes the old drunkard would finish me off."

Isabella bit her lower lip, unsure how to respond.

The viscount raised a brow. "You think the man, who I suspect has been lying to and defrauding me for nigh on a decade, has my best interests at heart?"

She sighed. "I think it was fortunate he stayed away from Forkton for as long as he did. If Dr Gerandy had been sent for sooner, Alice and I would have been hard-pressed to keep him from taking control of your treatment."

The viscount, Edward—she could at least call him by his name in her thoughts—grimaced.

"I can't recall if I've thanked you for all you've done, Miss Swan," he said formally, before a smile curved his lip. "You and your witchy friend with her disgusting potions. You must introduce us properly next time she calls."

"Gladly." Isabella smiled at his description, knowing it would tickle Alice.

"My gratitude is sincere." Edward reached for her hand but withdrew before grasping it. "If I had been left to Dr Gerandy's tender mercies, I doubt I would have lasted long. I owe you my life."

"You are most welcome." Isabella straightened her shoulders with remembered resolve. "It may have been a long time ago, but I hadn't forgotten our friendship, and I wasn't about to give up on you without a fight."

"An admirable champion," he murmured then looked away.

Although effectively dismissed, Isabella felt hopeful they were back on a more secure footing. Pausing in the doorway, she acknowledged his earlier instructions. "I will let Dawkins know you are ready for him."

"Thank you, Miss Swan."

She smiled at his simple statement. It would certainly make it easier to integrate him into the local community if he continued to remember his manners.

~P&P~

Despite his best intentions, Edward required a rest after he had been bathed and changed.

"Like a blasted baby in all regards," he muttered, or so Dawkins had relayed to Isabella's amusement. Putting the unexpected reprieve to good use, she sent a message to the barber in Thornton then wrote a letter requesting Corporal Jenks' presence, intending to add on any codicil Edward might want to include when he gave her the address. After finding Rosalie in a palatial parlour interviewing potential staff, she quizzed her sister about how things were faring at the vicarage.

"Stop worrying," Rosalie said with an exasperated huff in response to Isabella's many questions. "The house hasn't fallen down around us yet."

"I never said it had. It's just . . ."

"You're worried about Tanya," Rosalie finished for her.

"Has she been giving you trouble?"

"Not overly." Rosalie sighed. "Mr Hunter has gone quiet since the viscount's return and Mr Crowley's disappearance, so we have had no problems on that front. But if Tanya hasn't got her head in a book, she's going on about her impossible dreams. Travel to far-off and exotic destinations. Adventure and daring exploits only available to gentlemen of extraordinary stamina and considerable fortune. I mean, really, who ever heard of a young lady climbing a mountain or hunting wild animals in Africa? Then there's the ridiculous notion her knight in shining armour will come riding in to Forkton at any moment and rescue her from this life of drudgery to which she has been doomed by cruel fate."

Isabella chuckled at her sister's recital, which all too accurately mimicked their beloved but at times melodramatic sibling.

"The usual, then?"

Rosalie nodded, and it was Isabella's turn to sigh. "It seemed the right thing to encourage her love of reading, but I hardly expected her preference for adventure stories to have such a lasting impact. I do hope she hasn't done anything too outrageous."

"Nothing beyond the pale," Rosalie said. "Though she may have been spotted riding astride the pony she talked the Black boys into loaning her, but not by anyone of consequence."

Isabella's shoulders slumped. She had tried so hard to stand in for their mother and raise her sisters to be respectable young ladies. But if their father's debts and their lack of dowries were not obstacle enough to prevent them finding suitable husbands, Tanya's outlandish behaviour seemed destined to do the trick. There was only so much abuse a young lady's reputation could sustain before it was irreparably damaged, regardless of her angelic appearance.

"Does Papa know?" she asked.

Rosalie shrugged indelicately, one of her personal peccadilloes. Isabella's middle sister was, in her own way, just as much a nonconformist as the youngest, though at least her passions were a tad less self-serving. A staunch advocate of Lord Wilberforce's efforts to see slavery abolished, Rosalie's concerns tended more towards the plight of the widow and orphan than a thirst for adventure.

"Don't fret." Rosalie stood and wrapped her arm around Isabella's waist. "I'll talk to Tanya and try to keep a closer watch, though please tell me you are returning home before too long? I'm beginning to worry the viscount has plans to keep you locked away in a tower once he recovers and never allow you to leave."

"Rosalie! You say the most outrageous things. Why on earth would His Lordship want to do that?"

"For companionship? Because he likes the look of you? To make you pay for bullying him into an unexpected recovery when he was reconciled to die? How should I know? You're the one who has been holed up with him—alone—for days on end."

"I have not bullied the man." Isabella focused on a common sisterly complaint, ignoring Rosalie's more outlandish suggestions. "Well, no more than was required."

To change the subject, she inquired how the staffing of the estate was fairing and received a thorough, if colourful, report.

~P&P~

"Locked in a tower and never allowed to leave," Isabella muttered to herself as she climbed the stairs to the master suite.

"Pardon, miss? Did you say something?" a newly appointed young maid asked with a wobbly curtsy. Her hands were piled high with linens for making up another of the guest rooms in case her new master desired to entertain visitors, a possibility Isabella thought premature.

"Just thinking aloud, Bess," she said. "It is Bess, isn't it?"

The girl nodded, her cheeks firing with colour.

"You may carry on."

The girl hesitated, and Isabella tilted her head in query.

"I just wanted to thank ye, Miss Swan. Me gettin' work 'ere will make all the difference back 'ome."

"You are most welcome." Isabella was aware of her family's plight. Bess's father had been seriously injured in a carting accident, and the eldest son would not be returning from the battlefields of France. With the mother busy caring for her husband while earning a paltry income from taking in mending, it left the second son, not yet fourteen and the family's sole breadwinner, working long hours in the mines. The money Bess earned at the manor would, indeed, make all the difference.

Bess still did not depart, and Isabella sensed she had more to say.

"Is something the matter?"

After a furtive glance towards the landing, the young maid leaned in close. "Excuse me for askin', miss, but the master . . . is he a good man? Me auntie worked for 'is father, and she told some dreadful stories. She was real upset when she 'eard I got this job. Said it weren't safe."

"You have nothing to worry about," Isabella assured her. "This particular Lord Masen is a gentleman, through and through."

"But isn't 'e fearfully scarred and wild-lookin'? Lucy in the kitchen overheard Mrs Cope talkin' with Seth and—"

"Enough, Bess." Isabella's tone was gentle but firm. "The viscount was severely wounded in service to the King and quite understandably dishevelled when he arrived after a harrowing journey. However, he is perfectly acceptable in both appearance and manner. There is no need to be afraid, and I am trusting you not to frighten the other girls by spreading gossip."

"Yes, miss." Bess curtsied and hurried away, leaving Isabella to hope the girl was both subdued by the scolding and comforted by the reassurances she had been given.

Finding Edward dressed in a clean, loose-sleeved nightshirt, and with his hair neatly brushed and tied back in a queue, Isabella did a noticeable double take. She couldn't help thinking the young maid had nothing to fear, other than the possibility of developing a tendresse for her surprisingly handsome new master.

"Feeling better for a rest?" she asked, her smile fading at his answering scowl.

"I would feel better if this blasted arm would stop itching." Making a claw with his good hand, he looked as if he would like to tear the bandage away from his wounded arm.

"It sounds as if the stitches are pulling." Isabella moved to his side, slipped the loose nightshirt off his shoulder, and then began to unwrap the bandage.

He winced. "How am I supposed to use my arm again if I can barely stand the slightest jostling?"

"Give it time, my lord. You were at death's door mere days ago and must exercise patience. I suspect you have used up your quota of miracles for a while."

"You believe I am the recipient of a miracle?"

"How else would you explain your recovery? Alice's skills are impressive, but they only extend so far. There has been no lack of prayers sent up on your behalf."

Edward harrumphed, and Isabella fell quiet while wiping away the remaining unguent from his arm.

"These need to come out." She lifted her eyes to meet his gaze. "But Alice sent word this morning that she won't be able to visit for at least a day or two. There was another cottage fire, I'm afraid. The occupants are badly burned."

"I am sorry to hear that." Edward frowned before his expression turned pleading. "Can you not remove them?"

"I could, I suppose, but I've only observed the procedure."

"I trust you."

Isabella's eyes widened, and then a pleased smile teased her lips. "Very well, then. The wound is all but healed, and you will feel much better when the stitches aren't tugging. My sewing scissors should do the trick." She gestured to where they lay beside the embroidery hoop that was sitting on a side table. "I'll just take them down to the kitchen and give them a thorough clean."

"Is that really necessary?"

"Alice certainly thinks so, and I trust her."

Isabella returned as quickly as she could and set to work. Edward grimaced but remained silent. It was pleasing to know he could refrain from uttering profanities if required, not that she would have thought too badly of him if he had slipped. Removing the catgut stitches wasn't easy, tugging each one free requiring some force. The poor man was shaking by the time she had finished.

"Better?"

He shrugged his good shoulder while inspecting the violent-looking wound that wrapped around his upper left arm.

"I should have let them take it off. I'm unlikely to regain full use, and the damned . . . darned"—he shot her an apologetic look—"thing is ugly as sin."

"It's not that bad." Isabella tried to sound encouraging, but it did look rather frightful. "The colour will fade, and it's not like you will have it on display. When in public, it will be covered up with a shirt and jacket, and in private, a nightshirt."

"At least I have no wife to faint in horror at the sight."

"Precisely." While touched by his plight, she refused to indulge his inclination towards self-pity, personally aware of how damaging it could be. "Although I think you are underestimating the fortitude of the fairer sex, my lord. We do have to endure the rigours of childbirth, well, those blessed to have the opportunity. I can't see that exposure to a scar would cause any great distress in comparison."

"Well said, Miss Swan, well said."

The compassion evident in his gaze triggered unexpected tears to prick the backs of her eyelids.

"We make quite the pair, don't we?" he added in a gentle voice.

Discomposed, Isabella managed a shaky nod. She hadn't been asking for his pity and, under the guise of needing to dispose of his soiled bandage, she made a hasty escape.

~P&P~

My goodness, I'd forgotten how much of a 'slow burn' this story was! Personally, I don't mind that if it doesn't go on for too long, but I know it can frustrate some readers. They are making progress, in a two steps forward one step back sort of way. Next chapter we get all sorts of answers, and then the pace picks up considerably after that.

Any thoughts on this chapter? Removing those stitches was wince inducing, but I imagine it was a relief not having to read about her helping him go to the toilet for a change. One of my lovely reviewers, bon123, mentioned that this was the only time she could recall a fanfic story dealing in such detail with a character needing to do a number 2!

Anyone else wouldn't mind being locked in a tower with a brooding Edward?

Until tomorrow!

xx Elise