In The Lair

The yelling stopped for a moment. Kathleen's anger was over-riding her thumping heart as she hoped he hadn't torn his wound open again. She put some iron in her spine and unlocked the door. She pushed it, but it stopped against something solid.

Kathleen sighed. That man had evidently fallen in front of the door. She pushed firmly to get enough space to squeeze through the opening. He groaned as the door pushed against him. She closed it behind her and in the dim light of the room could see him sitting semi-upright against it.

With an exasperated sigh, she turned up the lamp on the bedside table and turned to look at him, hands firmly planted on her hips. Sweet Bridget, how am I going to get this lunker back into bed? She wondered, before deciding to check his wound first.

She picked up the lamp and kneeled down beside him to examine him. The light put his scarred cheek in the light and the smooth one in shadow. He groaned and blinked his eyes in the brightness, and then his damaged eye stared at her.

Kathleen gasped. His eye was brilliant emerald—like Ireland's own green shores, she thought. He rolled his head toward her so that his smooth cheek was now in the light.

"Does my face horrify you, Madame?" He growled in heavily accented English.

She had secretly been studying her French again in anticipation of speaking with him once he awoke, and was surprised that he spoke English at all.

"Your face bothers me not at all now," She answered in French.

"Just what Christine said-" He finished with a soft groan. Then he seemed suddenly embarrassed and snapped, "Speak English! You do me no favors by butchering my native tongue, since English is the official language of America is it not?"

She ignored his rudeness for the moment and put the lamp down. "I need to check that." She indicated his side and waited for him to unbutton his loose-fitting shirt. The wound looked a little red but the stitches had held.

Wish Zeke were still here, she thought. "You're going to have to help me get you back into bed, Sir," She stated.

"Sir," He repeated with a dark bitter laugh. "No one has ever shown me such respect." Except when I demanded it, he thought to himself.

Kathleen moved to his left side and gently put his arm across her shoulders. "Push up if you can as I lift," She said. She raised his upper body as he pushed up with his right arm and clumsily pushed himself up against the door. Both of them grunted with the effort; Kathleen from his weight on her slender frame, and he from the pain and tremendous effort it took to make his weakened limbs work.

Once he was upright, they both rested against the door for a moment before beginning the slow trek back to the bed in the middle of the large room. Kathleen felt as if his tall height and dead weight would bend her five-foot-six-inch form in half.

By the time he flopped onto the bed, they both were breathing hard and sweating. She eased his long legs up onto the bed and adjusted the pillows under his head.

He laid still, his eyes closed, thoroughly worn out. Kathleen brought the lamp back to its place on the bedside stand, and the light brought out the angles of his handsome profile—the beastly side stayed in darkness. She studied him, wondering who he was. She knew he was French, but what was his name? There had been no identification on him when Zeke found him, just a small bundle of belongings under his shirt.

"It's truly horrible, is it not Madame?" He asked, his voice grating in the silent room, causing her to jump. He turned his head on the pillow, highlighting the scars on his face, as his green eyes bore into hers. "A face even a mother could not love."

He raised his head, the muscles in his neck standing out like strong cords, his eyes burning with fury. "Why didn't you let me die, woman, and save the world the sight of me!" He dropped his head and turned it into the pillow. "Why?"

Kathleen placed a warm hand on his arm to comfort him, an impulse born of her years soothing hurt and crying children.

He turned his head restlessly from side to side. "Don't!" He cried hoarsely. "Get out! Leave me alone!"

She did as he asked and left him weeping miserably, alone. But she prayed for him that night as she hadn't prayed for anyone in a long time. As she lay trying to sleep, she wondered if there was anything in the room he could harm himself with.

The next morning, after the children had been served breakfast and settled into their lessons, Kathleen approached the "lion's den" as she'd come to think of her patient's room. She knocked solidly on the oak-paneled door. No roars or growls answered her. She held a silver tray with a tea service and a substantial breakfast on one arm and unlocked and opened the door quietly with the other hand.

Soft snores rumbled from the bed. After his tantrum last night it was no wonder he was worn out, Kathleen thought, putting the tray on the writing desk. She drew open the drapes on the two tall windows that overlooked the garden at the back of the house. Pale sunshine brightened the room.

"Shut those damned drapes, woman!" Came the surly order from the bed.

Kathleen turned from viewing the spring day, and with slender hands on her hips, retorted saucily, "You're so ready to get out of that bed, so you come shut them yourself, Sir!"

Her Irish accent was more pronounced when her ire was up.

"Stop calling me, Sir, woman! My name is Erik!"

"And my name is Kathleen, not woman!" She shot back. She turned away sharply and poured a steaming cup of tea from the fine porcelain pot on the tray.

When she turned back around, he was watching her closely. Her cheeks flamed and she nearly dropped the tray. She had been alone with this man in this bedroom many times before, but he had been unconscious and needed medical care. Now he was wide awake and staring at her intently, as if measuring her with his startling green eyes.

She stiffened her spine as she carried the tray over and set it on the bed stand. He watched her every move, making her feel like a mouse under a cat's gaze. When was he going to pounce?

Then she walked across the room. At the door she turned back around, her head held high. "Good morning, Erik." She said and closed the door before he could utter a word. Maybe he would be in a better mood when she returned later, she hoped. From what she had seen so far, though, she doubted it.

"Witch," Erik groused after his caregiver left, even as the aroma from the tray she had brought made his mouth water and his stomach rumble. His mood began to mellow as he savored the tea's sweetness, and reached for the heaping plate of food. He devoured every morsel.

He longed to get out of bed, but with his body now fed, he felt the need to rest again. He lay down and let his eyes wander over the fine furnishings in the room. Where was he? Whose fine house was he in? Sleep claimed him before he could get any of his questions answered.