Free The Beloved One by Danelle Harmon Page B

despair.
    Gareth wouldn't be sitting here feeling sorry for himself.  He'd find a way to laugh at his problems.  And whereas the idea of dining with his hosts distressed and unnerved Charles, to whom the thought of spilling food all over himself was horribly embarrassing, he knew Gareth would probably make a joke out of it, and delight in making a spectacle of himself.
    Oh, if only he could be that way!
     Well, at least he'd be home with them all soon, for he had little choice but to resign his commission in the army and take Juliet and himself back to England.  But was there anything there for him?  He envisioned himself once again at Blackheath Castle, ferociously guarded by Lucien, shielded from society, and living out the rest of his days as a recluse in the ancient home where he'd grown up.  At least Juliet would have a happy social life there, in company with his sister Nerissa.  Though Charles himself could no longer take care of her — or a baby — Lucien and his two other brothers certainly could — and would.
    Gareth.  Gareth would make life bearable.
    Buoyed by thoughts of his family, Charles stirred, stretched, and winced at the sudden pain that blazed through the his head.  Blindness was bad enough; was he to have a damned headache for the rest of his life, as well?
    "I think," he muttered beneath his breath, "that if I had a gun I'd put myself out of my misery."
    "And I think," said a soft feminine voice, "that if you had something to eat, you'd feel a whole lot better."
    Amy Leighton.  With a violent start, he remembered his dream.  Dear God, had he said anything in his sleep?  Had he called her name?  And heaven help him, had she seen the jutting hardness of his erection?
    No.  There was the blanket — thank God.
    "Hello, Miss Leighton."  He gave a faint, almost rueful smile, and just as a precaution, pulled the blanket more securely over himself.  "You weren't supposed to hear that."
    "And you weren't supposed to say it."  There was a soft rustle of petticoats as she got up.  "I saved some stew for you. . .  it might be too much on your stomach right now, but the broth itself might be a start.  Would you like me to fix you some?"
    "Later."
    "How about some hot water so that you can wash?"
    "Not right now."
    "Something to drink?"
    "Actually, I would like — that is to say, I —" he faltered, scowling.  "I need some privacy."
    "Yes, of course," Amy said, in understanding.  Unwilling to leave him alone so soon after his shocking discovery, she had been trying to pass the night in a nearby chair.  Now, she went up to him, took his hand, and coaxed him to his feet.  He was not yet able to judge his proximity to other people; as he straightened to his full height, his lips nearly brushed her temple and remained only inches away, fully within that unseen but deeply felt area of private space that surrounds every person — that surrounded Amy.  Her face warmed.  She stepped involuntarily back, assailed by memories of what that mouth had felt like against her own.
    Oh, what she wouldn't give to have him kiss her again!
    Amy! she scolded herself, shivering the thought away.
    "Are you cold, Miss Leighton?"
    "A little," she fibbed, not wanting him to know the effect he had on her.  As it was, the mere warmth of his hand over her own was making jelly of her knees and butterflies of her heartbeat.  She must ignore these — these feelings !  Putting a safe distance between them, she led him back out to the keeping room, where she guided his hand toward the length of yarn she'd tied around a nail while he'd slept.  She closed his fingers around it, and released his hand.
    "What is this?"
    "Yarn.  I've strung it from here, to the door, and from there, to the privy outside.  I thought you might . . . well, I thought you might appreciate it," she finished lamely, as an odd, cold look came over his face.  She hoped she hadn't offended or embarrassed him.  She was only trying to help.  To