Free Rapture Becomes Her by Shirlee Busbee Page B

on his journey.”
    Peckham glanced at him. “Nothing serious I hope?” “Oh, no, I expect in a few days he’ll be up and about and eager to see the estate,” Lamb said easily. “But he’d prefer not to have any visitors for a while.”
    “I shall see that he is not disturbed,” Peckham replied, and exited the sitting room.
    Returning to the bedroom, Lamb took a deep breath. Now to sew up Barnaby and get him in bed—even if he had to wrestle him to do it.
    An hour later, thinking of various tortures he’d inflict upon his “servant,” Barnaby’s head was neatly stitched and, despite his bitter protestations, he was in one of his own nightshirts—something he rarely wore—and enthroned in the huge, velvet draped bed which sat upon a dais in the middle of the room. Brooding, he watched as Lamb poured him some coffee—tepid after sitting so long—and served up a slab of smoked country ham, chunks of bread and thick slices of yellow cheese. Adding butter, mustard, pickles and an apple to the plate, he brought it over to the side of the bed.
    “Eat half of this and I’ll leave you alone for a few hours,” Lamb said, setting it down on the mattress.
    Balefully, Barnaby regarded him. “I am not an invalid, you know.”
    “And I intend to make certain you don’t become one.” There was no arguing with Lamb when he was in one of his mother hen moods and admitting, at least to himself, that he really wasn’t feeling up to snuff, Barnaby ate as directed. To his surprise and Lamb’s satisfaction, it appeared that his appetite was excellent and he demolished the plate of food.
    Leaning against the pillows, he watched as Lamb whisked away all signs of his meal.
    Barnaby bit back a yawn, and reluctantly he confessed, “You know, mayhap a few hours in bed won’t come amiss.”
    Lamb smiled and, picking up the tray, prepared to leave the room. Reaching the door to the sitting room he glanced back at Barnaby. Gruffly, he said, “Get some rest.”
    “I intend to,” Barnaby answered. When John would have turned away, he added quietly, “Thank you.”
    Lamb smiled, nodded and walked through the doorway, leaving him alone.

    Lamb was able to keep him abed that first day, but by Thursday, Barnaby, ignoring his furious objections, rose from his bed, bathed and dressed as usual. Leaving Lamb to sulk in the dressing room, he left his rooms and walked down the curving staircase to the black-and-white marble tiled foyer. A young man Barnaby remembered being introduced as his house steward, Tilden, was standing in front of a black japanned cabinet, shuffling through several envelopes, a faint frown on his face. Hearing Barnaby’s step on the stairs, he looked up.
    A smile replaced the frown and he bowed and said, “My lord.”
    “Ah, good morning, Tilden, isn’t it?”
    Pleasure gleamed in the young man’s steady gray eyes. “Yes, my lord. I am happy to see that you have recovered from your indisposition.”
    “No more than I,” Barnaby said. He glanced around. From the foyer doorways appeared to beckon in all directions and, looking at Tilden, he asked with a smile, “Now, if I wanted breakfast, where would I find it?”
    Tilden laughed and said, “If you will allow me, my lord, I shall show you into the morning room. And perhaps, after you have eaten, I could give you a short tour around the house?”
    “Excellent!”
    The morning room with its slightly faded green-and-cream rug and blue-and-ivory chintz-covered chairs was surprisingly cozy and Barnaby felt more at ease since he had first laid eyes on Windmere. Pale sunshine leaked into the room from the narrow windows and, finishing a fine breakfast of stewed fruit, bacon, coddled eggs, toast and marmalade at the oval oak table, Barnaby was ready for Tilden’s tour.
    During the following days with Peckham, the housekeeper, Mrs. Bartlett, or Tilden, Barnaby toured the seemingly endless rooms of the house, then handed over to the head gardener, Hervey, he