Page 2 of The Trials of Alaric
“That’s the passenger,” the chatty patient informed them. “A gentleman, that one. Name of Redhaven.”
He looked like a gentleman. Like the English gentlemen who were currently cluttering up her castle. A particularly nice specimen. Tall, broad-shouldered, handsome, if you liked the chisel-jawed, high-cheekboned, straight-nosed sort. Which Bea did, though her old nurse would sayhandsome is as handsome does.
At the moment, he was not doing anything. Except breathing, which was thanks to the doctor, and an improvement over when they had brought him ashore.
“He has a bump on his head,” the doctor discovered. “Probably explains why he has not yet come around. He’ll need someone with him at all times, at least until he recovers consciousness.”
The rector, who was arranging billets for the rescuees, said, “I wonder who would be best. Mrs. Stephen perhaps. No, she is on the other side of the island at her daughter’s place. Perhaps the Quayles?”
“The castle,” Bea said, firmly. “He is a gentleman, the sailor said. I will take him, and the responsibility for his care.”
It would at least give her some distraction from her parents’ despicable house party. Which she had agreed to, with a tiny amount of hope that shriveled as soon as she met the bachelors her mother and aunt had selected.
She was done here. A spotter would remain on the cliffs and a dozen people would keep the fire going and wait in case more people needed to be pulled from the water. There was nothingmore for Bea—or most of the other townspeople—to do. Already, those who had been assigned sailors had left the beach.
Most of the servants from the castle had also gone, but enough were left to form a stretcher party for the gentleman. Mr. Redhaven. Bea escorted him up the path from the beach, considering which bed chambers were occupied and which were free.
The single gentlemen’s accommodation was fully occupied, and the single ladies’ section would be inappropriate. Not the family rooms, of course. Which left either the area normally used by married visitors and widows, when they came to stay, or the smaller and less desirable rooms allocated to companions and poor relations, who could not be put to stay with the servants but who did not merit a finer chamber.
One of those, she thought, as she escorted the stretcher up to the front door, which was the quickest way to the main staircase. She could not in all conscience expect the stretcher carriers to carry Mr. Redhaven up one of the steeper secondary staircases. She would just have to risk being caught, but with luck, everyone would still be preparing for dinner.
The butler emerged from his room as she opened the two big doors and ushered the stretcher bearers inside. “Lady Beatrice! Was it a bad one?” Skelly was a Claddachman, born and bred, and understood the obligation to those cast up on its shores.
“Close to twenty men saved, and I understand there were fewer than thirty aboard. This gentleman was a passenger. I’ve said the castle will look after him. Can you assign footmen to sit with him tonight? He will need watching until he recovers consciousness, the doctor said.” She grimaced. “I am sorry to put a further burden on you when you are already dealing with the suitors.”
“I will need to speak with Mrs. Johnson about a room,” Skelly began, but was interrupted by the housekeeper herself.
“A room for whom? This man?” Mrs. Johnson sent a jaundiced glance at the stretcher. “You can take him somewhere else,” she scolded the stretcher bearers. “Lady Beatrice, come along and get out of those dreadful clothes. You will be late for dinner.”
Mrs. Johnson, while not Claddach-born, had known Bea for most of her life and unfortunately often forgot that Bea was now an adult, and no longer to be instructed like a child. Now, Bea decided, was a good time to remind the woman who was in charge of whom.
“Mrs. Johnson, this is Mr. Redhaven, who was a passenger on the wrecked ship. He will be staying here, at least until he regains consciousness, and longer if he needs our hospitality. I think the tapestry room will be suitable to begin with. Close enough to the servants’ stairs for those who are watching over him while he is still unconscious. The men will carry him up the main stairs, however, as the servants’ stairs are too narrow and too steep.
Wringing her hands, and wailing, “What will the countess say?” Mrs. Johnson nonetheless stepped out of the way.
*
Alaric woke tothe sound of rain beating on a window. Of course. The storm. But no. He was not still on the ship. The room was not rocking. Nor could he hear ropes rubbing, or the bangs, clatters, and shouts of a busy crew.
He opened his eyes. Sure enough, he must be ashore, for he was in a room with stone walls softened by tapestries. A comfortable room kept warm by a fire, the tapestries, and heavy drapes over, he supposed, the window. The room was softly lit by the fire, a lamp, and a scattering of candles.
The young woman standing beside the bed captured most of his attention. The young lady, rather. She was dressed for the evening in a gown of figured silk, with pearls at her neck and scattered and twined in her dark hair. Aprettyyoung lady, with large lustrous dark eyes and a warm smile.
“You are awake, Mr. Redhaven. How are you feeling?”
Alaric thought about that.Bruised. Sore everywhere. “As if I have been nailed into a barrel and rolled downhill,” he admitted. “What of the ship? The captain? The crew?”
“As far as we could see before sunset, the ship is in bad shape,” she replied. “It was lodged on the rocks. Probably, it will be broken apart before daybreak. I have no word of the captain. We recovered nineteen people, including you. There may be more by now. We have left watchers on the cliff and on the beach and will keep a fire burning all night.”
“We” was in interesting pronoun from a lady who looked as if she belonged in a Society ballroom rather than a beach in a storm. Perhaps she meant her servants, but clearly, she was more involved in therecovery, as she called it, than her appearance suggested.
“Where are we?” he asked. “On the coast of England? Ireland?”
“Neither,” she informed him. “You were shipwrecked off the coast of the Isle of Claddach, south of Mann and perhaps halfway between Ireland and Wales. You are inCashtal Vaaich, the home of the Earl of Claddach.”
Claddach. He had never heard of it. But she had heard of him, he realized. “You know who I am.”
“I know you are Mr. Redhaven,” she corrected. “One of the sailors said you were their passenger. You are a gentleman, then?”
