The Captain's Bluestocking Mistress Read Online Free PDF Page A

rippled across his skin as he barred the front door against the bone-cold wind. ’Twas ironic. He had hoped never to be trapped anywhere again, and now here he was, doing it to himself. The fact that it was voluntary this time—all openings were sealed to keep out the snow, not to keep in the man—ought to have eased his rising panic.
    It didn’t.
    He began to stalk the corridors of his old, familiar cottage. The kitchen was clean and cold. The dining room: dark. The library: silent. The servants’ quarters: vacant. The master bedroom: lonesome. The entire cottage was devoid of company or stimulation. Just a restless ex-captain, alone with his thoughts… and his memories.
    Xavier wasn’t fond of either companion.
    He might have left the battlefield, but his mind was still at war. He could never erase the horrors he’d seen. Nor the role he’d played.
    His skin crawled. He had learned things about himself that he would do anything to forget. He’d set off in search of honor, of heroism. Instead, he’d found evil. All around, and inside himself.
    And he’d been rewarded for it.
    It was bitter irony that he’d returned home without a scratch on him when more honorable men— better men—had returned in pieces, or not at all. His childhood friend Bartholomew Blackpool was in want of a leg... and the man’s twin brother had died defending their country.
    Xavier would never tell Bart how fortunate Edmund was that a bullet had pierced him before the French soldiers found him.
    There were far worse fates than death. Xavier would know.
    He shrugged out of his coat and shirtsleeves and washed up at a basin filled with water.
    It was no use. He would never feel clean. Nor should he.
    He sighed. It was just as well that he was stuck out here without any servants. He didn’t deserve company, and he certainly didn’t deserve being waited on. He hoped his staff was wise enough to wait out the inclement weather rather than attempt to reach the cottage during a snowstorm. The roads would quickly become a death trap.
    He pulled on a fresh shirt and shoved his arms into his thickest coat. Dressing warmly would allow him to better ration the firewood.
    The parlor was the only chamber with a small blaze in its hearth. He stirred the embers with a poker. Night would fall in a few hours, and he didn’t want the fire to die in the meantime.
    A knock sounded upon his front door.
    Frowning, Xavier replaced the poker and strode to the entryway. Aside from Lord Carlisle and a few local Chelmsford residents, nobody knew Xavier had resumed residence in his little cottage. Who on Earth would be knocking at his door? Better yet, why? He swung open the door.
    He nearly choked in surprise. “ Miss Downing? What the devil are you doing here? Has something happened?”
    Her eyes rounded. “You remember me?”
    “I’m not senile . We were introduced years ago, and we sat beside each other last night.” He scanned her for possible injuries. “Are you all right? Was there a carriage accident?”
    She shook her head. “Nothing like that. I… was in the neighborhood. Not far at all. So I thought I’d pay a visit.”
    “On foot?” He shook his head to clear it of disbelief.
    The daft woman stood upon his stoop with a battered trunk and a shrieking picnic basket. From the snaking rectangular trail in her wake, she’d lugged her trunk behind her from somewhere down the road. By herself. In a snowstorm. With a hissing basket.
    He snatched the possessed basket from her hand and hauled her inside the house. It was frightful outside. He swung the trunk inside the entryway and slammed the door tight against the cold and wind. Already snowflakes covered the floor. The warmth of the fire was just a memory.
    He grabbed her by the shoulders and forced himself not to shake some sense into her. “You cannot possibly have believed this to be appropriate conditions for a stroll down country roads. Are you mad? ”
    “Just... a bit chilled, I