Scandalous. Part 1

CANDACE CAMP.

Scandalous.

CHAPTER ONE.

THERE WAS A NAKED MAN ON HER DOORSTEP.

Priscilla had been in the sitting room, curled up with a book, when she heard a thunderous pounding on the front door. She had jumped to her feet, a trifle alarmed, for it was rather late in the evening for any visitors. Moreover, the loud noise had rung with urgency. She had s.n.a.t.c.hed up a candle from the table and hurried to the front door. When she swung it wide open, she had found this man standing there. He had on not one st.i.tch of clothing, and his skin was covered with a thin sheen of sweat and decorated with a mult.i.tude of thin red scratches. He was breathing rapidly, his chest rising and falling as he took huge gulps of air.

She stared at him, for one of the few times in her life rendered speechless.

He was a huge man; he seemed to fill the tiny porch of Evermere Cottage, presenting a wide expanse of bare skin. Priscilla had never seen so much naked flesh in her life, all of it tanned, muscled and intensely masculine.

The man stared back at her. He looked dazed and exhausted as he swayed, muttering, "Help me." Then he collapsed at her feet.

Priscilla let out a little shriek of horror and reached out to grab him, but he was far too heavy, and his damp, bare skin simply slid across her palm as he crumpled to the floor of the tiny porch.

The door of her father's study opened, and Florian Hamilton stuck his head out. His graying hair was rumpled and sticking up in spikes from his habit of shoving his fingers through it whenever he was deep in thought. He frowned vaguely.

"Priscilla? What was that noise? Is there someone at the door?"

His familiar voice broke Priscilla's temporary paralysis. "It's all right, Papa," she said, in a voice that wavered only slightly from her usual brisk tone. "I will take care of it."

She turned back to the porch to survey her problem. The man now lay partly inside the house, on his side, most of his ma.s.sive chest and arms on the floor at her feet, his long legs and the rest of his torso sprawled out on the stoop. It was obvious that she could not possibly move him herself.

Who was he? And whatever was he doing here-naked and unconscious? It occurred to her that it must be a jest; it seemed, in fact, just the sort of nonsense that Philip or Gid might think up. However, she could not imagine that even one of her mischievous brothers would send a nude man to his sister's door-and what man would be willing to run around stark naked? If nothing else, it was still early spring, and rather chilly. No, she concluded, it could not be a joke.

Her eyes went to the man's face. It was boldly chiseled, with a wide jaw and prominent cheekbones, a firm, full mouth and a long, straight nose. His was not a handsome face, exactly; it was too sharp and hard for perfect beauty, but there was power in it, even in slack unconsciousness-and with his eyes closed, the thick fringe of lashes shadowing his cheek, there was even a hint of vulnerability that made her heart twist strangely in her chest. She bent forward, holding her candle lower to light his features.

He was clean-shaven, his skin smooth and tanned, darker than her own milk-white color and that of most of the people she was accustomed to seeing. There was a narrow red scratch across his jaw, and another on his forehead. His hair was a thick, rich brown, and, as she held the candle closer, a glint of red shone through, like polished mahogany. A strand of it had fallen across his cheek, and unconsciously she reached out and brushed it back. He groaned and rolled over onto his back.

Priscilla's eyes moved lower, over his wide, muscled chest, lightly strewn with dark hair, and onto the flat plain of his stomach, where the hair converged in a V and swept downward....

"I say!"

Priscilla started guiltily at the sound of her father's voice, right behind her. She turned and straightened, frowning. "Papa! You startled me."

Florian paid no attention to her words. He was staring in astonishment at the man lying at their feet. "I say," he repeated. "Who is this chap?"

"I have no more idea than you," Priscilla replied. "I opened the door, and there he was."

"But what's he doing on the floor?"

"He fainted."

Florian's brows rose. "Doesn't look the sort to faint, does he? And what's he doing dressed like that?"

"Papa..."

"Oh. Sorry-of course you don't know that, either." Florian tilted his head, considering the man's unconscious form thoughtfully. "Looks like he's been through rather a rough time, doesn't it?"

Priscilla looked back at their visitor. "It would appear that he has run through bramble bushes," she agreed. She leaned closer, noticing several dark marks that she had not noticed in the dim light of the porch. "And look, he's bruised."

"You're right." Florian adjusted the little gla.s.ses perched on his nose and leaned forward a.n.a.lytically to examine a bluish mark on the man's chest. "I'd say the fellow's been in some sort of fight, as well as running through the bushes." He looked at his daughter, his eyes lit with his usual scientist's curiosity. "Mysterious, isn't it? How do you suppose he got in this shape? And what's he doing here?"

"Mmm..." Priscilla replied dryly. "Just like a book."

"Yes, isn't it?" He stopped short, obviously struck by a thought. "You don't think Philip-No, surely not."

Priscilla had to grin. Her brother's mischievous ways were well-known. "No, I don't think so."

"Ohhhhh!" A gasp from the top of the stairs made both of them turn and look up. A tall, stick-thin woman stood at the top of the stairs, a vision in a long-sleeved, high-necked white cotton nightgown, a brown shawl wrapped around her thin shoulders and her hair a Medusa-like arrangement of strands tied in white cotton strips. The old-fas.h.i.+oned white mobcap she wore over her head at night was still tied beneath her chin, but the cap had slipped over and down to one side, dangling on a few of the strips of old bedsheets in which she tied her hair at night in a largely vain effort to put curls into it. Her eyes were as wide as saucers, and she stared down at them wildly. "Is he-is he dead?" she hissed.

"No, Miss P., he's breathing, just out cold."

The middle-aged woman sucked in her breath, her hand flying to her chest so dramatically that Priscilla wondered how she could have looked any more appalled if the man had been dead. Miss P. hurried down the stairs toward them, her mult.i.tude of ties fluttering wildly. Florian, who had never before seen Miss Pennybaker in her nighttime attire, could only stare at her, mouth agape, but Priscilla, long accustomed to her former governess, scarcely noticed.

Miss Pennybaker reached them, and for the first time got a good look at the man stretched out on the floor in front of them. "Oh, my!" she said, her face flus.h.i.+ng a deep red. "Oh, my!" She closed her eyes and averted her face. "He's...he's..."

"Yes, I know," Priscilla said flatly. "Now, don't have hysterics on us. The important thing is, what are we going to do with him?"

"But you mustn't..." Miss Pennybaker's eyes flew open, and she fixed Priscilla with a stern look. "It is not a sight for a maiden's eyes. You should come with me and let your father deal with it."

"By himself?" Priscilla countered calmly. She saw no need to point out what they all knew: that her father rarely handled anything in their household. His considerable intellect was generally employed in scholarly pursuits; he was considered an expert in several fields and received correspondence from other scientists all over the world, asking his opinion. But the small matters of daily life rarely captured his interest, and if the running of the house had been left to him, it would probably have fallen down around their ears by now. "This man is far too heavy for Papa to lift by himself."

Miss Pennybaker, who had lived with them since Priscilla was four years old, knew Florian Hamilton as well as his daughter did. Indeed, nowadays it was usually she who made sure that Florian came out of his study or workshop at least twice a day to eat, and who could be counted on to locate his pipe or his spectacles whenever he lost them. She knew as well as Priscilla that their unexpected guest might still be lying on the floor when they came downstairs the next morning, while Florian sat in his study sketching a machine designed to lift and move him.

"Yes, of course. But it isn't decent for you-" She stopped, a smile of triumph spreading across her face, and whisked off her shawl. Holding the shawl at arm's length, she sidled closer to the p.r.o.ne man, squinting through almost closed eyes, and dropped the garment across his lap. "There," she said with a decisive nod. "It still isn't decent, but that will have to do."

Priscilla suppressed a grin. "Thank you. Now...Papa, why don't you grab one arm, and I'll get the other, and we'll pull him inside? Penny, could you get his feet?"

The other woman looked askance at the idea of touching any part of the man's body. "But, Priscilla, do you think we should bring him in?"

"He's already half-in. It's only a question of pulling him the rest of the way."

"I mean...do you think it's safe?" She cast another brief, disapproving glance at the unconscious man. "He looks like a ruffian to me. He might murder us all in our beds tonight."

"That's true," Florian agreed. "We don't know what sort of man he is, or anything about him at all-except that he's apparently been in a fight."

"A fight!" Miss Pennybaker gasped.

"Yes. See how he's scratched and bruised."

Miss Pennybaker ventured a closer look at their visitor. Her nose wrinkled in distaste. "He's wet, too."

"He was perspiring, I think. Although, judging from the state of his legs, he has probably splashed through a stream or two, as well," Priscilla said.

All three of them turned to look at the man's feet and calves, liberally splashed with mud and quite wet, and at the dark hair plastered to his skin. Miss Pennybaker turned quickly away. Florian peered at his feet with interest.

"You know, you're right, Pris. Always said you had an eye for detail. Looks like the watermark comes just below his knee. Something shallow, then, maybe the Slough." He bent down and plucked a wet leaf from the top of the man's foot. "Looks like he went through vinca, too. And gra.s.s."

He thought for a moment. "My guess is, he came through the woods on the east."

"But we still don't know who he is or what he's been doing," Miss Pennybaker reminded them, her hands fluttering nervously in front of her, as they always did whenever she was bold enough to dispute one of her employers. "He doesn't look like a nice person."

Priscilla looked down at the man's face. "Well, not nice, maybe...but not bad, either. Just...I don't know. Strong." She raised her head. "That's not a bad thing."

"But he's been fighting!"

"What if he were attacked?" Priscilla pointed out. "He would have every right to fight back. A man wouldn't be running about attacking people when he didn't have on any clothes, would he?"

"Not unless he were mad," Florian agreed.

Miss Pennybaker sucked in her breath sharply. "Oh, no! Do you think he's escaped from an asylum?"

Florian grinned. "More likely some insane Aylesworth cousin, kept locked up in the attic at the Court. Sounds like the sort of thing they would do, don't you think?"

Miss Pennybaker's eyes widened. "Do you really think so? You know, that's what happened to that sweet Henrietta Fairfield in Derwood Abbey. Lord Comfrey's mad uncle escaped from the tower room, and-"

"No," Priscilla replied firmly, grimacing. "Papa is poking fun at those books. Now, be serious, Papa. I think it's far more likely that he would have lost his clothing if he had been robbed. But then he escaped through the woods, splashed through one or two of those shallow streams down in Ridley Bottoms, and came up here. He probably saw the lights of our house and was coming for help. If he were intent on doing evil, I don't think he would have come right up to the door and knocked. No, he would have been slinking around, trying to get in an open window."

Miss Pennybaker cast a nervous look around them. "Perhaps we should lock the windows."

"He was hammering at the door," Florian admitted. "It even roused me in my study. Sounds more like someone seeking help than a robber."

"But if there was someone after him," Priscilla pointed out, "we had better get him inside, don't you think? Instead of standing here talking about it?"

"You're right." Florian cast a look out into the dark night. "All right, ladies, let's get to it."

Priscilla bent and grasped the man's left arm, high up, close to his shoulder. His skin was hot and slick with sweat, and when she touched him, it did odd things to her stomach. She had never touched a man's bare flesh before, unless one counted taking her younger brothers firmly by the hand-and touching this firm-muscled stranger was a far cry from that.

Her father grasped the man's other arm, and Miss Pennybaker, with an expression of distaste, went around and gingerly picked up his feet. They lifted, but could not manage to get his torso completely off the floor. They set him back down and winced as his head made an audible thud.

After that, Miss Pennybaker came around and held his head up while the other two yanked and pulled. Finally, when they had managed to work his entire torso into the room, Priscilla took his feet and lifted his legs, turning him enough to the side that they were able to close the door and bar it.

Panting, the three of them stood for a moment, looking down at the stranger. He slept on.

"What are we going to do with him now?" Florian asked.

Priscilla thought. "What about the cot in the little room off the kitchen? Where the scullery boy used to sleep."

Her father nodded. "Excellent. But surely there's an easier way to get him there. We could move him easily if we just had the right sort of leverage." He eyed the rec.u.mbent man speculatively. "What do you think his weight is?"

His eyes grew distant and unfocused as he began to consider the problem, and Priscilla hastened to intervene. "I don't think you need do any calculations right now, Papa. I'll fetch a blanket, and we can roll him onto it, then pull him in there on the blanket. That would be the easiest thing, don't you think?"

"Of course." Florian beamed at his daughter. "You are always so practical, my dear. I can't think where you got it."

"Some distant ancestor, I'm sure," Priscilla replied, with a twinkle in her eye, and hurried off to pull a blanket out of the cedar chest in the hall.

When she returned, they followed her suggestion, tugging and rolling the man onto the blanket with some effort. After that, it was much easier to move him across the polished wooden floor, though the three of them were panting by the time they had maneuvered him down the hallway and through the kitchen into the tiny bedroom. Priscilla straightened up, putting a hand to her aching back. She looked from the stranger to the cot, then to her father. How could they possibly lift him up onto the cot?

"I think we'll leave him on the floor for now," Florian said, echoing her own thoughts. "Perhaps he will come to and be able to get there on his own."

Priscilla nodded, but a worried frown creased her forehead. "Did he seem...rather warm to you?"

"Yes." Florian frowned, too. "Perhaps he has a fever. He could be ill."

"Maybe he's been wandering about in a delirium," Miss Pennybaker put in. "That could even explain why he's, well, in, uh, an unclothed state."

"I suppose...if he were out of his head with fever, he might have ripped off his clothes thinking it would make him cooler."

"A brain fever might make one do anything," Miss Pennybaker a.s.sured her. "He might have left his bed and gone running out into the night, thinking heaven knows what."

"Well, if that is the case, we need to get him a doctor," Florian said. "Perhaps I should go get Dr. Hightower."

"No," Priscilla protested quickly. "If there's someone or something dangerous outside, you don't need to be out there with it." As her father began to bridle, she quickly amended her first, heartfelt concern, adding, "And Miss Pennybaker and I would be left alone here with no protection. What if someone tries to break in to get this man?"

"Hmm... You are right."

"Pennybaker and I have taken care of Philip and Gid through countless fevers. I expect we can manage this one, as well. If he gets worse, you can go for the doctor."

"All right. Perhaps I ought to check the windows...make sure we're locked up good and tight."

Priscilla nodded absently, already sinking down onto her knees on the floor beside the stranger. She felt his forehead; it was burning-hot. Miss Pennybaker brought in the oil lamp from the kitchen, and in the better light Priscilla could see that the man's face was flushed. He moved restlessly, turning his head to the side, and she saw now that the back of his hair was sticky and clotted with something.

"Blood!" She felt carefully along the back of his skull, finding a knot in the midst of the sticky blood. "I knew it! There's been some sort of foul play here. Someone hit him on the back of the head-hard. Penny, get me water and a cloth. We need to clean his wounds."

"Oh, my. Oh, my." Miss Pennybaker shook her head, sending the myriad of curls fluttering absurdly. "I don't like this at all."

"Of course not. It is obvious someone has mistreated this man. Why, Pennybaker, look!" Her eyes had fallen on the man's wrists, and she lifted his arm so that her former governess could see it better. "See those red marks around his wrist? His skin has been rubbed raw there. Rope burns, I should think. There's another on the other wrist, in the same place. And look, his ankles, too. He has been tied up."

Miss Pennybaker stared at her, aghast. "Priscilla! How do you know such things!"

Priscilla grimaced. "That is the way Gid's hands looked that time he was playing pirate and slid down a rope from the roof. Remember?"

"True." The older woman cast an uncertain look at their uninvited guest. "But being tied up-Priscilla, things like that only happen in books."

Priscilla shrugged. "Well, they must happen to real people sometimes, don't you think? It certainly seems to have happened to this man."

"Yes, but I mean-not to the sort of people one knows. It makes me nervous. I'm sure he's a ruffian."

"He is a ruffian who is out cold right now, and running a fever, as well. Surely we can manage to subdue him if he tries to attack us."