Chapter eight - Gilbert

Gilbert sat there watching the woman as she stared in silent shock at the writing on the slate.

It was sheer luck that he still had the old stone tablet. He'd all but forgotten it, stored away in that old trunk. Usually, he preferred not to look too closely at those things tucked away in the bottom of that old chest. Too many memories. But seeing his old school slate in this woman's hands gave him a feeling of satisfaction. Finally, he had a means to communicate with her. Here he'd been, racking his brains, trying to figure out a way to explain things to her, and the solution had been here all along.

The woman looked up at him then. No, not 'the woman'. He had a name to pair with that pretty face now. Miss Beatrice Smail, sister to the late Baronet, Sir Michael Smail. The name meant little to him, other than to confirm the fact that she was gently born, and that came as no surprise. Into a minor ranking family, true, but gentry all the same.

"You cannot speak?" She gestured with the board and he nodded in confirmation.

Her eyes dropped to the scar seared across his collarbone, no doubt just visible through his open shirt collar, and suddenly he felt again it all again. The agony of being branded by that blazing inferno. The memory was literally seared into his flesh. Even though the wound had healed over nearly a decade ago, the pain remained fresh in his mind.

He watched with mixed emotion as comprehension and compassion scrolled across her pretty face. He didn't want her pity and yet, it wasn't pity that he saw in her expressive face. That she understood the source of his pain was clear. That she was curious about his injuries he had no doubt. It was human nature. He could see that she was tempted to ask how he had come to be so marked and mentally braced himself.  He was uncertain exactly how he would reply.  The truth was he really had no answer. None that he wished to share anyway.

Her eyes lifted to meet his. Big emerald green eyes filled with questions. Questions she yearned to ask. Even her lips twitched with the urge to know, but, at the last minute, she changed her mind. Whether due to restraint or trepidation, he couldn't decide. He watched her blink and shake her head as if  berating herself for being curious. Then her gaze returned to the slate, and she proceeded to read.

"'You came to my door three days ago.'" Surprised, her eyes flicked up to meet his. "Three days? I've been here three days?"

Again, he nodded, then gestured for her to continue reading. Her brow furrowed in consternation, but she resumed.

"'You have been out of your head with fever.'" She paused, staring hard at the words he'd written before meeting his eyes again. "Fever? I was ill?"

Gilbert nodded in confirmation, then gestured for her to return the board to him. She passed it back, and he grabbed a rag from the trunk to wipe the surface clean before lifting the chalk again. Beatrice watched him quietly, but she continued to look troubled. No doubt she was having difficulty absorbing all this. She had lost three days' worth of time. They were memories she was unlikely to ever recover. The idea must be very unsettling indeed.

He finished scribbling and passed the slate back to her. This time, her eyes nearly vanished into her hairline in shock. She met his gaze, and then her eyes quickly scurried away, her face flushing with embarrassment. He watched the painful way she swallowed against the lump of mortification in her throat. If only he could explain it with more tact. He really did sympathize, but there was no denying that he had been her only nurse all this time.

"You undressed me and bathed me?" Her voice was breathless with discomfort. Mortified, she couldn't even look him in the eye. He expected her to drop the subject and was surprised when she continued, although her tone was strained, rising to a squeak.

"We slept together?"

Gilbert slowly nodded even though he realized she could not possibly see his response. He reached for the slate and gently pulled it from her hands. Wide-eyed and surprised, she fell back a few steps, as if she expected him to grab her. He ignored her startled reaction and again cleaned the slate before writing more. He deliberately took his time, allowing her a moment of privacy to recover her wits. Hopefully, she would come to realize he was no threat. By the time he extended the slate, she seemed to have control over herself. She accepted the tablet with a nod.

"'You were burning up with fever. There was no other way to keep you warm. I had no choice. Nothing more happened.'"

He watched her shoulders lift as she took a deep breath, bracing herself. Then, with obvious determination, she lifted her head and met his gaze.

"Nothing?" She asked shakily, and he could see she was holding her breath in dreadful anticipation.

Gilbert solemnly shook his head, holding her gaze as he tried to convey his sincerity. Slowly, she deflated with relief, but tension still lingered about her. To further put her at ease, he placed his palms together, tilting his head to the side as he tucked them to his cheek and closed his eyes, miming sleep. Then, just to satisfy his quirky sense of humor, he rumbled out a snore.

Spontaneous laughter leaped from her lips and was instantly muffled. He popped open one eye, giving her a roguish grin and watched gratefully as she slowly lowered the hand, muffling her amusement and

returned his smile. He was gratified to see that she began to breathe easier.

"I owe you my thanks, Sir. I sincerely appreciate your care in nursing me back to health." She offered him the slate again. "But I don't even know your name?"

She settled down to kneel on the pallet with a tired sigh, still maintaining a respectable distance. Not that he could blame her. She had only his word for any of this, but he was glad she seemed much more at ease. The longer he remained quiet and non-threatening, the easier she would feel.

He accepted the board and quickly wrote his name. Not the name he was christened with at birth. He hadn't used his proper surname in over a decade. No, he refused to acknowledge that name. He preferred to be known by another identity now, and he found himself anxious to hear her speak it aloud. When he passed the slate back into her hands, she even smiled at him. A natural smile this time with very little of that timid reserve. Nodding in gratitude, she dropped her gaze to read.

"'Mister Gilbert Lourson.'"

He almost chuckled aloud at the way she pronounced his name. She did not use the hard English he had become accustomed to from the few people he'd confided to over the years. Instead, she used a softer Parisienne, making 'Gilbert' sound more like 'Jill-bear'.  He found he rather liked how it sounded uttered from those pretty pink lips. Rosy pink and oh so soft and kissable. He found himself staring hungrily at those plump lips and wondering how they would taste. But he quickly averted his eyes, reminding himself to behave. He was having enough difficulty earning her trust as it was. The last thing he wanted was to frighten her.

Unaware of his unruly libido, she continued to smile at him as she dipped her chin in acknowledgment.

"How do you do, Sir?" Then, bashfully, her gaze dropped to the slate in her hands as she admitted, "I remember now. When I first woke, I heard you snoring, and I thought you were a bear."

He gave a soundless chuckle and motioned for the slate again. This time, when he finished writing, he returned it to her with a flourish that made her giggle.

Eagerly, she accepted the board and quickly read his answer. A sudden bark of delighted laughter burst past her lips.

"'Lourson means big bear.' Really?"

He nodded, grinning, both pleased and unrepentant. He was enjoying conversing with her even though it was a bit awkward. She seemed to grasp his wit and, though embarrassed by the circumstance, more than willing to see the logic in his explanation. After she recovered from her mirth, she eyed him with a pseudo-stern frown, but she was unable to hide the sparkle in her eyes.

"Now you are teasing me. You are not a bear."

Gilbert curled his hands into claws and pretended to swipe the air, being careful to maintain his distance as he snorted and huffed comically. Beatrice threw her head back and laughed heartily. She really had a delightful laugh. Her whole face was lit with delight. And then he noticed beads of perspiration forming on her fair skin and her cheeks turning rosy. Maybe a bit too rosy.

Gilbert lost his smile. If she was turning feverish again, that would not be good. In his sudden concern, he acted too hastily and, without thinking, raised his hand with the intention to check for fever. He never even touched her.

She reacted instantly. Her amusement vanished as he moved towards her. Panic widened her eyes, and instinctively, she went on the offensive. The slate was suddenly flung at his head. He ducked, and the fragile wafer of stone flew past him and struck the stone wall at his back. He heard it shatter but ignored the destruction. His attention remained focused entirely on Beatrice as she scuttled backward.

In her frantic bid to escape, she was unknowingly backing right into the open fireplace. She couldn't see the danger. Her terror-filled gaze was locked on him. As far as she was concerned, he was the danger she needed to escape from. She didn't realize how precarious her situation was.

Desperate to prevent her from harming herself, Gilbert opened his mouth, trying to warn her. It wasn't until the guttural rasp of sound had passed his lips that he realized the sound came from him. All that remained of his once deep, soothing baritone. He could barely make a sound, let alone form words. Even if he could have spoken, she was far too terrified to heed any warning. Painful concern morphed into panic in his breast. If anyone knew the terrible damage a fire could inflict, he did. He could not bear to see another human life devoured by hungry flames.

Gilbert acted without a thought. He leaped across the pallet and quickly tackled her to the floor. In an instant, he had her body pinned beneath him. His only thought was to protect her from herself and keep her safe from the sinister flames. But she didn't understand that. She only knew this stranger had just pounced on her, without any warning. She screamed in terror, struggling weakly beneath his crushing weight, no doubt certain she was about to be raped and murdered.

Gilbert held himself still, pressing just enough of his weight down into hers so that she couldn't move. Her arms were caught under his chest, her legs trapped deliberately beneath his so that she couldn't strike out in her panic. He wasn't taking any chances. If she moved, he was afraid she would only endanger herself further.

Beatrice continued to squirm and squeal and sob under him. Gilbert held completely still, forcing himself to breathe deeply as he waited patiently for her to tire. If he could only remain still, unmoving, perhaps she would come to realize she was completely safe. His own nerves still jangled with the bite of pure terror. If she had backed herself into that fireplace... If he hadn't leaped into action to stop her... Mentally, he shuddered in horrified denial. He hated to even consider the consequences.

He kept his gaze turned away, staring fixedly at the stone floor, in the hope that she would be less intimidated if he avoided eye contact. Her whole body shuddered beneath him, wracked with sobs. Poor thing was completely devastated. He found himself gently stroking her hair off her face and wiping away her tears in silent apology. He noted her skin was a bit warm to the touch, but he couldn't tell if that was from exertion or fever.

Eventually, she calmed enough to realize how futile it was to struggle. He was easily more than twice her size and weight. There was no hope of shifting him off until he chose to move. Her sobs subsided until even those hiccupping shudders began to ease. Once he felt she was recovered enough to be rational, Gilbert cautiously levered himself up. He was panting with as much exertion and emotional turmoil as she was. Slowly, he lifted to his knees, making certain to place himself between her body and the fire. The last thing he wanted was a repeat performance of that fiasco. Carefully, he shifted until his body was no longer in contact with hers and returned to a kneeling position. With deliberate caution, he placed both hands on his thighs in plain sight and tried his best to maintain a nonthreatening pose.

The woman was still as a frightened hare, eyeing him uncertainly. She lay where she was, no doubt scared to move. He couldn't blame her. She thought he'd attacked her and broken her trust. He was going to have a difficult time earning it back. With a sigh, he turned his head to search for the slate. It lay near the chest, shattered in pieces strewn all over the floor. His mouth tightened with dismay. Lovely. Now, how would they communicate?

Beside him, Beatrice slowly cautiously shifted away. Thankfully, she moved away from the fireplace this time, and he maintained his position, trying to remain as still as possible. She probably wanted to get as far beyond his reach as she possibly could. Not that he blamed her. She'd had quite a scare. With great care, she rolled to her feet, her chest heaving as she continued to pant for breath. She eyed him suspiciously as she backed across the room until she unexpectedly bumped into his work table. Startled by the abrupt contact, she glanced down. After she saw what she had connected with and realized it could cause her no harm, she whirled back to check where he was. Her eyes were still wide with terror and uncertainty. He wouldn't be surprised if she chose to bolt from the room.

Gilbert held still. He forced every muscle in his body to wait, allowing her to take the lead in this dance. He was completely handicapped by his inability to speak. He couldn't explain why he'd pounced on her like a predator after prey. She would have to take the helm and ask the questions. He could only hope he could improvise a method to answer and make himself understood.