The Offer by Catherine Coulter Page B

The two loaves of something that could pass for bread, maybe, he eased from the old iron oven. He swelled with pride. It didn’t matter that they were flat and burned on the corners. It didn’t matter that any sort of bread wasn’t supposed to have corners. It was edible and he had made it. He was a fine human being. He could survive. No, it didn’t matter a bit that the two loaves reminded him of the gray quarry stones his workers hauled from the sandstone pit near Dinwitty Manor to repair the ancient Elizabethan watchtower wall. They would use the same quarry stone when he finally managed to get started on his new crenellated tower that he’d spent most of the past summer designing. However, he still hadn’t gotten it built, or even started it, probablybecause he’d been so shaken up by what had happened in Scotland with Rohan and Susannah Carrington. No, he wouldn’t think about that bizarre experience. He allowed himself to remember all of it only late at night when he was alone, drinking brandy in his own library, staring into his own fire, seeing things no man should even imagine.
    He broke off a burned corner. It didn’t taste wonderful. On the other hand, he wasn’t starving, and he knew from experience that starving indeed made a difference. His mouth was still spoiled from memories of food Cook made him at Dinwitty Manor. It didn’t matter. It was nourishing and it could be eaten, if one was desperate enough, and surely both he and Sabrina were desperate enough.
    She was still asleep. He wasn’t worried, no, sleep was the best thing for her. He carefully wrapped his two loaves of bread in coarse cloths he found stacked on a shelf in the kitchen. Then he shrugged on his greatcoat and went to the stable to see to Tasha. The moment he stepped outside, the howling wind whipped against him, sending snow in his face. But the blizzard couldn’t last for much longer, no storms in England ever did. He looked toward the path that wound its way to the front of the house, a white ribbon. No one would be coming for a while yet, not for at least several more days.
    Tasha whinnied when he stepped into the stable. He rubbed her nose, laughed when she butted into his chest. “Yes, I know you’re bloody bored, but there’s no hope for it. Just a few more days, then you can gallop your way out of here.” He looked down at the nearly empty bin of oats. “Actually, in another couple of days, you’re going to be too fat to do anything except groan.”
    Phillip refilled the bin with hay, scooped up abucketful of snow that would soon melt in the warmth of the stable into fresh water, sang Tasha a song, then walked slowly back to the house. The snow was nearly to the top of his boots. He shook his head and smiled. Damn, if Sabrina didn’t wake up soon, whole-witted, he would soon be talking to the furniture. He just hoped if that happened, the furniture wouldn’t talk back.
    He’d nearly finished righting the havoc he’d created in the kitchen when he heard a soft thumping sound from overhead. He tore off the white apron in an instant and was up those stairs, two at a time, in three seconds flat, his heart pounding.
    He pushed open the partially closed bedchamber door and stopped cold in his tracks. Sabrina stood next to the bed, clutching the bedpost for support. Her face was white, her breathing harsh, her braid flopped over her shoulder, oily and lank.
    â€œWhat the devil are you doing out of bed?”
    She stared at him, her face whiter than the man’s shirt she was wearing.
    â€œI can’t get back into bed just yet.”
    â€œWhy ever not?”
    â€œI got up because I need to relieve myself. Do you know where the chamber pot is?”
    â€œAs a matter of fact I do. I wish you’d called me instead of trying to make the journey by yourself.”
    â€œBut I don’t even know who you are. Well I do, but I’d