The Matchless Miss: Sorcha MacMurrough, HerStory Books

Spinster Sarah Deveril is content to live quietly with her brother and his wife in the rolling English countryside, tending house at the vicarage, and working for the benefit of the poor. Though wealthy and beautiful, she has never met any man who stirred her heart, until a mysterious visitor with the same name as her brother appears on her doorstep.

The man she re-christens "Alexander" is blind and wounded as a result of the Peninsular War, with no recollection of who he really is. Taking pity on the desperate, and exceptionally handsome gentleman, Sarah nurses him back to health, and sets him on the path to discover his past, and how he came to be so terribly injured.

The more Alexander discovers about his true identity, the more he simply wants to linger with the rare woman who has come to mean more to him than life itself. But ignorance is a luxury he and Sarah cannot afford, as the enemies from his past make various attempts upon his life.

Only Sarah stands between Alexander and certain death as the men who betrayed their country for the sake of Napoleon scheme to kill Alexander before he can expose their treason. Can she save her one true love, or will their love become just another casualty of the long, terrible war?

Chapter One

Late April 1814

Sarah Deverill was just about to settle herself by the roaring fire in her own small study at her brother Jonathan's vicarage to read their letters when she heard a rap at the front portal.

She hurried out into the hall and reached to open the latch herself without standing on ceremony and waiting for the maidservant Jenny to answer it.

A huge flash of lightning lit up the sky behind the towering figure, throwing him into shadow. For a moment she thought the ground was shaking under her feet.

Then she realized the strength of the spring gale was actually tugging at the woven mat she was standing upon, snatching at the hem of her skirts. The rumble of thunder that followed shook the house as well.

"Yes, can I help you?" she said, raising her voice above the whistling wind and the clashing elements overhead.

"Is this the home of Jonathan Deveril?" the tall, shabbily-dressed man asked.

Sarah struggled to keep the door from being torn out of her grasp and nodded and smiled. "Yes, that's right."

He stepped up into the small porch. "Major Jonathan Deveril?"

"Yes, he did hold that rank not so long ago. Can I help you?" she asked again.

The dark-haired stranger, who looked to be in his late twenties, fumbled with his hat and stared at her.

"He isn't at home. Is there something I can help you with?"

"It's just that, well- Do you not recognize me?" He held out his hand in mute appeal.

She realized with a start that he was blind.

Sarah stared at the handsome face, with a high brow, elegant nose, and the most piercing pair of pale golden eyes she had ever seen. An aquiline nose, generous lips, and a finely hewn chin with a cleft completed his god-like appearance.

The only mar to his absolute perfection was a scar which ran from the corner of his left eye back into his hairline, giving him a Devil-may-care look which was both stirring and disturbing.

"No. I've never seen you before. Should I know you?" she asked in confusion.

"Yes, of course, if I have the right house. My name is Jonathan Deveril."

Sarah stared at him. This had to be some sort of prank.

Yet he didn't look like a rogue or rattle. The man had a most dignified bearing, tall and straight, aristocratic even despite his badly mended poor-quality brown homespun garments.

She guessed he had to be one of the other Rakehells, her brother Jonathan's group of Radical friends who had gone to school and then served in the Army together. He must have been delayed and thus missed the wedding.

Normally it would be another round of backslapping and tattoo-showing all around, except that they were all away on their various travels.

Still, he had obviously come a long way, the weather was growing more and more inclement, and the poor man was weary-looking and blind.

Sarah took one last look, and decided quickly that she had better get a guestroom prepared. She firmly ignored the voice of propriety reminding her it was completely unsuitable to do so now that she was living alone in the vicarage for the summer.

"Please come in, sir. My name is Sarah. I wasn't expecting anyone to stay. But if you're willing to take me as you find me, you're more than welcome, Mr. er-"

"Deveril. I've told you. Jonathan Deveril."

She was not going to argue with him when lightning was already streaking the almost black sky, and the smell of sulfur choked the air.

She clutched his arm and led him over the threshold carefully. "Please, sir, do hurry. The rain will be here any moment."

She heaved the door shut against the wind, and just in time too. A telltale patter against the portal as he removed his greatcoat told him the fierce storm which had menaced him on the road had arrived at last.

"Thank you so much. It's so difficult not being able to see. Often people try to take advantage, cheat you. I've found that out the hard way."

"I'm so sorry to hear that," she said sincerely. "A man like yourself, who's obviously fought for his country, shouldn't be treated with such rudeness and contempt."

She led him into their fine Wedgwood drawing room and over to a simple wooden settle by the fire which Jenny often used when she was sitting with her shelling peas or peeling potatoes.

"You'll forgive the lack of comfort, but you're rather mired from your travels. I'll ask the servants to prepare a bath, if I may."

"A bath!" He sounded flabbergasted.

"You're not one of those people who think it's a dangerous thing, are you?" she asked with a small frown.

The man smiled for the first time, and his handsome face became even more breathtaking. "Not at all. I was just thinking I can't recall the last time I had one. What luxury. It's been well, weeks, months, I suppose."

"You've had a long journey, but you're welcome here," she reassured him, trying not to stare at his incredible face and physique.

"Anything I can do for your comfort, you have only to ask."

"A bath would be remarkable, but I would not wish to put anyone to such trouble--"

"Nay, no trouble at all," she hastened to reassure him. "The bathing chamber is here on the first floor, so no one has to run up and down, and in fact, we have hot and cold running water thanks to a fresh stream on the property, and a large copper boiler."

"Do you indeed." She could seeing him digesting this information, assessing anew his situation.

Obviously what he concluded about her and her hospitality was favorable, for he visibly relaxed and stretched out his hands and feet to soak up the warmth of the fire.

"I'll just go tell the servants to fill the boiler. I shall bring you a basin to wash your hands, and a light repast to tide you over until supper. If I'm not mistaken, it will be roast beef and Yorkshire pudding."

"It sounds wonderful," he said with a sigh. "I will place myself in your hands. Thank you so much."

She smiled back at him, then recollected that he could not see her. She ventured to touch his shoulder. "You're very welcome."

She studied his remarkable face once more, hoping for a clue as to his identity, but was sure they had never met.

She went into the kitchen at the back of the house, where Jenny was just starting to prepare the Yorkshire pudding batter.

"I was just letting the tea steep."

"Oh, thank you. But that's not why I'm here. How long until everything is ready, Jenny?"

"You said regular time, so about another hour, Miss."

She took two cups from the Welsh dresser and poured out a drop of the tea, sipped, and put the other cup on the table. She added milk and sugar to the other. "You and Caleb can have the rest of the pot."

"Why, thank you, Miss," she said with a smile. "You're far too good-hearted."

"Speaking of, can you tell Caleb there will be another person for dinner, one of Mr. Jonathan's friends. He looks like he's had a very hard time in the war."

"Oh, dear. Not another one with an arm or leg off, is he? Dratted waste."

Sarah shook her head. "No, but he's blind, and appears quite poor. People have taken advantage of his handicap."

"What a dashed shame," she declared, looking most indignant on the stranger's behalf. "What can I do to help?"

"He'll need to spend the night, what with this awful weather and the fact that he looks so thin and exhausted. If you could make up a guestroom for him that would most kind. The blue one will be fine."

"Very good, Miss. Glad to."

If Jenny were surprised or worried at this turn of events, she did not show it. So far as she and her husband were concerned, a less flighty woman than Sarah Deveril had never breathed.

"And he'll need a hot bath, and to borrow some of my brother's things."

"I'll put the fire under the boiler now. I'll have Caleb keep an eye on supper while I get the chamber ready."

"Thank you, Jenny. You're an angel."

"Hardly that," the older woman said gruffly, but she looked pleased all the same. "Is there anything else, Miss?"

"An ewer of warm water and a basin, a towel and soap, and some bread and cheese to tide him over until the meal is ready."

The elderly housekeeper poured the hot water from a kettle always kept boiling on the back of the stove, and added some cold, while Sarah fetched a towel, a stiff nail-brush, and some fine-milled lavender soap.

"I'll be back for the food in a minute."

"It will be ready, Miss. The poor man." The sharp-featured woman sniffed and beat the batter harder to vent her feelings.

Sarah certainly knew how she felt. The war had been nothing but waste. If she ever had the chance to give one in the eye to Bonaparte, she would take it gladly.

Then she laughed at the fanciful notion. She was only a woman. She certainly couldn't fight, could she? Not with fists or weapons, at any rate. But with her hands as she worked...

She re-entered the sitting room, and handed him the tea cup and saucer. "Here you are. That will warm you up."

He put his hands around it cautiously and sniffed. "Ah, tea. Splendid. I can't recall the last time I had a cup."

Sarah returned a moment later with a basin, which she placed on the table, and filled with the hot water. She slipped in the soap and brush, and hung the towel on the back of the chair.

"I've brought the hot water and so on. Can you manage?"

"If you speak to me, and there are no obstacles in the way."

"Oh, wait. Footstool." She cleared a path, took his sleeve gently and led him to the table. She placed his hand in the water, but soon realized that she should have made him take his jacket off first.

"Here, let me roll up your cuffs," she offered, wondering why her normal levelheaded commonsense seemed to have deserted her, and she felt as though she were all thumbs.

"Thank you."

She was startled at the intimacy of having to assist him, undoing his buttons and rolling back the cheap cotton fabric to reveal strong brown wrists covered with a smattering of silky dark hair.

"Here's the soap," she said, placing it in his huge hands.

He accepted it with thanks, and proceeded to do the best he could washing, considering he was so very dirty and couldn't see. After a time he held them out for her inspection.

"What do you think?"

"You need more of the nail brush on the right one."

He applied it vigorously. "Better?" he asked after a time.

"Good, but still dirty. Do you mind if I touch you?"

"Not at all," he said almost primly.

She took his hand and scrubbed the offending soil away, then looked carefully at the other.

He held still, retaining the deep breath he had taken into his lungs when she had first touched him. He couldn't remember the last time a woman had done anything so intimate. The warmth and slipperiness was a sensual caress which sent shivers up his spine and made his skin sizzle.

But of course, he reminded himself, he couldn't remember anything at all, which was why he was here with a complete stranger taking pity on him and helping him do something as childishly simple as wash his hands.

He tried not to let that thought anger him, but he detested feeling so helpless. Especially in front of this obviously genteel woman. He had felt the fine linen of her gown, smelt her delicate perfume, like roses and honey, noted her fine accent. It was too shaming to be thus in front of anyone, let alone a lady of her quality.

But at least she seemed kind, and not terrified of him or his appearance, despite the fact that it must have been exceedingly disreputable.

And at least he was under a safe roof, out of the rain, and assured of a decent bed and a good meal for a change. It was a miracle after all he had suffered since he had been declared fit enough to travel and had left Spain.

As Sarah worked, she noticed that his hands were callused and scarred, clear evidence of hard labor in recent years, though they did not have the often misshapen form that she saw with men who had toiled manually all their lives.

The contact with his wet soapy fingers was more thrilling that she ever could have imagined. She was glad he could not see her blushing to the roots of her hair, and only hoped he didn't notice her fingers trembling.

"There, all done," she said in a falsely hearty tone. She handed him the towel, and he dried himself off.

"You might as well take off that dusty jacket while you're at it, and give your hands another rinse."

She helped him off with the garment, and put his hands back in the basin. She was astonished at her lack of shyness around this complete stranger. She was undressing him as though he were, well, a close relative. A husband, even.

She had nursed ill people in the past, even if never a blind person before. The physical contact was simply unsettling because he was so handsome, she admitted to herself.

But she couldn't allow herself to be skittish. It was important to make the stranger welcome without suffocating him, and to get him comfortable and settled as soon as she could. He had evidently traveled a long way, and had to be exhausted.

As soon as he was washed, he could eat. As soon as he had eaten, he could have a bath and some clean clothes and a proper shave. He had evidently tried to do it himself, judging from various nicks on his face, and was lucky he had not done himself a permanent injury.

She seated him on the settle once more, and went back to the kitchen for the cheese and bread. She noted that Jenny had also put some beer and wine on the tray.

She decided it would not do any harm to permit him some. It would also tell her a lot about the character of the man who had come to see her brother. Soldiers were reputed to be hard drinkers, and very prone to wenching.

If he were to stay, she would need to know precisely what sort of chap he was. People could fib in response to overt questioning, but habits and mannerisms never lied.

"Here you are. Bread and cheese. Beer, or wine?"

"I adore wine, from my time on the Continent. But some good homemade English beer would be most welcome."

She handed him a glass, and he took a thirsty but by no means eager sip, and then set the beaker back down.

"Forgive me for asking, but I was wondering at the fact that you don't have any luggage."

He shook his head. "I had some when I left Spain, but by the time I got to London, I had been pretty much cleaned out."

"Cleaned out?" she repeated blankly.

"Thieves stole most of my things. Not that they were very valuable or anything. I mean, I had enough sense to keep my most important possessions about my person. I have some money, which I sewed into the lining of this jacket, and my papers in my breeches, and so on, but the rest of it went."

Sarah sighed and rested her hand on his shoulder again. "I'm so sorry to hear that."

He shrugged one shoulder in its ill-fitting frayed dark brown woolen suit. "I don't mind if the things go to poor people who really need them. I'm not so sure that was always the case. Still, I'm well enough off. I have more than many people. And is it not a sin to provoke envy in others?"

She replied gently, "I'm sure you didn't do it on purpose. And envy is usually the fault of the covetous one, not the one whose possessions are coveted. Moreover, if you don't mind me saying so, it's evident you've suffered a great deal. I'm not sure how you think it is that people would envy a blind man."

He laughed shortly, a mirthless sound. "If you'd met some of the men I have, you would know. At least I have all of my arms and legs. And am still alive. It's more than I can say for a lot of other poor buggers. Excuse my language, but-"

Sarah patted his shoulder. "No, it's quite all right, I understand. My brother and most of his close friends served in the war. I know exactly what you mean."

She suppressed a shudder as she recalled the events which had set her brother on his current path, now serving as a vicar in his friend's parish.

"If you don't mind," her companion said when he had finished swallowing a mouthful of cheese, "for one night I should like not to have to talk about the war, or my blindness, or anything unpleasant."

"I'll do my best." She looked around the room for inspiration, and then asked, "Do you like music?"

"I love it."

"Then I'll play the pianoforte for you whilst you eat, so you won't be obliged to have any conversation at all for the moment."

He named readily enough the Beethoven piece she chose, Fur Elise, and sat back and closed his eyes, letting the glorious music wash over him. She knew she did not play very well technically, the way her sister-in-law Pamela did, for example. She did play with passion and verve. At the end of her performance, he applauded.

"That was wonderful."

"Thank you. You're too kind. And now, I think our meal will be just about ready to serve."

"It smells delicious," he said, his mouth watering at the prospect of a hot meal, let alone one with meat. Beef, no less.

"Jenny is an excellent cook. She and Caleb are very kind people too. Anything you need, please don't be shy about asking. My home is your home," she reassured him.

She felt an unexpected tingle of warmth and blush of delight at the words. Only a few short hours ago, she had been facing the prospect of being all alone and lonely while her friends were all away. Now she had the most remarkable man staying with her, sharing her home with her like...

Like a husband.

She tried to quash the thought again. Like a friend. Her brother's friend, she told herself firmly.

"Come this way, Sir."

He held out his arm. "You'll need to guide me."

She took his hand in her own once more, and white hot sparks flew up and down her arm.

Another shocked look at his handsome face was enough to give her the elusive clue she had been missing all along whenever she thought of her poor friend Jane Eltham, who had once been engaged to her brother Jonathan, but had eloped with a most unsuitable man instead. She thought she could understand it now. For surely this had to be romantic attraction. Desire. She touched his hand, and all her limbs trembled, while molten pools of heat flooded her belly.

Desire. Strong enough to make a woman throw all caution to the winds for the bliss it could confer. The dreams dangling just out of reach. But near enough if she chose to reach out to grasp it.

His fingers interlaced with hers, notching up her heartbeat, setting her panting. Good Lord, it was worse than a hunger for food!

She snapped out of her sensual spell with a jolt. "This way. You must be famished."

"Just glad to be with you safe and sound," he replied.

He was perfectly polite, not the least bit flirtatious, but Sarah shivered at his nearness all the same. If she wasn't mistaken, the tight grip on her fingers hinted that he too might be starving for a completely different banquet of delights as well.