A Servant's Security

Chapter 10

Isabel and Miss Elizabeth were in the kitchen chopping vegetables when Lord Goodwin burst through the door.

Since it was raining outside, a puddle formed around his feet, his beard dripped, and his dark hair clung to his forehead. His shirt clung to his shoulders and arms, revealing muscular arms.

His eye locked with Isabel's and she glanced away, uncomfortable with seeing him again. She looked down at the carrot she was cutting and then looked at him again.

He was still looking at her. What would he say? Would he tell Miss Elizabeth that she had been snooping in his room when she was supposed to be cleaning? Would Elizabeth regret making Isabel her helper, thinking she was too nosy to be trusted?

But by the look on his face, she wondered if he would tell her he was sorry for yelling at her. This was dumb thinking. Lords didn't apologize to their servants.

She ducked her head, trying to concentrate on the carrot.

"My lord!" Miss Elizabeth said. "You must get out of your wet clothes. You'll be sick!"

"Dry clothes are exactly why I'm here."

Elizabeth jumped up. "I'll iron one this minute." She went to the basket of clothing she had taken off the line.

As soon as she said that, Lord Goodwin was gone.

Elizabeth grabbed a shirt and an iron and started ironing, and in a few moments, she was done. She held up the shirt. "Go take this to Lord Goodwin."

"Me?" Isabel croaked.

"Of course. I'll wrap it in a sheet so it won't get wet."

Isabel stared at the shirt at the shirt Elizabeth was holding out to her. How would Lord Goodwin react when she brought it to him? Would he be angry, thinking she was trying to invade his privacy again?

Miss Elizabeth said, "Don't worry. He frightens most people, but he would never harm you."

She took the piece of clothing and hurried out into the rain. She ran to the front of the house and up the slippery steps of the manor house, holding the shirt close to keep it from getting wet. She went into the house and knocked on his door, trying to steady her breathing. "My lord? Miss Elizabeth sent me with your shirt."

He thrust out his hand out the door. She placed the shirt in his open hand. It disappeared behind the door.

Instead of leaving, she decided this was her opportunity to apologize for being in his room. She began to speak before she could change her mind.

"Lord Goodwin, please forgive me for this morning. I would never invade your privacy. I know I did that and I'm very sorry. I didn't know I wasn't supposed to clean in your bedroom. No one told me. I tried not to look at your paintings, but they were so fascinating. I didn't mean to invade your privacy, and I'm sorry, and I will never do it again. Please forgive me."

After she said this, Isabel felt relief. She turned and started walking towards the door.

"Isabel."

His commanding tone made her heart skip a beat. She turned to face him as he stepped out of his room. He was fully dressed, and his hair was still wet and clinging to his temples.

"You shouldn't have gone in my room. I forbid it."

"Of course, my lord."

"I suppose you think my behavior this morning to be... beastly." He glared at her, as if daring her to smile.

"No, of course not."

"You will mention my paintings to no one, understand?"

"Yes."

"They belong to me, and they are no one's concern but my own."

"Of course, my lord. I never meant to pry. I'm very sorry and I won't tell anyone about your paintings. Even though they are very well done. They must have taken you a long time to paint."

His eye narrowed at her and his jaw twitched. He opened his mouth to speak, but at that moment, three servants burst through the door, complaining about being wet and muddy.

An angry look darkened his face as he focused on the three girls. "You aren't supposed to be here now. Get out." 

The young women's eyes grew wide, and they bumped into each other as they scrambled to get out the door. 

Isabel hurried across the room and followed them out.

(John Goodwin's POV)

John returned to his room and sat on his bed.

The girl thought she was clever, but he felt almost as if she had peered into the deep, ugly corners of his soul. Those paintings weren't meant for anyone's eyes but his own.

Women. They were all fake. Disloyal to the core. And the beautiful ones were the worst. This one, Isabel, was from a family that refused to do their share of work for years. He didn't trust the girl at all. The fact that her eyes were a vivid blue, her lips perfectly formed, made him trust her even less. And now Elizabeth had promoted her to a kitchen assistant.

He snorted in disgust. He came here to forget, to forget women, to forget his past, and to enjoy the quiet, soothing life of the country. But there was no joy for him, a wounded beast of a man. He had dreamed of her last night, the wife who had betrayed him. Every time he dreamed of her, he ended up wandering through the woods, trying to escape his mind and find peace. He was haunted, without hope of breaking free from his torturous memories. 

No matter how far he ran.