My Savage Lord (Hidden Identity)

by Colleen French

  "I take it you don't approve of me as a husband," the earl said after a long moment of silence and stares.

  "You were betrothed to Beatrice," Jillian answered flatly. "She waited a long time for you. All those years when my parents thought you were dead, then while your estate and title were returned. Bea should have been wed long ago, but she waited for you."

  "Another suitor will come along."

  "Perhaps, perhaps not. She's beyond marrying age, and you well know it." She watched him as he turned from her and walked to the open doors that led to the garden. "So why me?" she asked after a moment, her curiosity getting the best of her. "Why me and not Beatrice?"

  "She was afraid of me."

  Jillian gave a little laugh, but she was not amused. "And why wouldn't she be, with you wearing that veil across your face and bellowing!"

  He turned in the doorway to face her. "You weren't afraid of me."

  The truth was, Jillian did fear him. She feared his angry voice, his bullying. She feared what was beneath the scarf. But mostly she feared her immediate reaction to him. She feared her damp palms, the flutter in her stomach, her shortness of breath.

  Jillian wrapped her arms around her waist, hugging herself, as if she could ward off his piercing gaze, knowing she couldn't. "He can't make me marry you."

  Duncan broke into a grin. "Ah, but he can. It's a father's right."

  "What about my right?" she exploded, taking a step toward him. "What about my right to marry a man I love, a man who will cherish me?"

  The grin subsided. "You have no rights. As your father, the baron will decide what is best for you. As your husband, I will then decide what is best for you."

  He made eye contact, and Jillian shivered. "Bastard," she murmured.

  Again, he was smiling. "What makes you think I won't cherish you? You don't know me. You don't know my ways. I'll make a better husband than you could choose for yourself, I would venture."

  "I've seen enough to know we are ill-suited. You bullied my father. You hurt my sister."

  "Your father should not have allowed me to bully him. When we have daughters, dear, no one will force me to marry them to anyone I do not choose. As for your sister, I'm sorry if I offended her, but it would have been wrong to take her as my wife, feeling as I do about her."

  Jillian didn't know what to say. She was stuck. She knew it. He knew it. And he was right, of course.

  English law gave her father and later her husband the right to control her as each saw fit. She had no rights by English law, only the rights her father or her husband gave her. She stared at the man standing before her, his face covered by a purple veil. She would only have what rights this man—this devil—chose to extend her.

  "I won't marry you," she stated between clenched, even, white teeth. For now she was even more frightened than before. This man wanted control. She could see it in his gaze. She could hear it in his voice. He wanted to control her.

  "I won't marry you," she repeated with more conviction. "I'll run away. You'll never find me!"

  Something snapped in Duncan's mind and suddenly he was transported back in time. He barely heard Jillian's last words, and the memories came rushing back out of the blackness . . .

  It was the smells that still clung to him after all these years, tearing at him with claws of numbing terror. . . . The acrid scent of the burning house, the sweet, nauseating odor of spilled blood. There had been the aroma of apples and cinnamon still fresh in the air from an apple pie left to cool on a sideboard.

  Duncan remembered the sounds of the dying livestock and the screams of his little sister. From beneath the trestle table, he had been unable to distinguish between the two after a while.

  Duncan thrust out his hand in stark fear. Don't leave me. Don't leave me, his mind screamed.

  "My lord, are you quite all right?"

  Jillian's voice tore him from the memory. He looked down, his mouth dry, to see his own extended hand. He lowered it, embarrassed, and glanced up to see her staring at him, her face suddenly filled with concern.

  "Are you ill, sir? Should I call my father?"

  "Don't be ridiculous," he snapped, angry at himself for allowing his mind to wander. He grabbed her wrist roughly. "Let us go to your father and have these documents signed. You'll be residing at my home until the wedding takes place." He ushered her through the doorway. "So you see, dear Jillian, you will not be leaving me after all."

  Three

  The judgment was made so swiftly that Jillian didn't have time to react; she didn't have time to think. The earl refused to discuss his impulsive decision to imprison her in his family home until the wedding could take place. He insisted her father send her by coach before dusk to Breckenridge House. There she would be chaperoned by his paternal grandmother. The baron had no choice but to comply or see the betrothal agreement annulled and his debt called. The man known as the Colonial Devil signed her betrothal agreement and then was gone.

  There was a whirlwind of repacking as Jillian stood in the corner of the bedchamber she was to have shared with Beatrice. Her sister stood beside her, her face ashen, tears streaking her cheeks.

  "I cannot believe he's going to take you away from us," Beatrice whispered, holding her sister's hand tightly in her own.

  Jillian watched as her mother and a handmaid wrestled her new forest-green ball gown into a trunk. "I'm so sorry," she murmured. "I didn't mean to take your husband, Bea; I swear by all that's holy, I didn't."

  Beatrice looked at her sister, her eyes filled with sadness, disappointment. "I know you didn't. It can't be helped. But my tears are not for the loss of a husband, but for fear for you. What they said was true, Jilly. The man is a beast."

  The terror Jillian saw in Beatrice's face made her forget her own fears for the moment. "Afraid for me? Don't be such a ninny! It's an act you know." She gave a wave of her hand, hoping her sister didn't see its tremor. "He only shouts and stomps for the drama of it all. The man belongs on stage at the king's theater." She made herself smile. "I'm not afraid of him; truly I'm not, Bea. It's just that I don't want to marry him." She lowered her voice. "Jacob is my true love. I can't marry the earl and run off to the American Colonies. I won't."

  "Too late. You heard Father. The decision's been made." Bea's lower lip trembled. "But, oh dear, I don't want you to go. I don't want you to leave me."

  Jillian thought her sister's statement silly. What was the difference if it were Jillian or Beatrice who married the earl? Surely Bea must have realized that once she was the man's wife, she would have left her father's home. The sisters' parting had always been inevitable. The only difference now was that it was Jillian who would be leaving the family first.

  But Jillian didn't speak her mind; instead she plucked one of her curls thoughtfully. She wasn't ready to succumb to the idea of marrying the veiled earl; but she knew that, at this point, she would be better to play along until she decided how she would handle the matter. "The earl said I could bring one maid with me to see to my needs." She looked at her sister, the thought of getting the best of Duncan even in a small matter rather appealing. "Would you come with me, Bea? Just until I'm wed? Just until I've gotten used to a strange house, the earl, his dowager-grandmother?"

  Beatrice brought her hands to her pale cheeks. "Oh, I couldn't. Father would never . . . the earl would never—"

  "Just think, we could be together a little longer." Jillian took her sister's hand in hers. "Oh, please Bea, for me? Will you do it?"

  Beatrice looked into her sister's eyes in obvious quandary. "I don't know. I . . . "

  "Perhaps the earl might be able to find you another husband," Jillian cajoled. "He's a very rich, influential man; surely he has unmarried acquaintances."

  "Oh, Jilly . . ."

  "Please," Jillian begged sincerely. The truth of the matter was that she needed her sister. What if she couldn't find a way to be with Jacob? She needed Bea if she was going to manage a devil-husband.

  "All right," B
eatrice breathed. "I'll go, but just until the wedding." She squeezed her sister's hand and whispered. "And you have to tell Father . . ."

  "You did what?" Lord William Galloway raised a jack of ale to his numb lips. The sounds of the dockside tavern filled the air; ivory dice clattered across scarred wooden tables; a Fleet Street whore laughed; a mangy dog in the alley behind the tavern barked. The place smelled of rotting timber, the salty sea, and piss.

  Galloway preferred to drink in ladies' salons, but this was where Duncan liked to sup and gamble. He said that it was in sweaty ordinaries like this that he felt most comfortable.

  Duncan cocked his mug, wondering if he'd made a mistake in telling his friend. But hell, he was going to marry her. Sooner or later Galloway would know he had a wife. "I said I signed the betrothal agreement. I marry the Hollingsworth chit come All Saints Day."

  Galloway gave a low whistle, slapping his ale jack on the table. He was a short, stout man with a ruddy face and an honest disposition. "By the King's cod! You really did it, didn't you? Damn if I didn't lose ten pounds to Bretton. I bet him you'd back out." He leaned across the table, wiping his wet mouth with the back of his hand. "So what's she like, dear Beatrice? An ancient, poxed hag with warts on her nose?"

  Duncan smiled to himself as he lifted his ale jack and sipped the pungent brew. "No, she's a redhead with dark eyes. Her name's Jillian."

  Galloway squinted in the dim, smoky light of the public room. "I thought you said last night she was called Beatrice Mary. You said she sounded like she belonged in a nunnery." He guffawed.

  Duncan set his jack on the edge of the table. "I didn't like the one called Beatrice." He shrugged. "So I took one of the other daughters. 'Twas no great event. One woman is much like another when the light is out, is she not?"

  Galloway continued to stare across the table, making Duncan uncomfortable. Will Galloway was a privateer. He also owned land adjacent to Duncan's Maryland acreage and had been a friend for many years. He was a good man, though he drank too much. And he knew Duncan well, too well.

  "Christ, if I didn't know better, I'd say you were smitten with her," Galloway teased. "How old is she? Ten? Twelve?"

  Duncan picked a bit of bread off his pewter plate and tossed it at Galloway, striking him on the cheekbone. "No. She's well of marrying age."

  "But young?"

  "Aye, young," Duncan conceded, beginning to wish he'd not brought the matter up at all.

  "And pretty?"

  Duncan's gaze met Galloway's, the veil over his one eye casting a strange light across his friend's flushed face. "Pretty enough that if you so much as speak to her, I'll cut off your gonads, pickle them, and send them to your mother."

  Galloway laughed heartily, slapping his palm on the table, making the pewter plates rattle. "A man smitten with his intended! By the King's cod, you're as out of fashion as a farthingale in a Stuart's drawing room! Tell me, has she other sisters?"

  Duncan frowned. "She does, several, but you'll get no introduction from me. You're liable to give the poor girl a disease." He shuffled a deck of dog-eared cards and began to deal. "So, are you in for a hand or are you just going to sit there, laughing like the jackass that you are?"

  "I'm in, I'm in. I've got to come up with the coin to pay for this lousy meal, don't I?" He reached for the cards Duncan dealt him. "But tell me, did you wear that ridiculous scarf of yours to meet her?"

  "I did."

  Galloway snickered. "And the wench still agreed to wed you? I've got to see this paragon for myself!"

  "She's staying with me. Atar should be getting her settled now. So come sup with us tomorrow evening. Nine on the hour, and try to come sober, will you, Will?"

  Galloway lifted a thick eyebrow. "At Breckenridge House? Me? You certain your grandmother will let me past the front stoop?"

  Duncan fanned out his cards in his hand. "Bring her sweets. She can be bribed. Now will you play your card?"

  The closer the coach grew to Breckenridge House, the more nervous Jillian became. Inside her leather gloves, she could feel her palms growing damp. Perspiration beaded above her upper lip. Beside her, Beatrice sat rigidly, staring at the empty coach bench across from them. The vehicle rocked to and fro as it made its way toward Aldersgate Street just outside the city gates. There, Breckenridge House had been home to the Rodericks since before the civil wars.

  Jillian peered out the window as the coach swung left and rolled up a drive through an iron gate hanging askew. Her first view of the home disappointed her. Breckenridge House was a three-story, ivy-walled brick structure that had obviously been left unkept for many years. Glass panes were shattered, bricks crumbling at the sills, ivy growing wildly over some windows. Shutters hung sadly, some open, some closed, and the roof was missing a good many shingles. The drive was bumpy, littered with branches left from the last summer thunderstorm.

  "Uds lud," Jillian swore, disguising her apprehension with sarcasm. "For a rich man, he doesn't keep his place well, does he?"

  Beatrice made no response but to stare through the small window and nod.

  When the coach rocked to a halt in front of the great, looming house, Jillian leapt off the leather seat and threw open the door. The footman barely made it with a wooden step before Jillian alighted from the coach. "Looks like a lair, doesn't it?" she asked her sister, staring up at the vast, crumbling house in the last of the summer's light.

  Beatrice grasped her sister's arm. "Do—do you think he's here?" she managed, her hand trembling.

  "I hope not. Carry my bags in," she called to the footmen and driver. Then she lifted the skirts of her simple cotton-and-chintz traveling gown and started immediately for the front door.

  Jillian had to take care in climbing the old steps because the stones were loose in the places where the mortar had cracked. Without hesitation, she drew back the iron knocker with the head of a wild boar and let it fall. Impatiently, she did it again.

  When the door yawned open, Jillian peered into the semi-darkness of the candlelit entryway. "Jillian Hollingsworth," she announced to the tall, stocky black man dressed in a short red coat, dark breeches, and worn shoes. She pushed past the servant. "Your master is expecting me."

  The black man took a step back, allowing Beatrice to follow her sister inside. "Yes, he is expecting you, but he is not available." The man's English was as impeccable as his red coat.

  The hallway was cool with a high plastered ceiling and Italian-marble floor tile. Portraits of stiff-collared old men lined the papered walls with ancient muskets and swords, floor to ceiling.

  "Your apartments are already prepared, madame. I can show you the way." He took another step back, indicating with a silky black hand that she should go up the staircase.

  "Excellent." Jillian tugged off her kidskin gloves. Duncan thought he was in control? She would show him control. "This is my sister, Beatrice. She'll need a bedchamber adjoining mine. She'll be staying with us as well."

  The servant bowed. "As you wish. My name is Atar. I am the master's retainer. Whatever you wish, madame, I will see to."

  Just then Jillian heard the sound of male footsteps approaching on the marble floor. Her heart gave an involuntary trip. Was it himself come to greet her? She turned toward the sound, poised.

  But out of the darkness appeared not the massive hulk of her husband-to-be, but a slender man in a tasteless lime-green doublet with a great many gold garnitures and matching leather heels. "Good evening," he called. Once in the circle of candlelight, he offered a leg and bowed formally. "That will be all, Atar. Scurry along. I'll see that the lady is settled in." He waved his hand in dismissal.

  But the African didn't budge. "Atar," the man in the hideous doublet repeated. "I said, you are dismissed."

  After a moment, the servant retreated into the darkness of the corridor beyond the circle of hallway light and the man in the coat returned his attention to Jillian. "Allow me to introduce myself. I am Algernon Roderick, cousin to your host and, I understand, you
r husband-to-be."

  Jillian dipped a curtsy, offering her hand as was customary; but when his lips touched her bare skin, she withdrew, uncomfortable with the cousin's gesture. Something wasn't right about this man. Her distaste for him was immediate. "Your servant, sir. And this is my sister, Beatrice. She's come to stay with me for a short while."

  The two paid honors as was appropriate, then Beatrice stepped back behind her sister again.

  "I must apologize for my cousin's poor behavior." Algernon lifted his hands in an effeminate way. It was obvious the man was taking great care to imitate the young fops of the Court. Jillian had heard this was all the mode, but he came off as a fool, especially in comparison to Duncan's rugged masculinity.

  Jillian gave a half smile. Despite her unwillingness to marry Duncan, she would not air her dirty linens. She would not publicly speak harshly of the man she might be forced to marry. She was too smart not to realize how disastrous such an error could be. If she were made to marry the earl, he would have utter control over her life. He would dictate where she went, what she wore, what she ate. He had a right as her husband to bathe her in the luxury he was capable of or to lock her in a solitary tower until her death.

  "That's quite all right," Jillian responded to the cousin smoothly. "I wasn't expecting his lordship . . . Duncan." She didn't know why she used his Christian name with such familiarity. It was improper that an engaged couple use their first names until after they were wed. But there was something about the way Algernon stared at her that made her uncomfortable. There was something about the tone of his voice that made her want to seek the protection of Duncan's name.

  Out of the corner of her eye, Jillian noticed a silhouette in the shadows. It was Duncan's man, Atar. So he didn't trust the cousin either . . .

  Jillian turned to the footman. "If you could show us to our apartments . . ."

  "Nonsense," the cousin interrupted before the footman could act. "I'll see you there myself. See to the ladies' bags," he instructed the footman. Then he offered his arm to Jillian. "Madame?"