Silver Deceptions

by Sabrina Jeffries

  “There was so much blood,” she whispered against his shoulder. “It . . . it splattered Mother . . . it splattered me. Mother was screaming like a madwoman. She just kept stabbing and stabbing—”

  “Hush,” he murmured, stroking her hair. It was killing him to watch her relive it. “Oh, please, dearling, hush.”

  “Don’t you see?” She lifted her lost, haunted gaze to him. “She died because of me, because she wanted to protect me.”

  “It wasn’t your fault,” he said fiercely, cupping her face in his hands. “It was your stepfather’s. Never forget that. He was the one who began the torment; your mother merely ended it. And thank God for it, too, or he might have killed you one day.”

  “All the same,” she said in a ragged voice, “I should have stopped her from killing him. I tried, I really did, but she had this sudden incredible strength . . .”

  “Yes. That often happens in situations of this kind.” With his heart in his throat, Colin rubbed the tears from her eyes. “You couldn’t have stopped her. When someone is in a fit of passion like that, they’re nearly invincible.” He’d seen it happen in fights, when a man was so enraged that he lost all control.

  Still, he’d never had to watch it happen to someone he loved and respected. It must have destroyed her to witness it.

  She was nodding now. “Invincible, yes. The squire was long dead before Mother stopped. One of the reasons the judge had no mercy for her was that she was so brutal. Of course, he didn’t care why. He . . . he simply sentenced her to hang.”

  Of course he had. As Annabelle had once pointed out, a man was king of his castle in England. No matter how he ran roughshod over his family, they were supposed to take it. Her mother must have suffered a good deal at the hands of the squire to have broken that unspoken law.

  “I was there at the execution,” she whispered, tears flowing down her cheeks. “I watched her hang.”

  His blood chilled. “For the love of God, why?”

  “I—I thought I’d cut her down and bring her to a surgeon who’d revive her.” Her voice hardened. “But they wouldn’t let me near the body. Charity took me away once she was h-hoisted . . . but”—her voice broke—“I—I heard she didn’t die for some time. Oh, sweet Mary, if I couldn’t stop her from killing him in the first place, I should have saved her from that at least!”

  “Sh, sh,” he murmured, holding her close and fervently wishing he could wipe it all from her memory. “It sounds as if you did everything you could, dearling, short of calling down a miracle from God.”

  “I d-did that, too,” she choked out. “H-he didn’t give m-me one.”

  That sent Colin over the edge. With a low moan, he lifted her and went to sit by the fire, cradling her in his arms, whispering soothing words, stroking her hair as she gave herself up to her tears, to the unbearable sadness that he’d seen in her time and again. He let her cry. He didn’t try to hush her or kiss her. Instead, he comforted her, giving no demands and asking no questions.

  It felt so good to hold her, to know that she trusted him with her pain, that he kept her against his chest long after her tears had subsided, her hand clutching the now-damp cloth of his vest. Shifting her in his arms, he reached for the flagon and poured her some wine. With a grateful look, she sipped it.

  She stared up at him, a sudden wariness coming over her now that the worst of her grief was past. “You do understand why I had to punish my father. I had to make him suffer the way Mother suffered. He took her innocence and abandoned her. He had to pay for that.”

  Colin wrapped a lock of her hair about his finger, then lifted it to his lips to kiss. “I can see why you’d want revenge, but I still don’t understand how you meant to get it.”

  Sniffling, she set the wine aside and laid her head on his chest. “I thought if I appeared to live scandalously, my father would be shamed before his peers. No man wants a daughter who’s an actress on the stage.”

  “Most nobility consider treading the boards to be one step above whoring,” he agreed.

  She winced. “I—I had this dream, you see, of destroying his reputation by flaunting myself and eventually revealing my parentage.”

  “But you had to find him first.”

  “Yes. I took his surname . . . and . . . and . . .”

  When she paused, he held his breath. Would she mention the poem? He was loath to ask about it when she’d finally begun to trust him. He wasn’t supposed to know anything about it.

  “I—I took a nickname,” she finally whispered. “I didn’t tell you this before, but my father left my mother a poem signed with the name ‘The Silver Swan.’ That’s why I wore that brooch and why Charity and I coaxed the gallants into using it for me. All I knew was my father’s surname and that nickname, so I used it on the stage, hoping to draw him out.”

  His heart leapt to hear her finally tell him everything. She trusted him at last. Still, how could she not have known the significance of the name she’d taken? “This poem,” he prodded. “Why did it have such a strange signature?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t know. At first I couldn’t think what to make of it. Then I assumed it was some sort of . . . I don’t know . . . nickname he used with his friends.” A sudden fear lit her face. “Until today.”

  “What do you mean?” he asked sharply.

  Quickly she related the story about the man accosting her in the box at the theater and trying to find out why she went by “The Silver Swan.” Colin’s blood chilled. Walcester, damn his hide. How dared he go so far?

  Colin shifted her on his lap. “What did the man look like?”

  “I didn’t see. He never left the shadows. But he had a gravelly voice and carried a cane.”

  Colin gritted his teeth.

  “Was it my father?”

  “I think so.”

  “I don’t understand why he fears my using his . . . his nickname. Unless . . . I mean, I have to wonder if it had anything to do with the task he asked of my mother.”

  Colin stiffened. “What task?”

  She swallowed. “Mother told me that my father gave her that poem to pass on to his friend in the village. She did, but after his friend read the poem, he thrust it back at her and told her to leave.”

  “For the love of God,” Colin muttered under his breath.

  “It sounds as if my father were involved in some intrigue. What could he have done that makes him so fearful now?”

  Clutching her against his chest, Colin groaned. He had a pretty good idea of what it might be. “It doesn’t matter what he did. You must promise to abandon this foolish quest of yours for revenge. Your father could be dangerous.”

  “I know,” she whispered.

  He tipped up her chin until she was staring into his eyes. “Listen to me, dearling. I’m not saying Walcester doesn’t deserve to suffer for what he did to your mother. But if you endanger your life to punish him, then he has won. He has destroyed both you and your mother and proven he can do as he pleases without answering to anyone.”

  Her mouth trembled. “I know.”

  Not quite able to believe she was agreeing with him, he murmured, “This isn’t about him or your mother or your stepfather. This is about you and your pain. It won’t be assuaged by hurting him, I assure you.” His throat felt raw. “The scars on your back won’t heal because he’s been punished. Nor will the scars on your soul. You must set about healing them by putting the past behind you and finding some new future.”

  A soft smile lit her face, giving him hope that she was seeing the sense of what he said.

  Encouraged by that, he went on. “I have no right to ask, but will you promise to abandon this plan of yours before Walcester gets some wild idea about what you know of his past and decides to hurt you?”

  She stared at him a long moment, then lifted her hand to stroke his cheek. “Yes. If you wish it.”

  His relief was so profound it stunned him. He hadn’t expected her to agree. “Thank heaven. Walcester is a
foe to be feared.”

  She eyed him uncertainly. “You don’t truly think he’d try to kill me, do you? I mean, I know he doesn’t know I’m his daughter, but he’s not the kind of man who would murder someone, is he?”

  Damn, all of his deceptions were coming back to haunt him. He should tell her the truth—that Walcester knew who she was but didn’t care. That Colin had been lying to her all this time.

  But how could he, when she’d just begun to trust him?

  He tightened his arms around her and spoke as much of the truth as he dared. “I don’t know, dearling. I discovered some things in Norwood about your father that give me pause.”

  “What?”

  “It’s all very confusing, but apparently he was at Norwood shortly after the Battle of Naseby. After he sent your mother to Norwood to deliver that message, three Royalists who’d escaped capture until then were caught and the papers of Charles I confiscated by the Roundheads. The man who arrested them said they were betrayed by a traitor in their midst.”

  Shock showed in her features. “You think my father was the traitor?”

  He couldn’t see any other explanation. “ ’Tis possible, though I don’t know for certain. But I mean to find out.” He cupped her face in his hands. “I tell you this only because I want you to know what a risky game you’ve been playing. I hope you mean it when you say you’ll abandon your vengeance.”

  Her eyes grew solemn. “I do.”

  “I swear it would destroy me if something happened to you,” he admitted hoarsely. “The very thought of it strikes terror to my soul.”

  She blinked, then covered his hands with hers and gazed up at him with a look of such guileless love that it made something twist in his chest. Before he could even think, he was pressing his mouth to hers, determined to make her forget about her father and the Silver Swan and the terrible things that had happened at Norwood. To make her care only about him.

  He kissed her a long while, the blood rising in him, searing him, rousing his hunger for her. When he drew back, her eyes flamed with the same hunger. It fairly slayed him. “Hell and furies, it’s been the longest two weeks of my life.”

  “Of mine, too,” she admitted with a shy smile.

  “I suppose I understand why you took my ring off and sought to hurt me while I was gone. You were right. I should have told you what I was doing. Still, I don’t think I could bear again to see you mauled by a lecher like Rochester.”

  “Don’t worry. As soon as I return to Aphra’s, I’ll put your ring back on and never take it off.”

  He smoothed his thumb over her lips. “This time you’ll keep your promise to be mine and mine alone?”

  “Aye, this time I will, my lord.” Then she added archly, “But only if you promise the same.”

  He bit back a laugh. “Easily.” Clasping her hands, he held them to his chest. “I swear, Annabelle, by all that’s holy, to be yours and yours alone, to have no other woman in my bed, in my thoughts, in my heart.”

  “In your heart?” she echoed.

  And in that moment, he knew. He wanted this vow to be forever. He would never want another woman in his life. He knew it as surely as he knew that the sun rose and set every day.

  “Annabelle,” he rasped, “I think our promises are not enough.”

  Her eyes went wide. “What do you mean?”

  “I want a more lasting promise.” He brushed a kiss to her lips, then added in a whisper, “I want to marry you.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  “Excellent wretch! Perdition catch my soul

  But I do love thee! and when I love thee not,

  Chaos is come again.”

  —William Shakespeare, Othello, Act 3, Sc. 3

  Annabelle gaped at him. Surely he hadn’t said what she’d thought. “Marriage? But . . . but . . .”

  “Does that mean you don’t wish to marry me?” He lifted her hand to his lips, grazing the knuckles with a feathery caress.

  “Please, don’t toy with me like this. We aren’t of the same station.”

  A fierce light entered his eyes. “You’re the daughter of an earl and the granddaughter of a knight, are you not?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “And that’s not what matters, anyway. What matters is that I love you, dearling.” He looked a bit shocked that he’d said it, but then he nodded, as if to himself. “I mean it. I love you. I want you in my life, in my future, in my soul. Losing you would drive me quite mad.” He ventured a smile. “So you see, to save my sanity, you must marry me.”

  How she wanted to believe him, but how could she? It was preposterous that he should stoop so low. “Colin, you must be sensible. I’m an actress with a scandalous reputation. Not to mention a bastard.”

  “So am I, remember? You and I are meant for each other. Who else could I find who would understand my sorrow and my peculiar sense of humor, who wouldn’t secretly be embarrassed to be wed to me, who cares not a farthing for my money and position? Who else?”

  “Surely you could find a wife who isn’t—”

  “Intelligent? Talented? Kind? Aye, I could. But I don’t want to marry a stupid, boring, cruel woman.” He caressed her cheek. “I want to marry you.”

  She ducked her head, not wanting him to see the hope shining in her eyes. He couldn’t do this. There were so many reasons it was unwise. Yet she couldn’t stop thinking of her dream of growing old with him, of sharing his future.

  “Is it that you don’t love me?” he asked. “Because I believe I could make you love me in time.”

  “Dear heaven,” she muttered, “if you actually try to make me love you, I shall burst into flame.”

  He tipped her head up, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction. “Then you do love me.”

  “It would be foolish of me to do so,” she said, still afraid to let him in. “Because if you marry me, you’ll be the laughingstock of London.”

  “I don’t care.”

  “I do,” she said softly. “It would kill me to hear people mocking you for having an actress wife.”

  “Then we won’t live in London.” He stared earnestly into her eyes. “We’ll go to the colonies, where no one will know or care about your past. I’ve been considering it of late. I want some purpose beyond whiling my time away at court or serving the king. I only hesitated because I couldn’t bear to go alone. But if you went with me—”

  “You’re serious,” she said incredulously.

  “Yes.” His eyes glittered . . . with determination . . . with desire . . . yes, and perhaps even with love. “How shall I prove it? Shall I circulate a poem among the court that extols your virtues and announces my intentions? Shower you with jewels? Cry my love from the rooftops?”

  Her eyes widened. They were the words a gallant would say, yet she could almost believe he meant them. “I’ve had enough of poems,” she whispered, trying not to turn into a puddle of mush before him. “And you already know what I think of your jewels.”

  That brought a faint smile to his lips. “Then something else.” He trailed his finger down into the neck of her shirt. “Kisses, caresses, sweet words. They’re all yours, my love, if you want them.”

  “If you mean them,” she said lightly, though her heart was in her throat.

  He slid from beneath her to kneel before her. “Surely there is some way to prove that I do. What trial do you require of your swain to prove his devotion? Shall I beg?”

  “Don’t be absurd,” she mumbled.

  With eyes alight, he removed her embroidered slipper, then caressed her instep. “Shall I kiss your feet?” he asked, then pressed his lips against the top of her foot, sending shivers of delight up her leg.

  Desire struck her with such force that she felt faint.

  “Tell me what you want,” he asked in a low, seductive voice.

  Her pulse beat madly. What she wanted was him, naked and at her mercy.

  As soon as the idea sprang into her mind, she knew that was exactly what she wanted. Men h
ad always told her what to do, what they demanded, while she was expected to comply or be beaten for it. But for once a man was asking what she wanted. A man was telling her that she could choose her path.

  And it was the man she loved. What could be better than that?

  “Take off your boots,” she said, a little shakily.

  He blinked and stared at her a long moment. Then he smiled. He sat back to tug his heavy, mud-splattered jackboots off and toss them aside. As if guessing at her game, he lifted an eyebrow.

  “Stand up,” she commanded, more firmly this time.

  He did so without hesitation. He must have ridden hard from Norwood, for his traveling clothes were rumpled and dirty. Yet she found him more dangerously attractive than ever, particularly when his eyes blazed with need.

  Emboldened by that, she said, “Take off your vest.”

  “I’ll do you one better than that,” he quipped as he undid his sash, then unbuttoned his vest. “I’ll take it all off.”

  “No,” she said quickly. “I get to choose.”

  He cocked his head at her and then nodded. “Ah. I see.”

  She could tell that he did see. There was no condemnation in his face, no male posturing pride. He removed his black velvet vest and no more. But it was enough to show his aroused member standing boldly beneath his breeches.

  She knelt in the chair, wondering how far he would let her go. “Now the shirt and cravat,” she whispered, and he immediately complied, tossing both to join his vest on the floor.

  Sweet Mary, but the sight of his bared chest nearly undid her. The blond hair sprinkled over it folded into a line in the center of his chest, which darkened the closer it moved to his groin.

  Colin’s eyes were gleaming, his smile dark with promise as he watched her. Not a hint of embarrassment crossed his face. If anything, he looked cockier than usual.

  Well, she knew how to erode that. She stood and shrugged off her coat and vest, then removed her shirt and threw it aside.

  His gaze went right to her bared breasts, and his arrogant smile faltered. He reached for her, but she said, “Not yet,” and brushed his hands away. Then she moved behind him and hugged him close so her breasts flattened against him.