“That does not sound quite right,” he said under his breath.
She ignored him, struck by the dazzling display before her and the way the coins captured then reflected the light, as if each were a magical, miniature version of the sun itself. Their look, their sound, their very touch was more than enough to send her spirit soaring with an undreamed-of sense of triumph and conquest and victory.
“Sabrina?” An odd note sounded in his voice. “You must see this.” She pulled her attention away from the chest.
Nicholas held a coin in one hand and his dagger in the other. “Look.”
“What is it?” she said. “I don’t see anything.”
“Look closer.” His voice was ominous. She glanced at his face, his expression unreadable.
“Very well.” She peered at the coin. “I see nothing amiss.”
He held the coin closer. “Do you see what appears to be a scratch?”
A dull, metallic streak scarred the gold. “Yes, what of it?”
“Watch.” He took the dagger and scraped across the coin. The gray scratch widened.
Apprehension gripped her. “What does it mean?”
Sympathy shadowed his dark eyes. “I am very much afraid, my love, it means your fortune is virtually worthless.”
“No, Nicholas! Surely not!” Panic surged through her. It could not be true. She had come too far to fail now. “How can you say that?”
“I am sorry.” He dropped the coin in his hand back onto the shimmering pile. “It appears it’s merely gilding. Perhaps even paint. This”—he gestured toward the chest—“was probably never more than a hoax.”
“But why?” she whispered, her gaze transfixed on the coins, their gleam now tarnished, their promise false.
He shrugged. “Who can say? No doubt it was never more than a sham. A ruse devised to fool Napoleon’s supporters and his troops into believing he had solid backing in France.” He stood and towered over her. “Perhaps hiding this feigned fortune was all part of the plan. Or it’s possible the officers who buried it believed the gold was real and only learned later of its fraudulent nature. That may well be why they never returned. I doubt if we shall ever know.”
Sabrina remained kneeling by the open chest. For so very long this treasure had meant so very much. Her daughter’s dowry. Her own financial survival. Now, because she was married to Nicholas, her material need for it no longer existed. But it had come to represent so much more than mere money. Her quest was at an end and it was worthless.
Slowly she got to her feet and absently slid the now worthless letter beneath her laces. “Put it back, Nicholas,” she said quietly. “Bury it again, if you would.”
He groaned. “Bury it? Bloody hell, Sabrina why can we not simply leave—” Her gaze caught his and he quieted abruptly. She refused to let her chaotic emotions show; instead she fell back on a decade of concealment and adopted the serene face she was accustomed to showing the world.
Nicholas stared for a long, considering moment. “Very well.”
“And do hurry.” Her voice, pleasant and calm, belied the disappointment, anger, and confusion within her. “I suspect the others may be wondering what is keeping us.”
“Sabrina, I…” He appeared almost helpless, as if he did not quite know what to do. Dimly, in the back of her mind, she appreciated and even welcomed his concern. But she had no wish for comfort yet. She had dealt with worse disasters than this alone, and she preferred to deal with this as well by herself. She wondered if she knew how to do otherwise.
Nicholas closed the chest, tossed it in the hole, and quickly covered it with soil and sand. She stared unseeing at his rapid efforts. A heavy silence hung between them.
The journey back to camp was silent as well. Nicholas made valiant attempts at conversation that she politely rebuffed. She was in no mood for idle chatter, her mind awash with the implications of failure, the shattering of a dream.
The long ride back was a blessing. The hours on horseback provided time for reflection, contemplation, and thought. It might have been Nicholas’s many covert, considering glances. It might have been her own resilience or her innate ability to adapt, but by the time they arrived back in camp, she had reached, if not a sense of peace, then at least acceptance.
Sabrina had not found her gold, her independence, her freedom. But she had found Nicholas and a love she had neither expected nor imagined. And, perhaps, that was enough.
The sun had long since set when they rode into camp. It appeared the members of their party had already retired for the night. Still, Sabrina’s silence continued and Nicholas’s worry increased.
He did not care for this polished act of hers, this facade of placid indifference. He had come to know, and to love, the fiery, spirited creature who considered herself more than a match for any man. The eminently proper woman now by his side was not to his liking at all. He had always been a man who feared little, but her demeanor shivered his spine and chilled his heart.
Nicholas slid off his horse and helped her dismount. His hands lingered at her waist. “Sabrina, we must talk about this.”
She refused to meet his gaze. “I see little need. It is over and done with and I have no wish to discuss it further.”
“Sabrina,” he said, his voice commanding, sharpened by concern. He cupped her chin in his hand and tilted her head up, forcing her gaze to meet his. Her emerald eyes revealed little. “I don’t know why this gold was so important to you, I only know that it was. I am truly sorry it proved worthless. But”—his tone softened—“I do not believe this quest has been in vain. I found a treasure far more valuable than mere gold. I found you.”
For a long moment he gazed at her, hoping beyond hope to reach through the cool barrier she’d erected around herself to the real woman hidden inside. Then, as if something broke within her, her eyes darkened. Her expression crumpled and she heaved a heartfelt sigh. “Bloody hell, Nicholas. It is just so damn unfair.”
He grinned at the obscenities. Relief flooded him and he pulled her into his arms. “I know, my love. I have never accepted defeat easily.
Her voice was muffled against his chest. “And I do not accept defeat at all.”
He chuckled softly at her outspoken words.
And I do not accept defeat at all.
The laughter froze in his throat.
And I, my lord—her breath, fragrant with an intoxicating promise, caressed his face—do not accept defeat at all.
Chapter 20
Bits and pieces of information, fragments of memory crashed through his mind at once, forming a picture so clear, he was a fool not to have seen it before now. Madison—his mythical sister—Lady B—
“Bree!” His voice came hoarse with shock, her name a gasp of anger.
She pulled away, a questioning frown on her face. “What on earth is the matter?”
“It was you! It was you all along!” His voice hardened with anguish and fury and disdain.
“What do you mean, it was—” Her eyes widened with realization. She shook her head vehemently. “Nicholas, I—”
“You what?” His words rang sharp and cold. “You would dare to tell me you are not the woman I searched for for a decade? The infamous Lady B? The treasonous smuggler who left me for dead on a blasted beach ten long years ago?”
“That is ridiculous, Nicholas,” she said quickly. “I never wanted you dead.”
“A point well taken.” His voice dripped with scorn. “I suppose that should provide some comfort. Still, I have been something of an idiot not to have realized who you are before now. It was all so very obvious.” He narrowed his eyes, his anger barely under control. “I wonder, have you played me for a fool since we first met? Was our children’s betrothal, our hasty marriage all part of a greater plan?”
“Of course not.” She gazed up at him, her expression pleading, her eyes vulnerable. “I didn’t know who you were until recently.”
He laughed, a short, harsh sound. “Really, my dear? And whe
n did this great revelation strike you?”
“When we first made love, on the ship.” Her voice came little more than a whisper, the look on her face enough to break his heart. He hardened his feelings toward her, his own sense of betrayal too strong to consider anything else.
He gripped her wrist and yanked her roughly to him. “Why should I believe you? You have lived ten years acting the part of a sedate, proper lady of the ton. I congratulate you; your skills rival the best I have seen on the London stage.” He lowered his face to within inches of hers. “How much was an act, Sabrina? How much of this was a performance?” He pulled her tight against him, grasped her hair in his free hand, and brought his lips to hers in a kiss hard and savage, wanting her to know the pain, the anguish that surged through his veins and filled his heart.
He drew back abruptly and she gasped, her hair disheveled, her lips reddened. Triumph shot through him at the shock and hurt in her eyes, and he knew a flash of regret and shame. He shoved it aside viciously. “Do you recall the first time we kissed?”
She nodded mutely.
“I wondered then what kind of woman kissed so boldly. Tell me, Sabrina, when you said you had not lain with a man for thirteen years…” His voice lowered, his tone cruel and exacting. “Was that an act as well?”
“I have never lied to you about us, Nicholas.” Her voice rang quiet, intense, and sincere.
“Never?” He laughed bitterly. “Forgive me for not accepting your declaration with wholehearted certainty. One does tend to wonder if a woman who could so easily deceive her own country would hesitate to lie, to betray her husband. The man she claims to love. For such a woman it would be so very tempting, I should think, to use him for her own purposes. To satisfy her own”—he raked his gaze contemptuously over her—“desires.” He glared with disdain. “Or was it for my wealth?”
She wrenched out of his grasp with a quick, unexpected jerk and slapped her palm across his face in a stinging retort that caught him by surprise. The echo of her blow reverberated in the night air. The pain in her eyes now tempered with fury. “Again, I have never lied to you about us.”
He rubbed his hand ruefully against the smart sting on his cheek. “That is scant solace for my wretched soul.” She winced at the scorn in his voice. “Although it is pleasant to hope that at least one thing between us was not a fabrication.”
She stood before him, fists clenched at her side. “What do you intend to do now?”
What did he intend to do? For so many years he had considered what he would do if he ever caught the elusive Lady B. There was no one in the world who cared any longer about her capture. No one but him. He would be fully justified in hauling her back to England and throwing her in Newgate. He would be fully justified in exposing her publicly, shattering her prim and proper image with society. He would be fully justified in any number of options.
“I don’t know,” he said coldly.
She squared her shoulders and drew a deep breath. “Will you at least listen to my explanation?”
“What do you wish to explain?” He spat the words. “The past? Or the present?”
She stared at him with eyes wide with grief. Then, as if a door closed, a shadow crossed her face. A face now composed and controlled and expressionless. The face of the serene Lady Stanford. “Perhaps.” Her voice was cool, unemotional. “It no longer matters.”
She’d fallen back on a habit of deception, on years of hiding her true feelings, on a disguise perfected through much of her lifetime. The realization triggered another surge of anger, swamping any temptation toward sentiment and compassion. He hardened his gaze and his voice. “Perhaps.”
She nodded sharply. “I shall be in my tent when you have decided what steps you wish to take now.” She turned away.
“Sabrina.” His words cracked in the night and she stopped. He struggled to keep his agony in check, to match her calm demeanor with his own. Still, he could not fully keep the torment from his voice, fraught with anguish and disbelief. “You spoke to me of honor.”
She did not turn toward him, and her voice seemed to float in the desert air like a chill breeze. “And you, my lord, spoke to me of love.” She walked off and disappeared in the dark.
A few steps more and she would be out of his sight, hidden by the black cloak of the night. A few steps more and she could allow herself to react to his discovery and his disdain. A few steps more and she could crumple into a heap of sobbing misery. If she could but continue a few steps more.
She reached the shelter of her tent and stumbled inside.
“Sabrina?” Wynne’s sleep-filled voice greeted her. “We tried to stay awake until you returned. Did you find the gold?”
The gold. She had all but forgotten about it. She sighed deeply. “It was a hoax, Wynne. It was all a horrible joke.”
“But what? How?”
“Go back to sleep, Wynne,” Sabrina said wearily. “I shall tell you everything in the morning.”
“Very well.” Wynne yawned; her voice drifted off. “Regardless, I still expect it was quite a marvelous adventure.”
Sabrina couldn’t contain a quiet, bitter laugh. It was indeed an adventure. Very likely her last. Or was it merely the final moments of an adventure that had begun long ago?
What would Nicholas do now? His revelation obviously triggered feelings of betrayal and anger. No doubt the man assumed she had used him for her own purposes. But he had claimed to love her. Nicholas’s love? That was indeed a laugh. She suspected from the start this rake could never know love. Now that the moment of truth had come, her worst fears were confirmed.
How fitting that Nicholas thought he was the fool in all this, while her foolishness was far greater. She had truly believed he had finally come to love her. Or perhaps she had simply wanted to believe so badly, she had ignored the reality of his nature.
She sank down amid her bedclothes and cradled her head in her hands. She wanted nothing more than to give in to the pain gripping her. She wished to weep uncontrollably until she could no longer see or feel or hurt. There was no question now that she had lost him, if indeed she had ever really had him. What would he do now? Her fate, her very life, lay in his hands.
Abruptly her anguish faded, replaced by a burgeoning panic. She would not go to prison. Would not spend the rest of her days in a dank, grim cell, or worse, face transportation. Not for events that took place a decade ago. Even when Jack had died and left her with nothing, she had not experienced panic so intense, so overwhelming, all rational thought flew in the face of it.
She had to flee. Now. To run as fast and as far as possible. She willed herself to remain calm, to attempt to act with composure. Escape was impossible otherwise.
Quickly and quietly, she lurched to her feet. Wynne’s still form told her the woman was already fast asleep. Sabrina stumbled toward her portmanteau and blindly pawed through its contents, finding the money from her jewels by touch alone. Her funds were still intact. Nicholas had paid for all her expenses. She closed the case regretfully. It had to be left behind; baggage would only hinder her progress. Silently she moved to open the flaps of the tent, glancing back once at Belinda’s sleeping form. How could she leave her child without some explanation?
She crept to where Wynne lay and cast about for her journal and the stub of a pencil Sabrina knew Wynne kept tucked inside the book. She found it easily but hesitated at ripping a page out of her sister-in-law’s precious diary. Instead she pulled the rumpled letter from her breeches and nearly laughed aloud at the irony of using the ill-fated missive for her message. With the light of the desert moon for illumination, she quickly scribbled a brief note. Her eyes blurred with panic and pain and tears.
She strode the few steps to her daughter’s side and knelt next to her. Sabrina brushed the hair away from the sleeping girl’s forehead and kissed her lightly, much as she had done when Belinda was a child. She set the note beside her and stood gazing down for just a moment. Belinda would never understand. Sabrina
was not sure she completely understood herself. All she knew was that the need to flee was overpowering and could not be denied.
She crept from the tent and glanced toward Nicholas’s shelter. A light glowed inside, and she heard the low murmur of male voices. No doubt he was now confronting Matt. Fear for her friend flickered through her, and she resolutely pushed it aside. Matt had nothing to fear from Nicholas. He was not English, and Nicholas had no power over him. Matt could take care of himself.
The horses were hobbled on the farthest side of the encampment from Nicholas’s tent. She made her way to them, selected one, and quietly led the beast away. She did not know where she would go from here or what Nicholas would do when he found his quarry had escaped him once again. But she had no doubt of one thing.
She too could take care of herself. She always had.
Nicholas strode into his tent, his anger a palpable, throbbing haze about him. He noted the lone lantern still burning and his son’s sleeping figure. Madison did not appear to be present. Nicholas clenched his teeth. If the American was with his sister, he would have to kill him. At this moment the thought of slicing Madison’s throat struck a satisfying chord of anticipation.
“I heard you and Bree ride up.” Matt strolled through the silken entry. “Where’s the gold?”
“Where have you been?” Nicholas cracked the words.
Matt’s fair brows drew together in a frown of annoyance. “Not that it’s any of your business, but I’ve been sitting out by the river. Everyone else went to bed. I couldn’t sleep until you and Bree came back. So, where’s the gold?”
“There was no bloody gold.”
“No gold? Damn.” Matt’s frown deepened. “I’d wager Bree isn’t too happy about that.”
“You know her so well,” Nicholas said evenly.
“I’ve known her for a long time.” Matt nodded. “I really do think of her as a sister.”
Nicholas narrowed his gaze. “No doubt that’s why you named your ship after her.”
The Perfect Wife Page 29