“I am trying to do what is honorable,” he snapped. “I have a responsibility—”
“I will not be your swiving burden to shoulder!” She bellowed this last and had Lilly and Lord Engsly rushing in the doors.
“Nor yours!” she added, rounding on Engsly. “Nor Lady Gwen’s, nor anyone else’s!”
Gideon rose behind the desk, and though he spoke to Lilly and Lord Engsly, his eyes remained fixed on hers. “You will excuse us a moment, Lucien.”
“Oh, no, let him stay.” Her voice was hard. She’d never known she could sound so hard. “I’m his cross to bear as well, aren’t I? Or perhaps you prefer the image of suffering alone.”
Gideon’s fist came down on the desk. “That is enough.”
“It bloody well is.” If she stood there a minute longer, just one minute more, she would crumble.
She spun around, blindly pushed her way past Lilly and Lord Engsly, and dashed across the front hall, intent on reaching her chambers before the tears came. Only they weren’t her chambers, were they? It was Lady Gwen’s blue room.
The tears came before she’d made it halfway up the stairs.
She didn’t want the damn blue room.
She wanted her own bed, in Scotland. She wanted Murdoch House, and Claire, and the quiet solitude of her old life.
She wanted home.
Chapter 34
Gideon told himself he shouldn’t be drinking. He should not be sitting in his chambers at three o’clock in the afternoon seriously contemplating the merits of becoming foxed.
Then he decided, yes, he should be drinking, but he should be drinking in celebration, not in . . . Whatever the hell he was drinking for now.
It felt like grief. His head hurt, his chest ached, and there was a sick feeling of helplessness crawling through his veins and twisting his stomach into knots. His mind moved sluggishly, despite the fact he’d had no more than a few sips of his brandy, and his limbs felt so weighted that even the small task of setting down his drink seemed like a chore.
But grief didn’t make any sense. This was what he wanted, wasn’t it? He’d escaped. He was free of obligation, of responsibility . . . of Winnefred.
How had it come to that? How the devil had he ended up drinking in the middle of the afternoon while Winnefred sat upstairs fuming . . . and quite possibly crying.
Bloody hell, he hoped she wasn’t crying.
He’d proposed, damn it. There shouldn’t be any fuming and crying at a marriage proposal.
He should have said something different, done something more. He should have made her stay and see reason. But he’d been so focused on what needed to be taken care of, so in dread of his upcoming responsibilities, it simply hadn’t occurred to him she might argue. He’d not considered the possibility she would say no, and mean it.
Why had she said no? True, she’d made it clear from the very start she wasn’t interested in obtaining a husband, but a general sort of dissatisfaction with the notion of a husband was different than an actual proposal from him. Or it ought to be.
She shouldn’t have said no.
And it occurred to him now that he couldn’t come up with a single reason why she should have said yes. He’d spoken of honor and responsibility, duty and . . . burdens. He’d spoken of burdens.
How the hell could he have been so thoughtless?
For all of her life, Winnefred had been treated like a burden. What was it Lilly had said—raised by a series of indifferent governesses hired by a careless father? And then she’d been pushed onto his father, who’d passed her off to Lady Engsly, who’d handed her to Lilly.
No wonder Winnefred was enamored with Murdoch House and so loyal to Lilly. It was the only place that had welcomed her in, and the only friend who hadn’t abandoned her.
She’d been happy in Scotland, and might have gone right on being happy if Lucien hadn’t discovered her . . . And begun the whole process all over again, Gideon realized with a sinking sensation in his gut. Lucien had passed the responsibility of Winnefred onto him, and he’d handed her to Lady Gwen at the first opportunity. Worse, he’d made it perfectly clear to her this morning he didn’t really want her back.
But what the devil was he supposed to do? The responsibility of a wife and children—bloody hell, children—was something he had no business shouldering.
He would fail them, just as he had his men . . . his boys.
It just was was not an acceptable explanation for what happened aboard the Perseverance. It wasn’t an acceptable explanation for anything that happened at war. Every man who fired a shot was responsible for the damage that bit of metal and gunpowder caused. And every officer was accountable for the orders that placed his men in danger. He couldn’t pretend otherwise, nor did he want to.
He reached for his drink again, only to snatch his hand back.
Was he to cling to his guilt and fears to the exclusion of all else—to the exclusion of Winnefred? He wasn’t sure he wanted that. He wasn’t sure he could do it.
He wasn’t sure he could not.
He still wasn’t sure when, half an hour later, the long night, the grief, and the brandy took their toll and he slipped into sleep.
The sea was rough, tossing the frigate about like a dog playing with a bone.
Gideon tried to get his feet under him. He tried to focus on what he was supposed to be doing, but it was impossible to think with all the noise.
If the fighting would only stop for a minute, if the ship would just be quiet for one buggering minute, he’d be able to think.
In a heartbeat, the sea settled and the world went eerily silent.
His eyes flew to the open door of his cabin. The battle was still raging. He could see his men through the smoke and flame. He could feel the ship tremble under his feet. He watched as the end of a yardarm broke away and toppled to the deck.
But he heard nothing. Not the firing of cannons. Not the screams of his men. Nothing.
“Better. That’s better.”
He could think now. He could find them all a way out of this damnable . . .
And then he saw Winnefred, standing amongst the chaos, serenely feeding Claire bits of food from a napkin.
“No!”
He flew at the door, only to slam into a cold, hard wall. There was something blocking his way, an unseen barrier trapping him inside. He threw himself against it and beat at it with his fists.
“Get to the hold! Winnefred! Winnefred, get to the hold!”
“Don’t know as I’d recommend the hold just now, Cap’n.”
He whirled around at the sound of Jimmy’s voice. Holy hell, his arms. Where were the boy’s arms?
“No. No. What’s happened to you?”
“Ball came right through the ceiling, debris flying every which way. But no more’n a body’d expect, what with you bringing a woman on board.” Jimmy shook his head slowly, sadly. “They’re bad luck, Captain. Everyone knows that.”
“I didn’t bring . . .” He whirled around and threw himself against the barrier. “Help me. You have to help me get out of here.”
“’Aven’t any arms, remember?” Jimmy peered around his shoulder. “She’s a pretty one, isn’t she? Doesn’t much look like she belongs here.”
“She doesn’t. She shouldn’t be here.”
“A stowaway? Aw, c’mon, Cap’n, let it alone. You can’t be responsible for every silly chit and goat what sneaks on board, can you?”
“That’s right,” a new voice called. “Ought to be helping us, I should think.”
He spun from the door. There was Lord Marson and young Colin Newberry with Bill’s dripping head.
“I can’t . . . Look at you! There is nothing I can do for you.”
“More’n you can do for the chit standing out there,” Colin pointed out. He craned his neck to look out the door. “Ah. Here’s the end of her, sure enough.”
Gideon spun around again and watched in abject terror as a cannonball sailed toward Winnefred like a kite ca
ught in a breeze.
She took a step back and let it sail right past.
Colin let out a long, low whistle. “There’s a clever lass. No need to worry yourself over the likes of her, is there? She’ll do well enough without you.”
“She needs to be inside. She needs to be in here with me.”
Marson dragged himself a little closer to the door. “She doesn’t appear to need you at all, Captain.”
“Not the point. I have to . . .”
Gratley suddenly appeared out of the smoke. He stepped in front of Winnefred, stripped off his coat, and draped it over her shoulders.
“Idiot. Idiot! What is he doing?”
“What he thinks best, I imagine,” came Bill’s reply.
Winnefred offered Gratley a bit of whatever was in the napkin. He accepted, took his time chewing, and then finally, finally, put his hand on Winnefred’s elbow and began to lead her away.
“Ah, there they go,” Colin called out. “That’s nice, isn’t it? And a heavy load off your mind, knowing someone else is responsible for the girl, eh?”
His breath came in sick, sharp pants. “Yes. Yes, it’s a relief.”
“Aye.” Jimmy sidled up next to him and leaned up to whisper in his ear. “You a gambling man, Cap’n? Sixpence says he takes her straight to the hold.”
The final slam of his shoulder against the barrier is what woke him.
He stared at the ceiling, waiting for his heart to resume its natural rhythm. As his mind struggled to orient itself, he had the irrational notion that if he turned his head, he would see Winnefred, watching him through golden eyes filled with concern and understanding, and love.
He willed it to be true. He ached with the need to see her. And he knew, down to very marrow of his bones, that the need wasn’t going to pass with the dream. He didn’t want to see her just this once or wake to her only when the nightmares came. He wanted to see her every time he looked.
He wanted her to be where he could always find her, touch her, smell the lavender and hay . . . He needed her to be where he could at least try to keep her safe, and happy, and . . . loved.
Slowly, he turned his head and saw only the empty room.
“Bloody hell, what have I done?”
Chapter 35
How the hell could you let her leave?” Gideon shoved his arms through his overcoat with enough force to nearly rip the seams. “What the devil were you thinking?”
Lucien leaned against the wall in the front hall. “At a guess, she left three hours ago. I believe, at the time, I was thinking of a gelding named Pockets. Handsome chestnut I saw at Tattersall’s two days ago.”
Gideon grabbed his hat and gloves from a waiting footman. “No one tried to stop her?”
“No one saw. We’d no idea she’d left until Lilly found”—Lucien held up a piece of parchment Gideon hadn’t realized was in his hand—“this note.”
He stalked across the front hall. “Why the hell didn’t you say there was a note?”
“I tried when I woke you, but you were in such a hurry—”
Gideon growled and snatched the letter out of his brother’s hand.
Dear Lilly,
Am gone to Murdoch House. Don’t be angry. My apologies to Lord Engsly and Lady Gwen.
Love,
Freddie
“Left in a hurry by the looks of it,” Lucien commented. He reached over to tap a finger against the paper. “Though she did spare a thought for Lilly and Lady Gwen, and me.”
Gideon swore ripely, the only release for a growing swell of fear. “You find this amusing?”
“Enormously. Did you find it amusing when I came looking for Lilly?”
Because he couldn’t say no, he shoved the note in his pocket and strode out the door as Lucien’s voice called out behind him.
“Women travel alone every day, Gideon! She’ll be all right!”
A groom was waiting for Gideon with his horse. He swung himself into the saddle, ignoring the sharp pain in his leg, and started his mount off at a gallop. He ignored everything now but the need to get to Winnefred. Lucien was right, women traveled alone every day. Lucien also knew that women were assaulted every day. That’s why his own horse had been readied while he’d given the orders to the staff. Every able-bodied man in the house would be sent to look for Winnefred.
Gideon wasn’t waiting on them. There wasn’t a minute to spare. Winnefred would be an enticing mark, he thought darkly—young, pretty, alone, and likely ill.
Bloody hell, she made an irresistible mark. For a moment, the fear threatened to overwhelm him. If something happened to her . . . If he lost her completely . . .
He shoved the panicked thoughts aside. He would find her. He would find her, and she would be fine. She was an intelligent, self-sufficient woman—perfectly capable of taking care of herself.
He reminded himself of this again and again as he rode hell-for-leather through London and over the highway leading north. He kept reminding himself of it as he stopped at every coaching station he came to and questioned every innkeeper and servant. And still he thought of a thousand catastrophes that might befall a woman traveling alone, and every time his inquiries were met with blank stares and shaking heads, he imagined a thousand more.
He wouldn’t be satisfied until he saw for himself she was safe. The heavy ball of fear and remorse in his gut would remain until he felt her in his arms, where she belonged. What an idiot he’d been to think it could ever be any other way. How could he have convinced himself that a distance from her would somehow render him less responsible for her, less in need of her, less in love?
Black Ram Inn was not the finest coaching station to be found in England. Its wood was rotting and weathered to a sickly gray, shutters hung from single hinges or were missing altogether, and all three stories of it leaned precariously to the right. Winnefred figured it was one good storm away from toppling to the ground.
She couldn’t have cared less. What difference did it make if the floor sloped and the stairs creaked and groaned under her feet? Who cared if the bed in her room looked as if it hadn’t seen new linens in a decade and the single chair by the hearth appeared as though it might break under her weight? She could sleep on the rug in front of the fire.
So long as the rug didn’t rock and sway beneath her, she would be happy.
No, not happy. She tossed her coat and bonnet on the chair and used the arm to leverage herself to the floor. She was miserable—sick and alone and hundreds of miles from home.
She’d barely made it out of London. Less than three hours in the coach and her skin had begun to grow clammy and her belly had churned and cramped. If she hadn’t convinced the driver to stop at the inn, she would have heaved into her bonnet.
She closed her eyes on a sick groan.
How had things gone so terribly wrong? She wasn’t supposed to be returning to Murdoch House in defeat, and she most certainly was not supposed to be returning alone.
Lilly should be there. And Gideon. High-handed, muleheaded, wonderful Gideon. She’d never admitted it, not even to herself, but a part of her had expected him to come back to Murdoch House with her. Or perhaps it was more accurate to say that no part of her had been able to imagine going back without him.
They were meant to be together. Why hadn’t he been able to see that, instead of assuming he was better off without her . . . like everyone else?
What was it about her the world found so hard to stomach and so easy to refuse?
She inhaled deeply and tried to fight back the tears burning her eyes. She didn’t want to think about Gideon. She didn’t want to think about the ache in her chest that had nothing to do with the way the coach had been rocking.
She didn’t need him. She didn’t need anyone. She could be content with the staff for company at Murdoch House and happy with visits from Lilly. Besides, there were benefits to being alone. For the first time in her life, she had the freedom and the funds to do whatever she pleased. She could wear trouse
rs to her heart’s content and walk to the prison without a maid whenever she liked. She could play cards with Thomas, and she could drink scotch with highwaymen if it damn well suited her.
She had a home she loved and the funds to see it prosper. That was all she needed, she told herself, even as the ache in her chest tightened.
“It is,” she whispered to absolutely no one, and the pain turned sharp.
“It has to be.” Something inside her broke, simply shattered to pieces. This time, when the tears came, she made no attempt to stop them. She couldn’t have managed it if she’d tried. The heartache washed over her in waves and poured out of her again in wrenching sobs that shook her frame. She cried until there were no more tears to be shed and the sharp pain had drained away, leaving her hollow.
Then she wiped her face with her sleeve, took a deep settling breath, and told herself she was done—done crying over Gideon and done pining after him as well. She had a spine, and she had her pride. She could and would stand on the strength of those until her heart healed. And it would heal. Maybe it wouldn’t be the same, maybe it wouldn’t be quite as open as it had been, but it would heal. She would make certain of it. She didn’t have a choice.
She rose from the floor, brushed off her skirts, and set about making plans that did not involve Lord Gideon Haverston. She needed to get to Murdoch House, and she needed to get there in something other than the mail coach. The other passengers weren’t going to approve of stopping every time she began to feel ill. Horseback would have been ideal, but she’d never been in a saddle a day in her life. She’d have to hire her own carriage and driver. There was nothing else for it. The expense would take a considerable bite out of her budget, but she would find a way to make it work.
Resolute, and feeling stronger than she had since she’d left Lady Gwen’s house, she strode toward the door intending to set her plan into action. She made it halfway across the room when she heard her name being shouted from down the hall.
Nearly a Lady Page 29