Loving Helen (A Hearthfire Romance Book 2)

by Michele Paige Holmes

  They climbed the stairs to his box, and Samuel felt a moment of satisfaction and pride as he ushered her inside. He’d waited patiently for this box to become available and had then paid dearly for the privilege of calling it his. Yet since Elizabeth’s death, he had been to the theatre only twice — both times alone — and he had oft considering letting his seats go. But just now, he felt immensely glad that he still had them and that Helen was here to enjoy the play with him.

  He seated her first, then took the chair beside her. Christopher sat behind them, on the pretense of giving them privacy.

  “Your grandfather’s box was over there,” Samuel said, pointing to the box at their left.

  “You don’t suppose the new duke inherited Grandfather’s box as well and might be here tonight, do you?” she asked with worry in her voice.

  “It’s possible,” Samuel answered honestly. “But you are with me. You needn’t worry about him.”

  He could tell that not worrying was difficult for her, though the opulence of their surroundings appeared to be making the task easier. As patrons below took their seats, the hum of voices filled the theatre. The orchestra began warming up. The velvet curtains still covered the stage, waiting for the moment of reveal.

  Helen turned to him, a smile in place. “You did not tell me that everything would be so red.”

  He laughed. Of all the things he’d anticipated her enjoying tonight, the color of the seats and curtains had not occurred to him. “Ordered especially for you, milady.”

  “It is grander than I had imagined.”

  “Just wait until you experience the splendor of the play,” he said and again felt a thrill of excitement on her behalf. How enjoyable the evening promised to be. “Have you read many of Sir Walter Scott’s works?” Samuel asked, hoping to keep her mind occupied until the show began.

  “I have not. What is this one about?”

  “It is a romanticism of the Jacobite cause and rebellion — a theme common in so many of his novels.”

  Helen frowned. “It is a play about war?”

  “And love,” Samuel corrected. “Waverly was a most moving novel. I trust that the theatrical version will capture those moments adequately.”

  “What is this gentleman saying to you?” Christopher asked, leaning forward between them. “If he becomes too friendly, Helen, jab him with your elbow. I’ll take note and push him forward over the edge. We’ll have him dispatched in no time.”

  “That is quite the picture you paint,” Samuel said, with a wry grin. “Perhaps that was your plan — to remove me all along. Some thanks I get for sharing my box with the lot of you.”

  “I mean only to appear as a proper chaperone,” Christopher said.

  “You may rest assured that I will treat your sister with utmost respect,” Samuel assured him.

  “Good.” Christopher leaned back in his chair. “Just don’t treat her too properly. You ought to at least hold her hand or something. And Helen, react appropriately when he does.”

  Helen’s mouth opened in an appalled O a second before Samuel shot Christopher a look, letting him know he’d gone too far.

  “We are managing our own courtship just fine, are we not?” Samuel asked her.

  “Quite,” she said, turning from both of them and sitting straight-forward in her seat. “After all, we have already danced a waltz.”

  Helen’s reactions to the acting and the music were everything Samuel had hoped for. He found himself watching her more than the stage, though both the acting and story were as moving as the novel. But tonight, Helen commanded his attention. He did not mind in the least.

  When the curtain opened during the second act, the look of absolute rapture that appeared on her face made him quite certain that the cost of maintaining his box had been worth it. Her eyes were riveted on the stage, and he watched as she became caught up in the story, gasping at some moments, sighing with others. When it seemed that the hero would be victorious, Helen brought her clasped hands to her heart. Samuel watched her delicate features then crumple with despair when the hero instead was vanquished. And when the girl he loved rejected him, a tear slid down Helen’s face.

  Instinct urged Samuel to comfort her, so he reached for her hand, taking it securely into his own. Her mouth curved upward, and she looked over at him with such a loving expression that he again felt as if his breath had been stolen. He wished she would quit doing that. No doubt the display was convincing to any who saw it, but it almost convinced him, too. He didn’t want to entertain any feelings that, when this was all over — when Grace and Nicholas were reunited and all was well — would not be reciprocated. Grace had rejected him already. He had no need to feel the same sting from her sister as well.

  He returned his attention to the play and tried to put Helen’s look of adoration from his mind. Unfortunately, her hand, still nestled in his, made that impossible. He’d expected for her to have pulled away by now. Instead, she appeared to be settled comfortably in her chair, enjoying the show as well as their closeness. Out of curiosity, he gave her hand a gentle squeeze during a particularly frightening scene —when it appeared the hero would be killed. Helen squeezed back, and Samuel felt her touch as if it had spread all the way up his arm.

  Curious and more curious. Absently, he stroked the back of her hand with his thumb, thinking how very long it had been since he’d sat this close to a woman and held her hand. It was decidedly pleasant, and he realized he would do well to take care with experiences like this. Helen was too young for him — too young, too good, too beautiful to be saddled with an untitled widower who had proposed marriage to her sister first. She deserved better than that.

  Better than me. And he intended to see to it that she realized as much. His duty, aside from helping Grace and Nicholas to reunite, was to coax Helen from her shyness, precisely by partaking in evenings like this. He had no doubt that after tonight, she would be able to overcome her fears and again attend the theatre. The thought pleased him, even more than holding her hand, so he focused on what else needed to be done to launch her properly into society, where she might someday make a suitable and happy match.

  The play ended, and it was with some reluctance that Samuel released Helen’s hand so she could stand and clap enthusiastically.

  “I take it you enjoyed the performance,” he said, rising to join her.

  “Oh, yes.” She turned to him, eyes bright with excitement. “It was absolutely wonderful. How can I ever thank you, Samuel?”

  “You already have,” he assured her.

  Her excitement reminded him of Beth on Christmas morning when she’d first seen her dollhouse. The dollhouse Helen did a great deal of work on. Had he ever thanked her properly for that? He wasn’t certain, and the thought that he could have been so remiss bothered him.

  It seemed there was a great deal concerning Helen that he had either neglected or ignored. But it was as if he hadn’t really seen her until these past few days. Because she had not wanted to be noticed? He suddenly wondered if that was the truth or merely his own perception.

  The curtain closed for the last time, and she took his arm almost before he’d offered it. They left the box, Christopher, on her other side, looking particularly cheerful.

  “Splendid performance, was it not?” Helen asked him, no less enthusiastic.

  “Brilliant,” Christopher said. “Best I’ve ever seen.”

  “Now I shall have to read all of Sir Walter Scott’s novels. Do you have them?” she asked, looking up at Samuel.

  He opened his mouth to answer at the same instant her expression changed from one of joyous enchantment to terror. Samuel followed her gaze and found a man openly staring at Helen in a most inappropriate manner.

  “I know you,” the man said, pushing through the crowd. It was not a question but an assumption, one that somehow seemed to carry a threat.

  “Get her out of here,” Christopher told Samuel, stepping in front of Helen and blocking her from the man’s view. He
addressed the stranger. “We have met before. I was too young then to give you this.” Christopher’s fist shot forward, connecting squarely with the man’s jaw in a bone-crunching move that sent the man sprawling backward. Helen screamed, as did several other ladies. Samuel grabbed her hand and pulled her toward the stairs.

  “Christopher, no!” She looked back over her shoulder. “Sir Crayton will kill him. He’s a pirate.”

  “Your brother seems able to handle himself,” Samuel said, praying he was right. They ran down the stairs and hurried through the foyer and the crush of people and out to the cold street below. Helen hadn’t yet put on her wrap, but he took only a second to throw it across her shoulders before raising his hand and shouting for a cab.

  He spied a hackney down the street and pulled her toward it.

  “What of your carriage?” Helen asked.

  “Christopher will get it.” Samuel shouted the address to the driver, then opened the door and practically shoved Helen inside. He hesitated on the step a moment, torn between returning to aid Christopher and escorting Helen home. Knowing he could not send her on alone, but feeling as if he was abandoning Christopher, he climbed into the carriage, shut the door, and pounded on the roof.

  Helen sat huddled in the far corner, shivering from either cold or fear — or both. Samuel gathered her in his arms and held her close. “It’s all right. You are safe now.” He brushed her hair aside and felt her cheek, wet with tears.

  What just happened? He longed to ask but sensed that he shouldn’t — not now, at least, while the trauma was still so fresh. What had she said the man’s name was … Crayton? Samuel tried to recall where he’d heard the name before but could not. He is a pirate. What connection might Helen have with that sort?

  Her silent tears turned to sobs, and Samuel tightened his arm around her. “I won’t let him hurt you,” he vowed. He silently promised to discover the problem when Christopher returned.

  Helen clung to him the entire way back to the townhouse, never once rejecting his nearness, and Samuel felt grateful that he was at least able to comfort her. Whatever had frightened her had been bad enough that being in his arms no longer proved quite so difficult. He had not missed her hesitation about dancing with him a few days past, nor the stiff way she held herself as far from him as possible. He would never have predicted that three days hence, the same woman would willingly allow him to have his arms around her and to hold her close.

  He meant to protect her no matter the cost. Though not knowing from what or whom, that he was to protect her troubled him. Had Christopher put them all in danger? Could his actions lead to Beth being in danger?

  “It is not me I am crying for, but Christopher,” Helen said when they were almost home and she had calmed herself enough to speak. “Crayton is the vilest of men. If he does not harm Christopher this night, he will make certain to hunt him down and finish the job later.”

  “Let us wait to see what has happened before we rush to any conclusions,” Samuel advised, though he, too, felt concern for her brother.

  Why had Christopher acted so rashly, and what action had this Crayton taken before to merit such an attack?

  The coach pulled to a stop in front of the townhouse. Samuel stepped out and paid the driver before helping Helen down the steps. They made it inside, where Miranda waited up for Helen.

  “How was — what happened?” she asked, question changing mid-sentence. Miranda glared at Samuel accusingly. “She looks as though she’s seen a ghost.”

  “Only a man named Crayton, though it has affected her quite as badly.”

  Miranda’s lips pressed together in a tight line. “I’ll take her from here.” She put an arm around Helen and guided her toward the stairs.

  “Wait.” Helen turned to Samuel once more. “Thank you for a wonderful evening. I shall always remember it. Everything about it was perfect until …”

  “It was perfect for me too,” Samuel said.

  And now he would be perfectly discontent until he discovered what it was that had ruined it.

  Almost a full hour passed before Christopher arrived, walking through the door, his cheeks and nose bright with cold but otherwise appearing untouched.

  “I was going out to look for you,” Samuel said, removing his coat as the butler helped Christopher take his off. “I’d waited about as long as I could.”

  “Sorry. I left the theatre on foot and took several side streets because I didn’t want to risk being followed. But all the cabs must have been in the district, so I had to walk for some time before finding one.”

  “You didn’t come home in our carriage?”

  “No.” Christopher shook his head. “Didn’t you?”

  “No.” Samuel motioned to the butler to bring back the coats they’d just handed him. “I wasn’t sure of the extent of the trouble, and I didn’t want to wait around to find out. You said to get Helen out of there, so I did. We took the first cab I could find.”

  Christopher took his coat then cringed as he put his hand through the sleeve. “Let’s go. I’ll tell you about it on the way.”

  “You’re hurt.” Samuel stepped forward, his physician’s instinct and training kicking in. “Let me see that hand.”

  “It’s nothing.” But Christopher held his hand out. Samuel probed it gently, noting when Christopher grimaced and flinched.

  “I think you may have broken the middle phalanx of your index finger.”

  “So long as I broke something on Crayton’s face as well,” Christopher muttered.

  “A distinct possibility,” Samuel said. “We need to get this splinted.”

  “Let’s get the carriage first,” Christopher said, pulling his hand back, but cradling it carefully in front of him. “The harm has been done. An hour or so more isn’t going to matter.”

  It could, Samuel thought. If the break is a bad one. But Christopher appeared to have enough range of motion that the delay probably wouldn’t make anything worse. “All right,” Samuel said, after a moment’s hesitation. “Keep it still though. I suppose the cold may do it good.” He turned to the butler. “Lock the doors, and do not admit anyone other than the two of us tonight,” Samuel instructed him, then he donned his hat and turned up his collar as he followed Christopher out into the cold, dark night. There were no cabs about, so he shoved his hands deep into his pockets and prepared for a long walk — a good thing, because he had rather a lot of questions to ask Christopher.

  “Who is Crayton?” Samuel’s breath hung in the air — a miniature, translucent cloud viewed only by the light of the gas streetlamps.

  “He is Sir Edmund Crayton, knighted for his service to the crown — pressing men from merchant ships into the Royal Navy and claiming the cargo of those ships as his own.”

  “What has any of that to do with Helen?” Samuel asked, already disliking the man. Two years earlier, he’d lost a valuable cargo in a similar scheme. Who knew but that it might have been carried out by the very same man?

  “Some years ago, before Grandfather found us, Father was in particularly dire straits and well into his cups one night when he met Crayton at a tavern. Crayton convinced Father that every man had something of value, and one only had to search to discover what it was. That was the night Father first had the idea to get his own daughters married to get money for himself.”

  “Crayton planted the idea,” Samuel said.

  “Yes, though I’ve no doubt Father would have come to the same conclusion on his own eventually. Grace and Helen are both blessed — or cursed, depending upon how you look at it — with beauty.” Christopher adjusted his scarf, wrapping one end of it carefully around his exposed hand.

  The night had grown bitter; a cab would have been preferable, but strangely Samuel found he did not overly mind the cold. Anger was keeping him warm.

  “Your father arranged a marriage between Crayton and Helen?” he guessed.

  “Crayton and Grace,” Christopher corrected. “Helen was only twelve then, but at eigh
teen, Grace was old enough to marry. If it had not been for Grandfather, she would have been forced into it.”

  “Thank goodness for your grandfather.”

  Christopher nodded. “To the end of his life, he berated himself for not finding us earlier, for not making amends with our mother. But he did find us, and at a critical time — the very day the solicitor appeared at our door, inquiring after our welfare, we went to live with Grandfather. Father was furious. He insisted that Grace meet her obligation to marry. I’m uncertain what agreement he’d arranged, but I do know that Grandfather paid a rather large sum for Crayton to go away. He was most displeased, as was Father.”

  “I imagine he would have been with his main support and his assets removed,” Samuel said, thoroughly disgusted by Christopher’s story. He felt somewhat ill, recalling that he had once entertained George Thatcher in his home, had in fact worked with the man to force Nicholas into a betrothal to Grace.

  “Unfortunately, he retrieved those assets last year,” Christopher said.

  “And Crayton became involved again?” Samuel asked.

  “Yes and no,” Christopher said. “During his initial betrothal to Grace, he visited the house, but Grace was not home. Helen was — alone. I’d found work and was gone most days, and Grace had left to collect and deliver laundry. Sometimes Helen went with her, but more often than not, she stayed home to finish the ironing and cook supper.”

  Samuel didn’t like the picture Christopher was painting. During their meetings at the fence, Grace had described the meager home they’d grown up in well enough that now, he could picture Helen there — alone.

  “So Crayton discovered that she was by herself,” Samuel prompted, his jaw set hard. He felt both ill and angry and wished he’d been the one to smash Crayton’s face at the theatre.