Delamere laughed mirthlessly. “You may save your breath, Tempest, if that condition concerns a certain shanty-Irish sailor.”
Andrew’s gut clenched. She had earned the right to choose her fate, but he could not allow her to do this, certainly not for him.
But Tempest, it seemed, had something else in mind.
“It—it does not,” she said, and he tried to take some comfort in the obvious difficulty with which those words passed her lips. “Not exactly, anyway. You’ve no reason to harm him. What’s done is done.”
“Well?” Delamere sounded intrigued. “What, then?”
“I will marry you if you’ll first sign papers agreeing to keep Edward on as manager at Harper’s Hill and promising to free the slaves there once I’ve inherited.”
Delamere laughed. “Not more of Holderin’s abolitionist nonsense.”
“Do it, and I will willingly give myself to you. Or—or—” Her head jerked away and Andrew saw tears glistening on her cheeks. “Or unwillingly, if you wish it that way.”
“No,” Andrew snarled, surging forward. “I’ll see you in hell before I’ll let her sacrifice herself to you, Delamere.”
With a twisted smile, Delamere thrust Tempest away from him and welcomed the attack. His eyes narrowed as he took aim at Andrew’s chest and his finger twitched against the trigger. “You go first.”
Andrew felt as if he were watching the events unfold in slow motion while looking through the wrong end of a spyglass. Sound, sight, time—all perception was distorted.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw the door to the bedchamber swing open, and a blur of gray flew through the air with a savage growl. A flash of fire, a puff of smoke as Caliban sank his teeth into Delamere’s raised forearm.
Where had the dog come from? How had he known? His lunging attack must have sent Delamere’s shot wide of its mark. Caliban had saved his life. The sickening crunch of bone was loud in the room as Cal worried his prey.
Good dog.
But somewhere, Tempest was screaming his name. He had to get to her. If only the damned cloud of smoke would clear. If only he could fight his way free of whatever rooted his feet to this spot. Bewildered, he looked down to see blood, his own blood, dripping from his fingertips and staining the carpet a lurid shade.
* * *
Andrew struggled back to consciousness to find sunlight flooding the room, picking out brighter hues all around him—pinks, reds, yellows, greens. He closed his eyes against the glare. Heaven? No, that was surely not where he had been headed when Delamere pulled the trigger . . .
This time his eyes popped open, and the splotches of color formed into flowers. Flowers on the walls, the draperies, the furniture. A bedchamber. A lady’s bedchamber.
“Tempest?” he croaked from between parched lips.
A white-haired man stepped between him and the light pouring through the windows. “Awake at last, Captain Corrvan? Miss Holderin is with your mother.”
Andrew blinked to bring the speaker into focus. “You are Sir Barton?”
“That’s right.” The baronet’s arms were folded across his chest, and he wore a scowl. “And I find myself in the unenviable position of insisting that you marry my granddaughter.”
Andrew struggled to sit up. A deep groan emanated from somewhere near his feet, and he looked to see Caliban, lying on a folded counterpane draped across his legs. Although the dog’s eyes did not open, he thumped his tail once against the bed in admonishment.
“Settle yourself,” Sir Barton said, raising a hand. “If that wound opens again, you have very little blood to spare.”
Blood? Wound? One downward glance clarified the meaning of the baronet’s words. A crimson-stained bandage was wound around his left arm, near his shoulder. Strips of linen crossed his bare chest and strapped the injured arm against his side. Andrew closed his eyes and licked cracked lips with a tongue that felt numb and heavy. He tasted something bitter—laudanum, if he did not miss his guess. It held his pain at bay, but did not erase it entirely.
Someone brought a cup of water to his mouth and tipped it slightly, raising another hand to the back of his head. The cup clattered against his teeth, but he drank deeply and gratefully, then opened his eyes to see Caesar’s small black hand lowering the cup. He tried to turn to look at the boy, but his body refused to comply. Good God, but his head ached. “What happened?” he whispered when the cup was taken away.
“I’m not perfectly sure,” said the baronet. “I awakened last night to the sound of a gunshot, hurried down the corridor, and found my guest being mauled by a wild dog while my granddaughter had apparently removed her nightdress to stanch the wounds of a perfect stranger.”
Sir Barton painted a vivid picture. Unable to meet the man’s eye, Andrew allowed his gaze to drift to the spot where he had been standing when Delamere fired. The carpet had been rolled up and taken away. He tried not to imagine it soaked with his own blood.
“It seems Lord Nathaniel Delamere did his best to put a bullet through your heart,” concluded Sir Barton gruffly. “After what appears to have happened here last night”—his eyes scanned the room, then settled on Andrew—“I for one can understand the temptation to shoot you. But I suppose I should be grateful that his aim went awry.”
“Caliban save you,” piped Caesar’s voice from his post near the head of the bed. “When Jackson get the wheel fixed, we come with the coach, an’ I find him tied up in the barn. I don’ like to see no living thing in chains. I turn him loose and he make for the house like a shot. I don’ know how he knew, Cap’n, but he found you right quick.” As the boy spoke, he leaned into Andrew’s field of vision and beamed. “Broke the man’s arm, too.”
Two more thumps of Caliban’s tail, evidently acknowledging Caesar’s words of praise.
“That’s right,” confirmed Sir Barton. “Along with his skull. Bring your master some hot water and something to eat,” he ordered, pulling the boy’s wide-eyed gaze to himself. “And his razor, while you’re about it,” he added with a disparaging glance at Andrew’s scruffy jaw. “He has a marriage proposal to make.”
After a moment’s hesitation, the boy nodded, found Andrew’s shaving kit, delivered it to Sir Barton, then left for the kitchen, casting one nervous look behind him.
“Where is Delamere now?” Andrew demanded as soon as the door closed and he had gathered enough strength to push himself upward in the bed despite the dire warnings.
“In a room just down the corridor, under the watchful care of my personal physician,” Sir Barton said. While Andrew’s head still spun with the exertion of sitting up, he could not read the other man’s tone. “Dying.”
Leaning back against the cushioned headboard, he closed his eyes and prayed the laudanum was not making him hear things.
“When the dog jumped, Lord Nathaniel fell and struck his head on the mantelpiece.” Above the now-empty hearth, a stretch of carved marble gleamed. “I called on the magistrate at first light and explained the situation,” Sir Barton continued, shifting the case from hand to hand as if uncertain what to do with it. Finally, he tucked it beneath one arm. “He’s prepared to say it was an accident. Otherwise, you know, the dog might have to be put down.”
Was there a note of sympathy in his voice? Andrew glanced back at the sleeping dog draped over his feet. Caliban lifted one ear but appeared otherwise indifferent to the conversation. Sir Barton reached out a hand and scratched the dog’s head.
“What of Delamere’s family?”
“Gave him up for lost years ago. I’ve sent word to his brother, the duke, but I doubt he’ll care one way or the other. You’re a lucky man.”
“It’s Tempest who’s the fortunate one,” Andrew said. “Delamere is a sick bastard who hurts and humiliates others for his pleasure. Yet your granddaughter was prepared to marry him.”
“To save your miserable hide, I suppose?”
“No.” He tried to dismiss the sour taste in his mouth as the effect of the drug. �
�To save the people of Harper’s Hill.”
Sir Barton made a scoffing sound in the back of his throat. “He told me of her father’s scheme to turn slaves into tenant farmers. Do you mean to say she really intends to go through with that madness?”
“She does. Whatever the cost.” The image of her standing there, offering herself to Delamere, rose in his mind. “I’m certain Delamere meant to prevent her. If she had died at his hand after they wed, her inheritance would have been his, and no one the wiser. It was that outcome your plantation manager, Cary, hoped to avoid by sending her here.”
“Lord Nathaniel claimed he had brought my granddaughter home. But she tells me it was really you.” He gave Andrew another hard stare, then jerked his chin in a nod. “For that, sir, I thank you. Now, however, it’s your duty to make her stay.”
“Make her—?”
“Marry the girl and keep her here.” To Andrew’s shock, Sir Barton’s voice broke on a muffled sob. “I drove my daughter away. I thought a match with a duke’s son would be a fine thing for her. But she wanted no part of it. I all but pushed her into Thomas Holderin’s arms. And he took her to Antigua. I won’t have my granddaughter return to that godforsaken island. I won’t have her leave this island, in point of fact!” Sir Barton said, masking his fear with fury.
“What will become of Harper’s Hill if she does not go back?”
“That sugar plantation has been a scab on my conscience for years, though God knows I’ve endeavored mightily not to pick at it. Who gives a damn what becomes of it now?”
“Tempest does,” Andrew said. “And she is determined to go home.”
“Home?”
“Antigua is the only home she’s ever known.”
“This is her true home. She’s all I have now. I cannot let her leave . . .”
Andrew felt a surprising surge of sympathy as he watched pained emotions flit across the older man’s face. “I’ve got it,” the baronet exclaimed after a few moments’ reflection. “Why, I’ll give her Harper’s Hill. As soon as my solicitor can be made to draft the papers, it will be hers, and she can do with it as she likes.” A pause. “So long as she agrees not to go back there herself.”
Andrew’s heart knocked in his chest. Would she take that bargain? A little encouragement, a word in Sir Barton’s ear, and he might never have to tell her good-bye.
“No,” he said. There might be little to choose between two blackguards bent on revenge, but he would be damned before he would coerce her as Delamere had done. “No conditions. Do it because it’s the right thing to do, or not at all.”
“Then she’ll be on the next ship bound for the West Indies.” Sir Barton scowled. “And I suppose you mean to be at the helm.”
Yes, he wanted to say. Yes. Even if I actually have to kidnap her this time.
“I have commitments here, Sir Barton,” Andrew said instead. “Commitments to my mother and to Beauchamp Shipping. I will be returning to London as soon as I am able.”
“London.” Sir Barton’s white head wagged. “Two hundred miles off. Well, it could be worse. You’ll marry here first, though. No need for the banns to be called,” he said, the plan developing in a rush. “I’ll arrange a license from the bishop. Although . . . you’re a bloody papist, I suppose?” Before Andrew could reply, he added, “Not that it matters, of course. After what I saw last night, were you the veriest Hindu, Corrvan, I would still have to insist on a wedding.”
“You may set your mind at ease, Sir Barton,” Andrew replied, his eyes dropping shut. Damn, but his arm ached. “I am not a Hindu.” Sir Barton gave a rumble of disapproval, but Andrew did not open his eyes. “Nor, as it happens, am I a Catholic. In fact, my mother’s father was a clergyman in the Church of Ireland.”
“That’s something,” Sir Barton reluctantly admitted.
“Aye,” Andrew gritted. “Something.” When he had first come to England and entered school, the fact had smoothed his way. It had also made it all the easier to strip him of his Irishness.
“Well, then.” Sir Barton’s voice was still gruff, but some of the bluster had gone out of him. “You can marry her without delay.”
“Nothing would give me greater pleasure,” Andrew answered honestly, though a part of him—the better part, certainly—insisted that Tempest’s desires must be paramount, that she deserved the liberty of choice, even if polite society, led by her grandfather, would say that she had already made her choice and must now live with the consequences. “But you should know that your granddaughter has firm views on marriage. She has made it abundantly clear she means never to wed.”
Sir Barton waved off the protest. “Nonsense. She cannot escape it now. Anyway, she was only trying to protect her inheritance. Once she has Harper’s Hill, she will have no further objections.”
Andrew wished he could agree.
“Well,” the baronet said, reaching beneath his arm and proffering Andrew’s shaving kit, “I’ll leave you with this. You look like a bloody pirate.”
Andrew glanced once more at his bandaged shoulder and the arm bound to his side. “I’m left-handed.”
Sir Barton muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like Irish devil. “Your boy will be back in a moment.”
“Caesar’s a fine lad, but no valet.” Was he really inviting Tempest’s grandfather to hold a razor to his throat?
With a grumble, Sir Barton opened the case.
“She may yet refuse me, you know,” Andrew said, listening to the rhythmic thwack-thwock of the razor being stropped. “It cannot have escaped your notice that your granddaughter has a mind of her own.”
Sir Barton gave a weary nod and reached for the shaving soap. “Like her mother. But I’ve learned my lesson there. I cannot force her hand, so it will be up to you to convince her.”
Andrew closed his eyes, bared his neck to the blade, and tried not to imagine what would happen if he failed.
Chapter 21
When her grandfather entered Mrs. Beauchamp’s sitting room, Tempest was on her feet and at his side in a moment.
Nevertheless, Emily beat her there. “My son? Is he all right?”
“Yes, Mrs. Beauchamp. Yes. The physician left before he had fully recovered consciousness, but I stayed with him. He is awake now, and talking sense—for the most part. The physician said that the wound itself should heal without incident, once Corrvan recovers from the loss of blood.”
“Thank God! I must—I must go to him,” Emily insisted, squeezing Tempest’s hand and darting past Sir Barton and across the corridor.
How Tempest longed to go after her. As if he could read her intentions, however, her grandfather stepped between her and the door. So far as propriety was concerned, at least, Andrew was nothing to her. She could have nothing to do at the bedside of a man to whom she was not related—even if the whole household must be buzzing with the knowledge that he had been in her bed the night before.
Sir Barton cleared his throat. Tempest did not know whether she was expected to invite him to sit down or not. They had had very little in the way of private conversation since her arrival. To her surprise, her grandfather took up her hand and patted it consolingly. “Do not worry, my dear. He will be all right.”
She had expected a scolding, a lecture, an order. You will marry the man without delay. Had those been her grandfather’s words, would she have readily agreed? Or would she have bristled against another’s command, as always?
Drawing him over to the chairs by the fire, she sat and invited him to do the same. By the still-gray light of midday and after an almost sleepless night, he looked every minute of his seventy-odd years. “You need your rest, Grandfather.”
“I will be fine. It is you for whom I worry.” Given his expression, she wondered if she did not look almost as harrowed as he.
“There is no need, I assure you. I am perfectly fine.”
“I imagine Captain Corrvan’s injuries will delay your return to London. Mrs. Beauchamp will not want to
leave until he can travel.”
“I—yes. I suppose you are right.” Absently, she twisted the handkerchief she had forgotten she was holding. “A short delay will not signify. The ship on which I have booked passage does not leave for the West Indies until the middle of the month.”
“Ah.” Pairing the interjection with a nod of understanding, he rose to his feet and paced in front of the fireplace before his restless thoughts seemed to require a wider scope. He strode to the window and stared down the drive as he spoke—to himself, more than to her. “How can I ask it?”
“I beg your pardon?” She leaned forward, perched on the very edge of the chair, the better to see and hear him. But she would not allow herself to rise.
“I would like . . . I wish you to stay,” he said in a rush. “I would like to know my granddaughter.”
The handkerchief dropped from her suddenly nerveless fingertips. “Excuse my surprise, sir,” she said stiffly, squaring her shoulders. “You have shown so little interest until now.”
“Can you forgive me—Tempest?” he asked, turning away from the window to face her as her name passed his lips. “I have been a fool. When my Angela left, I allowed what I believed to be righteous anger to color my behavior toward her . . . and your father. When she died, my grief became my excuse. When . . . when he died, I should have come for you—come to you. But by then I had persuaded myself that I was not needed. That I would not be welcome. Like the idle king in some fairy tale, I sat here, waiting for you to come to me instead.”
“So I have.”
“Eventually, and most unwillingly, I know. But I am glad, nonetheless.” He hesitated. “Now, emboldened by my good fortune, I ask you to stay longer where you never wished to be. Is that not the epitome of a selfish old man?”
Tempest could not answer that question honestly without giving offense, but the one she asked instead was hardly more politic. “Did you really intend for my mother to marry Lord Nathaniel?”
He shook his head, but his words soon made clear that the gesture was self-recrimination, rather than a denial. “God forgive me. I saw little beyond his family connections—my daughter married to the son of a duke.”
To Tempt an Heiress Page 26