The duke grinned broadly. The transformation was astounding. He was truly handsome and arousing … devastatingly so. Yancey had to stiffen her knees against the effect on her pulse of his sudden good humor. “Well, it is teatime. And as I’m certain it’s already prepared, I would hate to waste it. But beyond that, you’ll find ours is a most polite society, Miss Calhoun. Even in a time of actual wars, we have stopped the day’s fighting out of regard for teatime. So I see no reason why our own private little war here can’t be put aside long enough for the civilities to be observed, do you?”
What could she say? “No, I don’t suppose I do.”
“Excellent. A truce, then? Meaning we’ll talk no more of important or upsetting matters until you are better rested. Say … on the morrow?”
Yancey searched for a trap in his words but could find none. And he was right—she was awfully tired. Her thoughts and reactions were threatening to become sluggish. That would be dangerous, given her purpose for being here. “All right. Truce.”
“A wise decision.” He offered her his arm, as politely as you please. “Shall we, then?”
To her own utmost surprise, Yancey took it, feeling his well-developed muscles flex and bunch under her hand. But almost immediately she regretted her decision to walk with him because his nearness actually soothed her. He felt so solid, so warm and dependable. Frightening Yancey was her sudden urge to lean on this man’s strength, to lay her cheek against his sleeve and cry. No one had ever affected her this way. No one. If she had any sense, she admonished herself, she’d let go now and walk under her own power.
But she didn’t. Instead, and as if she’d done this every day of her life, she allowed him to guide her steps back toward the safety and security of the mansion. From inside, warm and welcoming lights dispelled the afternoon’s gloom. But instead of uplifting her, the sight dismayed Yancey terribly. She wanted nothing to do with such a domestic scene. She felt weakened somehow, without power, under the weight of such an inviting setting. The welcoming lights of a home, any home, always put her in mind of her mother, a sad woman who had accepted the safety and security of a home, and had paid for her mistake with her very life.
Dispelling the painful images of her beloved mother’s face, and under cover of her eyelashes, Yancey sent a sidelong glance up to her companionably quiet escort’s face. His unguarded expression revealed strength and intelligence in the high forehead and proud cheekbones. But a touch of sadness, which was revealed at the edges of his mouth, surprised Yancey, as did the hint of kindness that shone from his eyes. The man was an enigma. One moment raging, the next offering her his arm and inviting her inside for tea. She found him very intriguing.
And for that reason alone, Yancey’s heart threatened to flip over with excitement. Nothing could be worse. She couldn’t allow that. Excitement was danger. She knew that. Why else would she be a Pinkerton undercover operative if not for the danger and the excitement and the freedom? But this, what this man did to her fluttering heart, was not the same thing. Not the kind of excitement she needed.
Indeed, Yancey reminded herself, her own mother had urged on her an unconventional life. She’d begged her only child, her daughter, not to succumb to the traditional or to the domestic, not to live an ordinary life, one of wifely servitude and fear as she had. She’d also warned Yancey to beware the ways of love and of tying her heart and her body to one man’s will.
For these reasons and more, Yancey knew she had to get away from the duke. And soon. Even if it meant not solving the mystery of his mother’s misdirected letters to her or the murder of the Sarah Margaret Calhoun who had met her untimely death back in Chicago. Then Yancey heard herself and felt ashamed. That she would even consider such a cowardly move as abandoning an assignment, which to her would mean a compromising of her ethics, told her all too plainly just how dangerous this man striding so confidently beside her was to her professional state of mind.
Then she thought about the long and intimate evening that stretched ahead of them. Hours upon hours of each other’s company. Teatime. Then later, supper. Conversation. Always … conversation. How prolonged and painful it would be, given that they’d agreed not to discuss anything of import. All that left for discussion were the inane and the mundane. Certainly, Yancey’s many undercover assignments in which she’d played the part of the coquette or the simpering miss had made her a master of those arts. But it was too late to masquerade with this man in such a way.
Earlier upstairs, he had already glimpsed who she really was … a strong and capable woman of secrets. No doubt, under the guise of polite conversation, and over the course of the evening, he might endeavor to pry those secrets out of her. She would have to watch every word, weigh every action, and right now, she was simply too bone-weary to be up to the task.
Therefore, the very notion of such a tension-filled evening caused Yancey’s strength to flag. She leaned more heavily on the quiet duke’s arm. After tea, she decided, she would beg off for the evening and remain in her room, away from him. All she wanted was a bath and that delicious bed. And a good night’s sleep. No doubt, she’d feel differently in the morning. Stronger. More capable. More immune to this tall and powerful man at her side. No doubt, tomorrow she’d be better able to stand on her own two feet without help from anyone.
* * *
In the deep, dark hours of night, at a time just before daybreak, Sam thrashed about in bed, caught in the throes of a too familiar nightmare. In it, a woman in a white nightgown, her dark hair wild and tumbling, her face contorted with madness, screamed at him. He was struggling with her. He tried to hold on to her wrists, tried to stop her from lashing out with the long-bladed knife she held in her grip. She meant to kill him. She was strong, almost too strong for him to hold off. She jerked this way and that in his grasp, calling him vile names, accusing him of trying to kill her, of not loving her. Sam fought desperately to maintain his hold on her, but she twisted about until she was out of his grasp. Sam stumbled back. She lunged at him yet again with a slash of the knife—
With a cry of his own, Sam wrenched himself out of his dream. Awake now, his heart pounding with fear, he lay there, breathing rapidly and gripping the sheet under him. As he’d learned to do in the past when this particular bloodcurdling nightmare visited him, he worked hard to assure himself of the benign normalcy of his surroundings. Dark bedroom. Alone. My bed. Bad dream. Safe now. Hearing himself, he grimaced, hating that he felt like a frightened little boy who needed his mother’s reassurance. He was a grown man, for God’s sake.
Angry with himself, and ashamed, Sam fought his heavy, restraining covers, pushing them away as if they’d insulted him. Once he was free of them, he jackknifed to a sitting position. His knees bent, he braced his elbows atop them and clutched at his aching head. “How bloody long am I going to keep reliving that scene?” he asked the otherwise empty room.
Blinking, trying to clear away the last dregs of sleep that still fogged his brain, Sam stared fixedly into the faint reddish-yellow light cast by the glowing embers in the massive fireplace. He frowned. The damned room seemed to want to spin. No doubt, an evening spent alone with a whisky bottle accounted for that charming effect. Taking deep breaths and sitting quietly, hoping to calm his racing pulse and appease his raging headache, Sam concentrated on listening to the sounds of night. There were none to be heard. Only silence greeted him. Entombing silence. What had he expected?
Suddenly the silence surrounding him seemed hushed, expectant, as if holding its breath and awaiting the next sound. Sam tensed. What would he hear—a loud bump in the night? Something heavy falling to the ground? A scream? No, that couldn’t be it. Not a scream. That had been in his nightmare. And it’s a damned good thing, too, was Sam’s now self-deprecating conclusion because he wouldn’t be of much help to anyone. Not weak-kneed and hungover as he was right now. That damned dream. It’s always the same.
“Leave it be, Sam,” he cautioned himself just above a whisper. “There’
s not enough whisky in the world to wash away that guilt. What’s done is done.” He knew that, knew that it was over, that those times were past. But that knowledge didn’t change anything. Especially not the way he felt about what he’d had to do, what circumstances had forced him to do. If only Sarah hadn’t—No. Stop right there. Exhaling forcefully, as if that would relieve him of his guilt, Sam concentrated on the present—the very quiet present.
Had he missed something? Was something amiss outside his nightmare and inside his home? He truly did not think so, but still his mind insisted on a roll call of those in his household. It lit first on the most vulnerable member. Nana. Her bedchamber was several doors away. If she had cried out, if she were in any distress, her nurse would see to her. Unless, of course, her nurse had been the one to cry out against an attack on her person. Sam could only tsk-tsk at that. Who exactly in his household would be attacking the very stout and capable Mrs. Convers? Not Nana, who was dotty but not dangerous. Or even Scotty, who was neither dotty nor dangerous. Just big.
A chuckle escaped Sam, going a long way toward lightening his dispirited mood. What an odd assortment of people he had in his charge. Unorthodox, at best. But they were well-meaning and he cared more than he’d believed he would about them all, especially Nana. Given all that, Sam could only wonder what was wrong with him right now that he suddenly had the females under his care in distress and crying out against imaginary attacks. And what event had dredged up his old nightmare that had finally awakened him?
Then he remembered. Not an “event” at all, but a person. Her. The American. The woman with the same name as his wife. Sam glanced the way of the dressing room door that connected his bedroom to hers. He’d left it open on purpose so he could hear her, should she stir or sneak about. Could it be that she was up and stirring? Had she maybe bumped into something and cried out? Surprising Sam was how much he wanted that to be true. He wanted an encounter with her. But telling himself he was merely suspicious of her, he cocked his head and listened.
He didn’t have to wait long. A keening moan of terror, one that ripped upward along each of his vertebrae, became a scream that issued from the bedroom adjoining his. For an instant, Sam was frozen with shock. His spine seemed to stiffen and he could only stare at the open door across the way. Then his mind began to work, telling him that either she was having a bad dream, or—“Dear God, someone is trying to kill my houseguest.”
Sam hopped quickly out of bed—and nearly went to the floor. The damned room was spinning again. Blinking and cursing his wooziness, he clutched at a bedpost and forced himself to take deep breaths. Blessedly, and in only seconds, the room righted itself. Thankful for that, though lacking a weapon and clad only in his small clothes, Sam sprinted … in a somewhat weak-kneed and meandering way … across the carpeted bedroom. Finally, he achieved the open doorway of the dressing room. Plunging in, he felt his way along the wall and navigated the darkness that enveloped the small familiar room that joined the lady’s bedroom to his.
Once at the opposite end of the room, Sam halted at the barrier that was the closed door when he ran into it, nose-first. Cursing, he felt his nose with one hand and searched for the damned doorknob with his other. He found it and gave it a wrenching, twisting turn to open it as he told himself he’d have no one killing his quarrelsome guest before he’d first had a chance to do so himself. It was only fair, given all this upheaval she was causing just by being here.
Thus determined, Sam pushed open the door and slipped into the room, blinking rapidly to adjust his sight to the dawn-gray light that greeted him through a gap in the closed draperies. Tensed, ready for anything, he made a quick visual sweep of the room. No flurry of secretive or desperate activity met his inspection. All was still and quiet.
But at that moment, another cry arose, causing Sam to jump and direct his attention to the canopied bed across the way. The sound was a bleat of fright so heart-wrenching that it could have been wrung from a wounded baby animal. Though Sam’s heart lurched, he exhaled a sigh of relief. No one was trying to kill Miss Calhoun. At least, not in the waking world. She was having a bad dream.
Instinctively, Sam started for the bed—but suddenly stopped, wondering at himself. This dream, or nightmare, and especially this woman, were none of his affair, his conscience told him. What did he think he was going to do? Gently awaken her? Hold and comfort her? Sam couldn’t actually see himself doing either of those things, but already he’d again set himself in motion across the room—in the direction of the bed.
Once there, but before he could reach out to touch her, the sight of her stopped him cold at the bed’s foot. A silvery shaft of light spilling in through the windows across the way had illuminated for Sam his sleeping guest.
She’d kicked her blankets off. Covered only by her long white nightgown, she lay on her side, balled up and shaking, her hands fisted. Moaning, tossing her head from side to side, she twisted her expression into a mask of terror. As if he were locked in the dream with her, Sam’s pulse picked up and he fisted his hands at his sides. He wanted to reach out to her. He also wanted to turn away, to leave. But oddly his muscles wouldn’t allow him to do either thing. Locked, rigid, they held him in place as the two desires warred within him.
Compassion won the upper hand. Sam slipped onto the bed with her. Leaning against the many pillows at his back, he gathered the small, fine-boned woman into his arms. She resisted at first, crying out, fighting him. But Sam knew how to deal with this behavior. He persisted, gently tugging her across his lap, holding her close and making soothing, shushing sounds. Sitting in profile to him, her head was tucked up under his chin. On his lap, her slender body trembled like that of a frightened bird. Sam softly called her name, thinking to wake her, but the nightmare had too deep a hold on her.
That left him only one thing to do. He would comfort her. With an arm wrapped around her back, and her cheek resting against his bare chest, he stroked her long, unbound hair from her temple to her shoulder. Soft waves of silky curls felt luxurious under his hand. Sam marveled at how delicate and fragile she felt against him, like a twig that could be easily snapped in two. As he held her, he concentrated on soothing her and stroking her hair, her arm. He even heard himself shushing her, telling her everything was fine and she was safe. He kept expecting her to wake up at any moment, but she didn’t. She remained asleep and gradually quieted.
As she relaxed, so did Sam. But then, with a sigh, she encircled his waist with one arm and smoothed her other hand up his bare chest. Sam’s heart damn near stopped, even as his body responded with a surge of desire. Only too well did he realize that theirs was an intimate pose, one easily misunderstood—especially by her, should she rouse and come around. It didn’t take much to recall what a spitfire she was when awake. It did, however, take Sam another moment to realize that he was smiling while thinking of her earlier tirades against him.
She’d certainly given him no quarter since she’d arrived. He could respect that. How brash she was, to just show up and install herself in his home and use the name that she did and yet offer no explanations. And what about him? Here he was in the middle of the night holding her in his arms while sitting atop her bed. Had he lost his mind? Perhaps. But she excited him so, made him feel alive. She gave him an argument. He liked that, and the fact that she apparently was not the least bit impressed by him or his titles.
So very intriguing. And what man wouldn’t be intrigued by this green-eyed woman who looked him right in the eye and stood her ground? Well, plenty of men in his acquaintance wouldn’t appreciate her cheek. But he did. He’d spent too many years in America not to be affected by the independent spirit that pervaded that country. He admired it, in fact, just as he admired her putting him in his place late yesterday afternoon. A grin of self-deprecating humor quirked Sam’s mouth as he pictured himself and how he must have looked standing there alone in his study and wondering why she didn’t knock on the door so he could give her an etiquette lesson.
What an ass he’d been, one who deserved exactly what she’d done in retaliation. Then he heard himself. So now he was defending her. A bit troubled by this admiring reaction to her, Sam glanced down at the warm bundle on his lap … and shook his head. Had he really only known her for one short afternoon and no more? It didn’t seem possible. Yet it was true. Already he was wondering what he’d done with his time before she’d arrived here.
Almost too late, alarm bells sounded in his head. He could not be having these thoughts about this woman. As he’d already told himself, she was danger personified. He knew nothing about her. More importantly, she knew nothing about him. And that was how it needed to stay. Truly unsettled now by how quickly she seemed to have enchanted him, Sam renewed his efforts to extricate himself from her without waking her up.
So, how to escape undetected? That was his dilemma. One thing he knew: he wasn’t going anywhere unless he sat up straighter. Along those lines, Sam contracted his stomach muscles, thinking to sit forward and get his hand under her legs, so he could lay her on the other side of the bed and then slip off it himself. But when he moved forward, she fussed in low murmurs and gripped him tighter. Grimacing lest he wake her, Sam relaxed, again leaning back against the pile of pillows at his back. He shook his head, finding the situation faintly amusing. But only faintly.
Well, this is a fine kettle of fish. Unable to clearly see her face, he could nevertheless smell the fresh, sweet scent of her hair from its washing last evening before she’d retired. He could also feel her warm and pleasant weight atop his lap … against his chest and against his lap—a part of himself that remained intrigued and very awake. That was about the last thing he needed right now. Sam’s agitation and heated blood had him stretching his legs and rotating his ankles. The more he moved, though, the more she clung to him, whimpering and shifting about, essentially grinding her bottom against his now very happy lap.
The Marriage Masquerade Page 8