Anne Gracie - [The Devil Riders 02]

by His Captive Lady

  “Why?” she challenged him. “You knowing his name can change nothing. It’s all in the past and that’s where it belongs. Stirring up everything is just . . . upsetting.”

  “I’m sorry for that, but I can’t get him out of my mind,” he admitted.

  She crossed her arms and stared out of the window for a while. Eventually she said, “Oh, very well, if you must know, he’s dead.”

  Harry frowned. He wasn’t sure he believed her. If the swine was dead, why all the secrecy? “Dead? How?”

  “He drowned. He went to sea and his ship went down in a storm.”

  “What was the name of the ship? Where was he going?”

  “So this is to be an interrogation after all,” she flashed.

  “No, I’m sorry.” He sat back and tried to look relaxed. He wasn’t relaxed, not in the slightest. He was wound tense as a spring.

  He mastered himself and said more gently, “So, how did you meet him, this—what was his name?”

  “He was a friend of Papa’s,” she told him. “Papa brought him to the house one day and . . . we, we fell in love. And the night before he went away, he . . . we . . . you know. And months later I found out I was increasing, and shortly after that I heard he’d died.” She shrugged. “You know the rest.”

  “A very affecting tale.” Harry didn’t believe a word of it. She’d recited the tale with too little feeling. She was an emotional creature; she could no more talk unemotionally about the loss of her lover than fly. But he wasn’t going to push her any further on the subject just yet. It would only make her pricklier and more defensive.

  “Tell me about the place you were kept in.”

  “I was very lonely,” she said, and her voice changed. “Papa left me there with strangers—they didn’t know my real name, or his. He paid them to be kind to me.”

  “And were they kind to you?”

  “Oh yes, in their way, I suppose,” she said. “But I was miserable. I couldn’t even take Aggie, only Freckles, and even so, I wasn’t allowed outside, not even to walk Freckles, except after dark.”

  “Why not?”

  “Papa left strict instructions.” She shook her head helplessly. “People might have seen me, someone could have recognized me—I don’t know. But there wasn’t even a proper garden. It felt like I was in prison.”

  This part of her story was true, he decided. It was all about feelings, not just a recitation of facts. “What did you do?”

  “Oh, I read and I sewed—I’d never been interested in sewing before. And I knitted but I wasn’t very good at it. Still, it helped to pass the time until m-my baby was born.

  My daughter, my little Torie.” Her face crumpled. “I loved her. I thought I would keep her, but then I was ill . . . and my father came . . .”

  Harry stood it as long as he could, which was about three seconds, then he pulled her into his arms.

  “We’ll find her, don’t worry.”

  She mumbled something incoherent and tried not to cry. He held her against him, stroking her hair, the nape of her neck, rubbing her back. Dry, silent sobs racked her frame at odd intervals.

  He remembered what she’d said, that first day at Firmin Court. I never weep. There’s no point.

  Harry hated hearing women cry. He hated watching Nell fighting these ragged, jerky sobs more. “Go ahead, let it out. Weep,” he told her. “You have good cause.”

  “I won’t cry. I don’t,” she said in a choked voice. “My daughter is alive, I know she is. And I’ll find her.”

  “We’ll find her, I promise.” He held her tight and wondered what the hell he was doing, making a promise like that when deep down he thought the child was probably dead.

  Babies died so easily. Newborn babies taken from their mother had even less chance than most. And if Papa really wanted to get rid of his unwanted illegitimate granddaughter, it wouldn’t be too difficult. People did it all the time.

  They came to the next post and while they changed postilions and horses, Nell went into the inn and washed her face. She emerged pale and composed.

  Harry watched her unhappily. He didn’t know the whole story—there were huge gaps that didn’t make sense—but she was too emotionally wrung out to go on.

  He glanced out of the window. They were nearing Cherrill, he saw.

  “Have you seen the famous white horse of Cherrill?” he asked.

  “No,” she said in a wan voice.

  “It’s coming up soon,” he told her. “A famous landmark hereabouts. You’ll see it in a few minutes.”

  It appeared as promised, around the next bend. Harry remembered the first time he’d seen it as a boy. He’d been thrilled with the sight, a giant figure of a white horse carved out against the green turf.

  “They say the tail alone is more than thirty feet long,” he told her.

  “Amazing,” she said dully.

  They watched it in silence until it had passed. She shivered.

  “Are you cold?” he asked awkwardly.

  “A little.”

  He opened a compartment in the side of the carriage and pulled out a fur rug. He placed it around her. She huddled into it and closed her eyes, shutting him and everything else out.

  Damn, damn, damn, Harry thought. So much for not rushing his fences.

  They stopped overnight in Marlborough. Harry had sent a groom on ahead to expedite the changing of the horses at various posts along the way. He’d also arranged accommodation at the Castle Inn, a mansion that only a few years before had been the residence of the Duke of Somerset.

  It was dark when they pulled up and the lights of the inn were most welcoming. The groom had obtained a private suite of rooms that contained a sitting room as well as several excellent bedchambers and rooms for the servants as well.

  Lady Gosforth, disdaining any food or refreshment, retired straight to her bedchamber, Bragge in close attendance.

  “That’s it for her for the night,” Harry told Nell, seeing her look of concern. “My aunt is always a little unwell after travel. But her maid knows just what to do.”

  They sat down to dinner. “You were right,” Nell told him.

  He looked up from carving a capon of veal. “About what?”

  “You said it would help to talk, and you were right. I was upset at the time, but since my nap, I’ve realized I feel a lot better that you know.”

  He didn’t know everything, Harry thought, but now wasn’t the time to raise it again.

  They were served a delicious meal that included steaming oxtail soup, capons of veal, an excellent steak and kidney pudding and a quince pie with clotted cream. They ate in virtual silence, keeping conversation to the trivial, and at the meal’s conclusion agreed to make an early night of it so as to leave first thing in the morning.

  Nell examined the door of her bedchamber. “There isn’t any lock,” she exclaimed.

  “No need,” Harry told her. “This whole section is private and separate from the rest of the inn.”

  She looked troubled.

  “There’s a lock there, on the door that leads to the other part of the inn. It’s perfectly secure,” Harry assured her.

  She bit her lip and looked unhappy, but simply said, “Then I will bid you good night,” and retired.

  sound woke Harry in the night. He listened and A heard it again, the sound of someone moving softly around the sitting room. Thieves?

  He rose and, taking his pistol, quietly inched open the door of his bedchamber. He peered into the darkness, illuminated only by the faint glow from the dying fire. From the corner of his eye he caught sight of an insubstantial ghostly figure. He froze a moment. But then it moved again.

  It was no ghost, but Nell in a long white nightgown. He put down the pistol.

  “What’s the matter?” he asked softly.

  She took no notice of him, but padded across the room in bare feet, making for the door.

  He followed. “Nell? What is it?”

  She muttered something he co
uldn’t make out.

  “What did you say?” he whispered. He didn’t want to disturb his aunt or the others.

  Again she muttered something unintelligible and tugged at the handle of the door.

  “It’s locked, don’t you remember?” he told her, puzzled and disturbed by her strange behavior.

  “Got to find her,” she muttered. “Find her.”

  “Find who?”

  Again she just rattled at the handle of the door. She said something then turned away and walked swiftly toward the window. She pulled back the curtains. Moonlight flooded in.

  And that’s when Harry saw her face.

  Her eyes were wide open, but they were blank and unseeing. She was asleep, walking and talking, but sound asleep.

  “Nell.” She tried to unlatch the window. Oh God, she was going to climb out the window.

  He caught her by the arm. “Nell,” he said more urgently. “Nell, wake up.” He was about to shake her awake her when he recollected a story of a man who’d been woken while sleepwalking and dropped dead of shock. He didn’t know if the story was true or not, but he didn’t want to risk it.

  “Got to find her, find her, find Torie,” Nell muttered, struggling with the latch on the window.

  Oh God. He suddenly understood. He said the first thing that came into his mind. “Torie’s safe. She’s here.”

  Instantly Nell turned toward him, her face anxious, her eyes still horribly blank. It was a heartbreaking sight. He lifted her up. She struggled a little, muttering unintelligibly.

  “Torie’s asleep, she’s all right,” he soothed her and the worry slowly smoothed from her face. “Now, go back to bed.” Murmuring assurances of her daughter’s safety, he carried Nell, docile now, back into her bedchamber and to her bed.

  “Torie’s asleep and you need to sleep, too,” he told her. Trusting as a child she curled up in bed and he pulled the covers over her.

  He quietly closed her door and leaned against it with a sigh of relief. Thank God he’d heard her. Lord knows what could have happened if she’d climbed out of the window.

  He poured himself a large brandy and sat down in one of the sitting room arm chairs. He’d heard of sleepwalking but he’d never seen anyone do it.

  He sipped the brandy and recalled how when she’d first told him about the baby, he’d suspected her, just for a moment, of losing it deliberately. It had only been for a second, and he’d banished the unworthy thought instantly.

  Now he felt ashamed for even considering it for a second. He understood the reason for those violet shadows underneath her eyes now. The loss of her daughter was tearing her apart, even while she slept.

  He drank the last of the brandy and set the glass down. He hoped to God they found the baby soon. He returned to his bedroom, but just as he pulled his covers back, he heard a door open again.

  It was Nell, still asleep, heading for the locked door again. Harry wasn’t going to go through all that again.

  He reached her in three strides and guided her gently toward his room. “Torie’s safe,” he murmured. “Now, get into bed,” he told her and as before, she climbed into bed. Harry’s bed. He slipped in beside her.

  “Come here, sweetheart,” he murmured. “You’re safe with Harry now. Torie’s safe. Nell’s safe. It’s time to sleep.” She sighed and relaxed against him. Her feet and hands were frozen. Harry tucked her against him and wrapped his body around her.

  He lay there, holding her, feeling her chilled body slowly warm against him. Her feet were like ice. Slowly her breathing eased, and he found himself breathing in time with her. Her nightgown was cotton, old and soft with repeated washing. It was so thin it was almost like holding her naked body. She smelled of clean linen, soap, and woman and his body ached against her, racked with the hot tide of desire.

  He ignored it. He had more important things to do. Desire could wait. She was his now, to care for.

  And she wouldn’t wander the lonely night again if he could help it.

  Nell woke to sleepy, gradual awareness. She felt warm, comfortable, safe.

  An arm was holding her. Sinewy, hairy, masculine. She felt something else as well, also very masculine.

  There was a man in her bed. An aroused man.

  Her eyes flew open. With a panicked cry she struck at the man holding her down. Kicking and flailing with her fists she managed to stumble from the bed, dragging most of the bedclothes with her.

  She staggered back and stared at the man in her bed.

  He sat up, rubbing his chest. His naked chest. She tried not to stare. “Ouch,” he said conversationally. “You pack quite a wallop for a lady.” He gave her a sleepy grin. “But I forgive you. I trust you slept well. If so, my efforts were well rewarded.”

  Was he entirely naked? she wondered. What she could see of him was naked. And she didn’t want to see any more. “Efforts? What efforts? And what are you doing here?” she demanded.

  He just gave her a slow, wicked grin.

  “What are you doing in my bed?” she repeated furiously.

  He stretched and rubbed his head, looking impossibly handsome. “I’m not in your bed. You’re in my bed.”

  “I am not.” She glanced around, and her jaw dropped. She was in his bedchamber. “Wh—How did I get here? Did you—”

  “You walked in of your own accord.”

  “I didn’t,” she said. She added, less certainly, “I wouldn’t.” Oh Lord, she thought, she might have . . .

  He made no attempt to cover himself, seeming quite un-embarrassed by his naked chest and arms. Nell, feeling naked, despite her sturdy cotton nightgown, clutched bedclothes to her.

  He leaned back on one elbow and regarded her from the remains of the bedclothes. “I guided you, I confess, but you came very willingly.”

  “Nonsense,” she said defensively. “I don’t remember a thing.” She would die of embarrassment if he thought she’d come looking for him in the night and just climbed into his bed.

  He gave her a searching look. “No, but you know you walk in your sleep. It’s happened before, hasn’t it? That’s why you were worried about there being no lock on the door.”

  “Yes.” She collapsed onto a chair next to the bed, still clutching the bedclothes to her. He understood. Thank goodness. “At Mrs. Beasley’s I used to get one of the maids to lock me in at night. And at home, Aggie used to. I should have asked Cooper to sleep with me, but I thought . . . I hoped . . . It seemed . . . I didn’t want you to think I didn’t trust you.”

  He asked curiously. “Have you always walked in your sleep?”

  She shook her head. “Not since I was a little girl. It started after Mama died, but I grew out of it. It only started again after—” she broke off.

  He nodded. “I know. You were searching for Torie.”

  She put her head in her hands. “What am I going to do?”

  “Not you—we. And we are going to find her,” he said briskly and swung his legs out of the bed. Nell stared. He wore a pair of white cotton drawers, but they disguised very little about his masculinity.

  His very aroused masculinity. She’d felt it earlier, pressing against her.

  Her thoughts of Torie were suddenly jerked away by the view of something much more immediately arresting. Her palm tingled with remembrance and blushing, she belatedly turned her head away. “Why didn’t you put me in my own bed?” she asked.

  “I did.”

  “What?” She turned. “Then why would I wake in your bed?” Her eyes strayed to his drawers.

  “That’s not why I put you in my bed,” he told her. “The first time you wandered I tucked you back in your bed and thought nothing more about it. Ten minutes later there you were again, trying to climb out of the window. It was fairly apparent that I could either spend the night chasing around after you or take you back to my bed and keep you safe.”

  “Safe?”

  “Safe,” he repeated firmly. “And to make sure you slept properly. You did sleep better, didn’
t you? You look better this morning that you have in the last few days.”

  She thought about it. She did feel a little less worn than she had for a while. “I suppose I did.”

  He nodded. “Good. So my plan worked perfectly . . . until you woke up. And started swinging punches.”

  She gave an apologetic grimace. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know it was you.”

  He frowned. “I know. So who’s the blackguard you expected it to be?”

  Nell wasn’t going to tell him that; not him, not anyone. She jumped up. “It’s getting late. The servants will be up and around any moment. I’d better go.”

  “He raped you, didn’t he—the father of your baby?” Gray eyes bored into her.

  She froze, her mind a sudden, scrambled blank.

  He went on, “That’s why you woke in a panic just now.”

  “No, I—”

  “You panicked when you thought there was a man in your bed, but the moment you saw it was me, you calmed right down.” His mouth twisted ruefully. “Even though you might have cause for fearing me in my current state.”

  She bit her lip. He couldn’t know: he couldn’t. She wasn’t going to tell him, wasn’t going to tell anyone. And she didn’t fear Sir Irwin—she hated him. She’d got a fright, that’s all. It had brought the memories back. But she’d rid herself of them before and she would again.

  She would not let Sir Irwin play any role in her life. Not even as a vile memory. Or a nightmare.

  Harry persisted. “That’s why your father took your baby away in the night, thinking he was doing the right thing by you, wasn’t it? Making restitution. Releasing you of the burden of raising a rapist’s child.”

  “She’s not a rapist’s child; don’t you ever say such a filthy thing about my daughter again!” Nell flashed. “She’s mine, mine alone, and nobody else’s. My daughter, precious and pure and innocent.” And she ran from the room.

  She’d been raped. The words echoed over and over in Harry’s head. Of course she had. It all made sense now. Who was the bastard? How had it happened? The questions ate at him.

  The memory of their first real meeting suddenly twisted in him like a knife.