Hart had returned to Acton’s estate with his thoughts racing. Who was guiding Will through London’s sordid underbelly? And, more important, who was responsible for Mercy’s accidents? Because the more he considered the matter, the more inexplicable those accidents became. And try as he might, he could think of no one more likely to want Mercy dead, and her inheritance forfeit, than her own brother. A desperate man, Hart knew full well, was capable of any betrayal.
But how had Will Coltrane managed these accidents? Could he somehow be at Acton’s estate? It seemed impossible that his presence wouldn’t have been noted.
There was only one thing Hart was certain of: he couldn’t tell Mercy his conjectures. She wouldn’t believe him and, knowing her, it would only send her racing into potential danger.
When he’d finally stumbled to his blankets, Hart had been hounded by dreams as relentless as they were familiar. But this time images of Mercy’s body, torn and brutalized, were superimposed over all the other horrific visions. He’d woken, sweat drenched and shivering in the cold winter darkness, and stood sentinel at midnight’s gate, waiting for dawn.
Madness, he thought, finally turning away from the ash-colored vista. How had he allowed Mercy Coltrane to become so thoroughly entangled in his heart? When had he let her past the wall he’d so carefully constructed?
Let? he asked himself grimly, allowed? His heart had not asked permission to love Mercy. He had simply taken the only course open to him. To deny himself this love, however ill fated it might be, would be like asking a blind man to relinquish an hour of sight.
But like that blind man, there was a price to pay for the sharp, painful reawakening of his heart—brief, tantalizing, so acute it burned.
For there was no chance such a love could find expression. He lived by sheer will on the near side of madness, hounded by night terrors from which he awoke howling like a dog, chased by unnamed specters that could set him trembling for days on end.
What could he offer her? A man whose hand sometimes shook so badly he could not hold a glass of water without spilling it? The custodianship of a madman? Sometimes only his fury and disgust at his weakness kept him from sobbing like a babe. God, even his name was not his own to give.
And, too, there were others to consider. He snagged the blanket from the floor and flung it to the bed. He could offer but one thing: he could find her damn brother.
For all the joy it would bring her … or him.
Chapter 20
“It’s delightful to see you up and looking so well, Miss Coltrane,” Nathan Hillard said the next day as he joined her at the dairy barn’s door. It was late morning and Acton was taking them on a tour of the home farm.
“Thank you, Mr. Hillard. And thank you for your consideration yesterday,” Mercy replied. Hillard had apparently been the first one to her after she’d fallen. He—so she’d been told—had carried her to the house, shouting orders for her immediate care. Now, his unusual eyes shone with a soft, concerned light.
“I trust your unfortunate accident yesterday left no lasting impairments?” he asked.
“None in the least.” She had responded to countless such queries since she’d appeared at breakfast. By and large they had been solicitous. Except, that is, for the unmistakable tincture of gratification coloring Annabelle Moreland’s gratis inquiry. As though she had supposed something unseemly was bound to occur to any woman who infiltrated so masculine a province as hunting and was happy to have her suspicions confirmed.
Mercy hung back from the rest of the guests peering into the barn. Hart stood a short distance away, Annabelle’s hand resting in the crook of his arm, his austere features approximating interest. The Whitcombes were beside them, Richard tenderly supporting a puffy-faced Fanny. Only Henley and Beryl’s absence kept the group from presenting a perfect tableau of family affection, Mercy thought, suddenly wishing fiercely that Will were here, with her.
She found herself studying Hart’s drawn face. He knew something, she would swear to it, and he was keeping it from her. All morning he’d avoided her, making polite conversation with the other guests, placidly dogging his sisters’ steps—in other words acting totally out of character. Perhaps Lady Acton had had A Conversation with him too. The thought hurt. It hurt more that he’d apparently taken it to heart.
Well, he needn’t concern himself that she would embarrass him by reading anything into his appearance in her room yesterday. She knew now what she had seen: a man she’d coerced into extending his protection to her; a man to whom responsibilities were sacrosanct.
She didn’t need his protection. She needed him to find Will. She would think only of her brother.
Liar.
“I was so very worried about you,” Nathan said in a low, warm voice, interrupting her thoughts. “Your welfare has come to mean a great deal to me.”
His fixed study of her face brought warmth creeping up her throat.
“Miss Coltrane, I cannot stay silent any longer. Surely you must be aware of my regard—”
“Sir, please,” she broke in, remorsefully recognizing the ardor in his tone. “I am unable to think of anything other than finding my brother. I cannot think of myself while he is lost.”
“Of course.” Nathan inclined his head, masking any affront or pain her words might have caused. He was so perfect a gentleman, even without a title or money; he was exactly the sort of man her mother would have wanted for her … urbane, gentle, polished.
“But soon the matter of his whereabouts will be resolved and then—”
“Soon?” She leapt on the word.
“I have had the first responses to those inquiries about your brother I made for you,” Hillard said quietly.
“You did?” He must have received word among the morning’s posts.
“You were very naughty, m’dear.” His gaze touched her tenderly. “You should have told me your brother was involved in activities beyond the pale.”
The hint of patronization set the hair pricking on the nape of her neck. “Is he?” she asked.
“So my friends say. But then”—a light, charming smile—“people are given to exaggeration.”
“Do you know where Will is?”
“Alas, I do not. Your brother seems to have disappeared. Perhaps he has gone to the Continent.”
She frowned, troubled. If she could not find Will here, what chance had she to find him in France, or Austria, or Italy? No. She didn’t believe it. He’d said he would write again at the end of the week. She still had three days. “I don’t think so, Mr. Hillard.”
“Well, rest assured I shall do everything in my power to find him for you.”
“As will I,” she said smiling, feeling guilty for her churlishness when he obviously wanted only to help. She allowed him to take her hand and squeeze it encouragingly.
“I must warn you, you might not like what you find.”
“I’ll take that chance,” she replied. “Will is not an evil boy. He is perhaps too easily led. But someone has done the leading. I only wish I knew who,” she ended tightly.
“Perhaps. But then, perhaps he has found his own way.”
“I will not believe that,” she said.
“As you say, m’dear.”
“Miss Coltrane!” Acton suddenly called to her from the front of the party. “Miss Coltrane, I would appreciate your opinion on my cows.”
Mercy grinned at Hillard’s surprised expression. “Because I’m a rancher’s daughter, Lord Acton thinks my understanding of cows is neigh well omniscient. If you’ll excuse me, Mr. Hillard?”
The other guests opened a path for her to Lord Acton’s side. He was standing beside a brown Swiss, patting it awkwardly, beaming with pride. The heifer rolled its eye.
“What do you think?” he asked when she was beside him. Lady Acton, on the other side of her son, had gone rigid with disapproval, her eyes frosty with warning.
Damn be to Lady Acton! Mercy thought, suddenly angry. Damn be to her arrogance and in
sensitivity and cautions. She was tired of being made use of as a means of assuaging the ennui of Lady Acton’s friends, as a collectible American oddity, as the unwilling receptacle of the Dowager’s indiscreet confidences—confidences revealed to her not because she was trusted but because no merit would ever be ascribed anything she might recount. Her nationality—and concomitant lack of breeding—robbed her of credibility with these people. And most of all, damn Lady Acton for her “obligation” to warn her off her son—and Hart.
Mercy turned, clasping her hands in front of her heart and smiling up at Acton. “What do I think? Why, I think that these, sir, are prettiest stock I have ever had the pleasure of viewing. I have never seen such bovine beauty. Look at those clear eyes, those shining coats, those splendid feet!”
Acton puffed his chest out with pleasure. Someone chuckled and Mercy swiveled. Hart was smiling at the ground. She studied him suspiciously. His smile was so beautiful. His teeth were white and even. A long dimple scored one lean cheek and a lock of thick brown hair had fallen over his brow.
“Why, thank you, Miss Coltrane,” Acton said. “Did you note their udders? Not that I know that much about udders, but I am told that these have lovely little—”
“Acton!” Lady Acton cut in. “I think we’ve had quite enough of the barn.” Her eyes, beneath aging hooded lids, pierced Mercy with a look of pure dislike and more. Beneath Lady Acton’s imperious manner Mercy glimpsed an extraordinary vulnerability.
Her gaze fell away from Lady Acton’s. What right had she to determine Lady Acton’s priorities for her? If the purity of her family lineage was so important to Lady Acton, so be it.
Clearly, the Dowager saw Mercy as a threat to everything she cherished and in her worst nightmares envisioned her ancient name being used to provoke titters at dining tables or, worse, pity among her intimates.
Mercy’s anger evaporated. She would never fit in here. And she was punishing Lady Acton for that.
“Ah, er, of c-course, Mother,” Acton stammered. He offered his arm to Mercy.
“Your Grace,” she said, “I still feel some of the effects of yesterday’s accident and I would not like to hold back the rest of the tour. It’s far too informative. Please continue without me. I’ll just amble along at my own pace.”
“You’re certain?” Acton asked, casting a troubled glance at his mother.
“Quite.”
“Do get on with it, Acton,” Lady Acton said coolly. “We are having an early luncheon.”
With an apologetic smile Acton moved forward. The rest of the party slipped by her, heading out of the barn. Not knowing what else to do, she trailed behind until she found herself standing at the paddock gate a short distance from the Morelands.
Annabelle took one glance at her and, with a slight tightening of her small, bowed lips threaded her way toward the opposite side.
If my popularity continues along this course, Mercy thought, I’ll be wearing tar and feathers to Acton’s country ball.
“ ‘Splendid feet’?” Hart whispered. She could not control the start his voice—low, modulated, incredibly sexy—caused her. No more than she could control the sudden acceleration of her heartbeat.
“You really are incorrigible,” he continued. “Teasing Lady Acton like that.”
Her cheeks warmed at the laughter in his voice. She did not want to look at him. He was far too appealing, particularly in this gentle, cajoling mood.
“Oh, the dears!” Fanny flew by her, swooping toward a stack of hay bales near the fence and snatching a tiny, furry bundle from a crevice. Eyes shimmering with tears, she held the tiny kitten to her face, rubbing her cheek up and down along its back.
“Oh, the little love!” she said. “It’s a baby! A teeny ’ittle babekins! Isn’t he the sweetest ’ittle t’ing?” She thrust the kitten into Mercy’s face as if for confirmation. The kitten slashed out with a tiny, needle-spiked paw.
“Delightful,” Mercy said.
“Isn’t it?” breathed Fanny. “It just a teeny ’ittle sweet ’urns.” She spun and held it up for her husband’s approval. Mercy sidled a step closer to Hart.
“Don’t tell me,” she said in a low voice. “You never allowed your sisters to have a cat.”
“Cat?” he asked. “Of course they’ve had cats. The creatures are epidemic in the country. Push over a hay bale, you find a cat.”
For some reason her implied criticism had touched a nerve. Good. He had her feeling more than raw. His very presence was an abrasion, making her too aware of her body, her pulse, her breathing, a dull ache in her lips that only the pressure of his could assuage.
“Why would you think I wouldn’t let them have a cat? Really, Mercy, you have the oddest notions of me and what I—”
“If you don’t do something soon,” she said calmly, “there’ll be one less cat plaguing Jolly Ole England.”
“What?” He looked beyond her at his sister. Fanny was clutching the kitten to her bosom. It hissed and yowled, struggling fiercely to avoid being literally smothered with Fanny’s affection. “Oh, for God’s sake, Fanny, let the poor beastie go!” he said.
“But, Hart. I just want—”
“Let the kitten go, dearest,” Richard cooed. “It wants its mother.”
“Oh!” Hastily, Fanny tucked the kitten back in the straw pile.
Something in her stricken face, in the tender regard with which Richard watched her, alerted Mercy. Fanny, she realized, is pregnant. She should have known. All the pieces added up: Fanny’s tempests of tears, her puffy face, her moodiness, her absence at meals …
“Come along, dearest,” Richard said. “We’ll return to the house for a nice spot of custard.” He tucked his wife’s hand through the crook of his arm and led her away.
“You know, Hart,” Mercy said thoughtfully, “it really isn’t good for a woman in her condition to indulge in all those sweets.”
“Excuse me?”
“Pregnant women shouldn’t get fat. And I do hope she’s stopped wearing corsets. I am sure they are accountable for any number of birth complications—Whatever are you staring at me like that for?”
“No reason. I just usually don’t stand about paddocks discussing my sister’s breeding habits with young, unmarried women. Of course, no genteel woman would broach such a delicate subject but then again, we’re—”
“Not talking about a genteel woman,” Mercy finished for him, still raw from the Dowager’s censure.
He met her angry gaze with an implacable light in his turquoise eyes. He lifted one hand. A heartbeat of a pause. He dropped it. “If you say so.”
“Are you mocking me?” she asked, tilting her head back.
“I’m trying to help you,” he answered. “Lady Acton is a breath away from having you shipped back to London.”
He’d caught her off-guard. Her eyes widened, stricken. If she lost Lady Acton’s patronage, she had no one else to whom she could turn for social entrée. “But why?”
He shrugged. “For interesting her precious son. Or for Hillard’s public pursuit of you, or for making her potential daughter-in-law look vapid in comparison, or for refusing to be an obedient and worshipfully grateful little houseguest,” he said, his voice growing colder each minute. “Or for me, because I stormed into your room without any right to do so.”
He paused as though steeling himself for what he would say next. “Or for pestering her guests with inquiries about your reprobate brother. Leave it, Mercy. He’s an addict. The proof is incontrovertible.”
She was bruised by his words, stung by his scorn. “Will is not! You don’t know that. Have you seen him? Talked to him? No. I can see you haven’t. You’re making suppositions. Guessing. Well, I will not forget Will. I promised my mother myself. And I’ll do anything—anything!—to find Will. Use Lady Acton. Use her son. Use Hillard—or use you!”
He pinned her with a harsh, unreadable glare. “You have made that clear. But if you want to stay here, and use me to search for your damned bro
ther, you’d best behave.” He leaned forward, his lean predatory features intent. “And don’t give me any crap about not knowing how. You have every grace at your disposal when you’ve a mind. But you have decided that English society is silly and inconsequential and you are going to thumb your nose at them.”
She made to turn away, but he caught her hand, spinning her around and holding her wrists captured between them so no one could see. There was nothing she could do, shy of making a scene, to free herself.
“Have a care, Mercy,” he went on in a low, taut voice. “Lady Acton will not allow her son to become involved with you. And she is a far stronger opponent than you give her credit for. If she needs to destroy you to wean her son from his infatuation, she’ll do so. And she can. Mark my words.”
She turned her head from him. He saw too much, too clearly. She couldn’t allow him to see anything else.
Abruptly her wrist was released. She heard his footsteps, breathed the scent of bruised hay as he departed. Her shoulders slumped. She’d lied.
She had not thought of using Hillard or Acton or him. She had not thought of anything when he’d been with her but the sheen of his mink-brown hair, the fatigue bruising his clear skin, the lean, hard length of his masculine body. After all her promises she’d forgotten Will.
But worse, Hart had not.
Chapter 21
The evening’s entertainment, a performance by a troupe of London-based actors, had ended. The players had left the temporary stage that had been erected in the ballroom and the guests were patiently waiting for the cold collation that was being set up in an anteroom.
Hart could not say if the production had been good—he would have been hard pressed to say what had been performed. He’d spent the hours in the dimly lit ballroom watching Mercy.
Even from this distance her allure was nearly tangible. Her slender figure was draped in some softly antique gold fabric. A jet necklace was nestled in the sweet, shadowed valley between her breasts.
A Dangerous Man Page 17