Black Sheep's Daughter

by Carola Dunn

  Marco tiptoed out of the room.

  * * * *

  Teresa dreamt she was back at home on the hacienda. It was one of those nights when, even up in the mountains, the air was still and hot and oppressive. She threw back the covers. The sudden chill on her skin awoke her.

  She was lying fully dressed on top of her bed. Someone had draped a couple of blankets over her. She sat up and looked around, dazed by the sudden transition from the dream of her simple whitewashed room to the reality of the luxurious furnishings of an English mansion. It was winter, she remembered, yet still she was unbearably hot.

  A fire glowed on the hearth and a strange white light outlined the window. It was morning, then. She slipped down from the bed and went to draw back the curtains. That cold light would cool her. Feathers of frost on the glass melted at her breath; she looked out and gasped.

  The strange light was sun reflecting on snow. The world sparkled and gleamed. Every branch of the great cedar was outlined in white. Entranced, Teresa leant her burning forehead against the windowpane.

  Two dogs gambolled across the lawn, oblivious of cold feet. Teresa realised that her own feet were icy. She began to shiver uncontrollably, though she was perspiring and her cheeks felt on fire. It dawned on her that she was feverish. As if the knowledge had somehow intensified the symptoms, her head began to ache and her limbs grew leaden. Overcome by lethargy, she forced herself to stumble into her dressing room to find her medicine chest.

  “Hello, hello, hello!” Gayo greeted her. When he received no response, he grumbled irritably, “Misbegotten son of a sea snake.”

  Teresa was not amused. The catch on the chest was inexplicably recalcitrant to her fumbling fingers. She had just decided to give up and go back to bed when Annie came in.

  “You’re never up already, miss!” she exclaimed in surprise. “After all those goings-on yesterday, I made sure you’d sleep late.”

  Teresa’s memory flooded back. Yesterday she had been kidnapped. She had shot Harrison. Muriel had thrown herself into Cousin Tom’s arms.

  Yesterday Andrew had been shot, and in his agony he had called for Muriel.

  Teresa astonished herself and her abigail by bursting into tears.

  Annie ran to her and hugged her. “Heavens above, miss, you’re frozen to the bone,” she scolded, dismayed. “Back to bed with you this instant. And your forehead’s hot as coals of fire. Lawks, you’ve taken a chill, and no wonder. Come now, miss, just slip out of your dress and into your nightrail—that’s it--and let me tuck you in and I’ll bring you your herbs. You just tell me what you need and I’ll see it’s made proper. You’ll be right as rain in no time at all. There, let me fluff up your pillows. Here’s the medicines now. This one, is it? Cinchona? Made into tea, isn’t that right? I’ll take it down to Cook right away.”

  Soothed by the little maid’s comforting chatter, Teresa reached out to her. “Annie, Sir Andrew…how is he?”

  “He’ll be up and about in a day or two, I hear. He’s a real hero, Sir Andrew. Everyone says he risked his life to save yours.”

  “He did,” said Teresa, her voice nearly inaudible. “But perhaps when Muriel deserted him, he thought his life not worth living.”

  * * * *

  With the cinchona tea—a horribly bitter concoction which Teresa choked down—Annie brought enquiries and best wishes galore. Teresa refused to see anyone, even her brother, but her maid was unequal to keeping out the duchess. Aunt Stafford swept in just before noon, her round face distressed.

  “My dear child, what a horrid business. I am not in the least surprised that you are fallen ill. Your girl says you do not care to see the doctor, but I shall send him to you when he comes to see Graylin, and I shall be excessively displeased if you do not let him examine you. He is an excellent man. I fear you must be thinking that England is quite as dangerous as your wild jungles.”

  “Oh no, ma’am. I am sure there are villains and rogues everywhere.”

  “Well, do not bother your head about them, my dear. Stafford and John are going to speak with that dreadful Carruthers and you may be sure he will not try anything again. I daresay he will not dare show his nose in public for years.” She kissed Teresa’s forehead. “I will leave you to rest now, for I wager that is what you need most, and you must be sure your abigail asks for anything you fancy.”

  “Thank you, aunt.” Teresa blinked away tears. She was turning into a regular watering-pot, she who prided herself on her self-control.

  The infusion of cinchona bark had cooled her fever, leaving her weak, depressed, and aching all over. It would be days, at least, before she could put into action her plan to depart for Costa Rica. Confined to her bed, she would be spared seeing Andrew, but there was nothing to distract her from her unhappy thoughts.

  She had been a fool to hope that he might come to care for her as more than a friend. Now she knew that hope was what had buoyed her throughout yesterday’s ordeal. Muriel’s confession that she loved Tom had opened the door; Andrew’s final word had slammed it shut.

  Teresa knew she had been a fool, too, to think of running off at night without a word to her relatives. As soon as she was well enough, she would discuss her departure calmly with her uncle, ask him to find her an escort. She prayed it would not take him long.

  Don Eduardo would be sorry that she had not found a husband she could love and respect, but if she could not have Andrew, she had just as soon dwindle into an old maid.

  * * * *

  Andrew, though still feeling somewhat battered about the middle, was by then fretting and fuming at his enforced idleness. Lying flat on his back was a poor perspective from which to view the world. Besides, it made eating very difficult and he had missed his dinner the night before.

  Along with his breakfast, Rowson had brought the news of Miss Danville’s indisposition. While his manservant ineptly spoon-fed him, with frequent pauses to wipe egg yolk off his chin, Andrew silently cursed Harrison and his plots. With both Teresa and himself confined to their respective beds, how was he to persuade her of his love?

  He had just irritably ordered Rowson to take away the rest of the ham and muffins when there was a knock at his door. Rowson admitted Lord Danville. Andrew was glad to see that his lordship looked distinctly sheepish. After an exchange of the usual amenities, the duke’s heir enquired after his guest’s health.

  On being assured that Andrew was much improved, “I am happy to hear it,” said Lord Danville. “We are all deeply in your debt for your prompt and brave action in saving my cousin’s life.“ He hesitated, and when Andrew looked at him expectantly, he flushed. “I fear it is a poor recompense that I should…er, appropriate your betrothed.”

  “Think nothing of it,” said Andrew cordially. “I am fond of Muriel, but you are more than fond, I think?”

  “I love her. She is everything I most admire in a woman.” Tom’s voice was fervent. “We are going up to Town today to obtain her mother’s blessing on our union. I can only hope the lady will not be quite overset by this sudden change of dramatis personae.”

  “I can think of few things capable of oversetting Lady Parr. Nor can I suppose that the exchange of a impecunious second son of a viscount for the wealthy heir to a dukedom will be unwelcome.”

  Tom frowned. “You are cynical, Graylin.”

  “I do not mean to imply that any such consideration influenced Muriel. But a word of warning, Danville. You may find it expedient to keep her mother at arms’ length once you are wed. I take it you have his Grace’s permission?”

  “My father has been most tolerant. I believe he feared I should never find a woman I wished to wed, though of course I must have married eventually to secure the succession. Muriel’s lack of fortune is unimportant. Her family is not impressive but her breeding is irreproachable. His Grace concurs with me that she will be an excellent duchess. I had wondered whether her timidity might be a drawback, but she has admitted to me that she has not always been quite as shocked and frig
htened as she appeared. It seems her mother taught her to behave so.”

  “Indeed! If she has made such a confession she must truly love you. As I said yesterday, some of Teresa’s courage has rubbed off on her.”

  “And you truly love Teresa?”

  “I do.”

  “Well, she’s a taking little thing, my cousin, if a trifle unconventional.” He shook his head indulgently. “But then, you are unconventional too, are you not? I daresay you will suit. I must be off now.”

  Andrew stared after Lord Danville with a bemused look. Unconventional? Him? He had always thought of himself as the most staid and proper of men. After all, a diplomat must above all be courteous, composed, and sober.

  On the other hand, how many gentlemen of his acquaintance had the least desire to travel to the less civilised portions of the globe? How many would have gone aboard the Snipe to rescue a shipload of slaves? He could not imagine Thomas Danville involved in that expedition. Lord John would have joined in, had he been present. Yet only the most unlikely circumstances could have led to John’s presence on board the Destiny, whereas he, Andrew, sought out and enjoyed the unexpected exigencies of foreign travel.

  Like Teresa he flung himself into new experiences with zest. What had ever made him suppose he wanted a conformable wife? Not only did he love Teresa, she was precisely the kind of wife he needed.

  How long had he loved her? Since the day they met? No, it was the next day, when they were lost on the volcano's side, though he had not recognised it then. He had felt so protective towards her in her disappointment and contrition. Wrong! He had not wanted to protect her but to comfort her in their shared danger.

  Sharing, that was what it was all about. Since their arrival in London, he had had no right to a place in her life, if she would only marry him they could share the mission to China, share a lifetime together.

  Marco, dashing into Andrew’s chamber, found him grinning with pleasure at the thought of travelling with Teresa again.

  “You look happy,” he observed. “Just as well, because I came to tell you that Teresa won’t receive anyone, not even me, so I can’t ask her to come and see you.”

  “I understand she is ill.”

  “Oh yes,” said her brother without sympathy, “but she’s not at death’s door, it’s only a chill. It’s my belief she’s sulking.”

  “Teresa does not sulk!” Andrew was outraged. “Something happened yesterday that distressed her.”

  “Well, she was kidnapped and tied up and shot at. Enough to distress even my sister, I should think.”

  Andrew groped for something to throw at Marco. “I mean, you young mooncalf, that something made her miffed at me. It’s the only reason I can think of that she should have run off leaving me bleeding on the floor.”

  “Perhaps, but I cannot imagine what,” said Marco dubiously. “She can hardly have wished to be shot by Scrawny Sid. Anyway, the other thing I came to tell you was that Uncle Stafford and Cousin John and I are going to Loxwood to deal with Lord Carruthers. Pity you can’t come. I must run or they will leave without me.”

  * * * *

  Whether or not Teresa was indulging in a fit of the sulks, Andrew’s frame of mind for the next half hour might certainly have been described thus. A luncheon as unsatisfactory as his breakfast had come and gone before Marco returned to his chamber, accompanied by the duke and Lord John.

  “We’ve put paid to all this nonsense,” announced his Grace with a satisfied air. “How are you doing my boy?”

  “Very well, sir. May I hope you refer to Lord Carruthers?”

  “You may, and I do. We have just returned from a visit to Loxwood.”

  “Cousin John wanted to shoot him or run him through with a sword,” Marco said, “but Uncle Stafford said that the signed confession from Harrison was an equally potent weapon.”

  “Pity,” said John, “but I daresay it was more satisfying to draw his cork and blacken his daylights.”

  “And send him to grass,” added Marco with enthusiasm. “You never saw such a neat bit of work, Andrew.”

  “Bloodthirsty cawker,” Andrew teased him. “I wish I had seen it.”

  “I fancy the bad baron is not well acquainted with the noble science of fisticuffs,” said the duke dryly. “It seemed fairer, however, than taking a horsewhip to him, the alternative proposed by my impetuous son. After all, the man is a gentleman by birth, if not by nature.”

  “It seems insufficient punishment, though, sir,” Andrew said with a frown, “and an inadequate deterrent.”

  “Ah, there the confession came in handy. When I pointed out to Carruthers that his choice lay between a voluntary exile in the Americas or an involuntary sojourn in Australia, he wisely opted for the former. I have left two of my larger grooms to escort him to Bristol and ensure his embarkation.”

  “Bravo!” An incautious movement made Andrew draw in his breath sharply, then he continued, “What of Harrison and his henchmen?”

  “Harrison will hang,” said the duke with unwonted harshness, “and the other two men will be transported. My influence is sufficient to guarantee it. I admit that I find it difficult to credit that such a man should dare raise his hand to the granddaughter of a duke. He shall learn that it is not an act without consequence.”

  Andrew shivered at his haughty tone. He wondered whether that unexpected arrogance of rank might cause the duke to deny him Teresa’s hand. It would take forever to obtain permission from Lord Edward in Costa Rica.

  “Might I have a word with you in private, sir?” he requested diffidently.

  Guessing his purpose, Marco and John departed with grins and nods of encouragement.

  “Well, Graylin?” queried his Grace of Stafford. The habitual affability had returned to his manner.

  Andrew found it was a great deal easier to approach the subject of marriage with the duke than it had been with Lady Parr. “I want to wed Miss Danville,” he said baldly. “Since her father is too far distant to consult, I believe I must approach you for permission to pay my addresses.”

  “So that’s what is in the wind. When Thomas told me he hoped to make your betrothed his bride, he hummed and hawed so that I knew something was afoot. Never seen him at a loss for words before. I take it you are not turning to my niece out of pique at losing Miss Parr to my son.”

  “I love her, sir. I cannot imagine life without her.”

  “That sounds adequate. I am somewhat acquainted with your father, and my friend Castlereagh speaks highly of you. I may say that I myself have put in a word for you in that quarter, since you escorted Teresa and Marco from Costa Rica. I know your prospects in the Foreign Office are excellent. However, I understand you are leaving shortly for China.”

  “I have no doubt that Teresa will be eager to go with me, sir. If she will have me.”

  “Then I can see no objection, my boy. You have my blessing and Edward’s also, I make no doubt, since he saw fit to entrust her to your care. If she will have you, of course.”

  * * * *

  Three days went by before Andrew was allowed to leave his bed—three days which he spent alternately buoyed by hope and cast into the dismals. Marco reported that Teresa was much improved, though still, in Annie’s words, very languid and low. She refused to see anyone other than her maid.

  “At least,” he pointed out, “she has not yet discussed with my uncle her wish to return home.”

  Andrew passed yet another impatient day recovering his strength, strolling about his chamber, and sitting by the fire, playing chess and backgammon with his constant stream of visitors.

  They had, thank heaven, stopped congratulating him on his gallant saving of Teresa’s life.

  On the fifth day he could wait no longer. Marco, suborned into spying for him, reported that Annie had been sent to fetch tea. Andrew lay in wait for the maid in the corridor outside Teresa’s rooms, and she gave up the tray with a minimal protest and a saucy wink.

  “It’ll do her good,” she
opined, opening the dressing room door for him. Andrew wondered whether she meant the tea or his visit.

  He stepped into the room. Teresa was reclining on a chaise longue by the window, her back to him, well wrapped in an azure velvet peignoir. Her unbound hair was a dark cloud about her head. “Annie, have you brought the tea?” she asked, her gaze still on the snowy landscape beyond the window.

  “Hello, hello, hello, dinner, hello, hello!” cried Gayo in a paroxysm of joy.

  “Andrew!” Teresa turned to look at him, jumping to her feet.

  “Your tea, madam,” he said. He carried the tray over and set it on a small table by the chaise.

  She moved away from him and stood looking out of the window again. He went to stand behind her.

  “I knew you would appreciate the beauty of the snow,” he murmured.

  She started and began to turn, then realised how close he was, and changed her mind. “Why are you here?” she said in an expressionless voice.

  “I brought your tea. I am glad, by the way, that you have developed a taste for it. I collect coffee is near unobtainable in China.”

  “Why have you come?” she repeated crossly.

  “Because I love you, Teresa.”

  Now she did turn, a questioning look on her worn face. “Love me? But you are betrothed to Muriel.”

  “Muriel is betrothed to your cousin.”

  “Oh!” She paused. “So that is what Annie tried to tell me. It is very noble of you to give her up to him.”

  “It is not in the least noble. I have been wishing myself free of that entanglement this age. You are the only one I love.”

  “Then why,” she cried, “oh, why did you call out to Muriel when Scrawny Sid shot you?”

  “I did?” he asked, startled. He thought back to that moment. “What exactly did I say?”

  “Just ‘Muriel.’”

  A grin of delight and relief spread across his face. “Is that why you ran away? Of course, it must be. You could not guess that I was just trying to tell you that Muriel and your cousin Tom were obviously in love and I was free at last.”

  Teresa’s resistance was at an end. She threw herself into his welcoming arms.