“I’m sorry, my lord—for interrupting your story. Please, do go on.”
Amusement glinted in his eye, but he didn’t pursue the subject of Malcolm. “The corsairs released Will with the understanding he would arrange for both our ransoms. It was unusual for them to release a prisoner before they had money in hand, but they knew he would die without proper care and then they would receive nothing.”
He stood and replenished Daphne’s wine goblet. “You are not hungry, Daphne?”
“Your story is much more interesting than food.”
“I am gratified to please you,” he murmured, making the innocent statement sound improper.
“We were not the only captives on the ship. The pirates had collected others as they roamed and raided, and the ship was full to capacity as we headed back to their home port of Oran.” His eye narrowed until there was only a sliver of green. “This particular band of corsairs operated at the pleasure of Sultan Babba Hassan, whose palace was on the outskirts of Oran. They would stop in Oran, pay their tribute to the sultan, and sell whatever slaves they did not want, in the market.” He gave her a wry smile. “I was one of the lucky ones and did not have to undergo the humiliations of the slave market after we disembarked. However, I had managed to attract the captain’s attention by behaving . . . well, unwisely during the journey, and I did so again when we reached shore.” He waved his three-fingered hand as if dismissing a fly. “The ship’s captain, Faisal Barbarossa, gave me into the care of Sultan Babba Hassan, for whom I was expected to labor until such time as the ransom money arrived.”
Daphne was still considering the best way to ask what he’d done to earn the captain’s ire when he continued.
“It does not matter what I did to make the Barbarossa so unhappy. Unfortunately, I also managed to make the sultan unhappy. Babba Hassan only spoke directly to me one time, some months later—after my uncle’s agent had come to Oran with ransom money for both Will and me.” His amiable smile hardened into an expression that made her shiver. “The sultan relished telling me that he’d never planned to ransom me—not for any amount of money—and that he had informed my uncle’s agent that I’d died.”
Daphne made a soft sound of horror and he cut her a look of gentle amusement.
“Do not despair, my dear Daphne. The story has a happy ending, at least for me. You see I eventually escaped, and when I did, I took Faisal Barbarossa’s ship with me—right after I cut off his head.” His posture was relaxed and his glass dangled loosely from his fingers, but Daphne’s blood ran cold. For the first time since meeting him, Daphne glimpsed beyond the amiable smile he wore like a mask and saw what that corsair captain must have realized just before he lost his head: Hugh Redvers was danger distilled into human form.
Danger smiled and leaned toward her. “No doubt you’ve heard about the exploits of the Batavia’s Ghost over the years that followed, but that is a story for another day.” He set his glass on the table, his eye as green and hard as an emerald. “Now, I believe it is my turn to ask a few questions.”
Chapter Five
Hugh would have wagered his remaining eye that a look of terror flashed across Daphne’s face at his words, but the expression was gone far too quickly to be certain. Now what the devil might he ask that would terrify her?
He began with a subject that was fairly burning a hole through him. “I admit I am curious as to how you came to marry my uncle. That must be quite a story. Won’t you share it with me . . . Daphne?”
“But . . . you haven’t told me why you stayed away for so long—and left everyone believing you were dead or—”
“No, I haven’t.”
Her mouth opened and Hugh stared at that plump lower lip of hers, imagining it beneath his. Instead of speaking, she took a deep drink from her glass and then set it on the table. Hugh refilled it.
“Do you recall my mother?”
He blinked. “Your mother?” Hugh searched his memory, but the only image he unearthed was one of his uncle’s greenhouse. “She had an interest in orchids, didn’t she?”
“Yes, she was obsessed with them—it was through orchids that my mother met Thomas and through their shared passion that I came to know him.”
The sound of his uncle’s Christian name on her lips caused uncomfortable sensations in his gut and reminded him, with brutal clarity, that his uncle had been a man and this woman had been his lover. She had borne his children—children who were Hugh’s blood relatives.
Jealousy was so foreign to Hugh that he wasn’t even sure it was jealousy bubbling inside him like acid. Whatever the emotion, it was damned unpleasant.
He took a drink of wine but it tasted like bile. “You did not share my uncle’s interest in orchids?” he asked roughly.
“No, it was his vast library that drew us together.”
Hugh could only stare.
“Lessing Hall was my escape in those days, and I enjoyed many wonderful afternoons in the library reading or discussing books with the earl.” Her fond smile turned arch. “Unlike many men, your uncle found pleasure in my thirst for knowledge, even if it was political philosophy instead of orchids.” Her expression became challenging. “After we married, Thomas urged me to submit one of my papers to the Philosophical Society.”
Hugh’s brain was whirring like a stripped gear. Books?
She frowned at his silence, her blond brows lowering. “You find that offensive? A woman studying philosophy?”
Hugh shook his head. “It makes no odds to me if a woman studies shipbuilding or millinery,” he assured her. “It is your, er, shared passion for books I find fascinating.”
Her pupils narrowed, making her eyes appear even bluer. For a moment he thought she might throw something at him. He had not meant to offend her, but did people really marry one another—more to the point—did girls of seventeen marry men of seventy because of a mutual love of books? Rather than make matters more clear, her explanation made the union seem even more perplexing; so perplexing that Hugh refused to believe it.
He stared at her and she glared back, a red stain creeping up her neck. Hugh wasn’t sure that was a sign of guilt or anything nefarious; the woman had the most delicately blushing skin he’d ever seen and colored at the drop of a hat.
Hugh changed the subject. “You had no desire for a larger family?” He knew his question was offensive by society’s standards and wouldn’t have been surprised if she put him in his place. Instead, she answered.
“More children would have been welcome, but Thomas was satisfied with two sons—” She stopped, her smooth brow furrowing. “Not that they supplanted you in his memory, of course.”
Hugh had to laugh. “Pray do not think to spare my feelings, my lady. I know better than anyone what my uncle’s opinion of me was and how much I did to earn it. The earl took me in—an orphan of three when my parents died—and raised me as his son after his own wife and son died in childbirth. Instead of showing any gratitude, I was wild and ungovernable. I did nothing to repay his kindness.” Which is why I am here now, trying to protect his widow without bedding her, he could have added, but kept to himself.
She regarded him steadily through her distorting lenses, her thoughtful examination making him rather edgy, a feeling he had very little experience with.
Hugh shrugged away the unwonted sensation. “I have always believed my death must have been liberating for him.”
She did not hasten to reassure him otherwise and he liked her all the better for it.
“I cannot speak to that, but I do know your death changed him and caused him to open his doors—and his heart—to a young girl who had few connections, nobody to aid her in finding a husband, and very little interest in seeking one if she had.” She gave him a direct look. “I will speak frankly, my lord. The life my mother and I had at Whitton Park was most unpleasant. My stepfather, Sir Walter, had long ago dissipated the fortune my mother brought to the marriage. Sir Walter also made it no secret that he despised both my mother a
nd her heritage.” Her full lips twisted into a bitter smile. “He would never let her forget he had only stooped to marry a coal heiress because he needed money.” She shrugged. “It only became worse after his death. Because my stepfather had no son—yet another crime for which he blamed my mother—his nephew Malcolm inherited and became our sole source of support. My mother had nothing and I would not come into my small inheritance until I was twenty-one.” A log in the huge fireplace popped and sparked and Daphne started, swallowing hard before continuing.
“Living under Malcolm’s dominion was uncomfortable enough while my mother still lived, but when she died . . .” She stared at him, her blue eyes bleak. “Well, it was not a pleasant development and, at the age of seventeen, four years seemed like an eternity to wait for an inheritance.”
So, his uncle had rescued a damsel in distress. Hugh knew her predicament must be all too common: a young woman of gentle birth forced into marriage. But had there really been nobody else but her seventy-year-old neighbor? Hugh refused to believe it. Thomas Redvers had been a wealthy, powerful man and his sister, Lady Letitia Thornehill, was one of the ton’s most influential leaders, a woman whose hobby was arranging marriages. Surely the earl and his sister could have found Daphne a more suitable spouse?
“You recall your cousin John?”
The question pulled Hugh from his musing and he grimaced and nodded.
“John gambled away his own father’s estate and lands in less than five years. You must be aware of how many people depended on the Earl of Davenport, my lord. Thomas could not risk their fate to a man like John. He needed an heir.” Not surprisingly, her cheeks were now a dark crimson, but her gaze was steady and unashamed.
Hugh couldn’t help feeling there was more to this story than she was telling, but he couldn’t say why. Instead of pressing her on her marriage, he pursued a different, but equally interesting, subject.
“If I may ask, what is your relationship with your cousin Malcolm? It seemed from the scene I interrupted that there is very little love between you?”
Or, maybe too much love?
The thought shot through his mind like a stray ball from a musket. Was it possible the incident he’d observed had been the result of fury born of love rather than hate?
But the flash of revulsion that spasmed across her face at Malcolm Hastings’s name convinced Hugh otherwise. Her full lips tightened until they were a thin pink line.
“Malcolm and I are not on polite terms.”
Hugh smiled at the understatement.
“My cousin is laboring under the misapprehension that I need male guidance now that I am widowed.” She cleared her throat and fiddled with the spoon beside her plate. “His guidance, to be precise.”
Again, Hugh felt she was holding something back. “And he did not want to take no for your answer?”
“He did not.” She studied her half-filled glass of wine for a moment before looking up. “Likely my reaction was too violent by half.”
Hugh believed she was very proud of her reaction, and probably had every right to be.
“Perhaps I should tell him no in a way he might accept?” Hugh offered.
The same expression of near terror flickered across her face and her hand fluttered like a frantic bird before she lowered it to her lap. “No, please, that won’t be necessary. I daresay he understands me now. I beg you will not bestir yourself on the matter.”
Hugh was on the point of asking whether this was the first time Hastings had bothered her when Aunt Amelia and her dogs burst into the room, accompanied by the butler and three footmen. After many years’ service, Gates was familiar with Lady Amelia’s habits and quickly surrounded her with dishes of food, dispatching footmen for anything else she required.
Amelia had been a fixture at the Hall since Hugh was a boy. He could not recall a time when she’d not been surrounded by her pack of exuberant, deafening dogs.
“Good evening Hugh, Daphne,” Amelia said in her ringing voice, a necessity if she was to be heard over the commotion. She commenced to spoon soup into her mouth, either not realizing or caring she was the only one eating.
“I am pleased to see you have returned, Hugh. How long will you be staying with us this time?” She took a piece of food from one of the many plates before her and threw it to the barking animals, a feeble attempt to quiet them, which failed spectacularly. In addition to mad barking, the room was now filled with the sounds of snarling, and scrabbling toenails, as the animals competed for the scrap.
“I’m flattered you noted my absence, Aunt,” Hugh bellowed.
Irony was wasted on his Aunt Amelia. “Klemp tells me you’ve brought two unusual dogs with you.” Klemp was Lady Amelia’s aged maid, a woman as shrewd as her mistress was vague.
“I have brought two shar-pei, a breed particularly prized for their intelligence and loyalty.”
Lady Amelia sniffed. “I do hope they will not vex my pugs. It is only lately that Riot has learned to respect their delicate nerves.” She put her unfinished soup on the floor next to her chair and the din was deafening.
“Riot?” Hugh shouted.
His aunt ignored him.
“Riot was your uncle’s wedding gift to me,” Daphne explained, clearly skilled at pitching her voice to be heard above barking pugs without having to yell. “He is quite old now but still has the disconcerting habit of giving cry at any moment, a characteristic which made him unpopular on the hunt.”
Hugh could not have heard her correctly. “I’m sorry. Did you say my uncle gave you a dog?”
Daphne cut him a cool look—that superior, aloof stare that sent blood rushing south. What would she say if she knew how much that look aroused and enticed, rather than repressed, him? Could she be teasing him on purpose? Hugh doubted it; she did not strike him as a woman who was interested in flirtation.
“I agree that Riot is a most dreadful hound,” Amelia said, although Daphne had said nothing of the sort. She continued in her stentorian voice, “His distracting howling upsets the pugs. They are very sensitive, you know.” Hugh looked down at her sensitive pets, which had run out of food and were now querulously barking and nipping at one another.
Heedless of the racket occurring beneath her, Lady Amelia continued. “I cannot think what was in Thomas’s head to give you such an unsuitable beast. If he’d only asked me, I should have advised him to acquire a pug for you.”
A look of unholy amusement flashed across Daphne’s face but disappeared in half an instant.
Hugh stared, transfixed.
She noticed his rude ogling and raised her eyebrows. “Yes?”
“I don’t wish to belabor the matter, but back to the dog. My uncle thought you would appreciate a baying hound as a lapdog?”
“I teased him about Riot shortly before we were wed and he nursed a grudge on that score.”
Hugh’s eyes bulged. “You teased my uncle?”
She frowned but didn’t answer.
Hugh was too stunned to pursue the topic. This playful version of the grim, humorless Earl of Davenport bore no resemblance to the cold, emotionless man whose only interests had been mourning his dead wife, breeding his bloody orchids, and trying to bend his nephew to his will.
Daphne turned to discuss some matter with Lady Amelia, and Hugh studied her while he tried to absorb what she had said. So, his uncle had finally left behind his mourning to rescue the young girl, had he? Well, she possessed attractions enough to lure any man, even one as dour as his uncle. In fact, she was downright bewitching. One moment she appeared sophisticated and comfortable with the running of a formidable household like Lessing Hall, the next she was blushing at some innocuous comment he’d made.
She is your uncle’s widow, his suddenly ubiquitous conscience chided.
Oh, shut the hell up! Hugh refilled his own wineglass and gave himself up to brooding.
* * *
The remainder of the meal passed noisily, and only the most basic conversation was possible with
the din of Lady Amelia’s dogs waxing and waning depending on how much food she distributed.
“Shall we retire and leave you to your port?” Daphne asked when his aunt finished feeding her meal to the pugs and the dishes had been removed.
“I have no desire to converse with myself over a glass of port in this vast cavern of a room.” With only his annoying thoughts for company. “I noticed a rather nice piano in the music room. Do you play?”
“Yes, I do play.”
“Will you play for me, my lady?” Hugh knew he should stop provoking her blushes but he couldn’t resist.
“If you wish.”
He grinned at her quelling tone. “Excellent, it has been too long since I have enjoyed any music. Will you join us?” he asked his aunt.
Lady Amelia lowered her lobster fork, which she’d been using to clear an obstruction from between her teeth. “The pugs find loud noises excessively disturbing. I do hope you will close the music room door. I will bid you good evening.” Without another word, she stood and sailed from the room, barking dogs in tow.
“Thank God for that,” Hugh muttered after the door had shut behind her. He extended his arm to Daphne. “Is she your only company here at the Hall?” he asked as they walked to the music room, which was in the shortest wing of the E-shaped building.
“I would not call her company,” Daphne began, and then stopped. “That did not come out the way I intended.”
Hugh laughed. “I thought you showed remarkable restraint. What the devil was my uncle about, leaving you here with nobody for company but Aunt Amelia and her ill-behaved pugs? Do you not have any family or friends who could offer you some companionship in this great pile?” He opened the door to the music room and followed her inside.
She did not answer his question immediately. Hugh hadn’t known her long, but he could already see she did not speak rashly or foolishly—yet another thing about her that was attractive. So, too, the sweet rounded curve of her jaw, which he had been staring at over dinner and had an overwhelming desire to kiss. Or lick. Or bite. Or—
Hugh sighed. He was not looking forward to curbing his rampaging lust—nor did he suspect he would be any good at it. His impulsive behavior had been one of the many characteristics that had irritated and disappointed his uncle. Hugh had to admit it often got him into trouble, but it had also saved his life on more than one occasion.
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