“I give you leave to use my Christian name also.”
“After we are married will be soon enough for that,” he said, catching both her wandering hands in his and holding them still against his chest.
“I do not wish to wait,” she said, and the bold look in her eyes dared him to admit that what they were talking about had nothing whatever to do with given names.
For a moment he was tempted to forgo the role of gentleman and take what she was so freely offering, but then her gaze faltered, and he knew she was only bluffing—that she had no real idea what stakes she was playing for.
“It is time for you to go to bed, Bethia,” he said, turning down the invitation in her eyes even while he gave in to her request that he use her Christian name. “We must make an early start in the morning.”
It was as gentle a rebuff as he could manage, but the flash of pain in her eyes told him he had not been gentle enough. All he could do was curse the black-hearted villain who had torn her out of her safe world and thrust her into the world of assassins ... and base-born smugglers.
As tired as she was, Bethia found she could not fall asleep. Every voice she heard rumbling below sounded like Jacky-boy, every thump and thud sounded like a fist striking bone, and despite the fire in the fireplace, the darkness seemed to ooze through the room like fog, making it difficult for her to breathe.
When she shut her eyes, it was even worse, for the events that filled her mind were more real than what she could see with her eyes open. All she could think about were men’s hands forcing her head back, pouring wine down her throat—wine that choked her and gagged her. She could not forget the futility of her desperate efforts to persuade the two men not to kill her, nor the overwhelming realization that she was totally helpless. And then the feel of the water closing over her head, and her desperate need to breathe.
And always and again the memory of the villains’ bodies sprawled on the beach as motionless as dummies stuffed with straw, their life’s blood staining the sand red before the waves washed it clean again.
As if that were not bad enough, the bed she was lying on was scarcely more satisfactory than were her thoughts, and no matter how she tossed and turned, she could not find a comfortable position.
It was totally incomprehensible to her that despite the fact a chair must by its very nature make a most disagreeable bed, her companion was sleeping soundly by the fire.
Or was he sleeping? Perhaps he, too, was finding it difficult to forget the events of the last three days.
“Digory,” she whispered softly, and before she could say more, he was on his feet. In the faint light provided by the fire, she could see the glint of steel in his hand.
It was not at all the response she had expected.
“What’s wrong?” His low voice was harsh and demanding, and she felt like a total fool.
“I cannot sleep.”
“You woke me up to tell me that?” he asked, and the knife disappeared from his hand.
“I did not mean to wake you,” she said apologetically. “I only meant to determine if you were sleeping or not.”
“Well, I am awake now, so what do you want?”
“I told you, I cannot sleep.”
With a yawn that was halfway to being a moan, he dragged his chair across the room and settled himself near her bed. “So what do you want me to do?” he asked with a second mighty yawn.
“Perhaps you could fetch me a glass of warm milk?”
“I doubt the menu in the Spotted Boar runs to such tame fare,” he replied with a smile in his voice. “And since we already know you have no head for brandy, I shall not venture below to inquire further.”
Nor did she want him to leave her, not even for a few minutes. Reaching out, she touched his arm and felt immensely comforted. “It is the nightmares,” she confessed. “Every time I close my eyes, it all comes back to me.”
The darkness made it much easier for her to confess her fears, which seemed childishly silly by daylight. “When those men had me in that rowboat, I was so sure that I was going to die—that I had but a few minutes left to live. And doubtless for that very reason life seems more precious to me now than ever before.”
“I know.” Digory reached over and took her hand in both of his.
“How can you know?” she said, shivering despite the warm quilts tucked around her. “How can anyone know who has not been in my position—who has not looked his own death in the face?”
There was a pause, and then he said, “I have also seen his face. Three times in my life I have known that my own death was inevitable and mere seconds away. Yet here I am, still among the living.”
“Will you tell me about ... about...” She found she could not utter the words. That he might have died before he met her was too horrible to contemplate.
“I have never talked of such things with anyone before,” he said, “but yes, some day I will relate to you all my daring exploits.”
“Why not tonight?”
“Because my adventures are not the stuff of which bedtime stories are made,” he replied.
“Did you have nightmares afterward? After you were quite safe?”
“They grew less frequent with time.”
“How much time?” she asked, her voice rising. “How many sleepless nights must pass before I can forget? Is there nothing that will help?”
“Whenever I am unable to sleep, I find it effective to think back to the days of my childhood and to recall as many pleasant memories as I can.” Her companion’s voice was quiet and calm, and his words had a soothing effect on her nerves.
Taking deep breaths, Bethia tried to focus her thoughts on another time, to remember the happy years she had spent growing up in her grandfather’s house, but it was as if her past had been erased. “My childhood is not real to me now. The events of the last few days keep crowding all other memories out of my head.”
Digory could not only hear the despair and incipient hysteria in Bethia’s voice, but he could also feel her hand trembling with remembered fear.
“Then I will share my memories with you,” he said calmly, beginning to rub his thumbs on the back of her hand. “The first thing I remember—and I have no idea how old I was—I was sitting in our apple tree, throwing green apples at another little boy, whose identity is likewise lost in the mists of time.”
“Undoubtedly not an incident he recalls with any degree of fondness,” she said, and he could feel the tension begin to leave her hand.
“My best memories are connected with sailing,” Digory said, and he felt her hand twitch spasmodically in his. He knew full well that he was venturing into a dangerous area. Whatever her feelings had been previously, over the last few days Miss Pepperell had developed a strong aversion to the sea. But perhaps if she borrowed some of his happy memories of sailing, her own terrifying memories would fade all the more quickly?
“I can still recall the first time Jem’s father took us out fishing with him. I am sure we were more hindrance than help pulling the nets in, but we felt such pride, such delight, when the catch spilled like quicksilver into the bottom of the boat.”
He continued to talk quietly about people and events he had not thought of in a quarter of a century, and whether it was the sound of his voice or the feel of his hand holding hers that finally put her to sleep, he could not say.
Nor did it matter, not even when he awoke stiff and sore after a third night spent sleeping in a chair.
“You look absolutely miserable,” she whispered, but she herself looked more bright-eyed and cheerful than he’d yet seen her. “At least after we are married, you will be able to sleep in bed with me.”
He did not bother to correct her.
They made better progress the second day of their journey since Digory deemed it unnecessary to continue using the back roads, and when they stopped at dusk—this time at a more respectable inn—he offered no excuse for sharing her room. But Bethia did not question his right to do so, for f
ear he might change his mind and decide it would be better to hire two rooms.
He left her alone while she changed into her nightgown, and when he came back, she was sitting up in bed, the covers pulled around her.
“We could have easily made it to London yet tonight,” he said, shutting and bolting the door behind him.
Staring at him across the few feet of room that separated them, Bethia felt her heart begin to speed up. Why had they stopped here then? Could it be that he wanted to take what she had offered earlier? After three nights spent sleeping in a chair, did he mean to share her bed tonight?
She could not say him nay, no more than she could prevent the color from rising to her face at the thought of his arms around her—of his mouth pressed against hers—of his heat burning through her.
“But we need to arrive in London at a time when it is least likely that anyone who knows you will be out and about, which means in the morning hours when the ton is still abed. I have given instructions to Big Davey to harness the horses before daybreak.” Without meeting her eyes, Digory walked across the room and stared out the window.
Disappointment pierced Bethia’s heart like a cold piece of steel, and at first she could not trust her voice enough to speak. Finally, she said, “Will you come sit by me again?”
“And tell you tales to keep the nightmares away?”
No, she wanted to say, it has nothing to do with nightmares. After two days of sitting next to you in the coach—of being alone with you in our own private world—I cannot bear for there to be any distance between us. I need ... I want...
But she could not put into words the aching need she now felt, and yet her torment was so great, she could not keep from climbing out of bed and walking over to him and laying her hand on his back.
Instead of taking her in his arms, however, Digory turned away and walked the few feet to the chair already positioned by the fire. Settling down in it and stretching out his legs, he stared at the flames licking at the logs. “Once when I was about ten, Jem and I decided we were big enough to take the boat out alone.”
His low voice rumbled on, but Bethia heard not a word he said. She did not want to hear his stories; she wanted to feel safe and secure, and for that she needed to be as close to him as possible.
And he wanted to be with her also. Despite his deliberate rejection of her, she knew it had cost him dearly to walk away from her. She marveled at his will power, even while wondering just how much control he actually had.
What would he do if she sat down on his lap? Would he wrap his arms around her and hold her tight? Or would he unceremoniously dump her on the floor? It would be worth the risk of a few bruises to find out.
But no matter how much she wanted to discover how he would react, she found she could not be so brazen. On the other hand, there were two chairs by the fire...
Before she could have second thoughts, she walked over to the empty chair and sat down mere inches away from him. Emulating his posture, she slid down in her seat and stretched out her legs so that her bare toes—her already almost frozen bare toes—could be warmed by the fire.
Fearful of another rejection, she did not look at him when she held out her hand in invitation. He did not take it at once, but at least he paused in his recital of childhood mischief. She could almost hear him mentally weighing the risks involved in touching her, but finally, to her great relief, he took her hand in his and began again to speak.
It was not as much as she wanted, but it was better than nothing—far, far better. The warmth now flowing through her veins came from his touch rather than from the fire in front of her. Staring into the flames, she relaxed, relinquishing her thoughts and giving herself over to her dreams.
By the time the coach carrying Mr. Harcourt rumbled through the poorly lit London streets, he had not only realized it was vital not to let anyone know he had been out of London for the past several days, but he had also come up with a simple way to guarantee that if questions were asked, various of his minor acquaintances—not his best friends, of course—would provide him an alibi.
To begin with, he would not hire a hackney to convey him from the coaching inn to his rooms. No, he would simply melt away into the crowd. That way no one would have any reason to link him to the vicar who had just returned from Cornwall.
The second thing he needed to do was create confusion in people’s minds as to which of the Harcourt brothers had spent the last week in London and which had not.
To accomplish that, he would ask a chance-met acquaintance if he had seen his brother. If the man replied that he had seen the older of the two, then he himself would pretend that he had spent the last several days looking for the younger.
If, on the other hand, the acquaintance said he had seen the younger of them, then he himself would pretend that he had been searching London for days, trying to run to ground the older of the two.
Before the night was over, enough confusion would thus be created, and in addition the idea would be firmly fixed in assorted minds that he himself had been in London the entire time.
It was bound to work, especially if he sought out men whose minds were already befuddled by strong drink.
It was still dark when Bethia woke from a deep, dreamless sleep, and she was surprised to discover herself tucked snugly into bed. Bethia knew at once that the shadow crossing soundlessly in front of the window was Digory. Already he was so much a part of her that she thought she would have known he was near even if she were blindfolded.
A few minutes later the light from the single candle chased the darkness back into the corners of the room.
“I am awake,” she whispered. “Is it time to get up?”
“Yes,” he replied, coming to stand by the bed.
His face was so familiar and so dear to her. Reaching out, she ran her fingers gently over his features, skimming over his forehead, stroking down his cheek now rough with whiskers, lingering on his lips, which were softer than she had expected.
He shut his eyes momentarily, as if in pain, then he stepped back just enough to be out of reach of her hand. “I will go make sure Big Davey and Little Davey are awake. Please be dressed and ready to go by the time I get back.” His voice was again harsh and colder than the air in the room, and in a moment he was gone.
He had left the candle behind so Bethia did not have to dress in the dark. And he also had given her the knowledge that he was not immune to her touch. Once they were wed...
Oh, please, dear God, let my aunt be agreeable to this marriage, and let the wedding be soon, ran like a litany through her head all the time she was packing her things for the last leg of their journey.
Bethia peered out the window of the coach and wondered if London seemed different only because it was early morning and the streets were filled with heavily loaded carts and peddlers hawking their wares and servants hurrying along on errands.
Did the familiar streets and squares seem so strange only because the members of haut ton were not to be seen strolling and riding and driving about? Or was it because she herself was not the same person she had been when she had been abducted less than a sennight ago?
Had London changed? Or had she changed?
She rather suspected the latter.
The coach stopped in front of a strange house, and Digory said, “Make sure your hood is pulled down far enough that no one can see your face.” Then he adjusted her cloak himself, as if not trusting her to do a proper job of it.
“Where are we?” she asked, stepping down to the pavement.
“At Lady Letitia’s house,” Digory replied, grasping her elbow and hurrying her across the sidewalk and up the steps to the door.
Although Bethia was not personally acquainted with Lady Letitia, she knew the elderly lady was the most infamous matchmaker in London, and her exalted status impressed even Bethia’s aunt, who counted herself fortunate to be on a nodding acquaintance with Lady Letitia.
Which did nothing to explain what they were d
oing on Lady Letitia’s doorstep at such an uncivil time of day.
Digory’s forceful knock quickly brought a servant to open the door, and despite orders to keep her face well hidden, Bethia raised the edge of her hood just enough that she could see who it was—the butler himself, apparently, to judge by his age and his clothing, and a very stiff-rumped one at that.
To her surprise he ushered them in without demanding to know their names or their business, and as soon as the door was shut behind them, he even unbent enough to smile. “Lady Letitia has not yet come down, and since you did not let us know you were coming, I am afraid your room is not ready. I shall give orders to have a fire lit there immediately, but you will have to wait in the breakfast room for a bit.”
“Do not scold me, Owens,” Digory said. “I would have sent word I was coming if there had been time.”
Without waiting for the servant to show them the way, Digory grasped her elbow again and headed for the back of the house, going straight to a pretty, sunlit room that obviously served as the breakfast room.
“I believe you have been lying to me,” Bethia said, throwing back her hood.
“How so?” he asked, untying her cloak and lifting it off her shoulders.
Too angry at his deception to look at him, she stalked over to the French doors and stared out into a tiny, well-tended garden. “You have claimed that you do not belong in my world, and yet you run tame in Lady Letitia’s household.” Turning to glare at him, she continued, “My aunt’s fondest dream is to be taken up by Lady Letitia for a turn around the park in her carriage, and you appear to have your own room in her house. Indeed, it makes me wonder if anything you have been telling me is the truth.”
Digory chuckled, which made Bethia want to hit him. Then he crossed to stand in front of her, and his smile made her want to kiss him. Really, the man was totally impossible.
The Counterfeit Gentleman Page 9