Compromised Miss

by O'Brien, Anne

Luke found his voice. The only thought in his head. ‘I thought you were dead!’

  ‘No. As you see.’

  Harriette was seated by the fire in a loose robe of fine lace. Meggie hovered at her side with pinched lips. On a little table stood a bowl of bloodied water. A roll of linen. Meggie held a pair of scissors.

  ‘I know you were struck by the bullet.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Her face was as pale as the wax of the candle at her elbow. The shadows beneath her eyes were too heavy, deep as bruises. Her lips were tightly pressed, too pale, and her eyes were laced with pain.

  ‘She should rest, my lord.’ Meggie frowned at him.

  ‘Not before I know she is safe.’ An outrageous relief left him almost light-headed, and with it an unexpected brush of anger. She might have been dead and he not know. Why could she not have told him that she was hurt and in pain? The thought that she had suffered—was still suffering—without his knowledge simply fuelled the fire.

  ‘I think you should go to bed, my lady.’ Meggie turned her frown on Harriette.

  ‘And I will ensure that she does. But not before I have spoken to her.’

  ‘Please go, Meggie,’ Harriette urged. ‘I’ll come to no further harm.’

  Passing him on the way to the door, bearing the bowl and linen, Meggie cast a disapproving glare in his direction. ‘She’s lost too much blood. Don’t hurt her or worry her, my lord,’ Meggie admonished.

  ‘I’ve no intention of doing either!’ But he closed the door quietly. Then strode across the room to sink to one knee at Harriette’s feet, taking possession of her hands, holding on when she struggled to free herself.

  ‘Humour me.’ He folded her hands tightly within his own. ‘Let me look at you. Let me be sure that you are safe.’

  ‘There’s no need, Luke.’ Harriette flushed to her hairline. ‘Meggie exaggerates.’

  ‘But you are hurt.’ He did not release her. Could not.

  ‘A bullet grazed along my ribs—that’s all. Meggie has bandaged it.’

  ‘You lost a lot of blood. You didn’t tell me! Why didn’t you tell me you were hit?’

  ‘What good would that have done?’ Now her fingers clung to his in a need to make him understand. ‘The Preventives were almost at the beach. We were only just in time. We had to get you, the crew and the contraband away.’

  ‘And so you did.’ Luke bent his head, his forehead against their joined hands, and breathed deep, accepting the truth of it. She had seen the need and acted on it. He still did not know how she had created her own escape, and that of the widow, without raising suspicion. ‘Should I tell you how much I admire you?’ He lifted his eyes to hers, slid his hands up her forearms and bent his head to press his lips to the translucent skin of her wrists, startled when she hissed in a breath. Pushing up the loose sleeves of her robe, his fingers stilled. Her inner arms were rough and grazed, both of them, the soft skin broken in places.

  ‘What…?’

  ‘The shingle,’ she explained with the ghost of a laugh, that could have been a tearful catch in her voice. ‘When we fell—I must have slid on it. It’s sharp and unforgiving with the broken shells. It’s nothing and will heal quickly enough.’

  ‘Harriette!’

  His eyes were captured by hers, to be held by them and he felt himself drown in their clear depths. There was pain there. All good sense told him to treat her gently. Sense warned him to keep her at a distance. But what power did good sense have in the face of this woman whose courage was beyond question? This woman whom he loved to the very depth of his soul and would until the final breath in his body. How could he have considered making so foolish a pact with her that would allow her to walk away from him? Driven by an absolute need to hold her, soothe her, reassure her and himself of the life-giving force that surged through his blood, Luke rose to his feet, lifting her to stand with him.

  Holding her, hands lightly on her shoulders, his mouth took hers. Gently, softly, conscious of her fragility, until he forgot everything but his desire for her as her lips opened beneath his demand. Unconsciously, his embrace wrapped her closer, his mouth moved with fierce urgency in unrestrained kisses. Until she murmured, flinched.

  ‘Forgive me, forgive me…’

  He relaxed, but did not release her. Could not as her vulnerability flowed through his veins, as her lips again parted beneath his to allow his tongue to caress and soothe the wet, satin-soft skin. His blood was hot, his erection hardened in painful demand. They were both alive and here was a need to celebrate that one simple fact.

  With a superb exercise of will Luke released her, stepped back from her.

  ‘You are too sweet and desirable. And you are so tired.’ Her eyes were heavy lidded, the lashes falling to shadow her cheeks where the prints of exhaustion were even more evident, her face even whiter. ‘You need to sleep.’

  ‘I should tell you…about the bullets.’

  ‘Tomorrow…’ But dawn had already fully come. ‘Later today—that will be soon enough.’ Then added, ‘Let your mind be at peace, Harriette. I know about the bullets.’

  ‘Yes. I thought you might…’ She did not argue, was too weary to do so, as she swayed on her feet. With extravagant care he lifted her in his arms, carried her to her bed and placed her there. Folded the covers over her, arranging the pillows to her comfort. She was almost asleep before he was finished.

  ‘We did it, Luke,’ she murmured. ‘We rescued her…’

  ‘You rescued her,’ he amended. ‘Tell me all about Captain Rodmell when you wake.’

  ‘Will you be here?’

  ‘Yes. I will be here. I’ll not leave you.’

  Her breast beneath the delicate lace rose and fell regularly, her eyes were closed.

  Luke simply stood and looked at her, taking in every detail of her. She was alive and he must give thanks for that. His love for her, still so new when she had fled from him, had bloomed into full maturity, astounding him by its power. The seconds, the minutes, passed and still all he wanted to do was stand there and absorb the very essence of her as she slept. It was too late. Ridiculously too late. He had fallen in love with her, totally, irrevocably, yet had offered her her freedom in the same breath. As a man of honour he must keep his promise.

  In despair, Luke forced himself into action, to draw the fall of the curtain to shield the bed from the intrusive sun. To pull forwards a chair—and damned uncomfortable it was—to sit beside her. He should leave her to sleep undisturbed, but he could not. Covering her hand where it lay on the coverlet with his own, he turned it over, smoothing his fingers over hers. Another contradiction here. He smiled briefly. Slender femininity coupled with the roughness from using rope and tiller, the sheer physical work of sailing a cutter. So practical, so pretty. Like the rest of her. He tucked a curl back from her face, letting his hand rest on the silkiness of it. Leaning to kiss her brow, her lips. He would stay with her for a little time. She did not need him, but he would remain on guard. Nothing must be allowed to disturb or harm his wife.

  The horror of what had nearly happened struck him anew. She had nearly died, running the contraband for him, just so that he might rescue a woman who meant nothing to him, who might yet be a heartless impostor. Could he have borne it if Harriette had died? What would life be like without her? Unbearable. Unimaginable. Impossible.

  Exhaustion got the better of him. Luke slept also, his head and arms resting on the bed beside her as she had once slept to keep watch over him. Until Meggie returned to wake him with a hand to his shoulder.

  ‘What is it?’ His eyes were instantly on Harriette. ‘Is she…?’

  ‘She’s asleep. You should go and get some sleep, too, my lord.’

  ‘You speak as if I have no right to be here,’ he replied harshly. ‘She is my wife.’

  ‘Yes, she is. But she ran away from you. I don’t know why—and I’m sure you’ll tell me it’s none of my business—but she would not do such a thing without reason.’

  He st
retched, touched Harriette’s fingers fleetingly. ‘She had every reason.’

  For a long moment Luke lingered by the bed where Harriette was deeply asleep. Her life was in no danger and he thanked God for it. He had promised he would stay with her, but what use? She did not need him now and Meggie did not want him here.

  ‘You should go and bathe, change your clothes. Rest, my lord.’ Meggie’s voice had softened a little. ‘I’ll take care of her for you.’

  ‘I know you will. She has no need of me. I love her, you know.’

  ‘Do you? Does she know?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  ‘She did this for you. And was hurt. Will you break her heart, as well?’ All in the fiercest of whispers.

  Without reply, Luke left Harriette in Meggie’s care, feeling as if his heart had been ripped from his body.

  Then with one objective in mind, he sought out Wiggins to resurrect the elderly butler’s memory over a bottle of brandy. To discuss with him the events of a distant night when the Lion d’or, a French vessel out of Dieppe, foundered on the rocks of the bay.

  It was in the full light of morning that Harriette woke. The sun had moved round and she was dazzled by it, unable to collect her thoughts as she struggled to the surface. She recalled falling into sleep as if into a black sea on a stormy night. As she moved, stretched, her ribs drew a groan from her lips and she recalled all the events of the night. Luke had promised he would stay with her, but he had not. She was alone in the room. Well, perhaps it was all for the best. A successful enterprise was one thing, a future together quite another. She touched her fingers to her lips, the memory of his mouth against hers. That had been no dream. But he had left her.

  Harriette struggled to sit up, all hope quenched as neatly and completely as a candle with a snuffer, but her determination was strong.

  There was a new day to be faced. To solve the riddle of Marie-Claude. To end her association with Luke Hallaston. She would dress her hair, put on a fashionable London gown, and then proceed to draw a line beneath this part of her life.

  From his conversation with Wiggins, with no opportunity to put his appearance to rights, Luke’s attention was demanded by the immediate problem waiting for him in the library.

  ‘I know I have no proof. Perhaps you think I am an adventurer, a French whore, grasping at any chance of a future for my bastard child and myself.’

  The lady standing in the centre of the library flung out her hand dramatically to indicate the sleeping child, wrapped in a blanket in Meggie’s arms. Here was plain speaking. Luke had not expected that, all his own doubts put brutally and unequivocally into words by this pretty Frenchwoman. Small, neat, fair-haired, blue-eyed, her air of fragility was offset by a determination to argue her case in English far better than he had expected. Gone were the tears of the previous night when under strain. Gone was the frenzied panic when he had snatched her from the authority of Jean-Jacques Noir, unless that had been all a charade, too…

  ‘You think I am in league with Monsieur Noir,’ she continued, uneasily echoing his thoughts. ‘I am not! He is a monster! Marcus said we should go home, to England, when he had leave. That I would be welcomed by his family. That was his plan, before he…before he was killed. But now he is not here and I am not welcome at all! It is clear you do not want me here.’

  ‘But Marcus married you? In the middle of a bloody war?’ Adam, leaning against the edge of the dek, arms folded, voiced the scepticism in Luke’s mind.

  ‘We met, we fell in love.’ She raised her chin, her blue eyes challenging Luke’s. ‘Marcus would not leave me unprotected when my family was assassinated in a guerrilla attack on our lodgings.’ She spat the word. ‘He insisted on wedding me. A drumhead wedding, before a priest.’

  Once Luke would have cast that aside—would Marcus do something so ridiculously impractical, so ill judged? Now he was not so sure. Love could hit hard and drive men to any sort of intemperate action. The door behind him opened quietly and he knew immediately that it was Harriette. Her hair fell in soft ringlets. A simple gown of cream-and-lemon striped muslin, lace trimmed, gave her an air of quiet fashion. But Luke thought she looked as if a breath of wind would destroy her.

  ‘Harriette.’ He discovered he was frowning at her. ‘You should be resting…’

  ‘I have rested.’

  Her gaze was as cool as her gown, her tone brooking no argument, as if she had not clung to him, accepting and returning his kisses. Harriette walked over to touch the widow’s hand.

  ‘Marie-Claude. Have my people looked after you?’

  ‘Yes. I can have no complaints on that score. But my integrity is cast into doubt!’

  ‘Forgive me, madame…’ Shelving his own problems, Luke concentrated on the immediate and sought for some path to follow. ‘Do you have nothing of your…your alliance with my brother?’

  ‘Nothing beyond my word of honour. And this. Marcus gave me this when we were wed. But I could have stolen it, couldn’t I? Perhaps even from his dead body?’ Lifting the chain from around her neck, shimmering with outrage, she displayed a ring from the bosom of her gown.

  ‘Have you no documents?’ Adam asked.

  ‘No, Monsieur Adam. I have not. That man took my marriage documents, and now my dear Marcus is dead.’ Marie-Claude’s eyes were suddenly damp. ‘I have no proof at all.’ But she did not weep.

  Impressed by her courage, Luke drew the document Noir had sent him from his inner pocket, held it out. ‘Madame—is this the document stolen from you?’

  With a gasp, Marie-Claude pounced to snatch the sheet. Opened it, tracing her fingers over the words written there. ‘Yes. Oh, yes.’ Now tears tracked down her cheeks as she pressed it to her heart.

  Moved beyond belief Luke touched her arm in compassion. ‘Madame—would you tell me how you came to fall into Noir’s hands?’ he asked gently.

  ‘Bien sûr.’ The lady tilted her chin and dashed away the tears. ‘When Marcus died I decided to come to England as he had wanted. I accepted help from the wife of an English officer who was returning home. So much mud—our horses foundering, our carriage broken and useless. I gave birth to my son—Marcus’s son—in a hut with a mud floor.’ Her fingers clenched white-knuckled at the memory. ‘We sailed from Lisbon, but storms forced us to put into Bordeaux. There I made a mistake. I should have waited, but I was impatient. Our ship was damaged and I had no resources of my own. I had no patience to wait longer…’ Her teeth dug into her lower lip as she remembered. ‘It was there I met that villain Noir. My own countryman who was generous enough to take pity on me.’ She laughed, the harsh sound at odds with her slight prettiness.

  ‘And he offered to see you safe in England.’ Luke saw the inevitability in the lady’s careful account that described none of her obvious suffering.

  ‘Yes. Kind he seemed, compassionate. He asked if he could help me because I reminded him of his daughter who had just died. Mon Dieu! I was stupid enough to tell him of my plight. He took me under his protection and promised to bring me to one of the Channel ports and see me safe to London. I trusted him. He treated me well, saw to my comfort when we travelled, with a private room for me at the inns. It was only when we reached the coast that I realised. Noir had no intention of letting me go. He would use me as a weapon to make his own fortune. He did not hide his plans from me. He boasted of them! And I could not escape. I had no money—my baby to protect. And he watched me. Every hour of every day. He set a serving woman to keep account of my every move, to sleep in my room.’

  Marie-Claude took a deep breath, fixing her accusing stare on Luke. ‘And now I am here and it seems to me my plight is no better. You do not even believe that I was Marcus’s wife!’ She wiped at stray tears. ‘Perhaps I understand your reluctance. But I have been through so much and I don’t know what to do or where to go if you will not help me.’

  ‘Forgive my apparent harshness, madame. Whatever happens, I will not leave you destitute.’

  ‘But you d
on’t believe me.’

  Perhaps he did. She was just the sort of girl that Marcus would have fallen in love with. Pretty as a picture, but with a decided sparkle in her eye, at this moment directed at him with patent hostility. Yet what proof was there that, as she herself said, she did not have an eye to wealth and status, alone with a child out of wedlock, put up to it by Noir?

  Meanwhile the lady drew herself up to her small height. ‘I offer you my thanks for setting me free from that man and bringing me to England. You, Madame Harriette, were kinder than I could believe, despite your strange clothing. We fooled the brave Captain, did we not? But now I will impose on you no longer. I will not inflict myself or my child on you when I am neither believed nor wanted here.’ She walked purposefully towards Meggie and the baby, clasping one of his flailing fists. ‘If I could beg transport to a town nearby…I will find lodgings and work. I will be a burden on no one. Nor my child.’

  ‘No! Not that!’ Luke did not know if it was the right decision, but he acted on what his instincts told him. The lady did not deserve to be vilified or abandoned or manipulated for a second time. Whatever the truth of her story, he would not turn her out on to the streets. ‘No, madame! I believe you were used despicably by Noir and I will not allow you to make your own way. You are clearly of gentle birth—’

  ‘My birth is of the best!’ The decided little chin rose higher. ‘I am a de la Roche!’

  ‘And I will ensure that you and your child lack for nothing, madame.’

  The lady was not soothed. ‘I won’t accept charity.’

  ‘It won’t be charity, madame. I will not turn my back on a lady in distress who has clearly shown such bravery.’

  Harriette added her persuasion. ‘You must not go, Marie-Claude.’

  The baby in Meggie’s arms began to fuss and whimper. Now uncertain, Marie-Claude lifted him and held him close. The blanket fell away as the infant leaned and snatched towards Adam, grasping handfuls of empty air in his tiny hands. Automatically Adam held out his own hand to the little fingers. Then he laughed, startled, astonished.