by Lois Greiman
“Even my mother.” Her words were whispered now. “I can barely remember her.”
He eased onto the mattress. “I’m sorry.”
“Sometimes I try. Sometimes in the small of the night I can almost see her face. Can almost hear her voice. But then I remember…” She swallowed.
He reached for her hand. “Remember what?”
“She didn’t want me. That’s why I make up tales about her. That’s why I try to believe I’m something I’m not. That I’m more than I am. Some say I put on airs. But really I just pretend…to be loved. To be cherished. To be special. So I don’t feel so alone. But I am.”
“No.” He didn’t know what to say, what to do. Broken sadness shone in her glimmering eyes and cracked the rough edges of his heart. “You’re not alone, lass.”
“She left me.” The words were little more than a sigh in the night. “I was not yet five years of age when she abandoned me to strangers.” Her slim throat constricted as she swallowed. “I don’t know what I did wrong.”
“Nothing,” he said, and pulled her into his arms. “I’m certain you did nothing wrong. No one could ever wish to leave someone like you.”
She stared at him a moment, then winced. “I lied,” she said. “I know my error.”
He shook his head in bemusement.
“I wanted her to leave the baby.”
“Baby?”
“We were running. Hiding. I don’t know why.” She smiled a little. “I like to believe it was because we were ungodly rich. That we were heiresses and others wanted our wealth, but…” She shrugged.
“We?”
“As I’ve said, I had a sister.” Her voice was soft, whispered, entirely at odds with her usual bravado. Indeed, if he did not know better, he would think she was another woman altogether. “I believe she was my sister. But she was loud. Crying. And she slowed us down.”
He stroked her hair, feeling her honesty to the core of his soul. “What happened?”
She shook her head. A glistening tear slipped toward her perfect nose. “Mother left me. Took the baby. I never saw them again.”
Sadness swamped him. His own family had its share of troubles, but he had a family. And they cherished him. “She didn’t leave because of your faults, luv. I’m sure of it. She was trying to save you.”
She grimaced as if holding back tears. “You don’t know that. You don’t know me.”
“But I wish to,” he said.
“Do you?” She drew back. Her lashes sparkled with tears. Her full mouth trembled. “Are you certain?”
“More than anything,” he said, searching her eyes. They were filled with quaking sadness.
“I’m so lonely,” she breathed.
He stroked her cheek, watched her close her eyes, felt her tremble beneath his hand.
“But I…I dare not get too close.”
“Too close to what, luv?”
“To people.” She lifted her gaze to his. “To you.”
“That’s why you’re short with them. That’s why you push them away. To save yourself the hurt.”
She swallowed and glanced down. The soft curve of her cheek was strangely irresistible. “Everyone leaves.”
“I’m here,” he said. She raised her gaze slowly to his, then lifted her hand to his face.
“I owe you my life,” she whispered. “Yet I’ve been dishonest and cruel.”
“You were frightened.”
“Always,” she said. “Always frightened.”
“Not now. You don’t have to be frightened now,” he said, and kissed her.
Without thought, he eased her back onto the mattress. She sighed as he swept her hair from her face. Lowered her lashes as he kissed the trembling corner of her mouth.
“You’re beauty beyond words, lass,” he said. “But I’ll not press you if you don’t wish me to.”
For a moment he held his breath, and then she reached up and undid the top button of his shirt.
“Lass—” he began, but she kissed his mouth, hushing him.
“Give me this moment,” she pleaded.
He wanted to. He wanted to give her everything, but he‘d been despicably dishonest and she was baring her aching soul. He was sure of it. “There is something you should know.”
“Probably several things,” she said, and managed a wobbly smile. Her fingers never stilled. Beneath her hand, his flesh tingled with hope.
But he caught her wrist, stopping her. “Lass—” He found her eyes with his.
“What is it?”
He winced. She was magic beneath him. But he’d been wrong to believe he could go through with his scheme. He drew a hard breath. “I’ve planned this.”
“This what?”
“This night. This time together. I’ve thought of nothing else for a long while.”
“Me, too,” she said, and slipped the gown from her shoulders. Her breasts gleamed in the moonlight. They gleamed! What was he to do?
“Sweet saints,” he said, and kissed her.
He was never sure what happened next. One moment he was clothed, and the next he was not. One moment he was telling himself to take things slowly, and the next she was atop him, riding him like a charging stallion.
He growled as the tension built. She shrieked as she arched against him, and then he exploded, drained of every drop of energy. She collapsed against his chest, heart thudding against his, hot and slippery and as sexy as hell against his depleted body.
“Lass…I’m sorry.”
Savaana remained as she was, knees clasped against his hips, trying to think. What had she done? What had she said? “Really?”
“Well…that is…I didn’t mean to go so fast.”
“Oh…is it…” She paused, maybe to breathe. Maybe to think. And it was about damn time. Somehow she had begun to confuse herself with Clarette. Had she melded the two because they were much more similar than they seemed. Were they in fact…But it didn’t matter now. She’d forgotten her mission, and in doing so had admitted too much of her own fragilities, her own weaknesses. But perhaps it wasn’t too late to shift back into the baroness’s skin, to become the brash noblewoman she was to impersonate. “I didn’t know there were rules, Wicklow.”
He chuckled a little. She eased onto her side.
“I just meant, you must prefer to go about it more slowly.”
“More slowly.” She was still breathing hard and refused to look at him as she searched for Clarette’s harsh persona. “Yes, well, this was fine, too.”
“Fine?”
“Better than fine.” She gave him an arch glance over one bare shoulder. “Quite good actually.”
“Quite good.”
“Ohh.” She sighed. “Now I’ve offended you,” she said, and slipped off the bed.
“Is your husband fine, too? Are all men—” he began, rising to his feet, but suddenly his words stopped.
Savaana’s heart constricted sharply in her chest. She turned at the abrupt cessation of his words, finding his face in the dimness, just as she tried to find herself, to separate the Gypsy from the baroness. But he didn’t look at her.
“What’s that?” he asked. His voice sounded odd. He shifted his attention to her, eyes accusatory, and suddenly she felt as naked as she was. She reached for her gown.
“Lass.” He sounded angry.
She popped her head through the opening of the night rail. “Yes?” she said, but he was staring at the bed.
“It looks like blood.”
She yanked her gaze to the stain midway down the mattress and swore in silence. Holy hell! How could that be? She’d ridden astride for as long as she could remember. Had jumped and tumbled and cartwheeled onto every hard surface conceivable. Wasn’t that supposed to do something to something?
“What the devil’s going on?” he asked, and shifted his eyes to hers.
She swallowed, remembered to breathe, shrugged. “I…must have cut myself.”
“On me…” He waved vaguely toward his sp
ectacular nether parts. “On me?”
She laughed. The tone sounded a little close to hysteria. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“I’ll be whatever I damned well wish to be,” he said, and stepped from the bed, all naked, masculine beauty. “What the hell happened here?”
“Here?”
“Yes here!” he said, and grabbed her arms. “In that bed. Where the blood…” His words staggered to a halt and his face went pale. “You were a virgin.”
“What?” she said, and laughed. It sounded like the bray of a wild ass. “You’re deluded.”
“Am I?”
“I’m a married woman.”
“Then where is your husband?”
“He left me. Remember?” She tried to conjure up some tears to distract him again, but really, she felt quite marvelous. Whoever invented sex was a bloody genius. “Everyone leaves—”
“No!” he interrupted, and shook his head. “I’m never believing those soppy tears again.”
Dammit. And that was her best act.
“No man could leave you. Not after…” He waved wildly at the bed they’d just shared. “Not after…” He paced a short two strides and returned. “Who are you?”
For a moment she didn’t answer, couldn’t, for despite everything, she had no desire to lie. “What?” she asked, and tried to dredge up a modicum of believable anger. “Are you pretending you didn’t remember who I was? Didn’t know I was married? Is that the lie you’re planning to spew should someone learn of this? That you had no way—”
“What is wrong with you?” he asked. His tone suggested he was really quite curious, but she had no answer. She was in over her head and sinking fast.
“If you’re…” He shook his head, seeming to find thought difficult if not downright painful. “If you were a virgin, you couldn’t be the woman who…”
She stared at him, breath held. “Who what?”
“What’s your wedding date?” he asked, shifting his attention abruptly to her face.
“Are you mad?”
“It looks that way, doesn’t it, lass?” he snarled. “Your wedding date, what is it?”
Bloody hell! “That’s none of your concern.”
“You don’t know it.”
“Of course I know it.”
“Then—”
“August sixth!” she said.
He stared at her, then shook his head slowly. “It’s August fourteenth.”
Dammit! How could he know that? He…Wait a minute, there was no reason to believe he wasn’t lying just to draw her out. She forced a laugh. “You’re wrong.”
“You’re a fraud,” he breathed, and stepped toward her.
“What are you talking about?”
“You’re not Lady Tilmont at all,” he said, and grabbed her arms.
“Of course I am.”
“Did you kill her?”
“What!” she gasped, and staggered back an honest step.
“The real Lady Tilmont. What did you do to her?”
“I—”
“Come along. We’ll see what the constable says about this,” he said, but at that moment footsteps pounded up the stairs.
They turned toward the door in breathless tandem.
“Clarette!” someone yelled.
“What—” Savaana breathed, but Gallagher interrupted.
“It’s your husband!” he hissed.
“My husband! How would you know—”
“It’s your husband,” bellowed the man on the far side of the door. “Let me in.”
Their eyes met in panic. “Get out!” she hissed.
“Out? How the hell—”
“Clarette! Let me in or I’ll be forced to do something rash,” said Tilmont, and rattled the doorknob.
“I thought you said the lock didn’t work,” she hissed.
“I picked it.”
“You—”
“I build them. I can pick them.”
She shook her head, then pushed him abruptly toward the wall.
“Get beside the door.”
“Are you out of your mind? This will never—”
“Beside the door or out the window,” she hissed.
He grabbed his clothes, strode to the wall, and pressed his back near the hinges.
Chapter 19
Savaana’s heart was galloping like a runaway in her chest. Dear God, what now? she wondered frantically. But truly, there seemed few enough options. She would play the role given her. ’Twas but another performance.
Gallagher’s eyes gleamed with emotion as she whipped the counterpane over the soiled bedsheet, paced to the door, and swung it toward him.
“My lord?” She didn’t mean for it to sound like a question. After all, she should be able to recognize her own husband. But she’d been fooled before.
“Clarette.” Lifting the lantern held in his right hand, he skimmed her with his eyes—the fragile gown, the disheveled hair. “Are you well? I heard there was a mishap.”
“I…” she said, and reaching for his empty hand, drew him farther into the room, leaving the door open. “I’m fine.”
“Fine!” He followed her with long strides of his black-booted legs. Fair-haired and lean, his face was flushed with drink. She could see that much as he set the lantern upon the narrow bedstead. “’Tis said you were attacked.”
“Well…” She didn’t glance toward the door, though she was sorely tempted. “I’m not entirely certain what happened. One moment I was leaving the jeweler’s, and the next I was quite unconscious. It was…” She let her voice shake and lowered her eyes. From beneath her lashes, she saw Gallagher slip from the room and into the hall. “It was rather frightening.”
Tilmont was scowling. “Rather frightening! I should think so. But you didn’t come here alone. Surely the Ir—” He stopped, changed conversational footing, and continued. “Mr. Underhill accompanied you, did he not?”
What had he been about to say? It almost sounded like ‘Irishman.’ But that couldn’t be. Gallagher had appeared after Tilmont’s departure.
“I brought Mrs. Edwards, of course, but she was resting in the carriage.”
He scowled a little. “Mrs. Edwards?”
“My chaperone.”
His brows leapt toward his hairline. “You hired a chaperone?”
“Yes, well…” What was going on here? What was he not telling her? “With you gone so long I didn’t feel it was proper for me to travel alone.”
“You didn’t think it proper?”
She lifted her chin, struggling for her shattered persona. “I am, after all, your wife.”
He was staring at her as if she had grown a second head, but spoke finally. “What were you doing in London at the outset?”
She cleared her throat and fiddled with a fold in her borrowed gown. “I would rather not say.”
“I daresay,” he said, and striding forward, bent to look under the bed.
She watched as he straightened, bobbling a little as he did so.
“What are you looking for?” she asked.
He shook his head as if confused, but glanced toward the wardrobe. “I simply mean to make certain you are safe here.”
“How thoughtful of you, my lord,” she said, and watched as he strode toward the opposite side of the room and threw open the tall dresser doors. It was absolutely empty but for the lavender dress she had hung there only a few hours before.
He made a huffing sound, “I’ve been thinking,” he said then, and turned toward her.
She stepped back. “Have you, my lord?”
“Aye. You’re a beautiful woman. Like royalty.” He narrowed his eyes at her. “Might you have heard of the Beloreich?”
Her heart thudded, hard and fast, but she kept her face inscrutable. “I believe it’s a kind of dessert.”
He laughed. “The Beloreich of Delvania are ever haunted by their Ludrick cousins. King Stephan was the last of the Beloreich line. Unless they find the princesses lost long ago.”
She felt weak. “Princesses, my lord?”
“Aye,” he said, and seemed to lighten his mood a little. “You remind me of that line. Luckily for me, you are my wife and not royalty gone astray.” He took a step toward her. She sidled sideways. He drew a deep breath. “I’m considering returning to Knollcrest.”
“How wonderful that would be,” she said, and gripped the bedstead with white-knuckled fingers.
“Indeed, I was speaking to Rolf regarding just that when someone mentioned the fact that you had been seen at this very establishment.” He scowled as if trying to recall a former conversation. “Why did you travel to London?”
“If you must know, I wished to purchase a gift, my lord.”
“For…” He paused as if trying to remember something he shouldn’t admit he’d forgotten.
“I know how you enjoy cuff links.”
“Oh? Oh!” he said.
She clasped her hands and glanced at the floor. “It has occurred to me that I have not been the wife I should.”
“Really?” He was staring at her as if she were bi-headed again.
“That is to say…a small gift is the least I can do.”
He cleared his throat. “’Tis not as if I’ve been the perfect husband. I’ve been gone entirely too much. Neglecting you.” He reached out and touched her cheek. She had nowhere to go. His smile was eerily tender. “You would be lovely with a babe in your arms.”
“A babe!” Savaana kept from jumping as she said the words, but only by sheer power of will.
“I thought when I left that perhaps you would turn to…” He shook his head. “In fact…” Another pause as he glanced toward the wardrobe again. “But I find now that I’m glad you did not.”
She didn’t attempt to control her scowl. Clarette certainly would not. “That I did not what?”
“Stray,” he said, and brushed her hair back from her face.
“Why would you think—” she began, but in that instant Gallagher stepped into the doorway, entirely dressed. Memories of him otherwise swooped in. She groaned inwardly and refused to close her eyes at her own foolishness.
“My lady,” said the Irishman soberly.
She nodded and stepped away from Tilmont. He tipped unsteadily toward the door.
“Mr. Gallagher,” she said.