Dawn Thompson

by The Ravencliff Bride

  Nicholas made an appearance after dinner. Though Sara was expecting him, when he entered her bedchamber, her heart began to race so severely she was certain he could see it in the rapid rise and fall of her breast beneath her nightgown and wrapper. How handsome he was in skintight black pantaloons that outlined his corded legs and thighs. How broad his shoulders were in the black tailcoat of superfine, and white embroidered waistcoat that emphasized his narrow waist and broad, well-muscled chest. Her mind’s eye saw what lay beneath. Hadn’t she seen him nearly naked? Twice.

  For a moment, he didn’t speak. All day, she’d been dreading his visit. She’d steeled herself against the imminent lecture. She had no defense. Exactly what he’d told her would happen if she prowled the house alone had happened. She couldn’t meet his black-fire eyes reflecting the hearth glow, and when he spoke, she lurched as though she’d been shot.

  “How are you feeling?” he asked, strolling nearer. She did glance up then, in time to see his brow arch as he studied her swollen forehead and bandaged hands. “I was hoping much of what I saw earlier would wash away. Foolish of me.”

  Sara’s heart sank: He was cold and distant again. But she hadn’t imagined his reaction when he carried her out of that priest hole; there was warmth and gentleness and ardor in the man. There was passion in him, too. Not just the kind that rage bred, either, although he certainly had a penchant for that. A seething, smoldering passion lay just under the surface ready to explode. She hadn’t mistaken the tenderness in his embrace, the rhythm of his heart shuddering against her. He did care. Why was he afraid to show it?

  “Mrs. Bromley’s remedies are quite remarkable,” she said, “but it’s really not as serious as it looks.”

  “We shall let Dr. Breeden determine that, when he arrives tomorrow,” said Nicholas.

  “Nell tells me that you’ve taken my shoes,” she said. “May I have them, please?”

  “Not until the doctor gives me leave to let you out of that bed,” he responded.

  “I have other shoes, my lord,” she snapped.

  “ ‘Nicholas,’ ” he corrected her. “I hope that knock on the head hasn’t affected your memory. We have a bargain, remember?”

  “How could I forget?”

  “I shan’t scold you. I should think you’ve learned your lesson,” he said. “I’ve had the priest hole cemented shut, but there are other dangers in this house. You must respect my wishes and refrain from going off exploring on your own. What were you doing down there? How did you come to fall through that revolving panel?”

  “That hardly matters now,” she replied.

  “Oh, but it does matter,” he snapped. “What were you looking for? Were you chasing that animal again? I want you to tell me the truth, Sara. You needn’t skulk about in this house. You have only to ask if you need assistance with anything. I’ve taken into account that you’ve come from a prison, but Ravencliff is not one. You needn’t be afraid to speak your mind here. You’re very good at it, as a matter of fact. There is naught to fear but the danger you put yourself in ignoring my directives.”

  “Your ‘ground rules,’ you mean,” she observed.

  “If you want to put it that way, yes. Don’t shift the subject. Why were you down there?”

  Should she tell him the truth? She was angry enough to. He was right, she had never been afraid to speak her mind . . . until she’d come to Ravencliff.

  “I’m waiting,” he reminded her. “It was Nero, wasn’t it?”

  “Not exactly,” she said. “He didn’t lead me down there, if that’s what you’re thinking. He knows his way around this house, and he’s often wet, smelling of the sea. I should like to have a walk on the cliff one day. It occurred to me that he must know of another exit on the sea side, and I meant to follow him to it—”

  “In the middle of the night?” he interrupted.

  “Not to go out, just to find the way out.”

  “Did it never occur to you that any of the servants, or I myself, would have been only too glad to show you?”

  “Show me, yes, but not allow me to venture out there on my own.”

  “Oh, I see.”

  “You really don’t, but I’m too weary to explain.”

  “I would like you to try,” he said, folding his arms across his massive chest.

  “There are times when I prefer to be alone, and I take great pleasure communing with nature. You above all should understand that, what with your passion for solitude. I believe that to be your only passion.” She didn’t really believe it, not for a moment, but he didn’t need to know that—at least, not then.

  “Which proves how little you know me,” he said, pacing the carpet at the foot of the bed, taking slow, deliberate strides, his fisted hands clasped beneath his coattails.

  “You don’t give me a chance to know you, Nicholas.”

  “You’re avoiding the issue again,” he replied. “You followed Nero. Then what?”

  “He was much too quick for me. I lost him in the shadows of the corridor, and I went below to see if I could find him, when one of the footmen, I believe it was, started to open the servants’ quarters door. I didn’t want to be discovered there at that hour, and I ducked behind the staircase and hid in the shadows until he passed. When I leaned against the wall, I fell through.”

  “You could have died down there,” he said. “That priest hole was built centuries ago, Sara. It hasn’t been used in over a hundred years. Though I knew of it, I’d never even been down there. There are more than one in this house, as well as a maze of tunnels and hidden passageways veining the lower regions. They were used as escape routes in time of invasion, and later as a means of access for pirates and smugglers and privateers, coming and going with their plunder. I have never even seen them all. Now do you see why I didn’t want you prowling about on your own? If Nero hadn’t picked up your scent, I never would have found you down there.”

  “You won’t get rid of him now, will you, Nicholas?” she pleaded.

  He stopped pacing and faced her, his eyes absent and haunting.

  “Nicholas . . . please?”

  “I may not have a choice, Sara,” he said. “One day, you may have to choose between us.”

  Nine

  Though Dr. Breeden pronounced Sara fit enough to leave her bed, Nicholas insisted that she keep to her rooms for a few days. He needed time with the doctor alone, but Sara wasn’t his only concern in that regard. Alexander Mallory was underfoot now as well, and the wily steward wasn’t as easily confined.

  “Forgive me for presuming upon your skills the moment you arrived, Dr. Breeden,” Nicholas said across the dinner table, as the footman presented the whole steamed salmon. “It couldn’t be avoided, I’m afraid. I shall give you the same advice I gave her ladyship: Please do not go ambling about on your own in this antiquity, else you fall victim of a similar peril. Ravencliff is full of surprises, not all of them pleasant.”

  “I am only too glad to be of service, Baron Walraven,” the doctor replied, “and you needn’t fear, I shall indeed step with caution.”

  “There’s even a dungeon below,” Mallory chimed in, leaning back for the footman to lay down his plate of salmon. Then to Nicholas: “Do you remember the summer we found it? God, how old were we then—just lads. The Normans were very inventive chaps. Ravencliff is filled with examples of their ingenuity.” He shifted his attention to the carver’s chair. “Nicholas, how did she ever . . . ?”

  “She will be more careful in future,” Nicholas responded, ignoring the question, meanwhile dosing the steward with a look that silenced him.

  Aside from the clink of silver against china, that silence prevailed until midway through the roast saddle of mutton course. Nicholas was champing at the bit. He was so anxious to consult the doctor that his emotions had begun to flag danger. It wouldn’t do to let down his guard in front of the steward, but there were some related topics that could be discussed in company, and he decided to begin with those.

&
nbsp; “I understand that you’ve spent much time in India, Doctor,” he began.

  “I lived there for many years,” said Breeden. “It was in India that I wrote the Oxford papers you alluded to in your invitation. Fascinating country.”

  Nicholas had no fear that the doctor would inadvertently betray him. His invitation had made clear the necessity for complete secrecy in regard to the true nature of his visit—even from Sara, and especially from Alexander Mallory.

  “My father was there, as well,” said Nicholas, over the rim of his wineglass. “He was part of the early occupation under Warren Hastings. When Lord North’s India Bill went into effect in 1773, and Parliament gained control of the East India Company, India came under the Governor-General’s control. Once that occurred, British rule in India was vigorously pursued. Hastings, the first Governor-General, was one of my father’s closest friends. Father joined him there early on, in the spring of ’74, and returned to England in ’76, the year before I was born.”

  “I see,” said the doctor and, from his expression, Nicholas had no doubt that he was beginning to. Dr. Mark Breeden was a man twice his age with the most articulate pair of quicksilver eyes he had ever seen. They gleamed with an inner light of understanding that was both frightening and reassuring at once. They were studying him now, and he had no doubt that they saw more than what rested on the surface. “Mustered out after just two years, you say, and at such a critical time—during the birth pangs of the occupation? That couldn’t have been the end of his tour. Was he injured?”

  “Yes, but not in combat. He was bitten by an animal—a wolf. The wound never healed. It festered, became ulcerated, and the ulcer spread. It poisoned his blood, and in the end it killed him. He died not long after I was born.”

  “I see,” said the doctor. “How tragic. And your mother?”

  “My mother died when I was twelve. She never remarried; she never recovered from the loss of Father. They were very devoted.”

  “You were an only child?”

  “Yes,” said Nicholas. The answer seemed to trigger relief in the doctor’s expression, and now Nicholas began studying him. “Mills, my valet, was Father’s valet and his batman during his commission. He was with him in India, when the accident occurred. He cared for him nearly until he died, and then looked after me as a child, especially after Mother passed. I couldn’t do without him.”

  “Good, and . . . loyal servants are so hard to find these days,” said the doctor, his emphasis upon the word ‘loyal’ telling that he’d read the lines between.

  “Yes,” said Nicholas, “you have it exactly. We will share him during your visit, since you’re traveling without a valet. I’m sure you’ll find his service satisfactory.”

  “I have no doubt of it,” said the doctor.

  “How long did you live in India, Dr. Breeden?” said Mallory, drawing both their eyes.

  “Longer than I have in England,” the doctor replied. “I was born there, spent my childhood there. Then I was educated here, and returned to India to live until my mother passed on fifteen years ago. She was half-caste, you see. My father was a British national working for the East India Company. Religious fanatics killed him while I was here studying at Oxford.”

  “No wonder you are so familiar with the culture,” said Mallory, raising his wine goblet.

  The footmen had begun removing the table linen, and setting out the sweet wines and desserts. Again, silence prevailed until they had laid out an array of assorted jellies and creams, rum and apple pudding, and French nougat cake.

  “Good heavens,” said the doctor, accepting a helping of the fragrant pudding. “I shall be courting gout if this keeps up. My compliments to your cook, my lord.”

  “I shall convey them, Dr. Breeden,” said Nicholas, “but you have the baroness to thank for the menu. She is quite skilled at the art of entertaining, as you shall see.”

  “A pity she couldn’t join us,” the doctor said. “She’s really fit enough, you know. The side effects of concussion will take awhile to dissipate, but that shouldn’t deter her, so long as she’s careful.”

  “She will be joining us tomorrow evening,” said Nicholas, “once I’m certain I can trust her not to overdo. This is the first time we’ve entertained since our marriage, and I know how important it is to her.”

  “You two are getting on well, I take it, then?” said Mallory.

  “Of course,” Nicholas responded. “Why wouldn’t we be?”

  The steward shrugged. “No reason,” he said, finishing his cake. “I sensed a bit of . . . apprehension on her part during the trip down, that’s all.”

  “Apprehension, Alex? How so?”

  “Perhaps that is too strong a word,” said Mallory, signaling for more wine. “Unease is more accurate. Prenuptial jitters, I expect. It’s only natural, considering, that she should have . . . second thoughts.”

  The doctor was watching the exchange with not a little interest. Nicholas wished the steward hadn’t brought the subject up, but knew why he had. Alexander Mallory was easily read. He was hoping things wouldn’t work out between them. He was hoping to step in once the arrangement failed. Anger was Nicholas’s enemy then. It raised his hackles, and when he spoke he directed his reply to the doctor.

  “I married the baroness by proxy, Dr. Breeden,” he said. “Alex here stood in for me since . . . circumstances beyond my control prevented me from making the trip to London for a proper wedding.”

  “Oh dear, have I spoken out of turn?” said Mallory, setting his serviette aside.

  “Not at all,” Nicholas forced. The anger was still with him. It was all he could do to keep from leaping across the table to satisfy it. He took deep, measured breaths instead.

  “I wasn’t aware that proxy marriages could be performed here in England any longer,” said the doctor.

  “They cannot,” Mallory said. “We had to travel all the way to Scotland to have it done. Dreadful trip. The weather was ghastly.”

  “Years ago, when such things were allowed,” Nicholas said, “it was simply a matter of the absent party going before the local registrar with a stand-in to finalize the union.” He gave a guttural chuckle; this was just what he needed to break the tension. “Before we realized such unions were no longer possible, in the absence of a literate female stand-in, Mills was set to do the honors for me before the registrar from Truro if needs must. There is no limit to that man’s devotion to House Walraven.” A round of laughter followed. They had finished their dessert, and Nicholas rose from the table. “Shall we adjourn to the study for a spot of brandy, gentlemen?” he said.

  “I must cry off,” the steward replied. “With your permission, Nicholas, I shall pay my respects to the baroness before I retire, and make an early night of it. It’s been an exhausting journey.”

  Nicholas hesitated. “As you wish,” he returned. “Don’t tire her, Alex.” The thought of the steward paying a call upon Sara made him marginally uncomfortable, but there was no real harm in it. Nell would be close at hand. He knew Sara’s position when it came to Alexander Mallory, and he was anxious to have a moment alone with the doctor.

  “Oh, I shan’t. Good evening, Nicholas . . . Dr. Breeden,” he said. Sketching a bow, he left them.

  Neither Nicholas nor the doctor spoke until they were inside the study behind closed doors. Once they settled down with their brandy, it was Nicholas who broke the silence between them.

  “Forgive me, Dr. Breeden,” he said. “In this house, we cannot converse on the topic of our . . . mutual interest. The very walls have ears, and much depends upon secrecy. Perhaps tomorrow, weather permitting, we might have a walk on the strand. The sea will keep our secrets. She has kept mine since I could stand without my knees buckling.”

  “Understood,” said the doctor.

  “I do not mean to offend, but so very much depends upon it . . . do I have your guarantee of confidentiality?”

  The doctor smiled. “Of course, my lord, that goes without sa
ying. My oath is your guarantee—but even if it weren’t, if we are going where I believe we are going with this, who would believe me if I did tell? Half of England considers me a crackpot, and the remainder is quite convinced that I’m a certified bedlamite.” He raised his snifter in salute. “Your secret is quite safe with me.”

  The last thing Sara expected when the knock came at her sitting room door was a visit from Alexander Mallory. Thanking Providence that she was still dressed, she bade him enter, and resumed her seat at the writing desk, only half facing him in an attitude that she hoped would convey the message that what he’d interrupted was far more important than he.

  “I’m sorry for your mishap, my lady,” he said, strolling toward the lounge. “May I sit? I shan’t stay but a moment. I see that you’re . . . occupied.” Without waiting for an invitation, he sat with flourish, draping his arm in a casual attitude across the back of the lounge.

  “Yes, I am,” said Sara. “I don’t mean to be rude, Mr. Mallory, but it is late, and I must finish these before I retire.”

  “Shouldn’t you be abed?” he queried. “You took a nasty fall, so Nicholas tells me.”

  “I have been abed, Mr. Mallory,” she snapped. “And I have the doctor’s permission to resume my activities. Now I really must insist—”

  “I do wish you’d relent and call me Alex,” he interrupted. “We are all one happy family here.”

  “Yes, well, I somehow rather doubt that, Mr. Mallory. Now if you will excuse me, I do have to finish this.”

  “Nicholas gave me permission to come up,” he drawled, “if that’s what you’re worrying about. He shan’t come bursting through that door like the jealous husband, pistol in hand.”

  Oh, he gave permission, did he? That struck a chord. Did Nicholas think so little of her that he’d given the steward leave to put her in such a position? If he did, he had about as much respect for her as Mallory. Hot blood rushed to her temples. The man was a master of mixed signals.