by Allison Lane
Nightmares. They had plagued him since Waterloo, a constant reminder of his dishonor. Even in sleep he could not escape his shame.
Easing his bad leg to the floor, he poured wine and dragged the draperies back so he could see the moon-washed grounds of his prison.
Seacliff needn’t be a prison, murmured Temptation. Forget the past, and you can continue as before.
“Never. I won’t become another Caldwell blackguard.” Which made Seacliff a prison. The only escape was death. Returning to duty would disgrace his uniform. Showing his face in society would encourage witnesses to denounce him. Visiting Deerchester Hall was out of the question. So he was trapped. Still. If only Marie had arrived two minutes later…
Which recalled his latest nightmare. This one had been different – no murder, no cowardice, no accusatory eyes, no drowning in his bad blood. Instead, it had relived that frantic journey to the Channel twelve years ago.
He had been just another visitor to Paris until he’d stumbled across Napoleon’s plans to invade England. Honor demanded that he cut short his leave and deliver them to his superiors immediately.
He’d been packing when two French soldiers burst in. Napoleon was abandoning the peace accord. All Englishmen were being detained.
Desperate to reach his regiment, he’d fought, using tactics he’d learned from a Chinaman in Gibraltar. Two minutes later, he’d donned the officer’s uniform, stuffed the plans into his jacket, then fled into the night. Since his imposture could only work at a distance – his accent was unmistakably English – he’d stayed off the roads and traveled by night, covering seventy miles before spotting Marie.
He still couldn’t explain why he’d risked exposure to help her. At first glance, she’d been unprepossessing, caked in dirt from head to toe. Her expression had accepted whatever Fate had in store. Yet despite being clearly in the woman’s charge, Marie had seemed utterly alone.
Perhaps that was what had touched him. It was as though a wall separated her from the world, something Jack had endured his entire life. His family’s scandals had always stood between him and others.
He shook his head, hoping to dislodge the childhood memories, but he was too weak to hold them at bay.
Deerchester had inherited a full measure of the Caldwell cowardice, which turned his dishonor sneaky and limited his brutality to those who could not fight back – like his despised younger son.
Deerchester’s heir, Wilcox, had dodged the family cowardice, becoming a vicious bully who thrived on blatant dishonor. Cheating was second nature, but few dared complain, for he found painful ways to avenge any insult. By sixteen, Wilcox had been a brutal degenerate who relished inflicting pain, even on those with whom he had no quarrel.
The only bright spot in Jack’s childhood had been his tutor, the son of a neighboring vicar. Reeves had insisted that Jack pursue honor, and he’d protected Jack from the consequences of trying. Deerchester and Wilcox had derided Jack at every turn, calling him a milksop for caring what anyone thought of him and berating him for betraying his family. Without Reeves, Jack might have died from Wilcox’s efforts to turn him into a man.
Stay away from him, Reeves had said the day he’d found six-year-old Jack in tears from one of sixteen-year-old Wilcox’s attacks. He hates you because he knows you are already a better man than he is. Something broke in Wilcox’s head when he was born. But you are whole and need not follow his disreputable example.
It was a nice thought, but breeding, not accident, determined a man’s character. Effort might soften a bad trait or enhance a good one, but it couldn’t turn a sow’s ear into a silk purse.
Jack refilled his glass.
Childhood had taught him to hide the pain of Wilcox’s scorn and Deerchester’s rejection behind a mask of indifference. Thus he’d recognized the look on Marie’s face that day in France. She had stood motionless, one hand clutched in Clarisse’s, but she saw nothing. Her mind was miles away.
The drunken soldiers were demanding sex from Clarisse, who seemed reluctant, so Jack had stepped forward and ordered them off. He’d nearly fainted when they’d actually left.
Not being castaway, Clarisse had spotted his accent. But she, too, was fleeing France. So they’d joined forces. Finding a smuggler who would accept three passengers had seemed impossible – he’d had little money, and Clarisse even less – but Marie’s face had already haunted him. He’d never felt such instant rapport.
Tonight’s dream had dredged up every horror from that interminable journey – the night he’d nearly been caught stealing food; being trapped in the open by a hailstorm; Clarisse telling an angry farmer that her sister was deaf and thus couldn’t respond to his shouts…
Jack grimaced. Marie had been nearly cataleptic by then, walking wherever she was led, swallowing what was placed in her mouth, but responding to nothing. He’d been so focused on reaching the coast in one piece that he hadn’t questioned her condition.
Oddly, Clarisse had barely registered on his mind, though she’d been a beautiful woman who would have done anything for him. It was Marie who had occupied his thoughts even after he’d returned to his regiment. Despite her silence, something about her had kept him aware of her at all times.
Limping back to the window, he watched a fox slink across the drive.
He should have paid closer attention twelve years ago. Losing her family could not explain the intensity of her shock, so leaving her alone at Barnett Court was even more dishonorable.
Little had changed.
Her eyes still demanded help. They were the most expressive eyes he’d ever seen, changing color with her changing mood. Relief turned them sparkling blue. He’d seen them gray with grief, slaty in fear, and icy when she was angry. A gray rim emphasized every shift. He wondered what color they were when she smiled.
Perhaps that bothered him most of all. He had never seen her smile. Twelve years ago, that lack had been understandable. She had just lost her family and was caught in a perilous trek across enemy soil. But she had not smiled on the cliff, either. Not even the meaningless smile the polite world bestowed on a minor acquaintance. And the joy of her initial greeting had not shown on her face.
He longed to entice a smile onto those rosy lips, and not just for his own pleasure. He must make sure that she was safe. Only when he had discharged that duty could he address his own plans.
* * * *
Marianne paced her bedroom. Though it was long past midnight, there was no point climbing into bed, for she could not sleep. Jack remained too vividly in her mind.
He’d been mentioned in dispatches after nearly every battle, making it easy to follow his rise in rank. His bravery was cited often – for leading charges against stiff odds or for whisking wounded soldiers from further harm. That habit had made him a legend after Badajoz, where he was credited with saving a dozen lives even as he led his men into the diversionary attack that let British troops breach the wall across town. He’d joined Wellington’s staff a week later.
She’d been pleased that those he rescued were common soldiers as often as officers. It fit her memories of the man who had helped her in France. But validating her instincts raised new questions about his attempt at suicide. He was no stranger to battle or pain. Three times he’d been seriously wounded – in Ireland, on the Peninsula, and at Waterloo.
The papers also carried information – none of it flattering – about Deerchester and his heir Wilcox, Jack’s father and brother. But stories about Jack had not mentioned the connection in ten years, indicating a rift. Did the estrangement weigh on him? An honorable man would yearn for family, even one like his.
But whatever the cause of Jack’s melancholy, it had not yet reached his soul. Why else would he save himself while falling? So it wasn’t too late to change his mind. Whether it arose from injuries or grief for fallen comrades or problems with his family, it was temporary. Given time, it would retreat, and he would again enjoy life. Keeping him occupied while time worked its magic wo
uld repay him for rescuing her.
She paused at the window, gazing across the park to the woods guarding the cliffs. She could keep him from jumping there, but that served little purpose. He would not choose her land again. No one of his heroic nature would leave an acquaintance to clean up after him. And while she could slip away to Seacliff for an hour or two, she could hardly spend every moment with him.
So she had to give him a reason to live. His history and her own memories indicated that he needed to help others. Her best course was to request his assistance.
It wouldn’t be easy. Asking for help would force her to admit facts few people knew. Baring even part of her soul risked drawing ridicule. Jack would have scorned Barnett’s edicts, so he would think her weak for acquiescing. But it was all she could think of.
Her purpose was not entirely altruistic, she admitted. Though she was anxious to take charge of Halworth and institute some much-needed changes, doing so meant facing her steward. What if the confrontation triggered hysteria? Crane would never accept her orders if he thought her weak.
Doubts continued to plague her. No matter how normal she felt, Barnett’s insistence that she was mad was difficult to ignore. Nightmares continued to plague her. And she couldn’t touch others, even Mrs. Hastings, whom she had known for twenty-five years.
You grabbed Jack’s hand to keep him from falling, said Hutch.
Marianne frowned. The gesture had been automatic – so automatic that she’d not recognized the import. And Jack had leaned heavily on her shoulder – he was the same height as Craven and much more solid, so he towered over her even more threateningly. That made her forbearance remarkable, hinting that her hysteria rose from Craven himself and not his actions. It was an exhilarating notion.
Be careful, warned Hutch. Craven isn’t your only problem. You met him long after Barnett diagnosed you as mad.
Jack was hardly an adequate test of her sanity, for he had already rescued her and proven himself harmless. He’d resided in her mind for years, making him a part of her. But she could use her tolerance to distract him.
Biting her lip, she played with ways to phrase a request for help. She couldn’t admit that Barnett thought her mad, so she must claim that she lacked practice in conversation. And her goal would be to face others. Twelve years had passed since she’d last left Halworth Park. Twelve years since she’d spoken to tenants, walked through the village, discussed anything with real people beyond today’s plans or next week’s menus.
Expressing such goals revived excitement over her coming freedom. She shivered at images of facing Craven with poise and grace and paying calls on neighbors she’d last seen in childhood.
Don’t lose track of your purpose, ordered Hutch. Biting off too much at once won’t work.
“I won’t.” If she failed to keep Jack alive, nothing else mattered. Until she knew whether her tolerance extended beyond him, she would concentrate on his despair. And she couldn’t risk doing anything that would anger Barnett.
* * * *
In the end, Marianne managed three hours of sleep before dawn. Choosing a light cloak to hold the morning chill at bay, she headed for the woods.
It would not do to call at Seacliff. Aside from the utter impropriety of an unmarried lady calling on an unmarried gentleman, appearing at the door would cause talk. If the gatekeepers learned that she had left the estate, they would summon Barnett.
So she watched Jack’s house from the shrubbery just beyond the woods. A man as haunted as he would not quietly remain indoors.
From her vantage point, she could see the main entrance and two French windows that opened onto a terrace. The stables were on the other side, but she doubted he could ride far. His limp had been too pronounced. Yet that very fact would make a fall from a horse believable.
She bit her lip. Should she slip around where she could watch the stables? If anyone saw her, the news could reach her uncle in days. And even the sight of a stable sent her into a panic. She’d closed her own twelve years ago.
She was still frozen in indecision when the front door opened. Jack limped down the steps, a new cane gripped in his left hand.
Marianne’s breath rushed out with an audible whoosh. Not only was he on foot, but he was headed in her direction.
“You look none the worse for yesterday’s accident, Colonel Caldwell,” she said calmly when he neared the woods.
He jumped. “Marie. You startled me.”
“I suppose I did. Is your leg worse today?” She nodded at the cane.
“No.” He frowned at the shrubs that sheltered her. “After your comments on the boundary between our estates, I am surprised to find you in my park. Do you come here often?”
“Never. But I had to make sure you came to no harm. I understand you are still recovering from Waterloo.”
“Yes.” His mouth snapped shut.
Marianne stifled a sigh. As she’d feared, the battle bothered him. Wellington had again cited him for bravery, but the newspapers described Waterloo as the worst battle in history – certainly the worst of the war against Napoleon.
“Why walk over here?” he asked again. “You could have sent a message easily enough.”
“Hardly. My books on manners condemn writing notes to unmarried gentlemen. Besides, servants talk. How could I explain my interest?”
“But we are old friends. Even the highest stickler would accept an inquiry about my health under the circumstances.”
She shook her head. “I am glad you consider me a friend, but no one knows of yesterday’s meeting, and few know about France. So we must remain strangers who happen to own adjacent estates. However, I would not object to talking for a time. Would you care to walk? There is a lovely view of the lake not far from here.”
“I would be delighted.”
He looked surprised at his words, so she congratulated herself. Already she was distracting him from his melancholy. “Tell me about Spain,” she began. “Not the war, for that is over. But what of the people? How does the land differ from England or France? The climate? The crops?”
“You sound interested.”
“Always. I spend much of my time in study, but books rarely answer all my questions. You have traveled far and can give me firsthand accounts of other lands. Is it true that Spain is hotter than England?”
“Very. And the light is harsher. The air is clear, with none of the softening effects of our English haze, and the sun rises higher in the sky.” He spoke eloquently, describing wooded mountains, searing plains, olive and orange groves that stretched for miles, and hot-blooded people who fit the land like a glove. He didn’t stop until they emerged from the woods.
Grass sloped down to a crescent-shaped lake. Willows draped prettily into the water. A folly in the form of a Grecian temple rose on the inside curve.
“You are right,” said Jack, a smile tugging faintly at one corner of his mouth. “It is beautiful. Do you come here often?”
“On the days I seek serenity. Sometimes nothing but the wildness of the Channel will do – or the challenge of the gardens. The lake offers peace.” She pointed as two deer walked daintily to the shore for a drink. A mother and fawn, though the fawn was old enough to have lost its spots.
“Is this where you study?” he asked.
“Not as a rule. This is where I relax. I use Papa’s library for study – not a ladylike activity, I understand, but Papa was a scholar and saw nothing amiss in female education. It is a peaceful life, but pleasant enough.”
Jack frowned. “Most young ladies spend their time making or receiving calls.”
She drew a deep breath, recognizing the perfect opening. “Perhaps one day I can join them – with your help.”
He raised his brows.
“I have lived alone so long that I can no longer tolerate people. Lately, this lack has begun to concern me. My inheritance is currently in a trust, but that will soon terminate, leaving me in charge. If I cannot deal with the steward and other workmen, Halwo
rth will suffer. I am hoping that you can teach me how.”
“I know nothing of estates,” he objected. “For fifteen years, my life has been the army.”
“That is not what I meant.” His response demonstrated another problem. The voices in her head always understood her meaning, but real people could not read her mind. She must be more explicit when talking aloud. “I’ve read numerous books on estate management and agricultural experiments. Once the steward takes me seriously, I can hold my own well enough. But I have lived secluded for so long that I can no longer relax around people. Nor can I discuss even innocuous subjects. You are the first outsider I have spoken to in some time. The practice will be good for me.”
His eyes flared, almost in pain. Marianne wondered if she had crossed some implacable boundary with her request.
Jack started to speak, then shut his mouth. A full minute passed before he tried again. “I will be honored if you wish to practice conversation with me, but I am puzzled about why you have been secluded for so long.”
“It seemed best in the beginning. Now it has become a habit.” She had prepared this answer, for the question was obvious. But revealing that Barnett thought her mad might drive him away. She had to keep him close until he regained his faith in the future.
“Very well, Marie.”
“The name is actually Marianne, Colonel,” she said gently. “Like you, I used the French version so we would not draw unwanted attention.”
“Ah. Marianne it is, then. And I am Jack.” He offered his arm, then led her on a circuit of the lake, chatting lightly about topics far removed from his life or hers.
Chapter Four
“Who owns the estate west of Seacliff?” Jack asked Poole that afternoon, surprising the steward into a jaw-dropping stare. Jack had ignored estate business since arriving from Belgium, often refusing to see Poole at all.
“Is there a problem?” Poole’s shock gave way to trepidation.
“No, but it is time I learned about my neighbors.” He steepled his hands, contemplating Poole’s sudden nervousness. Had the man taken advantage of a disinterested employer to divert income into his own pocket, or was it Halworth Park that bothered him?