Donovan had grabbed her forearm, drawing her back toward him though she tried to brace her feet upon the carriage floor, but it was no use. The damned leather seat was too slippery. With an outraged gasp she was brought up hard against him, his arms locking around her to prevent her from escaping even as she braced her hands upon his chest.
“How…how dare—”
“Easy, woman, easy! I only want to know why it upsets you so terribly to hear such praise. Is it that bloody scar on your face?”
Corisande was so astonished, she felt her jaw drop, her body going limp in his arms as if the wind had been knocked from her.
“So that’s it, then, isn’t it? Good God, Corie, is this how you want to go through life? Denying to yourself that you’re a damned lovely woman and thinking when anyone says so they’re mocking you? So you have a scar. It’s never once bothered me—in fact, from the first moment I saw you it only made me wonder what happened to you. What did happen?”
“I—I was cut,” she said hoarsely, feeling ridiculous as tears began to spill down her cheeks, but she couldn’t stop them. “Three years ago. A girl from Porthleven, Sophie Trelawny, married a terrible man, a monster. He fooled us all, me, her parents, even poor Sophie—he’d always seemed so nice. But he nearly beat her to death on their wedding night—oh, God, there was so much blood.”
She bent her head, sobbing silently now as Donovan’s arms tightened around her.
“Shh, Corie, shh, you don’t have to tell me any more if you don’t want—”
“We…we all took turns sitting with her,” she went on, scarcely hearing Donovan as the horrifying memories assailed her. “Her parents, myself, Frances, sitting at her bedside and caring for her while a search went on for the man. But a few days went by, then a week, and they never found him. Everyone thought he’d fled from Cornwall, but he came back. He came back the night I was sitting alone with Sophie.”
“Corie, it’s all right—”
“He’d been drinking for days, the bastard, and he kicked in the window. He had a knife and he went for the bed while Sophie could only scream, too weak to move. I tried to stop him, but he knocked me to the floor, and when I came back at him again, he turned and cut me. I fell—I thought he was going to kill me, he was standing over me and I saw the knife and Sophie was screaming and screaming…”
Corisande clutched Donovan’s coat even as he coaxed her to stop, jerking at the deafening memory of a pistol shot exploding in the room.
“Oliver Trelawny killed him—he’d heard Sophie screaming, poor, poor Sophie. She never recovered, died only a few days later. She’d lost too much blood…”
“Ah, Corie…Corie…”
Corisande gave no heed to Donovan’s soothing whispers as she buried her face against his shoulder and squeezed her burning eyes shut, a great shuddering sigh escaping from her. But a long moment later, she felt him ease her backward, suddenly very much aware of what he was doing as he cupped her face in his hand, his thumb slowly tracing over her cheek…her scar…
“You must wear this as a badge of honor, Corie. Don’t ever allow anyone to make you think that it’s ugly. It’s a thing of beauty, of courage. God help me, I’ve never known a more amazing woman than you. Never.”
His vehemently whispered words plummeting to the very heart of her, Corisande had never felt her pulse pounding so hard as he tilted her chin, his finger tracing over her lips for the barest moment before his mouth captured hers.
She started, pulling back, but he only brought her that much more fiercely against him, his kiss as fierce, as wild. She felt suddenly as if she were drowning, Donovan drawing the very breath from her body, and she thought to fight him, if only to breathe, to live. At least until her arms found their way around his neck and she clung to him as fiercely, drawing from him, too, what he seemed to crave so desperately from her.
“Donovan…”
She’d said his name with a voice that sounded not her own, hoarse, shaking, and she trembled from head to toe as his tongue swept deep into her mouth. Her fingers entwining in his hair, she pulled him closer, gasping when she felt his hand slip inside her cloak and cover her breast, her nipple taut and swollen beneath his palm. A palm that began to slowly circle, the thrilling pressure of his hand filling her with a yearning so powerful she felt she might explode from its sheer intensity.
So, too, came a fierce awareness as she was suddenly pulled onto Donovan’s lap that she not only yearned but wanted to give, ached to give this man a part of herself that she’d given to no one ever before.
And it was the most frightening realization of her life, the swaying, rumbling carriage, the all-encompassing dark, their panting breaths, Donovan kissing her throat, her ear, her face as his hands moved over her body and tugged her dress up over her bare thighs like a dizzying dream from which she now desperately wanted to wake.
God help her, no, she wasn’t falling in love with him, she wasn’t! It was impossible, it was—
“Sorry, my lord, we’ll ‘ave to drive round to the stable, we will. There’s ‘alf a dozen carriages in front of the house and no room for us—Lord, wot a commotion!”
Chapter 27
Donovan cursed under his breath, more because Corisande had suddenly flown from his lap to the opposite seat than at anything the coachman Will Brighton had just shouted out to him. But he cursed aloud when the carriage came to a jolting halt, and Will added incredulously, “It’s His Grace of Arundale come to call, my lord! All the way from Dorset!”
Corisande’s amazement must have matched Donovan’s, for she quickly dabbed at her eyes with her sleeve and then readjusted her dress while he nearly kicked open the carriage door. Dammit, no word from Nigel first? No bloody warning? Donovan waited for Corisande to follow after him, not surprised when she refused to accept his assistance as she descended from the carriage.
“Corie, I had no knowledge of this—” he began, only to fall silent as she turned blazing eyes upon him.
“It appears our wait is over, my lord, your brother come personally to grant you the wonderful news of your inheritance! As you hoped, things have moved quite swiftly after all. Shall we go and welcome them?”
She held out her hand to him, and Donovan had no time to dwell upon the catch in her voice or that her fingers were trembling as they proceeded together to the house. The entrance was ablaze with light as footmen—most of them obviously Nigel’s from their splendid royal blue and silver livery—hurried up and down the front steps carrying in baggage and huge traveling trunks. Standing at the door was Ellen Biddle, her face a bit pale, no doubt at the unexpectedness of her guests, but directing the flow of traffic quite capably all the same.
“Up the central staircase and to the left, all of you. His Grace of Arundale’s chamber will be the first door on the right, Her Grace’s the second.”
“That hasn’t bloody changed,” Donovan muttered to himself as the housekeeper suddenly spied them and came flying down the steps.
“Oh, my lord, Lady Donovan! Their Graces only just arrived—five minutes past, no more. I sent them to the drawing room for refreshment, and Ogden is seeing to their needs, but of course they’ve brought a host of servants with them and even a trio of musicians! His Grace informed me they intend to stay only a day or so, and then they’re bound for London—oh, my goodness, so much to do. I’ve already asked Grace to prepare a light supper, the guest bedrooms are being readied, and fires lit. Is there anything in particular you think Their Graces might require?”
Perhaps another two floors to separate them? Donovan thought dryly, although to the housekeeper he shook his head. “It seems you’ve things well in hand, Miss Biddle. We’ll await your notice of supper in the drawing room.”
“Oh, yes, my lord, of course. And how fortunate for you and Lady Donovan to arrive at such an opportune time.”
Donovan felt Corisande tug her hand free at that remark and proceed up the steps ahead of him, her cheeks ablaze when he caught up with her insid
e the entry hall. But she refused to meet his eyes, appearing quite nervous as she glanced toward the drawing room. Meanwhile, Donovan was suddenly hard-pressed to think of anything else but what had happened in the carriage, the memory of Corisande’s silky thighs making him clench his teeth. God help him, one moment longer, and she would have been his bride in every sense of the word—
“Donovan, old man!”
“Oh, Lord…” Corisande had whispered to herself, but Donovan must have heard her; suddenly she felt him take her arm and propel her forward as a grinning gentleman who looked a shorter, rounder, and much less handsome version of Donovan came striding across the immense hall to meet them. In fact, she couldn’t help thinking that based upon appearance alone, Donovan would have made a far more impressive duke than this slightly dissipated-looking man whose dark eyes swept over her with some surprise.
“Why, you’ve done quite well for yourself, Donovan—she’s lovely. Corisande’s the name, am I not right, dear lady?”
She nodded, but before she had a chance to utter a word, Donovan propelled her onward toward the drawing room, saying over his shoulder to his brother, “I’d like to speak with you in the library, Nigel. Wait for me there, if you will.” Then to Corisande, he added very low, “I won’t be gone long, Corie. My brother’s wife, Charlotte, whines incessantly about everything, but do your best to entertain her. If all else fails, ask her if the musicians might play for you. I believe Nigel keeps them close at hand just to drown out her complaints.”
With that, Donovan left her standing alone just outside the drawing room while he turned and strode after Nigel, who had obligingly disappeared into the library.
Bloody bastard! Of course Donovan couldn’t wait to talk to his brother, so eager to hear about his inheritance that he hadn’t waited even two minutes before ridding himself of her. Just as she imagined he could hardly wait now to annul her and be on his way back to Spain—oh, God.
Corisande closed her eyes, feeling suddenly almost dizzy, the pain of that reality cutting her so deeply. But in the next instant she lifted her chin, intoning vehemently to herself, “It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter!” as she moved to the drawing room door.
So Donovan would soon be leaving Cornwall. Good riddance! She wanted him to go! So far, far away that there would never be any chance of her seeing him again. And she wanted whatever had awakened inside her to go away too. Please, please, make it go away…
“Lady Donovan, are you all right?”
Corisande started, spinning to find Ellen Biddle looking at her with concern.
“Yes—no, no, I’m not,” she murmured, Nigel’s disagreeable wife the last person she felt like meeting right now. “I’m sorry, Ellen. Could you please give my regrets to the duchess? Something must have disagreed with me at dinner tonight—I’m sorry.”
Corisande fled, avoiding even looking at the library door as she dodged two footmen carrying a trunk and raced up the stairs.
***
“Good God, couldn’t you have at least written and given us some notice that you intended to visit?”
Donovan wasn’t surprised that Nigel’s grin had faded, yet his brother still seemed unconcerned, giving him a shrug.
“Sorry, old man, there really wasn’t time, and Arundale Hall was in an uproar for days. Charlotte always goes mad each year with packing before we leave for the Season, so I stayed well out of her way and took myself elsewhere—”
“I can bloody imagine.” Donovan cut him off, surmising his brother had kept himself well amused by his mistresses.
“Actually, Donovan, it’s not at all what you think. I say, you’re just as ill-tempered as ever. I had hoped that marriage might have mellowed you a bit—oh, hell, look what it’s done for me.”
Nigel sounded so disgruntled that Donovan almost laughed; instead he went to pour them both a good, stiff brandy.
“Damned good idea, brother.” Nigel grunted as he dropped into a deep wing chair. “I feel as if I’ve been traveling for days now and, by Jove, I have been! To London, then back again to Christchurch to fetch Charlotte, and then here—”
“You’ve been to London?” Donovan set down the decanter, growing tense as Nigel gave him a nod and an enigmatic smile.
“So I have, so I have. But hand me that brandy first, then I’ll give you the news I came so far to deliver to you myself.”
Donovan obliged him, Corisande’s words after she stepped from the carriage suddenly ringing in his mind: “It appears our wait is over, my lord, your brother come personally to grant you the wonderful news of your inheritance!” She had sounded upset, yes, and sarcastic, but something else, too, her voice strangely breaking…
“Are you just going to stand there, Donovan? Share a toast with me, old man! The necessary papers have been signed, the money transferred to your bank, the controlling share of the mine in your name. The inheritance is yours, and I’d say you earned it in record time. Father would have been pleased—no, elated—and so am I!”
Donovan stared at his brother almost stupidly, the moment he had so anticipated not anything at all as he would have imagined. He should have been glad—hell, he had all the money now he could possibly need to search for Paloma and he was vastly relieved, there was no denying it. He should have been damned eager, too, to head out at once for London so he could arrange an immediate annulment and then catch the first naval ship bound for Lisbon. But he wasn’t.
Hell and damnation, he wasn’t.
Donovan drank, half draining his glass while Nigel looked on with approval.
“Good show! Marrying wasn’t so difficult after all, was it? It’s only the trials that come later—but no, no bloody bemoaning tonight. And you certainly can’t complain. I’ll admit I was a mite concerned when you wrote to say you’d decided upon a local vicar’s daughter, and then when Fanny came back wailing at how unkindly you’d treated her and saying your bride had a scarred face—”
“Fanny said…By God, I should have flogged those women from my house instead of just throwing them out!” Donovan roared, incensed. “Corie got that scar trying to save someone’s life—”
“Easy, man, I said that as no insult,” Nigel broke in, his gaze suddenly speculative as he studied Donovan. “Your wife’s a beauty, scar or no, which I was very glad to see. I imagine it’s been no trouble at all bedding her, not like the times some of us have had with our wives…”
He didn’t continue, a look of such distaste on his face as he rose to pour himself another drink that Donovan knew Nigel was thinking of Charlotte. Just as he was thinking once more of Corisande and how she’d wound her arms around his neck and kissed him so passionately, moaning his name
“Another for you, brother?”
Donovan shook his head, his blood already heated enough, and it wasn’t because of the brandy. Instead he waited until Nigel had retaken his seat before asking, “Why did you go to London? Couldn’t you have sent Wilkins to handle everything for you?”
“Oh, yes, but I had something else to accomplish.” Nigel paused for a drink, the same enigmatic smile on his face as he lowered his glass. “It’s all been taken care of, Donovan. You need have no fear of getting yourself blown to bits any longer—or I should say, I’ve no fear—”
“What are you talking about?”
“Your service under Lord Wellington is done, man. Finished. An official dispatch releasing you from further duty has been sent to his headquarters, so you need harbor no notion that you must return to Spain. I need you here, Donovan, and now your marriage has given me the means I needed to ensure you may stay in Britain. Besides, you’ve already given four distinguished years to the defense of the Commonwealth, longer than most men of your station. It’s time you think of yourself, of your bride, of having children and prospering here in Cornwall.”
Donovan kept silent, struck by the thought that even a week ago this news would have sent him into a rage. To have Nigel so ordering his life? But that his service in the army was over
did not so much concern him.
He still must return to Spain for Paloma’s sake, but not yet. He couldn’t leave yet. He would send money at once to the trusted men he’d hired to continue the search for his daughter while he was away in England, but Corisande needed him, too, although she’d never admit it. She was in danger, and not until whoever had attacked her was found and punished…
“No argument, Donovan? No scowls? No curses? I say, old man, you surprise me. You’re acting much different than you did at Arundale Hall. Maybe marriage has mellowed you after all.”
“And I’m bloody surprised you didn’t wait to hear some word from Ogden before you set off for London.”
“No, no, I decided all must be well after hearing what you did to Fanny and her cohorts—” Nigel abruptly went still, looking at Donovan with some chagrin, although an instant later, he shrugged. “There’s much at stake here. The Arundale dukedom, man, what did you expect? But Ogden has already assured me that everything is as it should be—unless you’ve something to tell me?”
“No more than that I don’t want my wife troubled with news of my inheritance. Or anything else we’ve discussed. It was hard enough for Corie when those housemaids—damn them, all that business about my marrying her for an heir. I don’t want to see her hurt again.”
“Yes, yes, I imagine you don’t.”
Nigel was staring at Donovan so intently that he began to feel uncomfortable, going to refill his glass after all.
“Well, well, brother, so it’s finally happened.”
Donovan tensed, but he didn’t turn around. “What’s happened?”
“Oh, I think you know. I envy you too.”
Donovan didn’t reply, downing his brandy and heading for the door while Nigel rose from his chair and followed him.
“Don’t worry, old man, as far as I’m concerned, we came here simply to meet your bride. I only hope Charlotte hasn’t made her regret marrying into our family.”
Man of My Dreams Boxed Set Page 23