Lindsay recalled the crippling fear that had lanced through him as he awoke from his startling dream. “It was real.”
“The hookah is a magical thing,” Wallingford said, watching him curiously. “It makes us see ghosts in the vapors. It makes us feel things that are not there and the things that are there no longer matter. It is so easy to run from our ghosts with the hookah as I think you discovered.”
“It is never easy to run. I shall never outrun this ghost.”
Wallingford pursed his lips tightly together and studied him, his expression growing somber. “This particular ghost has an otherworldly hold on you, Raeburn. I’m afraid she always will. She is going to destroy you.”
“I already am. I brought about my own demise when I foolishly allowed myself to be weak. I should have resisted the lure that bitch Rebecca offered me. Had I resisted temptation instead of pursuing it, Anais would have been my wife by now. I would not be standing here on Christmas Eve, longing for her, wishing I could find a way to magically erase the past.”
“What did you see?” Wallingford asked. “What was so terrible that you had to race back here to the woman who would not even allow you to defend yourself? A woman whose love is so fleeting that she cannot allow you an ounce of forgiveness?”
In the vision, Anais arose amidst a veil of gossamer smoke, her beauty unveiled amidst curling tendrils that cloaked the air. Her softly rounded body and her rose, taut nipples were clearly visible beneath the pale pink gown that hugged her body. Her long blond curls were unbound and her arms outstretched, beckoning him to come to her, and like a slavish disciple he had gone to her. In that moment, she had taken him in her arms, whispering absolution.
He had lowered her onto the silk pillows that were scattered about the floor of his room. He could smell her—the scent of her petal-soft skin—despite the heavy and sensual cloud of incense that hung like a haze above the divan.
She had felt warm and alive in his arms until suddenly she grew stiff and cold. Her beautiful, sparkling, cornflower-blue eyes grew dim and distant as she stared unseeing at him. And then he saw the crimson liquid that slowly began to engulf them. It glistened in the candlelight from the lanterns that hung above them as it began to cover her pale skin. And she kept looking at him with those cold, lifeless eyes. He could not bear it, could not stand to watch her taken from him. As he pushed himself away from her, her lips parted and she softly said the words that haunted him for months. “You did this to me, Lindsay, you have killed me.”
He had awakened, shaken by the vision, terrified that it had been a sign that something was wrong—a sign that he had to come back to her and make amends. A sign he could not ignore.
“Raeburn, look,” Wallingford commanded, drawing him from the horror of his mind. “There are flames coming from the side of the house.”
Snapping to attention, Lindsay focused his gaze on the level below Anais’s window. From his position above the house he saw the brilliant orange flicker that was reflected by the glass.
“That is Darnby’s study,” he said, setting the stallion into motion. “And the hearth is next to that window. Come, Wallingford,” he yelled, racing down the path that led to the vale.
Lindsay wondered, as he blinked back the snow from his eyes, if this was not the reason he had felt compelled to come back home.
Jumping off his horse, Lindsay ran up the manor stairs and threw open the doors. The house was in a state of chaos with servants rushing here and there, screaming and running wild and frightened with buckets of water. He watched as two burly footmen emerged from a thick cloud of smoke, dragging a coughing and sputtering Lord Darnby from his study.
“Oh, Lord Raeburn,” Anais’s lady’s maid gasped when she saw him through the smoke. “You’ve come back.”
“Where is your mistress, Louisa?”
“Trapped upstairs. Roger and William have gone to fetch her, but they canna see or breathe for the smoke.”
“See to Darnby,” Lindsay ordered Wallingford who had followed him inside. “Bring him to Eden Park. I shall meet back up with you there.”
Lindsay could see the blood running in rivulets down Darnby’s balding head. “He’s injured,” Wallingford called. “He’ll need a physician.”
“Then do it, man,” he barked, shrugging out of his greatcoat. “I shall find Anais.”
“What the bloody hell is going on?”
Lindsay whirled around and came face-to-face with Broughton. The last time he had looked into his friend’s face, he had been standing before him with a brace of dueling pistols in his hands.
Broughton had called him out the next day, after the debacle with Rebecca. The duel had not been about avenging Rebecca’s honor, or Garrett’s. No, Broughton had called him out to defend Anais, and Lindsay had agreed to it, hoping to gain some measure of his own honor back. Only they had not been able to go through with it. Putting a bullet in each other would never satisfy, could never wash away the pain that Lindsay had brought to everyone he had ever cared about.
They had both fired their shots in the air, then turned their backs on each other.
“What the devil are you doing in here?”
Lindsay did not miss how Broughton’s face went white as his gaze furiously raced back and forth between the burning staircase and him.
“Anais is trapped up there. I’m going to get her.”
Garrett glared at him, “You cannot possibly manage the task on those stairs, Raeburn. It’s unsafe. If you don’t get yourself killed first, then you’ll hurt her on the way down. No, the only way is from outside.”
“No,” Lindsay barked, already racing for the stairs. “It’s thirty feet at least to the ground. She cannot possibly lower herself out the window from that height.”
“The stairs will be gone by the time you find her. It will be the only way down.”
Ignoring Broughton, he rushed up the stairs and saw that the flames were already licking their way up the door of Anais’s chamber. “Anais,” he shouted through cupped hands. But there was no sound save for the cracking and splintering of wood and the roar of the flames.
Shouldering through the door, he saw that he was in Anais’s dressing room. Running over to the door that connected to her bedroom, he prayed he would find it unlocked. He was not so fortunate. By the time he was able to thrust it open with his shoulder, she was dangling outside the window, the gigot sleeve of her muslin wrapper caught on a wire hook in the curtain she had used to make her escape.
“It’s all right, angel,” he said, fear eating at him as he saw the delicate fabric begin to give way beneath her weight. Her fingers, blue and trembling, would not be able to sustain their hold on the curtain rope much longer. Her eyes were round as saucers as she slipped farther. There was no recognition in those familiar blue eyes, just terror, he realized as she looked blankly up at him.
“My wrapper…I’m pinned,” she gasped, choking as the smoke filled the chamber.
“Don’t look down, Anais. Here, reach for my hand. Trust me, love. I’ll save you, Anais. Have faith in me.”
She looked down at Garrett who was standing below, his arms outstretched. Lindsay knew what thoughts were running through her mind. Garrett could be trusted to catch her. Lindsay feared that he was just a specter she saw through the growing smoke. The distrust he saw in her eyes, the hurt and pain made him realize the depth of the destruction he had caused. Never before had she chosen Garrett over him, but it was clear to Lindsay that Anais was going to put her trust—and her life—in Garrett’s waiting arms.
“Damn you, reach for my hand,” he ordered, leaning out of the window as his shirtsleeves billowed in the wind. Terror was ruling him now. There was no way that Broughton could catch her from this height. His arms would not bear the weight or the force of her fall. She would be crushed and broken, and Lindsay could not stand to think that he would bear witness to it.
“Anais, reach for my hand. Do it,” he commanded. “Do it now!”
; And then he saw the delicate muslin cuff give way. Saw her eyes go round and her pale mouth part on a silent sound. “No!” he roared, heaving himself forward in a desperate bid to reach her, but she slipped through his fingers, and he was forced to watch her fall backward, her arms stretched out to him. Her hair, loose from its pins, floated about her. Her name was ripped from his soul as he saw his vision being born before his eyes.
He watched her, helpless, frozen in time as his gaze stayed locked on her wide, frightened eyes, and he swore he could almost hear her say, “You’ve done this to me, Lindsay. You’ve killed me.”
6
Racing out of the chamber, heart pounding, Lindsay lunged for the stairs, heedless of the flames that were busy devouring the wooden banister. Reaching the main level, he ran outside and froze on the step, his breathing coming in hard gasping pants. Before him, Broughton stood with legs braced wide and Anais draped in his arms, her long golden curls cascading over the sleeve of Garrett’s black greatcoat.
For what felt like minutes Lindsay could say nothing as his gaze stayed riveted on Anais, waiting for some sign that she had made it through the ordeal unscathed. When he saw her chest rise and fall, he fought the urge to sink to his knees in relief. At that moment, he didn’t care that it was Broughton she had chosen.
“I’ve got Darnby,” Wallingford called from his horse, jolting Lindsay out of his stupor. Anais’s father was in the saddle in front of Wallingford, barely conscious. Lindsay could see that the man had suffered a deep wound to his head and that it was bleeding heavily.
“I’ve sent one of the stable boys to Broughton’s estate,” Wallingford called over his shoulder as he took the reins in his gloved hand. “Broughton says Robert is in residence. I shall meet you back at Eden Park, then?”
Lindsay nodded, his gaze straying back to Broughton, who continued to hold Anais in his arms. Still he was unable to slow his breathing or the shaking of his hands. He felt like a damn weakling, but Christ, he had nearly lost her. The thought was more than he could endure.
“The carriage,” Broughton yelled as he brushed away a mass of curls from Anais’s face. “Somebody get me a bloody carriage—now!”
Something inside Lindsay snapped as he watched his friend bring Anais’s body closer into his. “Give her to me,” Lindsay begged as he ran down the steps. “I will take her on horseback and be there much quicker than the time it will take a carriage to make its way through the roads.”
“You’ll do no such thing. She’s been ill—gravely ill. She can’t be out in this weather. Jesus, she’s turning blue as we speak,” Broughton snarled, clutching her hard against his chest, shielding her from the biting wind and cold just as a loud crack exploded through the roof. Seconds later, the attic of the house caved in, sending sparks and flames jumping up into the sky that resembled black velvet.
“Now is not the time to argue, Broughton.” Lindsay eyed the tower of flame that erupted through the opening that was once the attic. The wind was up, making a dangerous situation that much more. “For God’s sake, the entire house is engulfed in flame. We have to get away from here, and get Anais to safety. Give her to me!” Lindsay was prying Anais, who was in the midst of a deep swoon, from Broughton’s arms. “For the love of God, man, my stallion can have her at Eden Park in minutes.”
Broughton looked down at Anais, who was still asleep in his arms. Lindsay didn’t care for the possessive, familiar look in Broughton’s eyes. Nor could he tamp down the fierce jealousy that pierced his breast. Bloody hell, Broughton was far too comfortable with a half-dressed Anais draped in his arms.
“Smith,” Lindsay called, beckoning Darnby’s groom. “Bring me the black Arabian.”
The stallion was brought round. Lindsay gained the saddle swiftly before snatching a cloak from a maid who had run outside to check on her mistress.
“Give her to me, Broughton.”
“What the devil do you think?” Broughton snapped, his angry expression glowed in the orange glare of the flames. “That you can come traipsing back here as though nothing has happened, like you’re some goddamned knight in shining armor?”
“Give her to me,” Lindsay thundered. “It’s cold. She shouldn’t be outside any longer than needed.”
Broughton continued to clutch Anais protectively against his chest. “Do you actually think I’ll sit back this time and allow you to hurt her once again?”
Lindsay narrowed his gaze. They were no longer talking about Anais’s safety and getting her out of the cold. It was very clear that Broughton was staking a claim to the woman Lindsay loved. “I don’t deny I was wrong. I don’t deny that I have very little right to expect anything from Anais, but that is not the most pressing detail now. I’ve been on the roads in a carriage, Broughton. It’s slow and icy, and frankly, treacherous. I can be there faster on horseback. Put aside your anger with me, to realize it’s in Anais’s best interest. After, if you want to call me out again and put a bullet in my chest, then be my guest. Right now, I’m thinking only of Anais.”
With one last look at her face, Broughton reluctantly placed her into Lindsay’s outstretched arms. “I’ll be right behind you,” he muttered, turning to his carriage, which had just been brought around.
Covering Anais from head to toe with the cloak, Lindsay sunk his stirrups into the Arabian’s sides, tearing off into the blowing snow for the short ride to Eden Park.
By the time he reached his estate, the house was rife with disorder and shouting. His father, irritated and inebriated, was bellowing obscenities, irked to have his home descended upon by unwanted guests and in such a haphazard fashion.
“Bloody hell, boy, is that you?” his father grunted as Lindsay emerged through the do or carrying Anais. “Or am I seeing visions?”
“It is me,” Lindsay grumbled. “Where is Mother? I will need her help.”
“Church, where else would she be on Christmas Eve?” his father snapped. “You might have sent word that you were coming home. Christ, you might have sent word that you were still alive.”
“Might you lecture me later, Father?”
His father, who looked jaundiced and haggard, narrowed his eyes. “What the devil are you going to do with her?”
“Might I suggest the guest wing?” Worthing, their butler, announced.
“You may not,” Lindsay grumbled. “She will stay in my chamber until she is well enough. I want her close in case she requires anything. I will use my sitting room.”
“That isn’t wise, boy,” his father bellowed. “Things have changed since you’ve been gone. I’ve a feeling your friend Broughton will raise hell when he finds out.”
Lindsay stopped on the top riser, his gut turning to stone as he pivoted on the heel of his boot to glare down at his father. “Broughton can go to the devil. She is in my care now, and I will say what is to be done for her.”
Ignoring his father’s grunt, Lindsay stalked down the hall and flung open the door of his chamber. Placing her atop his bed, he pulled the cloak from her face, his fingers tracing her cheeks as he whispered for her to wake up.
“I’ll tend to Lady Anais first.”
It was Robert Middleton’s voice. “In here, Middleton. She’s breathing, but still in her swoon.”
Robert passed him and turned to shut the door, but Lindsay stayed him. “Your brother said she’s been ill. What the devil does he mean? She’s never been sick a day in her life.”
“Now is not the time, for God’s sake,” Robert snapped. “Many things have changed since you’ve left, things that are not of your concern. Now, get out of my way and let me attend Anais.”
The door to the room slammed shut, and Lindsay had the horrible, gut-wrenching sensation that he’d just been shut out of Anais’s life. As he stared at the glossed cherry wood, he saw himself on the outside, looking in. No longer was he welcome. Now, he was just a ghostly image standing on the peripheries, no longer wanted, no longer needed.
The door to Lindsay’s sitting room cli
cked shut. Tension—taut and pulsing—filled the atmosphere. A year ago the three of them—Lindsay, Broughton and Wallingford—would have taken their leisure amongst the pillows and divans scattering the room.
Now they stood separate, shoulders squared, jaws locked. Striding to the window, Lindsay clutched the casement frame and watched the blinding whirl of snow on the ground below. His gaze immediately strayed to the left, searching for Lansdowne farm, to the scene of his duel with Broughton and the decimation of their friendship.
No honor had been gained in that duel. No satisfaction for the wrongs he had caused. He wondered if Broughton now wished he had not wasted his shot and instead, shot him dead, only to leave him bleeding on the damp grass.
God knew, men had been killed on the field of honor for less weighty trespasses than what he had done.
“She cannot possibly stay here,” Broughton snapped as he started pacing, his wet boots grinding into the delicate threads of the gold-and-blue Persian carpet.
“Where would you have her go?” Wallingford asked, reaching inside his jacket for a cheroot. “Perhaps you haven’t noticed, but there is a bloody blizzard outside and the girl is lying unconscious in the bed next door.”
“It would be an insult for her to have to spend any length of time in this house. Not after what he has done to her.”
“For the love of God, Broughton,” Wallingford mumbled as he lit his smoke. “Where else would you have the girl go?”
“She could have come to The Lodge. Robert and his wife are in residence for the winter. He could oversee her care from there. Margaret could have acted as chaperone.”
Lindsay’s fingers tightened on the wood. Anais at Broughton’s estate? Never. He may no longer deserve a spot in her life, but he couldn’t swallow the idea of Anais staying in Garrett’s home. Christ, he’d rather be dead than to think of Anais together with Garrett. With anyone but him.
“Think of the scandal, Broughton. No one will bat an eye at the Darnbys staying with the Marquis of Weatherby. Everyone in the county knows of the longstanding friendship between Anais’s father and Raeburn’s mother. But to have Anais staying with you, while her parents are with the Weatherbys—it just wouldn’t work, you must see that.”
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