Impetuous

by Candace Camp

  “Aunt Ardis keeps moaning and crying and saying for sure you’re in the river, but I don’t know how she could think you would be so stupid as to fall in a river. Joanna wanted to help Sir Philip search, but he snapped at her that he couldn’t have her slowing him down. He told her to either go on her own or go back to the house.”

  “She didn’t look half-mad,” Crispin mused gleefully, and both boys chuckled at the pleasant memory of their cousin’s frustration.

  “Look!” Hart turned away, pointing toward the horizon. “There he comes now.”

  A horse and rider were tearing along the road, and as they watched, the graceful animal slowed a fraction, gathered itself and soared over the stone fence. It thundered straight toward them. The rider was distinguishable now as Sir Philip, and he pulled up at the last moment and flung himself out of the saddle, running across the last few remaining feet toward them.

  “Cassandra!” His face was etched with lines of worry, and he held out his arms to her.

  Without a second thought Cassandra flung herself into them. “Oh, Philip!”

  She burst into tears. He held her for a long time, his arms so tightly around her that Cassandra could scarcely breathe, but she did not mind. It felt too wonderful, too warm and safe, in the circle of his arms. The twins bounced around, excitedly telling their story of hearing something odd and then recognizing it as Cassandra’s voice and finally finding the door to the windmill wedged shut by boards. Philip nodded, scarcely hearing them, concentrating only on holding Cassandra and letting the knowledge sink in on him that she was safe, was actually there with him.

  He had spent the most frightful night of his life frantically searching for her, with no clue as to where she had gone or why. He had been haunted by the fear that she had run away because of him, that she had been too shamed by their illicit passion or so overcome with guilt that she had had to get away from him. Logically he had known that the idea was foolish, that Cassandra was too levelheaded to run off like that without telling anyone or at least leaving a note.

  But logic had not been able to stand up against his raging fear and guilt, and he had cursed himself for giving in to his desires last night and not taking the time to talk to her as he had meant to. He had wanted to explain that they would be married at the earliest possible time, that his decision to make love to her had been at the same time a decision to marry her. He had thought that surely she realized that, that she knew he would not have compromised her, that even in the midst of his raging passion he would not have taken her if he had not known that she was the only woman he could want as his wife.

  He had said nothing, though. He was not the sort to bandy about words of love, and an offer of marriage was not easy for him to make. His family had never been demonstrative. One did not speak of emotions; indeed, one did one’s best not to express them in any way. It had been much easier and more pleasant to express his feelings for her with his hands and lips. As his desire surged in him last night, he had shoved aside the matter of talking. When she disappeared, he had been racked with guilt that she had vanished because she thought he wanted only to make her his mistress.

  Now he held her as if he would never let her go again, stroking her back and murmuring soothingly, “It’s all right. It’s all right. You don’t need to be scared any longer.”

  “Oh, Philip! It was so dark, and I didn’t know if anyone would ever find me….”

  “I know. But it’s all over now.” He kissed her hair, murmuring something she could not quite hear. “I’m going to take you home.”

  She nodded, all her doubts vanquished in the warmth of Philip’s arms. He put her up on his horse in front of him, and she leaned against his chest. They rode slowly back to the house, the gentle rocking movement of the horse and Cassandra’s own weariness pulling her down into sleep.

  * * *

  WHEN CASSANDRA NEXT opened her eyes, she was lying in her bed in Haverly House, the drapes drawn against the light. For an instant she was stabbed with the fear she had known the night before, but in the next moment she realized where she was, and she drew a shaky sigh of relief.

  “You’re awake!” Olivia bounced up from the chair in which she had been sitting, watching her sister, and plopped down onto the bed beside her. “Thank heavens! I was beginning to think that you would never wake up!”

  Cassandra licked her dry lips. She was still parched, she realized. She had slept straight through, not awakening to eat or drink anything. “Water?” she croaked.

  Olivia flew to fulfill her request, and Cassandra drank down two glasses, one right after another, then flopped back down on the bed. “Oh, Lord, I’m a mess.” She ran a hand over her filthy dress and touched her equally dusty hair and face. “I’m ruining the sheets.”

  “I know. You should have seen the housekeeper’s face when Sir Philip insisted on putting you in between her pristine sheets, just as you are. But she knew better than to argue with him. He looked like he wanted an excuse to strangle somebody.” Olivia giggled. “Aunt Ardis was babbling about how he should not be in your room, him being a man and all, and he gave her this look. I wish you could have seen it. Aunt Ardis shut her mouth like a clam.” Olivia demonstrated, snapping her fingers. “But his mother did make him leave after he got you settled. He wanted to stay here until you awoke, but Lady Neville persuaded him that he would only scare you, the way he looked, and that he would be better to sleep and shave before he saw you again.”

  Cassandra shoved aside the sheets and started to stand up, but Olivia ran to her side worriedly. “What are you doing? Are you sure you’re all right?”

  “I’m not sick. I only spent the night in a most uncomfortable place. What I need right now is something to eat and a bath—in that order. Olivia, be a love and ring for a maid.”

  Olivia did so, then helped her sister undress and comb out her tangled, matted hair, all the while asking questions about Cassandra’s ordeal. The maids drew a hot bath, and another one carried up a tray with a cold supper, and Cassandra eagerly partook of both.

  She had just finished pulling on her dressing gown and was combing out her wet hair when there was a peremptory knock on her bedroom door and Sir Philip strode in without waiting for an answer.

  “The maid said you were up. How are you?”

  “Quite well, thank you.” Cassandra felt strangely reserved with him. When he had found her, the doubts of the dark night had vanished, and she had felt instinctively safe in his arms. But, now, rested and refreshed, her primitive instincts had receded, and the logical doubts had come crowding back in.

  “Olivia, leave us alone,” Philip ordered. “I have to talk to your sister.”

  Olivia didn’t stay to argue, even though her aunt had clearly impressed on her that her duty was to keep Sir Philip out of Cassandra’s bedroom, where a gentleman did not belong.

  Philip strode over to where Cassandra sat, a frown stamping his face. “I sent my gamekeeper to search the windmill and look for tracks. He could find nothing. The ground is utterly dry. This is completely inexplicable. The boys say that the door to the windmill was jammed. They insist that someone must have done it on purpose. Is that true? How did you get there?”

  Cassandra stiffened. Except for his initial abrupt question, he had not shown a bit of concern about how she was doing after her ordeal. “My, aren’t we the lord of the manor this afternoon?”

  He cast her a glance of exasperation, born of a night of sleepless anxiety compounded by a frustrating inability to discover who had done this to Cassandra and a thoroughly annoying and concerted effort on everyone’s part to keep him away from her. “Come, Cassandra, don’t quibble. Just tell me how you got there.”

  “I don’t know!” Cassandra snapped back. “Believe me, if I knew who had abducted me, I would be happy to tell you. But I was knocked out at the abbey, and the next thing I knew, I was w
aking up inside that windmill with a terrible headache and no idea what I was doing there.”

  “I knew you must have gone to the abbey,” he said with a sense of vindication.

  “Of course I did, since your note told me to meet you there,” Cassandra responded with some asperity. She watched him levelly, trying to gauge his reaction.

  He stared at her blankly. “I beg your pardon?”

  “I said—”

  “No, I heard what you said. It just doesn’t make sense. I didn’t send you a note.”

  “I received one, signed by you.”

  “Where is it? Let me see it.”

  “I don’t have it. I put it in my pocket, and when I awoke, it was no longer there.”

  “Damn!”

  Cassandra lifted her brows. “Do you think I’m making it up?”

  “No, of course not. But I—it could not have been my handwriting.”

  “I am not very familiar with your hand,” Cassandra admitted.

  “Someone obviously lured you out there to abduct you.”

  “But why, Philip? That’s what I want to know. What good could it possibly do anyone to kidnap me and stick me in an abandoned windmill?”

  “It has to be connected with the map.” He frowned. “It would delay our trip to London. I mean, if you were hidden away somewhere for a few days, and I was out looking for you, we could not have left when we planned. If someone—your American cousin, for instance—wanted to get to the Queen’s prayer book before us—”

  “First of all, David Miller is not even in England. He had to return home.”

  “So far as you know.”

  She grimaced. “All right. As far as I know. But how would he know about the Queen’s prayer book? We found out only two days ago. Do you think your mother told him? Or your great-great aunt?”

  “I don’t know!” he snapped. “Perhaps one of the servants overheard us. Perhaps Mother or one of the children said something about it in front of a servant, and he told the others. If Miller had bribed one of them…”

  “Then you think that David has been hanging about Haverly House, talking to the servants and bribing them, and no one has seen him? That he has been here, yet there has been no gossip about a stranger in the village?”

  He shrugged. “It does seem unlikely. But who else would you suggest, then? Do you think one of the servants did it? One of our families?”

  “Besides,” Cassandra went on inexorably, bringing out the final, most damning detail, the thing that she had tried her utmost to ignore, but could not, “how would David Miller, or, indeed, anyone, know to tell me to meet you at the abbey? How would they know that it was our favorite place to ride?”

  He stopped, frowning. “I don’t know….” Suddenly understanding dawned on his face. “My God! You think that I did it, don’t you? You think that I lured you out there and whacked you over the head and stashed you in the mill! In the name of all that’s holy, why would I— Oh, but of course, with you out of the way, I would have the treasure all to myself, wouldn’t I?”

  He swung around. “Bloody hell!” He shoved aside a chair, sending it crashing to the floor. “After we—you can think that I—”

  “I don’t want to believe it!” Cassandra cried, springing to her feet. “I’ve tried every way I could think of to disprove it! I don’t think that you—it is just that it is so suspicious.”

  He turned back to her, his face blazing with a fury so fierce that Cassandra shrank back. “Damn your devious Verrere mind! Have you so little trust, so little regard for me? I’ll tell you this truth.” He jabbed his forefinger at her. “We are going to London, and we are going to find that benighted book and the map inside it. Then I am going to get that bloody dowry and dump every last jewel and coin and statue in your lap. You can have the Spanish dowry, every last penny of it. I want none of it.”

  His words struck Cassandra like blows, and she paled, feeling sick to her stomach. “Philip, please…”

  “Please what? Please prove to you that I am not the one who hurt and frightened you, who left you thirsty and starving in that mill? You have no faith in me, no trust, and without that, there is no way that I can make you believe I am not a villain. How can I prove I did not write you a note that you don’t have? How can I prove that I would never harm a hair on your head if our lovemaking did not tell you that already? I could tell you that I was with the estate agent until four o’clock that afternoon, but that would not be enough for you. After all, I might have hired someone to go out and knock you over the head. Perhaps the same fellow I hired to ransack Chesilworth that night?” he suggested with awful sarcasm.

  Cassandra began to cry quietly. She felt as if his words were tearing her apart inside.

  “Oh, Cassandra, please, at least spare me your tears.” He turned on his heel and strode out the door, closing it with a quiet finality behind him.

  Cassandra crumpled to the floor and wept.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  THE JOURNEY TO London was not pleasant. They left the following day, for Cassandra had insisted that she did not need to rest from her ordeal. She did indeed feel sick, but she knew that it was not from the night she had spent locked in the windmill, but from the fact that she felt as if her heart had been torn from her chest. She wanted only to get everything over with and return to Chesilworth, where she could curl up and lick her emotional wounds in peace.

  Cassandra rode in the carriage with her aunt and cousin, while Philip rode his horse. The times when they stopped to rest or eat, she and Philip ignored each other, speaking only whatever was absolutely necessary. Joanna, predictably, was elated by the obvious chill between Cassandra and Philip, and she spent much of the trip trying to pry out of Cassandra what had happened to make Philip look so coldly furious. When she could get no gossip out of Cassandra, she spent her time speculating on her gauche cousin’s various odd ways, which would naturally offend most men.

  Joanna seized the opportunity of the silence between Philip and Cassandra to fill the air at their meals with her own conversation, flirting madly with Philip all the while. Cassandra was too miserable to care about her cousin’s bold coquettishness. She ached for the old companionship she and Philip had shared, for the laughter and good talk and even hearty disagreements. She ached as well for the pleasures that had more recently been theirs. She would not have thought she could so miss something that she had known for such a short time. She wished that the night in the windmill had never happened; she wished she could toss aside her doubts and tell Philip that she trusted him absolutely. But she could not lie to him, and she could not keep the doubts from intruding. Her heart did not believe him capable of wrongdoing, but her head could not dismiss the insistent logic of her reasoning, either.

  At any other time she would have admired the spacious symmetry of the Neville’s town house, a graceful white building on a secluded crescent in Mayfair. It was smaller than Haverly House, of course, its bedrooms closer together, but the elegance of its decoration more than made up for that. Cassandra’s bedroom looked out over the small garden in back, and at night the scent of massed roses drifted up alluringly to her open windows, reminding her of that night in the rose garden when Philip had kissed her and led her down to the gazebo. She found herself wishing that her room faced the street instead.

  The morning after they arrived in London, Philip took her to the offices of his business manager, one Mr. Staley, a prosperous-looking man of forty-odd years. He pointed out to them that he had no personal knowledge of the transaction, as it had been his father, unfortunately now deceased, who had handled the Neville business at that time. He had, however, immediately started looking through the company’s records for any mention of the sale of books for Sir Philip’s father. As yet he had found nothing. It was difficult, he explained, because Lady Neville had been unable to remember the e
xact year of the sale, only a vague period of three or four years.

  Sir Philip nodded. “I expected as much. But keep looking, will you, Staley?”

  “Of course, sir, of course.”

  “I don’t suppose that there was a particular bookseller that my father used?” he queried.

  The other man’s look of amazement was almost comical, but he quickly wiped it from his face. “No, Sir Philip. I am sorry. But I do not believe that your father dealt much in books.”

  Their next stop was the shop of Perryman Simons, the bookseller with whom Cassandra’s father had dealt. He came bustling forward from the back of the store to greet Cassandra, a huge smile splitting his face.

  “Miss Verrere! How wonderful to see you. Aren’t you looking lovely today?” Simons was a short, rotund man with a balding head, spectacles and a perpetually jolly expression. He bowed to each of them in a funny, jerky motion. “It’s been so many months. I was afraid that I would not see you again.” His gaze slid curiously to Sir Philip. “I was so sorry to hear about your father. A good man. A true scholar.”

  “Yes, he was. Thank you.”

  “Could I interest you in a book today?” he asked, gesturing around him at the store. “You know that you are always free to browse.” Again his eyes went to Sir Philip.

  “Actually, we are looking for a particular book, Mr. Simons.” She introduced Sir Philip to Simons, satisfying the man’s curiosity. “Sir Philip is looking for a book that once belonged to his family. It was sold during his father’s lifetime, but it was a valuable book. We were hoping that perhaps you had heard about it.”

  “Why, certainly. I will help you if I can. Come back to my office.” He led the way through the narrow walkway, lined on both sides with shelves, and into a small cubicle at the end of the store. He spent some time fussing over the chairs, clearing one of books and flicking invisible dust from the other before he judged that they were in good enough condition for such important visitors to sit in. “There, now. Could I get you some tea, perhaps?”