The Hellion Bride

by Catherine Coulter

  "To go back to that damned Englishman?"

  "You're a damned Englishman, remember?"

  "As I said, he'll remove you quickly enough. I hear he bores easily and no one woman could ever hold him. My agent in England wrote that he had women climbing over themselves to become his mistress. No, you ugly little slut, you couldn't hold him for more than a night."

  "I don't want to hold him. I don't even want to be in the same room with him. He can have a dozen more mistresses for all I care. However, he does seem honorable, something new in my experience in a man. He has protected Jeremy. I grow tired of this. Jeremy, go outside. I'll follow."

  "But, Sophie—"

  "Go!"

  The boy backed away from her, his face white and set.

  She lowered the derringer to the level of Theo Burgess's left knee. "Perhaps," she said in a very low, very mean voice, "just perhaps I've changed my mind. I would like to know that you're hobbling about for the rest of your damned life, a cripple, a no-account cripple."

  Theo Burgess shrieked, "No, damn you, no!" He rushed toward her, nailing his arms madly.

  Suddenly the candelabra crashed to the floor and the room was plunged into darkness.

  Sophie's finger inadvertently jerked the trigger. The derringer fired, a monstrous loud noise in the small room. She heard an anguished yell. Someone struck her arm but she managed to hold onto the derringer, and this time she pulled the trigger on purpose. Then something struck her on her temple and she slumped to the floor. She heard Jeremy yelling and she smelled something acrid, something she vaguely recognized. She managed to open her eyes, trying desperately to hang on. She saw only darkness and a strange glowing orange light. And the sounds—snapping and hissing and a windy sort of whoosh.

  The light muslin draperies were aflame, billowing upward as if caught in a great wind, flaming out­ward, the heat intense. The room was on fire.

  "Jeremy," she whispered, "run, please, you must run. Go to Ryder. He'll take care of you. You can trust him." She choked on the smoke even as she closed her eyes and her head lolled back on the wooden floor.

  She awoke coughing, her throat raw and burning. She felt someone's arms around her, felt a man's hands rubbing her back as she coughed and wheezed. She heard his voice: "It's over, Sophie. Jeremy is safe. It's over. Shush, don't worry now and don't try to talk."

  Ryder. His voice, his hands on her back. She leaned against him, shuddering from the rawness in her throat, trying not to swallow because it hurt so much.

  "Where is Jeremy? Is he all right, truly?"

  "Be quiet and I'll tell you everything. We're here at Camille Hall. Jeremy had very nearly managed to pull you out of the room all by himself by the time Emile and I got here. The fire is out and the damage isn't too bad. Only the study was pretty well destroyed and the veranda outside charred a bit. Naturally there's smoke damage and the smell in the house is godawful. Uncle Theo is quite dead."

  It hurt so much to talk, to say the words, but she did, wheezing them nut. "I must have killed him. My derringer went off and I heard him yell."

  "Did you now? Well, that was well done of you. However, when you're well enough again, I will have to thrash you at the very least for what you did. If Coco hadn't seen you running barefoot down the Kimberly Hall drive, why then you very probably would have died in that fire, Jeremy along with you, for the boy wouldn't have left you in there to die."

  "The magistrate, Mr. Sherman Cole, will see that I'm hanged."

  "I see no reason why he would want to hang you."

  She tried to pull away from him but he held her firmly.

  "Yes he will. He wanted me to take him as my lover but there was no reason to and so Uncle Theo had me refuse him. He was nasty about it, and threatened me. Uncle Theo thought it was amusing. He said he could handle Cole if the need ever arose. And he also said I was to keep up a light flirtation with him so that if Uncle Theo ever needed some­thing from him, he'd come running when I smiled at him."

  "But you didn't keep flirting with him?"

  "No, I slapped him and stomped on his instep when he tried to kiss me. He's repellent. It was about three months ago."

  "I see. Well, then, my dear girl, I guess it must be I who shot Theo Burgess, trying to save you and Jeremy. But why? After all, Burgess is known only as the loving, ineffectual uncle, isn't he? I must think on this. Perhaps there is another resolution to all this. Yes, let me think on it."

  "Where is Thomas?"

  "I don't know. I haven't seen him. I'll ask."

  "I wanted to shoot Uncle Theo in his knee so he'd be a cripple like Jeremy, to make him live with a limp just as Jeremy has had to do—dear God, he'd actually taken a whip to Jeremy—but I swear to you, I didn't pull the trigger intentionally. The candelabra suddenly crashed to the floor and everything was dark and I jerked accidently on the trigger. Then someone hit my arm and I pulled the trigger on purpose to protect myself."

  "Tell me all of it and don't leave out a thing. Quickly, I don't know how much time we have."

  By the time she was finished speaking, her throat was so raw she could barely speak in anything but a hoarse whisper.

  "I'm giving you over to Samuel now, both you and Jeremy. He'll take you back to Kimberly Hall. Now, no more words from you, no arguments, no nothing. I'm in charge now and you will do exactly what I tell you to do. The first order is that there is to be no talking from you for at least twenty-four hours."

  "My head hurts."

  Ryder frowned down at her and lightly touched his fingertips to the bump over her temple. "Good God, you didn't tell me that someone struck you on the head."

  "I forgot."

  "All right, talk, but make it quick." When she'd finished, he was frowning. She opened her mouth, only to feel his palm over her lips. "No, now be qui­et. Here's Jeremy. Emile was seeing to him while I talked to you."

  The boy was on his knees beside her, stroking her filthy face, her hands. "Oh, Sophie, your feet! What happened? What did you do?"

  She'd forgotten her damned feet.

  Ryder yelled for a lantern. When a slave brought it, he lowered it and looked for a long time at her feet, saying nothing. Then, "From the top of your head to your very toes, you've managed to do your­self in. Jesus, Sophie, your feet are a mess. See that Coco bathes them when you get back to Kimberly."

  Ryder watched Samuel drive away with Sophie and Jeremy. He himself had carried her to the car­riage. He was hot and sweaty and covered with smoke and grime from the fire. He was also in a devil of a mess and in an equally foul mood.

  Where the hell was that bastard, Thomas? Actual­ly, truth be told, Thomas worried him more than Theo Burgess. At least Theo tried to keep up appear­ances; Thomas couldn't give a good damn about any­thing. Ryder had no doubt that it was Thomas who had struck Sophie and hurled the candelabra to the floor.

  Ryder left Emile in charge of Camille Hall and took himself back to Kimberly for a few hours' sleep. When he awoke he was told that Miss Stanton-Greville was still sleeping. He frowned but said nothing. He was thinking about her damned bloody feet, curse her. Just after he'd finished eating break­fast, Mr. Sherman Cole arrived from Montego Bay.

  Sherman Cole looked like the father of one of Ryder's mistresses, a draper in Rye who was greedy and sly. He was very fat, double chins wobbling over his collar, had a monk's tonsure of gray hair, very sharp eyes, and thick lips. The thought of him trying to kiss Sophie made Ryder want to gag.

  Still, he shook the man's hand and offered him coffee. Mr. Cole wanted not only coffee, but sweet buns, which, when a tray was set before him, he eyed with more intensity than Ryder would have had gazing upon a beautiful naked woman.

  Ryder merely sat opposite him and looked over his right shoulder, unable, for the most part, to look at the man's face. It was not an elevating sight. He lis­tened to the man speak even though his mouth was many times full and thus his words a bit slurred.

  "Yes, Mr. Sherbrooke, as you know, I am the mag­istr
ate, the man in charge of all civil and criminal disturbances. I am the law here on the island, the power of the law resides with me. I was shocked to learn that you were involved, that you had brought Miss Sophia Stanton-Greville back to Kimberly with you. I don't know how you came to be involved with her, but I am certain you will tell me soon enough. Please have the girl fetched here. I will question her now."

  My God, Ryder thought, steepling his long fingers. He looked over them at the man who had just con­sumed four sweet buns. The man was not only a pig, he was also pompous, condescending, and thorough­ly irritating. As to his manners, he had none. There were crumbs on his coat and on his chin. The man needed to be stripped and tossed to the crocodiles in the mangrove swamps. It would doubtless keep them busy for at least several days.

  "I think not, Mr. Cole," Ryder said mildly. "You see, she is suffering from breathing in too much smoke and thus cannot speak without a lot of pain. Perhaps in several days you can return and she might be better."

  Mr. Cole frowned. He wasn't used to having any­one go against his expressed wishes. He was the man in charge; he was a leader of men, truly the law here, and it was his word, his orders, that counted. "I want to see her," he said again, obstinate as a Pig.

  "No."

  "See here, Sherbrooke—"

  "Mr. Sherbrooke, Cole."

  Sherman Cole was quite obviously taken aback and becoming angrier by the minute. But he wasn't stupid. Was Sophia Stanton-Greville already this man's mistress? Was he set on protecting her? He pursed his lips. He held himself silent, having learned that a man or woman felt compelled to fill in silences and thus provide him with information, but this young man didn't say a word. He sat back in his chair, his fingers still steepled, and, damn his eyes, he looked bored.

  It was infuriating. Mr. Cole drew a deep breath, looked quickly down at the tray but saw there were no more sweet buns there, and frowned again. Food helped him sort through his thoughts, it always had, even when he'd been a child. "I want her," he said.

  "A pity. You must accustom yourself, sir. You will never have her."

  "That isn't what I meant! My dear young man, I am married, my wife is a charming lady, really quite charming. I mean that I must speak to her, and I must tell you, Mr. Sherbrooke, that I suspect foul play here. I suspect that she murdered her uncle in cold blood and then set fire to the great house."

  "This is a rather remarkable theory. May I inquire as to what brought you to this incredible conclu­sion?"

  "The girl isn't what she seems to be, rather she is exactly what she seems, only her uncle wouldn't recognize it or accept it. You must have heard— perhaps you even have firsthand information—she's a slut, a high-priced harlot with no morals at all. I think her uncle finally realized the truth and she killed him when he threatened to toss her out. Aye, that's what happened." He stopped, gave Ryder a patented hanging judge's look, and announced, "I am here to see justice done."

  Ryder laughed, a deep, rich laugh. "Your theory is beyond amusing, Mr. Cole. However, you must realize that it is also rather libelous."

  "I have a witness, Mr. Sherbrooke."

  "Do you now?"

  'Yes, Thomas, the overseer."

  Ryder laughed again, more deeply, more richly, more genuine amusement than before.

  "Sir!"

  "Mr. Cole, Thomas is a villain, as I must assume you already know. I don't believe it wise to take testimony from a villain. I propose another theo­ry, one that differs from yours quite substantial­ly. However, there is just as much motive, just as much rationale for mine, as for yours. Thomas is a bounder. I suspect that Mr. Burgess discovered Thomas was cheating him, that or he was abusing the slaves too much, and he fired him. Put very simply, Thomas killed him. As luck would have it, Miss Stanton-Greville and her brother were there at Camille Hall and thus she proved to be a perfect scapegoat for Thomas."

  "Thomas is a man and she is a—"

  "No, he's a bastard, no-account, cruel, mean as a snake."

  "That doesn't excuse Miss Stanton-Greville. Why, she's nothing more than a—"

  "I wouldn't say anything were I you, Cole. She and her brother are under my personal protection. Indeed, I will be applying shortly to become the guardian to both of them. Oliver Susson will be handling the matter." "Ah, I see the truth of the matter now." "Do you, now? Pray, just exactly what do you see?" "She is, as I intimated before, your mistress." Ryder said in a voice reminiscent of his father's whenever he was tired of an individual's imperti­nence and wanted him gone, "Perhaps she will be someday. I'm not as yet certain I wish to bed her and keep her. However, I do feel an obligation to Jeremy and she comes along with him. He is, after all, Theo Burgess's heir. His interests must be protected and I can see no other man to do the job. Now, Cole, do you wish to say anything else? No? Why then, why don't you have Thomas fetched in your august presence? Perhaps with your obvious interrogation skills you can induce him to tell the truth." Ryder rose and merely waited for Cole to heave himself to his feet, which he did, reluctantly. "I just might find more evidence to convict her!" "More, Cole? As of this moment, you haven't even a pinch, nary a dollop. Get Thomas and you've got your killer. Now, I have many matters to attend to. I trust you will excuse me. Oh, should you care for more sweet buns to take with you?"

  Sophie quickly ran back up the stairs. She'd seen Mr. Sherman Cole ride up the drive. She'd had to know what he would say. Nothing he said was unex­pected. Ryder had handled him brilliantly. But then Ryder had spoken. . . . She felt deep, very deep pain and it wasn't in her ribs or in her burned throat.

  "I am not as yet certain I wish to bed her and keep her."

  He was no different from any of the other men. She guessed that he would demand her in his bed as payment for seeing to Jeremy's protection. Then he would tire of her and that would be that. At least she'd be free, at last. She and Jeremy would live in peace at Camille Hall. Everything would be all right. In a year and a half she would be twenty-one and deemed old enough to become his guardian.

  She managed to climb into her bed and pull the sheet to her chin before he was standing there in the doorway, looking at her, saying nothing for a long time.

  "Mr. Cole was very amusing."

  "Was he? Am I to be arrested?"

  "You still sound like a foghorn. No, you won't be arrested. I venture to say that Thomas just might be the one to hang. Wouldn't that solve all our prob­lems?"

  She turned her face away from him and said in a very low voice, "Why was Coco awake so very late last night? You said she was the one who saw me leaving."

  "Coco is pregnant. She was feeling ill and thus had her face in the cool night air on the balcony."

  "Oh."

  "Would you like to hear everything that is going to happen now?"

  She wanted to scream at him that she'd already heard everything and for him to shut up and just go away, but she couldn't. She merely nodded.

  He censored judiciously, so well in fact that if she hadn't overheard the entire exchange between the two men, she wouldn't have suspected a thing.

  Ah, but he left out the damning things.

  "I don't think so," she said when he finished.

  "You don't think so what?"

  "I don't need you to volunteer your services as guardian. I am nearly twenty. Mr. Susson can be Jeremy's guardian until I reach twenty-one, then I will be his guardian. Camille Hall now belongs to him. Yes, I will be his guardian."

  "No."

  'You are very nearly as young as I am. How could you possibly set yourself up to be my guardian? It's absurd."

  "I am nearly twenty-six, not so very young an age."

  "Not so great an age either."

  He grinned suddenly. "My brother would like to hear you say that. The poor fellow is only twenty-eight and all the Sherbrookes were pounding and pounding at him to get himself wedded and produce an heir."

  "What happened?"

  "He did marry, just before we received the letter from Samuel Grayson."


  "Well, I feel sorry for his poor wife if that is why he married her. To breed heirs."

  "I wouldn't feel sorry for Alexandra," Ryder said slowly. "I must admit, however, to being interested in learning what has happened between the two of them. But that's all beside the point. I will go to Montego Bay and speak to Oliver Susson. I will tell him the race is lost, so to speak. I will engage him to handle this situation and if he does it well, why then, I won't beat him to a bloody pulp."

  She was quiet. Too quiet. He frowned down at her. "Attend me, Sophie. This is what is going to happen so accustom yourself. If you try to leave Kimberly Hall again, Emile has instructions to sit on you."

  "Why are you doing this? Do you even realize what you're doing? You are volunteering to take a nine-year-old boy into your guardianship along with his nineteen-year-old slut of a sister. Why would you want this kind of responsibility?"

  "I don't know," Ryder said. He tried to shrug it off, but couldn't quite manage it. He said slowly, "I am twenty-five. I am the second son, an honorable, not a lord. All my life I've done precisely what I wanted. All my life I've laughed and played and loved and enjoyed myself. When my father died, well then, there was Douglas to take care of things because, after all, he was the new earl. He was the respon­sible one. And I continued as I had. There was no reason for me to change. No one expected anything else from me. As for the other, well, none know of it and it is none of their business and besides it is no great or grave responsibility."