For all she knew, the man had left Sandfell the same day she had seen him.
It was both a comforting and unnerving thought, and she wasn’t sure which emotion was winning over the other.
Her latest bundle of charcoals secured in the canvas pouch she had strapped across her body, she made her way down the main lane of the village, turning on the lane next to the butcher’s cottage that led to her grandmother’s estate.
Waving at Mrs. Hart, the weaver’s wife, beating a rug outside her door, Sienna was just to the end of the line of the cottages that spread out from the main thoroughfare when she heard heavy steps echoing behind her.
“Sienna—Sienna.” Her name, bellowed in the deep baritone voice that had engraved its way deep into her mind, came from the main road.
She took three more steps, undecided, before her feet shuffled to a stop in the dust of the lane. Well aware Mrs. Hart would be watching the unfolding scene, Sienna debated. Ignoring a man chasing after her was probably far more egregious than just turning around to say a few dismissive words to Mr. Lipinstein. Mrs. Hart was too far away to hear their conversation, so her gossip on the matter could only go so far.
Bracing herself, Sienna turned around.
He was fast—not in a full run, but not dawdling in his long strides. His short dark hair sat slightly ruffled along his brow and his fingers were quickly attempting to button the front of his black waistcoat.
She knew she shouldn’t have walked in front of the coaching inn. Yet she’d done it anyway.
A smile that barely lifted the corners of her tight lips fell into place. “Mr. Lipinstein. I assumed you had travelled on from Sandfell.”
He took the last steps toward her, coming to a stop an arm’s length away. “I have not been able to leave.”
“Oh.” Her eyes dipped down to his stomach, guilt flooding her. “Has your injury not healed well?”
The edges of his grey eyes crinkled slightly. “No. The cut is fine. Nothing but a nuisance.” He took a slight step toward her. “I think you know exactly why I haven’t left the village.”
She took a quick step backward, keeping the swath of space between them as wide as possible.
His hand flew up, palm to her. “Stop, Sienna. I have been waiting. I didn’t want to scare you again—I wanted to intercept you while you were in the village so you would feel safe.”
“Safe?”
His hand dropped to his side. “Safe from me. So you wouldn’t stab me again.”
“Oh—I…” Her words trailed as she looked at him, her head cocking to the side. Funny, the thought of her being in danger from him had never occurred to her past their initial meeting. The side of her mouth lifted in a grin. “Or is it that you would like to feel safe from me?”
It took him a long moment to realize she was teasing, and he blinked hard, a cautious smile creeping onto his well-formed lips—not too thin, not too thick. “I would prefer not to have another knife in my belly, yes.”
“You are in luck. I have no blade with me today.” Her thumb went under the strap of her pouch, readjusting it along her shoulder as she tried not to stare at the crook of his mouth—how it turned his face into a lightness that scattered away the serious lines she thought were permanent on his face. “Just my charcoals.”
He looked down to the canvas pouch. “You still draw?”
Her lips parted in a tiny gasp. “I—I do.” But what did he know of it? She rushed on. “Why are you still in town, Mr. Lipinstein?”
“I thought with a few days’ time…”
“Yes?”
The smile had vanished from his face and hard lines took over his countenance. “I thought you would remember…remember something.”
Her eyebrows lifted at him.
“You still don’t remember me?”
“No.”
He nodded, his jaw shifting to the side as his gaze slid off her, his look going to the far off distance past her shoulder. The consistent thwacking of Mrs. Hart on her rug filled the early summer air. After a moment, he sighed, his steely eyes shifting to her. “Do you know the name Bournestein?”
“You know my uncle?”
His left eye twitched, his head snapping slightly backward. The man was an expert at keeping his thoughts concealed. But that—that had almost been a flinch. A flinch about her uncle? Clearly Mr. Lipinstein knew him, or he wouldn’t have inquired on the name.
“Bournestein is your uncle?” he asked.
“Yes. My mother’s brother.”
“I see.”
The thwacking of the rug ceased, and Sienna looked down the lane to Mrs. Hart. Now the woman stood, rug clutched under her arm as she leaned against her doorway, brazenly watching the two of them.
She had talked to Mr. Lipinstein long enough.
Sienna’s head tilted as her gaze went back to him. “I do not know what to make of you, sir. Why you would come here? Lie to me so about our association? You must have me confused with another woman, as I would most certainly know if I had a husband. My grandmother would know.”
He nodded slowly, pretending to at least ponder her words for a long moment. Then his head stilled, his grey eyes skewering her. “Have you considered, Sienna, the possibility that I’m not lying?”
She stared at him, stared at the way his dark eyes sank into her, like they cut her in two and dove straight to her soul.
What man would look at her like that?
For as much as she didn’t remember him, she had to admit the undeniable fact that she was drawn to him like nothing else.
But that didn’t mean he was her husband.
She shook her head. “No. I have not considered it.”
He exhaled a long breath and for a second she thought he was going to grab her arms again. Shake her. Demand what he thought was the past from her.
But his mouth stayed clamped shut, his feet in place. Unspeakable agony flickered across his eyes, disappearing as quickly as it appeared, his face turning hard.
For a second her heart stilled at the sight, a sharp pang of pain shooting through it. For as much as she didn’t know him—didn’t know what he wanted of her—she couldn’t bear to see the misery she had just seen in his face.
It was enough—enough to spur her mouth open when she knew she should keep it shut. “Though I have remembered something, Mr. Lipinstein—well, not remembered so much—as it is more of a recognition.”
“What did you recognize?”
“I draw you.” The words blurted out of her mouth.
“You what?”
“I sketch you—or I have. Again and again throughout the years. Or someone who looks very similar to you. I searched all my drawings from the years and the likeness is unmistakable. It is uncanny and I would be dishonest if I didn’t admit to it.”
For how hard his face had turned, it softened in that second. Abated and sparked, like hope had suddenly been set aflame.
She didn’t want to give him hope, but she also didn’t want to have to witness the pain he was moored in.
Her eyes flicked to Mrs. Hart and then back to him. “I will be riding on the east side of my grandmother’s estate tomorrow, into Baron Valsper’s lands, as he graciously offers me full use of his trails.” She glanced up at the long grey clouds gathering in the sky to the northwest. “That is, if the next bout of rain holds off.”
“Is that an invitation, Sienna?”
“It is a possibility of a chance meeting.” A hesitant smile came to her lips. “I will be out early on the lane, at the junction of the lands.”
He inclined his head to her. “To possibilities, then.”
She nodded and turned, starting down the lane. Only by the grace of Mrs. Hart still watching at her doorway, did Sienna manage to walk away without glancing back at Mr. Lipinstein.
~~~
The scream—so high in pitch he thought a pig was being slaughtered—had him running into Sienna’s room.
She stood next to her tiny bed, shrieking, tears
falling fast and furious down her chubby red cheeks as she stared at her hand.
Sure she’d lost a finger somehow and he’d have the devil to pay for it, Logan raced to her, snatching the hand she was looking and screeching at.
No blood.
But a butterfly wing. Orange with big blue and yellow dots on it gripped in her tiny fingers.
“Sienny—stop—stop—are you hurt?”
Another screech.
“Sienny, are you hurt?” He had to yell to be heard over her wails.
Her mouth closed, her watery blue eyes stunned wide. She had to swallow a sob before she pointed with her free hand to the corner. “Robby.”
Logan glanced over his shoulder. His brother was skulking in the corner, the other half of the butterfly on the floor by his feet.
Sienna screamed, fury filling her face. “I didn’t want to let it go. It was mine—mine and you broke it,” she shouted with all the power her six-year-old lungs could produce. “You broke it, Robby, you bully. You’re awful—I hate you. I hate, hate, hate you.”
“Shhhhh, Sienny, shhhhh.” Logan jumped in front of her, blocking Robby from her view as he grabbed her shoulders. “Don’t wake my mama—if she knows you were at the gardens she’ll be mad and you know how she is when she’s mad.”
Sienna’s huge blue eyes went wider, tears quickly refilling the rims. She nodded. Logan’s mother hadn’t always been angry—she had once been so very kind—but not now.
Sienna lifted the wing she still clutched in her tiny fingers. “Can you fix it, Logan?”
He shook his head. “It’s a butterfly, Sienny. It’s dead.”
“But no.” Fat tears rolled out of her eyes. She leaned to the side, daggers shooting at Robby. “I hate you, I hate you, Robby. It was mine and you broke it.”
“You broke it, Sienny. You wouldn’t let go.”
Logan’s head snapped back. “Go, Robby, leave.”
Robby’s face twisted and he stepped on the wing on the floor before stomping out of the room.
“I hate him. He broke it, Logan. He breaks everything. Everything.” She looked down at her hand, her fingers rolling around the wing, crushing it. Her tears fell fast, heavy sobs starting.
Logan loosened his hold on her shoulders and pulled her into a hug, more to quiet her than comfort her. If his mother woke and found her this distraught, there would be hell to pay and he was the only one in the room to pay it.
“I just couldn’t let it go, Logan. I couldn’t. I loved it too much. It was too pretty and I loved it.” Her voice squealed high into his body.
“You just found it, Sienny.”
“But I loved it. I loved it more than anything and I didn’t want Robby to touch it. I knew he would break it and he did.”
Logan sighed, pulling back slightly so he could see her face, still red with anger and tears. “You’re a fighter, you know what’s yours, but sometimes you have to let things go or they get broken, Sienny. Sometimes, it’s all you can do to save something.”
She wedged herself further back from him, fire replacing the sadness in her eyes. “But it’s not fair. I lose everything I love. Everything.” She shoved at him with all the strength her skinny arms held and spun, running toward the door.
Three steps and he caught her with ease. He was at least two heads taller than her now. His fingers wrapped around her forearm, stopping her escape. “You won’t lose me, Sienny.”
Her feet stopped and she looked back at him. “You could get broke, too. Just like my mama.”
Logan shook his head, his eyes solemn. “You will always have me, Sienny. I will be your always.”
The orange peacock butterfly that had floated by her head, landing for a moment on the front edge of her blue bonnet and sending him deep into the past, flittered high and away as Sienna spurred her horse onward with a laugh.
He had to shake himself. Shake the memory before he nudged his horse into a full gallop next to hers.
As much as he tried to avert his eyes from her, he couldn’t.
Sienna rode next to him, racing across a field dotted with sheep bleating at the intrusion.
At least if she was flying, the wind sending her loose red-blond hair trailing behind her in the wind, she wasn’t peppering him with questions.
He tugged on his reins, keeping his horse at an even clip with her mare. He didn’t want to get ahead. Didn’t want to lose her from his sight.
Even if he knew this was a mistake. Knew it an hour into their ride.
She’d had a thousand questions for him and he had no answers to give her.
When did they get married?
What was their first kiss like?
Where did they first meet?
He knew the answers to each and every question, but he refused to answer any of her inquiries, much to her annoyance.
Instead, he held fast to the rule he’d made for himself after she visited him in his room at the coaching inn. If she couldn’t remember herself, then any answers he gave her of their past were moot. Answers wouldn’t change a thing. Answers wouldn’t get him his wife back. Answers wouldn’t put the love—the burning heat—back into her eyes.
They were strangers until she remembered him. Until she remembered their life together.
That rule had forced him to evade her questions of the past all day long, while continually steering their conversations to his own questions about the present—to what she’d been doing for the past ten years.
Until he knew what had happened to her, what trauma she’d suffered to take away all her memories, he didn’t dare revisit the past with her.
Not with Bournestein lurking about her life.
It wouldn’t be safe to tell her anything until he knew what happened to her years ago in Spain. How her ring ended up charred with another woman’s body.
Nothing was safe until she remembered.
Her laugh exploded into the air as she drove her speckled mare forward, cutting Logan off just as she reached the line of trees and the trail that led through the woods back to her grandmother’s land.
His head snapped up, and he latched onto her laugh, onto the glee on her face.
Just this one moment. He needed it. This one moment when he could revel in her spirit that had never changed.
He needed this moment to hold in his heart. A moment just for him to feel like the man he once was.
Just as they reached the woods, mist started to dapple his face.
Their horses slowed and he nudged his stallion forward to fall into adjacent step with her horse.
She looked to him, a smile so wide on her flush face he thought she might collapse in a fit of laughter. “That was glorious—pure heaven. I never get to race and it is”—a laugh cut into her words—“it is delicious fire in my veins.”
He chuckled. “You’ve never shied from competition, Sienna. That I will tell you.”
She eyed him, her smile tempering. “But nothing more—I understand. You have been most canny all day long in avoiding my questions.”
“Can I continue to be so?”
“Why would you stop at this juncture?” She waved her leather-gloved hand in the air. “Never mind that, as I have a question of you that I think you can answer.”
He inclined his head at the mirth in her voice, his eyebrow cocked. “Do give it a go.”
“Do you limp?”
His shoulders stiffened, his look going ahead to the trail. “I do.”
“Forgive my rudeness, but I wasn’t positive. Sometimes I see it and sometimes I don’t when you walk. So the times I have seen it, it is either a pesky rock that keeps appearing in your boot, or a limp. Regardless, you hide it well. It was only by careful study that I saw it.”
His gaze went to her. “You studied me?”
A flush touched her cheeks. “I did. Unabashedly so, I’m afraid. At the edge of town. When we stopped earlier by the brook for the cheese and bread you brought.” Her head tilted to the side as her blue eyes ran along his c
hest and up to his face. “You are a handsome man and it is a beautiful thing to watch your body move. Even with the slight hiccup of a limp. That flaw makes you interesting—real.”
The flush that had been on Sienna’s cheeks jumped onto the back of his neck. He knew he drew the eye of women, always had. But from Sienna’s mouth, the way her lips said she watched him, studied him—he felt like a young buck just noticed by the most beautiful girl in London.
The horses took several strides. “If it is not too presumptive to ask—” The side of her face lifted in a slight cringe—she wanted to ask him something, but didn’t know how to do so.
“You’re my wife, Sienna. Nothing is too presumptive.”
She blinked, startled, then offered a nod. “Well then, why? Why do you limp? Have you always done so?”
“It happened in the war. The last battle I was in on the continent. My heel caught the full fire of a bullet, and they had to remove the bone fragments if there was a chance to walk half to normal again.”
Her lips pulled inward, her eyes scrunching. “It sounds horribly painful.”
He shrugged. “I survived. I can walk. It is more than many of the men that met Boney’s forces can say. Many of my guards.”
“Your guards?”
He nodded. “It is what I do in London. I was hired long ago to be the head guard at the Revelry’s Tempest, a gaming house that is run by three of the most unusual titled ladies one will ever meet.”
“Ladies running a gaming house? That sounds delightful—and deliciously wrong.” She smiled, excitement twinkling in her blue eyes. “Tell me of your guards.”
“I had free rein to hire the other guards as I saw fit.” He pulled his horse to the side to veer around the stump of a fallen tree on the trail. “And I chose men that had been injured during the war and needed gainful employment. All had been maimed as I was during the war, and all were finding honest work hard to come by. But I have on call the most talented cobbler in London, and with specially crafted boots, it takes a keen eye to notice the limps.” He looked at Sienna. “I am surprised you noticed mine.”
The Devil in the Duke Page 3