by Lisa Bingham
He stopped by the side of the bed. Just as he had a hundred times in the past. Just as he did in the nightmares she experienced at least a dozen times a year. His eyes roamed her face, her neck, her bare shoulders.
“My sweet little lovely,” he crooned. “My darling one. My precious.” Sinking onto the side of the bed, he bracketed her face, leaning over her adoringly. “Come back to me, my pet. Come live with me. We shall have such great times together. I will build you a palace. I’ll clothe you in furs, adorn you with jewels.”
The familiar promises rolled over her like a murky ocean.
“Be with me, Gelsey. Be my lover.”
His weight shifted, and he skimmed the wanton tumble of her hair. Chelsea shuddered beneath the clamminess of blood, the all-too-familiar sweet-copper odor.
In a burst of disgust, she snapped, “Go to bloody hell.”
Her unexpected response only made him smile, but a shard of fury flared. “So beautiful. So strong. So fiery.”
He touched the fullness of her lips, and she bit her cheek to keep from saying anything more to provoke him as he shifted to touch her ear, follow the line of her jaw.
“I’ve missed you so, Gelsey. I’ve pined away for you in utter desolation. I let you know in a thousand different ways that I was thinking of you.” The caresses became firmer, harsher. “You’ve continued to be so mean.” His voice took a hard edge. “I never deserved your meanness, Gelsey.” His hand curled over the hem of the sheet. “I gave you the world, and what did I receive in return? Nothing.”
He tugged at the covering, and though she clasped it in a death grip, he managed to dislodge it enough to expose the smooth upper swells of her breasts.
“I adored you,” he continued, his thumb rubbing over the creamy flesh he had disclosed. “I protected you, pampered you. I taught you the arts of seduction—and now you’ve used what I gave you to tempt that … that … heathen.” His lips twisted. “I never thought you could be so lacking in taste. But then, you’ve changed over the years, haven’t you?” He sighed. “My one mistake was in giving you the time to grow into womanhood. I should have taken you that first day. When you were still awed enough, still naive enough to succumb. But I’ve never had a taste for awkwardness.”
He bent low to press a kiss against her shoulder. “I didn’t even care that I would not be the first. After you left, I knew you would probably be seduced by one of those randy employers of yours, but it didn’t matter. I’ve never been overly fond of deflowering virgins. Let some other chap do it.” He gripped her upper arms as he levered himself toward her so that his lips could hover above her own. “But I had hoped to be among the first dozen.”
He crushed his mouth to hers. Dry, firm, intrusive. He kissed her forcefully, with a barely restrained ferocity, then drew away, searching her features. Reaching out, he retrieved the white rose from where it rested on the opposite pillow. Slowly, tormentingly, he trailed the delicate blossom over her forehead, her face, her neck, her breasts.
“Your savage has gone into town. I have a man who is watching him and knows every move he makes.”
His sudden change in topic startled her, wrenching her free from her morass of confusion and disgust.
“At five o’clock this evening, a carriage will arrive at Lookout Point.” His grip bit into her flesh. A desperate cruelty snaked into his face. “You will be there. You will come to me of your own volition. You will stay with me until I tell you to go. Otherwise, this eve you will be making love to a corpse.”
Dropping the rose onto her chest, he rose and strode to the window. Slipping through the draperies, she heard the scuff of shoes upon stone, the rattle of the metal trellis anchored to the wall, then the scrabble of hooves.
Chelsea took a deep breath, still locked in an icy grip of fear. Rising from her bed, Chelsea threw on her robe and ran to the nursery, hoping that Nigel had been wrong and Richard was merely changing.
But when she opened the door, she saw that Smee and Greyson had been there before her. Now that their master had disclosed his true identity, they had returned the nursery to its pristine order and covered the furniture with huge squares of muslin. They had ostensibly moved Richard’s belongings to the only other spare room on the floor, even though Chelsea doubted they were ignorant of the fact of where he had spent the night.
A choked wail split the morning stillness. Chelsea ran into the hall and down the steps.
In the vestibule below, Beatrice huddled on the ground. Alarmed that Nigel has somehow hurt the fragile old woman, Chelsea raced forward. But within a few feet of Biddy, she saw what had caused her cries.
Lying in a puddle of blood lay the crumpled shape of a diminutive cocker spaniel.
Smee and Greyson burst into the room and took stock of the situation. Greyson bent to cover the animal with one of his handkerchiefs while Smee quickly ushered Biddy away. But Chelsea remained.
Wrapping her arms around her waist, Chelsea studied the entryway in growing panic, knowing instinctively that if she did not do as Nigel asked, Richard would not live to see the sun rise on the morrow. Her only chance of protecting the man she loved would be to offer her body to the man she hated. Even then, she knew it wouldn’t be enough. She knew that in order for Nigel to allow Richard to go free willingly, she must offer him something more.
She must offer him her complete surrender.
Nigel, Lord Sutherland, seventh Earl of Lindon, slowed his mount, frowning at the sight that greeted him upon his return. One of his coaches had been parked next to the carriage block. Behind it, another, smaller wagon was being loaded with trunks and portmanteaus, boxes, and satchels.
Even as he watched, his wife stepped onto the portico, squinted up at the glowering sky, and tugged on a pair of kid leather gloves.
Tapping his gelding’s flanks, Nigel trotted up to her and dismounted. “Dearest?”
“Hello, Nigel.” She lifted her cheek for him to kiss, all the while keeping watch on the servants clambering to put the last of the baggage away.
“What’s all this?”
“I’m leaving you, dear,” she answered, so matter-of-factly, she might have been discussing the unseasonably wet weather they were experiencing for the middle of June.
Nigel chuckled, assuming she was teasing, but her expression remained calm, controlled, and completely serious.
“You needn’t worry, Nigel. I haven’t made a scene. I’ve gone about the whole affair quite pragmatically. I put Margot in charge of the final arrangements for the masquerade. I’ve seen to the decorations, the flowers, and the menu. I’ve taken care of the last-minute responses to our invitations and prepared places for any unexpected guests to sleep should they decide to stay at the manor after all.”
She pointed to a box that lay on the top step. “I’ll keep that one with me up front, Manfred,” she instructed the driver, then returned her attention to her husband. “Where was I? Oh, yes. Everything has been taken care of. You won’t suffer any inconvenience, I assure you.”
Nigel still didn’t understand her sudden departure. “Has something happened? One of your family taken ill?”
She smiled charmingly at him and patted him on the cheek. “How dear of you to ask. No, nothing like that. I’ve simply come to a point where I can’t bear to remain your wife, Nigel. I know that the news may come as a bit of a shock, and I know I haven’t discussed this with you, but …” She shrugged. “There it is. In a nutshell.”
A slow tension began to build in his gut, a sharp combination of panic, anger, and disbelief. “Estella—”
“I won’t make a fuss. As far as the ton is concerned, I’ll make no announcements. If anyone is to ask, I shall simply tell them that I plan to make an extended visit to London, where I intend to live with my son for a time. You do remember him, don’t you, Nigel?”
“Of course I remember him, damn it. He’s—”
“That’s neither here nor there,” she interrupted. “
Though from the way you ignore him, don’t even speak of him, I’m delighted you still remember his name.”
The sugar-coated barb stung, just as it had been meant to do.
“Thank you, Manfred. Is that everything?”
“Yes, mum.”
“Then let’s be going.”
Estella lifted on tiptoe to press her lips to Nigel’s cheek. “Don’t worry, my dear. Things have a way of working out for the best. Especially with you. Like a cat, you always manage to land on your feet.” She patted his chest. “See to it that you keep dry in this nasty weather we’ve been having, and please, please remember to oversee the repairs of that leak we’ve been experiencing in the upper west attic.”
With that, she turned, gathered her skirts, and climbed into the carriage. The footman closed the door and hurried to the wagon which would follow behind.
“Good-bye, dear,” she called, leaning through the window and waving one last time. Her lips tilted in her usual smile. The breeze toyed with a lock of rich golden hair. Nigel felt as if she’d plunged a sword into his stomach as the horses jerked at the traces and the entourage rumbled down the lane.
The common room of the inn sweltered in the late-afternoon heat, hugging the smoky air within its stone walls and shutting out the least little breeze that might offer some relief.
Reginald Wilde grimaced, sure that his clothing would soon reek of the same pungent smells but knowing he had no alternative. He had received a mysterious missive. One that had not only piqued his interest but kindled a bit of fear.
Sitting at the far corner table as he’d been told, he ordered a pint of bitter ale, then waited. His timepiece had advanced a quarter-hour before a small, gawky adolescent sank into the chair opposite.
“Well?”
“Are you plannin’ t’ drink that?”
Reginald shook his head, and the young boy eagerly grasped the mug, drained it of half its contents, then swiped the back of his hand over his lips.
“Your note was barely legible.”
The boy grinned. “Right smart idea, wasn’t it? Sendin’ fer you that way. Jus’ likes the gentry is always doin’. ’Ad me sister write it fer me, I did.”
“It was a stupid idea. Stupid and foolish. What if someone had intercepted it?”
The boy leaned forward, his blue eyes snapping. “Next time, I’ll jus’ come up t’ the manor house, bold as brass. They’d all like that, wouldn’t they? I’m sure ’is lordship would like a gawk at yer ’ired boy.”
Reginald’s lips tightened in disapproval. “What is it that’s so important you had to see me today? You should be working. That’s what I pay you to do—bring me information on the magistrate’s activities.”
The boy leaned back and grinned. “A man came t’ see ’is magistrativeness early this mornin’. ’E came t’ talk t’ him about you.”
Reginald grew still. So still, so cold, so tense. “What did he want?”
“Wouldn’t you like t’ know?”
Reginald’s fist snapped out with the speed of a snake, closing around the boy’s collar and yanking him close. “Don’t play games with me, boy.”
“I don’t know! I don’t know what they said. I was sent to the stables t’ see t’ the gent’s animal. How’s I supposed t’ know what was said?”
“If you know so blasted little, then why did you summon me?”
“’Cause I heard ’em say they was goin’ to bring you in.”
“Bring me in? What in heaven’s name for?”
The boy shrugged. “Like I said, I wasn’t there when they talked about ye. But I heard a name bein’ bandied about—and a crime.”
“What name? What crime?”
“Sutherland. Richard Albert Sutherland.”
Though his posture remained still and lax, Reginald’s skin grew paler. “The crime?”
“Treason.”
As if the word itself had mystical powers, the door to the inn burst open, and a giant dressed as a uniformed officer of the law appeared.
Reginald connected with the man’s gaze and knew that somehow, someway, his sins had been discovered. Leaping from his seat, he overturned the table, then scrambled through the open window and ran for his horse.
Rupert chortled and removed his hat. Adopting a coarse country dialect, he crossed toward the far corner booth, saying, “Blimey. What bee bit ’is arse?”
The boy giggled, then stared down at the puddle of ale seeping into the dirty planks of the floor. Sighing, he stood and sauntered toward the giant and the long-haired gentleman who sat in the shadows.
“Well done, Jackie, well done,” the man drawled, removing a half-crown and passing it to the urchin. “Now, if you’re game, I’ve got another little something for you to do.”
Sutherland. Richard Albert Sutherland III.
Reginald Wilde galloped north, feeling the bitter roiling of disbelief churning in his stomach. Only one man on earth could have exposed such a crime. One man.
Nigel Sutherland.
No. No! Nigel wouldn’t do that to him. Reginald had given him the best years of his life. He’d slaved for him, stolen for him, even killed for him. Nigel couldn’t have asked for more. He couldn’t possibly want to be rid of him. Not when Reginald knew so many secrets and had been privy to a host of his more unsavory practices in the past.
But was that his fatal error? Did Nigel intend to be quit of him? Because of what he knew?
Bending low over the animal’s neck, he charged toward Lindon Manor. Once there, he jumped from the saddle and ran into the house, ignoring the curious gazes of the guests. Storming into the study, he took a set of keys from the end of his watch chain and unlocked the panels that hid the portrait of Chelsea Wickersham. Swinging the painting aside on its hidden hinges, he exposed the safe hidden behind it. Muttering to himself, he inserted a second key into the lock.
What he found inside made his heart plummet into the pit of his stomach. The chamber was empty.
Empty.
Nigel Sutherland had betrayed him.
Lady Estella Perry Sutherland, seventh Countess of Lindon, waited until her coach had traveled a good twenty miles away from the estates, then rapped the ceiling with her fan. The conveyance came to a rolling stop, and Manfred bent to the window to take her orders.
“Alter our course to take us to Glasgow, Manfred.”
The servant was obviously surprised at the change in directions but did not question the Countess. He, too, had seen the bruises.
As the carriage lurched into the road again, Estella closed her eyes and began to pray. Prayed that her husband would not follow her, that he would not set his bloodhounds on her trail, that he would not remember Cecil was in Paris, not London.
Then, thinking of Richard Sutherland and what he planned to do, she prayed more fervently than ever that justice would prevail. The devil who had once been her husband would receive his just rewards.
Chapter 23
The clock in the vestibule had just finished chiming quarter past four when Chelsea heard hooves on the drive. The pang of relief she experienced was nearly overpowering. She had been so sure Richard wouldn’t return in time. That she wouldn’t have the opportunity to see him, just once more.
Caring little for propriety or decorum, she burst from the door and ran through the garden, meeting him as he galloped up the lane.
“Richard? Richard!”
He brought the horse to a stop, smiling, but his smile faltered. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
“Wrong?” She summoned a contented expression and tried to still the torturous beating of her heart. Her fingers curled around his calf, and she rubbed the muscle there. “I merely missed you, is all.”
Leaning down, he caught her behind the coil of braids secured to the nape of her neck. Pulling her on tiptoes, he kissed her soundly. He finally drew back to say, “Then we shall have to do something about that, won’t we?” He swung from the saddle
and, taking her hand, walked with her into the stables.
Chelsea clung to him, trying to memorize everything about him, his height, the sheen of sunlight on his hair, his clean, masculine scent.
“I suppose I shouldn’t have left so abruptly this morn.”
Chelsea’s grip tightened spasmodically, and she turned to embrace him. “No. No, I didn’t mind.” Little did he know that had he stayed, his confrontation with Nigel might have come much sooner than anticipated. Remembering the bloodied rose, the lifeless dog, she held him more tightly.
“Chelsea?”
“I barely endured waiting for you to return.”
“Had I known, I would not have left at all,” he replied indulgently.
“No. I did not mind. Truly.” She eased backward and regarded him for long moments, trying to imprint each line, each tone, each plane of his presence into her memory. Then, without saying another word, she took the reins, tying them to the stall support.
“Chelsea, what—”
She stopped his words before he could finish. An urgency filled her. An incredible need. She knew what the days ahead of her would be like. She couldn’t fool herself into thinking they would be pleasant. She needed this hour, this moment, to keep her sane. She needed this one memory to help her cope with the future. But there wasn’t much time. There wasn’t much time!
“Nay, don’t speak, Richard. Merely love me. Here. Now. Show me how much you care for me. Prove to me that you will never forget what we’ve shared. Please.”
When he would have questioned her again, she pushed him back until his shoulders pressed against one of the upright beams lining the aisle. “Show me,” she commanded, sliding her hands beneath his jacket and stripping it from his back. She quickly followed with his vest, then, with only a thin layer of cambric between them, pressed her body to his, thigh to thigh, chest to chest, and kissed him.
The caress began gently at first, but within seconds passion ignited like an inferno, burning white-hot and out of control. Fingers searched, hips arched. Chelsea responded wholeheartedly, becoming a wildcat furiously bent on absorbing each texture and sensation anew.