by Cheryl Holt
“Are you requesting I join you?”
“Yes, and I can guarantee you won’t be sorry.”
She couldn’t imagine what her response might have been, but from over in the barn, a man snapped, “Lucas! Get over here.”
“My brother,” he whispered. “He’s as bad as your mother about making sure I don’t have any fun.”
“Lucas!” the man called again.
He winked at Millicent and pulled away much too slowly, his hand taking forever to be removed from her waist. Then, with the grace of an athlete, he leapt over the corral fence and strolled over to his brother.
The brother was older, but resembled Lucas exactly: black hair, blue eyes, lanky, muscular physique. They disappeared into the building without glancing back.
She dawdled for an eternity, anxious for him to return, but he didn’t. Ultimately, she stomped off, and she was vexed and annoyed and very, very excited.
Would he really go to the beach at ten o’clock? Had he been jesting or was he serious? Was it a genuine invitation? Should she accept? What might happen if she did? Dare she find out?
She had many hours to answer those questions, and she was afraid she might be about to behave recklessly—which was precisely what she’d always dreamed of doing.
* * * *
Rebecca climbed the stairs to head for her bedchamber. It was late, and she was exhausted.
Clayton had arrived from town, but none of his friends had arrived with him. The staff had been waiting impatiently, to no avail. He claimed they were all coming the next day, that his mother had misconstrued the dates.
It didn’t matter when they showed up. The house was ready, and the actual birthday party would be held the following night. The important neighbors would attend, along with the main merchants from town and the upper-level clerks from Carter Imports.
Clayton and Beatrice weren’t particularly liked, but people would set aside their detestation for the evening and revel in grand style. It would be a marvelous gala, with plenty of food, liquor, and dancing.
She’d been feeling on edge, so she’d taken a lamp and had walked out to the beach, hoping Mr. Shawcross might be there, but he hadn’t been. She’d heard a rumor that he was leaving in the morning, and the news had panicked her much more than it should have.
What if she never saw him again? The prospect was too dismal to contemplate.
Her bedchamber was located at the end of a deserted wing on the third floor. It was the room Beatrice had put her in when she’d been conveyed to Carter Crossing at age three. Alex’s room was across from hers. They were far from the rest of the family, far from the servants’ closets in the attic.
In the early years, when she’d been so little, the spot had been very scary. Now it fit her needs perfectly. She could escape for lengthy periods.
She reached the landing, when suddenly, Clayton emerged from the shadows. She was carrying her lamp, so she could clearly observe it was him. Still though, she hadn’t expected to encounter anyone, and her heart raced a bit.
“Why are you wandering the halls?” she asked him. “You should be in bed. Tomorrow will be busy.”
“Rebecca, Rebecca! Let down your hair!” He scowled. “No, no, that’s not correct.”
“I believe you’re thinking of Rapunzel in the fairytale.”
“Yes, that’s who I meant. I’m certain her hair was just as blond as yours.”
He was off balance, swaying, and she could smell alcohol on his breath. From the potent odor, it was obvious he’d over-imbibed. It was a ghastly habit that was getting worse.
He approached her in an aggressive manner, and while she’d never feared him in the past, his swagger left her uneasy. She glanced over her shoulder, wishing someone had accompanied her. A frisson of concern slid down her spine, and for a brief instant, she considered turning and dashing away. But she didn’t.
This was Clayton. He could be rude and boorish, but he’d never physically harm her. There was no reason to be frightened.
“You’re too pretty for your own good,” he said like a complaint. “And you’re so damned regal. You don’t have any right to be so regal.”
“Don’t curse in front of me. You know I don’t like it.”
“Saint Rebecca, the beloved maiden of Carter Crossing.”
His tone was surly, his bravado disturbing, and she decided to simply hurry on by, but as she did, he grabbed her arm and yanked her to a halt.
“Clayton!” she scolded. “You’re being a nuisance! Stop it!”
“I let you live here. You understand that, don’t you?”
“Of course I understand it.”
“You’ve never had to pay me a penny. Perhaps it’s time you start.”
“You’re drunk, and if you accost me again, I’ll speak to your mother.”
She flashed her fiercest glower, but it had no effect. She tried to jerk away, but he was gripping her so tightly she was positive she’d have bruises. She wasn’t about to wrestle with him, but she was growing alarmed.
She couldn’t predict what might have happened, but suddenly, Alex said, “Rebecca! There you are! It’s late, and I’ve been searching for you.”
At having Alex’s voice emanate from the dark hall, Clayton frowned, appearing confused, as if worried a ghost was hovering. He whipped around as Alex stepped into the light. Clayton studied him, his confusion spiraling, as if he couldn’t quite recollect who Alex was.
Alex ignored him and said, “Rebecca? You’re aware that I never go to bed until you’re there too, and I’m tired. Can you come now?”
If was a huge lie, but she sighed with relief. “Yes, I’m sorry I’ve kept you waiting.”
She skittered by Clayton and rushed to Alex. He slipped his hand into hers, and he faced down his father. Even though he was only ten, he looked furious and violent, as if he wasn’t scared of anything.
“Well, well,” Clayton taunted, recognition finally dawning, “if it isn’t my little bastard.”
Rebecca couldn’t imagine what other insults Clayton might have hurled. Nor could she imagine how Alex might have reacted to them, but she wasn’t about to tarry and find out.
“You’re in no condition to chat, Clayton,” she said. “We’ll talk in the morning.”
She and Alex marched away, and after they’d turned the corner, they began to run, and they continued running all the way to their rooms. As they reached Rebecca’s door, they were gasping for breath, and she was trembling.
“Did he hurt you?” Alex asked.
“He merely grabbed my arm. I’ll survive.”
“I’m glad I decided to hunt for you.”
“Why did you?”
“I simply had a feeling that I should.”
“My hero!” she teased, and she batted her lashes.
“I’m embarrassed that I have his blood in me.”
“Just because you share his blood, it doesn’t mean you have to ever be like him.”
“I know, and I never will be.”
“Good,” she said.
“Would you like me to stay with you tonight? What if he stumbles in? I’m not afraid of him. I could sleep on the floor.”
“He won’t stumble in,” she said with more confidence than she should have had.
She truly didn’t believe Clayton had any idea where her bedchamber was located, and she suspected—the next day—he wouldn’t remember molesting her.
“Are you sure?” Alex asked.
“I’m sure.” She nodded to his room. “You go on. I’ll be fine.”
“All right, but lock your door for once.”
“I will. You lock yours too.”
She watched until he went inside, and she listened as he spun the key. Then she went into her own room. She spun her key too, and she stood in the middle of the floor, angry, shaking, and wondering if this was the beginning of some new horror she’d have to endure.
She really—
really!—didn’t think she could bear it.
She clasped hold of her dresser and dragged it in front of the door—adding an extra barrier of protection. Just in case.
CHAPTER FIVE
Rebecca stood in the corner, observing the festivities. She hadn’t been asked to dance, but she desperately hoped she would be.
She occupied an odd position in the household. She was a family member, but treated like a servant. She managed the staff, but Beatrice could counter any command or suggestion.
Due to Millicent being very spoiled, Rebecca had a wardrobe filled with pretty clothes. Her cousin never liked a garment for long, and she gave her cast-offs to Rebecca, so she was attired as a party guest ought to be attired: a lavender gown, with a high waist, capped sleeves, and a flowing skirt.
Her slippers and hair ribbon matched the gown, and the color enhanced the silver in her white-blond hair and the blue of her eyes so they appeared almost purple.
She wasn’t being vain when she said she looked beautiful, wealthy, and glamorous. The neighbors weren’t fooled into believing she’d suddenly stumbled on a fortune, but Clayton’s friends were probably curious about her. She didn’t care for any of them, but she’d like it if they thought she was someone’s fetching sister.
Yet she had to be certain she wasn’t enjoying herself too overtly. If Beatrice noticed, she’d nip Rebecca’s jollity in the bud.
The first set had just ended, and Preston Melville had handed Millicent off to her next partner. As opposed to her mother and brother, she was popular in the neighborhood. She hadn’t had as many chances to annoy people, so she was generally viewed as sweet and spirited. She wouldn’t sit down all evening.
Mr. Melville wasn’t very nimble and had no sense of rhythm, so he was an awful dancer, and Rebecca prayed he wouldn’t approach her. She didn’t think he would, and she had her fingers crossed that one of the bachelors from town would step forward instead. So far, she’d had no luck.
Like an idiot, she kept watching the door, wishing Mr. Shawcross would stroll in, even though he never would. He was simply a horse dealer from London, so he hadn’t been invited, and she’d heard a footman claim he’d left early that morning. She hadn’t exactly been devastated by the news, but she was definitely feeling glum.
In her pathetic, deluded mind, she’d convinced herself that they’d established a close bond, but obviously, she’d misconstrued the situation. She wondered if she’d ever see him again. Unless Clayton bought more horses from him, there would be no reason for him to return to the estate, and the notion was too sad to ponder.
“Are you having fun, Miss Rebecca?” Mr. Melville asked as he walked up.
“I’m having a marvelous time. How about you?”
“It’s terrific. I wanted to be sure to tell you how much I appreciate your hard work. You must have been overwhelmed with getting everything ready.”
“Thank you. I’m grateful for your compliment.”
Being a genuinely kind man, he never failed to offer a courteous remark, but he was a bit of an inept bungler, the sort of clumsy character who’d have provided comedic relief in a theatrical play. She liked him very much, but worried about him too.
She suspected he was madly in love with Millicent, but when she’d discussed him with Millicent, her cousin had declared him to be just fine, which was tepid praise.
Apparently, she deemed Mr. Melville to be her second choice. If she never found a better spousal candidate, Rebecca supposed her cousin would break down and settle for Mr. Melville. If that happened, they’d both be miserable forever. Mr. Melville was doting and nice, and Millicent was spoiled and exhausting.
She’d crush him with her whims and quirks and, on a vicar’s salary, he’d never be able to support her in the manner to which she was accustomed.
“How have you been?” he asked.
“I’m always all right.”
She couldn’t guess how much he’d gleaned about her sorry existence, but he was the sole person who ever inquired as to how she was faring. It was an endearing gesture, and she cherished his interest.
“Have you seen my gig?”
“Yes. You look quite dashing in it.”
His cheeks reddened. “Considering that I hope to be the new vicar, it probably wasn’t the best decision. But I couldn’t resist purchasing it.”
“A man is only young once,” she said. “You deserve to have some excitement.”
“The next time I take Miss Millicent for a ride, would you like to come too?”
“What a sweet question. I would love to.”
“When the horse really gets trotting, it’s a little fast, but you’re the type of female who would buck up and enjoy it.”
“I’m positive I would.”
There was a kerfuffle by the door, and she glanced over to find out who had arrived. They didn’t have a formal receiving line, but Beatrice and Clayton were there to welcome people. Millicent, when she wasn’t dancing, went over too. They were all there now, with others milling, so Rebecca didn’t have a clear view.
Suddenly, guests were whispering, pointing, gossip sweeping by like wildfire:
“It’s that Africa explorer, the one who traveled with Sir Sidney!”
“He’s here? Clayton claimed to know him, but I didn’t believe it!”
“His name is Shawcross. Raven Shawcross.”
The last remark had her whipping around.
Raven Shawcross? What?
There couldn’t be two men in the kingdom with that same name.
She rose on tiptoe, trying to peer over everyone, as beside her, Mr. Melville muttered, “My, my, but aren’t we lucky. A national hero at Carter Crossing!”
Rebecca peeked at him. Was that sarcasm in his tone? Why would he be irked to have a famous explorer show up? The whole team was so legendary it was like having an angel fly down from Heaven to mingle in their paltry company.
For a brief instant, the crowd parted and…?
There he was—the cad who’d stolen her heart. At the same time, it couldn’t possibly be him. The man who’d flirted with her had seemed to be a laborer, dressed in scruffy clothes, with hair that was too long and a beard that had needed shaving.
This fellow was another species entirely. He’d been barbered, his unkempt beard removed, his hair trimmed. It was still long, but much shorter than it had been, so it was neatly restrained with a ribbon. And of course, he was wearing all black.
Now though, rather than a working man’s attire, his garments were sewn from the finest materials and obviously stitched by the best tailors. His coat was velvet, his trousers a smooth fabric she couldn’t identify. His knee-high boots had been polished to a shine.
His shirt was black too, his cravat a stunning black lace. He should have looked sinister, but with his outfit so luxurious, he looked wealthy, gorgeous, and elegant.
The only specks of white on his person were the diamond rings that glittered on his fingers. It was an odd affectation for someone so masculine, then she remembered that the Sinclair expedition team had gotten obscenely rich from the discovery of African diamond mines. He was likely flaunting gemstones from his very own mines.
The prospect annoyed her immensely. They were having a country house party, with many of the guests being local merchants and landowners who were basically farmers. It was pompous and condescending to parade his good fortune in such an ostentatious way.
There was a second man hovering at his elbow. He was a few years younger, and he resembled Mr. Shawcross so strongly that they had to be brothers. He was dressed just as immaculately, but he’d donned a more typical blue velvet coat, tan trousers, and a white shirt with white lace cravat. His fingers displayed the same gaudy rings.
He had to have been the other horse trader, and she was hurt to realize Mr. Shawcross had never mentioned having a sibling or that he was in residence too.
For some reason, the notion that they hadn’t been intr
oduced was particularly galling. It was silly to feel slighted, but she couldn’t help it. Her meeting him was the sole interesting thing that had happened in so long. She was crushed to learn that it had been a chimera.
He was chatting with Beatrice and Millicent, and Clayton was puffed up like a rooster, relishing how he’d impressed the group by having such a famous friend. Rebecca couldn’t hear any of them. She was too far away, but he reached into his coat and extracted a small gift box, which he handed to Millicent with a grand flourish.
She preened with delight and ripped off the silver wrapping paper. When she lifted the lid, she—and those surrounding her—gasped with astonishment.
Excited utterances raced by:
“It’s diamond earrings!”
“How bloody rich is the man?”
“He can afford to dole out jewels like candy!”
He glanced over Millicent’s shoulder, and he noticed Rebecca lurking in the corner with Mr. Melville. Their eyes locked, and he winked at her, acting as if they shared a joke that no one else understood. Then the crowd closed in, and she lost sight of him.
She whirled away, refusing to gawk and not wanting to be caught staring at him in case the crowd parted again.
Mr. Melville frowned at her. “Were people saying his surname is Shawcross? Was that it?”
“Yes, why?”
“I think I went to school with him as a boy, and I’m sure his name is Raven Stone.” Mr. Melville glared across the milling mob, searching for Mr. Shawcross, but he wasn’t much taller than she was. Finally, he shrugged. “It was many years ago. I’m probably mistaken.”
“Well, I’ve conversed with him recently, and when he originally came to Carter Crossing, he claimed to simply be delivering some horses Clayton had bought.”
“If he’s that African explorer, why would he pretend to be a horse dealer?”
“I have no idea.”
“He must be playing some game with us. What could it be?”
“I can’t imagine.”
His frown deepened. “Did he…he…give Miss Millicent some diamonds? I couldn’t see what was in the box. Could you?”