by Laura Parker
She shook her head, her expression that of a willful child. “I cannot go home to him. Not like this.”
“He will forgive you.”
“That is just the point. I do not want be to taken back because I am with his child.”
Jack just refrained from pointing out the possibility that her actions had set the stage for her husband to doubt the veracity of her statement. Then again, Lovelace might not be as much a fool as most men. For Lotte’s sake, he hoped that was so. “So then what will you do?”
She lifted her head but her eyes did not meet his this time. “I do not want to be with child. I am terrified of childbirth.” Her voice dropped to a childish whisper. “I fear I shall die.”
He had no ready answer for that. “I can only tell you how I would feel if you were my wife. I should want you back, whatever the misunderstanding.”
He reached down and lifted her face by the chin. “Even your stickler of a husband must have enough manly lust left within him to know what he has found in you.”
She smiled back, at first a bit wobbly but then more resolutely. “Do you really believe it?”
“Would I lie to you?” And then because he did not want to talk any more, he bent his head and captured her trembling mouth for a brief moment with his firm kiss.
When he lifted his head she was staring at him with a new and dangerous awareness.
He set her promptly to arm’s length before he forgot he was playing the gentleman and advocate for her foolishly absent husband. “Now you go straight to bed and in the morning write that dullard you love to come and fetch you back to London. There will be time enough to persuade him of your value before you deliver your news to him.”
“What of Sabrina?” The look in her gaze was frankly sensual. “You will treat her well?”
He lifted a single golden brow. “Do you still doubt me?”
She pinkened, her hand rising unconsciously to her lips. “No.”
The tender scene played out in silhouette against the backlit lace curtains of the house on Kingsmeade Square had sliced to ribbons the heart of the one person in all the world who should never have witnessed it.
Lord Randolph Lovelace had followed Darlington from his apartments, having arrived in the lane of the viscount’s address just as the gentleman was going out.
He had ridden night and day to reach Bath, only to discover what he was still prepared to disbelieve as truth.
Lotte and Darlington were lovers. Proof positive, seen with his own eyes, now stared him in the face. The embrace. The kiss. The tender parting. These could have no ambiguous meanings.
Ran watched the viscount descend the steps, his visit no more than a quarter of an hour long and played out in plain sight. The assignation had been minus the sweaty coupling, which in his feverish, tortured imagination must have taken place on every other night.
“How could she!” The anguished whisper tore from his throat. His good, sweet, wonderful Lotte. What could have tempted her into another man’s arms? What had happened to their own consuming love? Darlington, he had come between them.
“I will kill him!”
Randolph reached for the pistol he had kept primed beneath his heavy coat, ready to fend off any assault upon the highway. Now he could imagine no sweeter revenge than setting its barrel against Darlington’s temple and pulling the trigger. Vanquished, his rival would no longer be able to touch Lotte ever again.
He gripped the pistol butt, his hand trembling on the brink of the act. The sound of Darlington’s booted footsteps ringing on cobblestone was the only sound in the square as the man neared his hiding place.
So near now, so easily accomplished, the surprise leap from the shadows, the lifting of steel and wood, the sudden pressure of metal against bone, the simple squeeze of the trigger.
The mad-blood haze lifted slowly from Randolph as Darlington turned the corner and strolled unknowingly past his own mortality and out of sight into the night.
He slumped against the stone edifice in whose shadow he stood, a broken, soul-weary man. He was no butcher. He could not kill in cold blood. Nor in raging temper. He could not kill what Lotte loved.
He found his sweating and shivering mount where he had tied it to a hitching post on the opposite side of the square. The horse whinnied its distress as Randolph mounted it but he was past caring. He ruthlessly turned the animal about and applied his spurs for speed.
If he rode the beast and himself into the ground, so be it. He knew he had to leave Bath on the very hour of his arrival or, despite his resolve, he might yet in some other less controllable moment kill them both.
Chapter Nineteen
Sabrina had not meant to fall asleep. How could she think of slumber when she waited for the arrival of Jack Law? Yet after the first hour of pacing the private parlor of The Coeur de Lion Inn, where every new voice or footfall beyond the closed door drew her attention, she found she could no longer remain alert. The wide width and welcome shelter of the Queen Anne chair set before the fire in the small drafty chamber beckoned.
Once settled in its deep seat with its tall back and wide wings gathering and holding the fire’s toasting warmth, she felt her head droop. Just for a moment, she told herself as she tucked her feet up under her skirts. She would not sleep. And then her lids fell shut on memories she had forgotten and things that would never again be …
She stepped out of a window onto the rolling grassy lawn, slick and freshly cut and smelling of spring. As she did so, she heard her name being called through the upper story window of her father’s Devonshire home. She threw back her head in laughter and then picked up her skirts and fled the petulant sound. Ah, but it was good to be home again!
When out-of-doors, she always ran. Her father said she would never make a proper lady until she was hobbled like a horse. But she did not care to be a lady, not ever. Now that she had seen London she was certain she would forever remain a hoyden.
She quickly gained the gap in the tall hedges that ringed the rear garden of the house and slipped through, not bothering to pause to unhook her sleeve that caught on a branch. She felt the fabric pull tight and then heard a faint ripping sound as it came loose. There would be the devil to pay. There was always the devil to pay from Prue, the nurse who had looked after her since the early death of her mother. But her father would laugh when she told him the story of her day’s adventure. For she was certain it would be an adventure.
She ran past the rougher ground, heavy brogues slipping on round wet stones, until she caught sight of, gleaming though the trees, the river. The sun lay upon it, split into shining ribbons of gold by the breeze rippling the surface. She had come to dip her hands in the river, to splash it upon her sweaty cheeks and watch the fish jump and the gulls cry shrilly with excitement. Then she would sit on the bank and wait in the hopes she would see it.
This was the day, of course. It never kept a schedule, but that did not seem to matter. She always knew by the expectation that gripped her upon awakening when the red-sailed sloop of the privateer would appear in the distance.
Yes, there it was!
Moments after she had gathered her skirts and sat in the green-dappled shade to wait, the sloop appeared from a bend in the river. It was just as she remembered it.
Butterflies floated past her and the underwood to her back hummed with bees broken by the chatter of birdsong. She had eyes only for the graceful ship slipping silently upriver, away from the sea into which, just beyond her sight, the river spilled.
Most often it anchored off the far shore in the curve of the natural harbor where the river widened before its final plunge to the sea. Today it sailed on, coming in closer than ever before. She saw first a man in the eagle’s nest. Then, as if it were a gliding swan, the ship turned broadside as it neared the shore, presenting her a full view of its deck, and the men standing there.
A premonition of wonder and fear struck through her, a strange elation and
dread. There, standing mid-deck, were her father and Kit. They were smiling, the man’s arm lying protectively about the shoulders of the thin frail boy whose fair hair tossed in the breeze.
Even as she opened her mouth to cry a delighted greeting, the ship canted and turned away, presenting its stern to her as the sails snapped and buckled and then caught again the freshening breeze.
She jumped to her feet, waving a frantic arm back and forth above her head.
“Wait! Wait for me!”
A draft of cool air whispering past her cheek roused Sabrina. Yet when she opened her eyes she could not be certain she had felt it.
The chamber was nearly dark, the fire no more than smoldering embers that threw faint light only upon nearby objects. She lifted her head, which felt woolly and thick as if she were sickening. When she tried to swallow she found her throat clogged and her chest oddly heavy, as if she had been running for a long time.
She sat up suddenly. How much time had passed? An hour? More?
She glanced toward the door to find it remained closed, as before. The shuttered window opposite her was equally shut against the night.
She felt his presence an instant before he spoke and yet the sound of Blackjack Law’s voice was the most unnerving sensation of her life.
“You’ve been crying in your sleep, mistress.”
“Have I?”
Sabrina raised a hand to her cheek and was startled to find it damp. She had been dreaming of Kit and her father and all that was now lost forever.
Embarrassed, she dropped her hand. The last thing she wanted was to seem weak and chastened before this wildly self-sufficient man. Though it rattled her confidence not to be able to see him, she did not turn toward the place from where his voice emanated. He liked mystery. She could be mysterious as well.
She deliberately leaned back into the contours of her wing chair. “I thought you might not come,” she said with quiet dignity. “I had grown weary with waiting.”
“I regret that. The delay was unavoidable.” He sounded as though he meant it. Extraordinary!
He had been imprisoned and was now free. She did not know how to ask him what he had suffered so she simply said, “I was told you were beaten and tortured.”
“An exaggeration.”
“I see.” The sound of his voice! Though muffled, she surmised, by the mask that he wore, it seemed hearty. Indeed, as if he had just partaken of a good meal and sufficient wine to thoroughly warm and satisfy his appetite.
Unable to resist, she leaned forward and turned her head in his direction. He appeared as a dark upright figure in a greatcoat with arms folded. He leaned a shoulder against the far wall in the deepest shadows created by the placement of her chair between him and the fire. She peered through the gloom, searching for the details of his face, yet they were blurred and indistinct. For all she saw of form and feature he might have been fashioned of coal. “Will you not join me by the fire, sir?”
“Not yet.” There was amusement in his tone. A sign that he was of a mood to be indulgent? “Considering our last meeting you can appreciate my predilection for anonymity.”
“Very well.” His reluctance was good, Sabrina decided, at least until they had struck the bargain which she hoped would make them accomplices.
“I am told you are responsible for my sudden liberation. May I ask why?”
She laughed self-consciously and slid her feet out from under herself, propping them on the brass fender before the hearth. “ ’Tis a rather complex tale.”
“I have time.”
She had not had much practice at bargaining, but it seemed appropriate that she maintain a certain formality until she had extracted a promise from him. “I have need of a man of your talents.”
“I am flattered.” He spoke lazily, as if being saved from the hangman’s knot was a customary service done him by young women of Quality. “Might I suggest which of my many good talents might best serve you?”
She ignored his innuendo. “I know which suits me. I have need of your talent for stealing things.”
“What do you wish stolen? A new gown? A jewel? A kiss, perhaps?”
Sabrina surprised herself by chuckling. She had remembered him aright, a vain, strutting rooster who thought himself adored by women. The faint odors of leather, tobacco, and whiskey flowed from him to tease her nostrils. Strange, she would have thought he would smell of the malodors of his prison. “What I wish you to steal is in Scotland.”
“That is a long, difficult journey.”
“So I’ve been told,” she murmured, thinking of the letters Kit had written her when first they had been separated. He had complained at length of the bad roads and multiple delays caused by broken wheels and impassable stretches that required them to backtrack sometimes for several days together. The cold of the too-short days of winter made his bones ache and the interminable nights with nothing to do but recite psalms and prayers seemed a cruel monotony to visit upon any lonely sad child.
“All the same, it is what I should like for you to do.”
“You expect a great deal from a man you wounded with his own weapon.”
She caught her breath. “Did I really wound you?”
He grunted. “Enough to leave a mark, not enough to incapacitate me.”
“I am sorry. Truly.”
As I view it, my liberation by you is no more than my due. By it we are made even.”
His unexpected view of events surprised her but she was not without a persuasive logic of her own. “I was not responsible for your capture. Yet I came to your aid.”
“With the help of a gentleman of great daring.”
“I suppose so,” she murmured, not wanting to think of Lord Darlington at this moment. “Since I have done you this good turn, you might repay me in the performance of an errand.”
“To Scotland?”
“Yes. I wish you to go to Scotland and steal the most precious thing in the world to me.”
“Precious?” A new note of coolness had entered his tone. “My lady is greedy for gain. A sentiment I can appreciate.”
“Perhaps I should be more specific. ’Tis not treasure. In fact, it is not something I wish you to steal but rather someone.”
For the space of a few heartbeats, silence offered the prefect vessel for his surprise. “Go on.”
“I want you to spirit my half brother Kit away from those who hold him under duress.”
“You want me to kidnap your brother?” The surprise had not left his tone but the humor was fully back.
“It will not be kidnapping. Kit wants to come to me.” She sat forward again, making her appeal directly to the long, dark masculine form that hovered at the edge of her focus. “But he is weak and ill and cannot accomplish it alone.”
“Why? What profit to you?”
“No profit to me. Rather I would see him profit.”
Annoyed that he had yet to reveal himself, she sat back out of his view. Addressing his motionless silhouette was rather like speaking to an apparition.
“Kit is the rightful heir to the Lyndsey fortune, not I. It was only through the insidious lies spread by our guardian that the king was induced to declare our father’s marriage to Kit’s mother illegal and therefore Kit a bastard.”
“Your guardian’s purpose?”
“As I am a mere woman, he gained permanent control of my inheritance.”
“An inconvenience to you, I see.”
“More than an inconvenience.” Her patience was beginning to unravel. “To further his nefarious political aspirations, our guardian has demanded that I marry where the dispensing of my dowry will gain him the most political influence.”
“Does this influential fellow have a name?”
“Lord Merripace.”
“Merripace.” She thought he spoke the name as one familiar with it. Could it be true that he, too, was a nobleman?
“So then you will gain a coronet and
a title, your guardian gains a powerful political ally, and Merripace gains the husbandry right to plant his seed in your ripe young body. Why should you wish to spoil this pleasant design?”
She clenched her fists to control her rising irritation with his raillery. How could she have forgotten how maddening this fellow could be? She supposed a man who lived by whim must find her concerns ridiculous. Yet they involved her very life. “I did not set you free to ply me with odious questions.”
“ ’Tis a fair question. Come, no one willing concedes a fortune for poverty.”
“I would, for Kit. My brother has been sickly all his life. I suspect my guardian will allow Kit to die once I am wed. To spare his life, I would give up three fortunes.”
“In that case, I want no part of your scheme.”
Sabrina lurched forward in her chair. “What?”
“The night I detained your coach you stood up to me. You were strong and daring and reckless enough to wrest from life what it was unwilling to concede you. Now I find you a mewling, weak woman full-up with false sentiment.”
“I am sorry to disillusion you,” she said indignantly. “Not all of us can take to the road when our lives defeat us.”
“Why not?” He sounded closer. Had he taken silent steps toward her while she spoke?
Sabrina considered his question. “What do you require of me?”
“A revelation of your true nature.” Oh yes, he was much nearer now. His voice came from directly above her. “It will not repel me. Is it wealth you seek? Revenge against your guardian? Rebellion over his authority?” She sensed him leaning over the chair back, so close now she felt his breath chase shivers across her cheek. Had he removed his mask? “Or, are you in it for the sheer devilment you may cause?”
She closed her eyes, trembling despite the weeks of longing for this moment. If she reached out she could touch him. Shyness held her back, kept her from even gazing into his stranger’s face. “Why do you seek to make my motives ugly and wicked?”
“Because,” he murmured into her ear, “the truth is that life is ugly and the motivation of men and woman most often wicked.”