Anne Barbour (23 page)

“I am not going to wait here to be rescued like a maiden chained to a rock,” he grunted through clenched teeth. “It’s getting a little better already, so if you’ll just be patient, I’ll be all right.”

His white face belied his words, but Kate said no more, merely shifting her position to give him more support. Indeed, his movements seemed a little more free now, and by the time they had reached the horses, he was able to walk under his own power. He even managed to mount his horse with a minimum of assistance from her, and they proceeded at a moderate pace along the faint track that led back to Westerly.

They spoke only of commonplaces along the way, each carefully avoiding the subject uppermost in their minds. David’s kiss still burned on Kate’s lips, and she thought its effects must be visible. She reviewed her limited experience with this pleasant activity, but it was as though she were comparing bells to boulders when she thought of David’s annihilating embrace and the exchanges she had accepted from Charles and the one that had been forced on her by Lawrence. It was as though she had given up a piece of her soul to him through that searing contact. She shot him a sidelong glance. His face was closed and hard, the film of perspiration covering his features an indication of his present physical agony.

Dear God, if only she could do something for him. She ached for the unspeakable suffering he must be going through.

He rode silently, each step taken by Barney a source of exquisite torment. By a supreme effort of will, he found he was able to direct his thoughts in another channel. He grimaced. This new avenue was hardly guaranteed to ease his suffering, since it led him directly to that which he preferred not to contemplate.

What was he going to do about Kate? It had become apparent that he was unable to keep himself under control when she was around. True, he had been in the midst of an exceptionally emotional upheaval when he had clasped her to him. Under normal circumstances, he would have been able to suppress the overpowering need to feel her mouth under his. Surely he would not be called upon to rescue her from life-threatening hazards on a regular basis. Still, he could not place any dependence on his ability to keep a rein on his feelings if he found himself, say, seated next to her on a garden bench in a scented, moonlit garden. He shook himself, which action effectively banished from his mind everything but the relentless ferocity of the pain that radiated to every corner of his being.

He groped frantically for another subject to divert his mind.

“What do you suppose that thing was doing there?” His voice, as he blurted the words, was jagged.

“What?”

“That hole. Why would anyone have a pit under the drawing room floor? Or wherever.”

“Oh.” With an effort, Kate pulled her mind away from its fruitless writhings. “I don’t know. I was digging rather furiously.” She flushed as she recalled what now seemed her perfectly infantile rage at him earlier. To her horror, tears began to spill over her cheeks.

“Kate—don’t...” David’s face twisted in a hurt that was completely unrelated to his wound.

“I’m sorry,” Kate mumbled. She dabbed at her eyes with one hand, succeeding only in creating smeared circles of mud. “Perhaps it was a storage pit—just think what artifacts we might have found there, and now we’ll never see any of them. All that work”—she gulped—”ruined. Now, I’ll never be able to reveal the whole house.”

The tears made rivulets in the mud, but she knew they were not for the hopes that lay crushed in the ruined villa. She cried for her ruined dreams, realizing that the kiss that had made her spirit soar into heretofore undreamed of realms of bliss, had obviously been not at all wondrous for David. He had turned away from her in distraction, seeming almost angry at what had happened.

Observing her tears, David reached for her hand, but they had at last reached the stable yard, and Kate’s call for assistance was swiftly answered by Josiah Moody. In an astonishingly short time, Curle appeared on the scene, then Lucius, and David was lifted from the saddle. In another few seconds, he had been borne indoors, and Kate was left to stand forlornly in the center of the yard, staring after them.

Chapter Seventeen

Through long practice, Kate managed to arrive at her chambers undetected by Regina or any of the servants. Once there, however, she sank into a small armchair in her sitting room and gave herself up to gloomy reflection.

For how many years, she wondered, had she loved David. She could clearly remember the day she had arrived at Westerly, a bewildered, desperately weary four-year-old orphan. Philip, at six, was only slightly more comprehending of their bereavement, and, pale and silent, had entered the great front door ahead of her.

The stranger who was Uncle Thomas had made the trip from India with them, lightening the terrifying strangeness of the journey with tales of Westerly and its inhabitants. Thus, she knew immediately that the rather plump little boy with a pouting, sullen air who waited in the Hall for them was Lawrence. Urged by his mother, a tall, remote lady in a starchy gown, he had thrust out a hand to Philip and murmured an indistinguishable greeting to her. But where, Kate had wondered, was the black-eyed one of whom Uncle Thomas had spoken with such warmth?

It was not until much later that she had encountered him in the stable yard, wholly occupied with the training of a yearling colt. She had wandered out by herself, and now stood stock still, gaping in wonderment at the sight of the sturdy youngster standing nose to nose with an animal that seemed several sizes too large for his new master.

Curious at the silent communion between boy and beast, she had stepped closer, and the suddenness of her movement caused the mettlesome young horse to rear.

One of the watching grooms ran forward, but the boy waved him away. He clung to the leading rein, and, despite the animal’s best efforts, soon brought him to a standstill. It was only then that the boy handed the rein to one of the grooms, and strode to where Kate stood, eyes wide with apprehension.

“You, there—girl! What do you mean by it?”

Kate had merely stared blankly at him.

“Have you no more sense,” he continued, his black gaze blazing into hers, “than to barge into a training session? What a ninnyhammer you are—and I never saw a girl with hair like carrots before.”

At this, her temper had blazed as bright as her hair. She walked up to her tormentor, and, swinging one tiny fist, caught him squarely on the jaw. Instantly, she fell back, horror-struck at what she had done, and awaited retribution.

Instead, the boy had rocked back on his heels, and, after an astonished moment, burst into laughter. “A wisty castor!” he cried. “But if you mean to do that ever again, you must learn to tuck your thumb in—and turn your hand so that your knuckles make contact. Here, let me show you.”

He had then proceeded to instruct her in the proper method of drawing an opponent’s cork. Philip joined them some moments later, and after a brief period of wariness, the two became instant friends. He was, he told them, David Merritt, and he was eight years old. Uncle Thomas was his father, but as he explained that Aunt Regina was not precisely his mother, a shadow crossed his young face. For an instant he looked vulnerable and lost, and in that moment, Kate knew she had given him her heart.

Now, she rose from her chair with a sigh, and having rung for a tub of hot water, began to remove the tattered, filthy remnants of her clothing. When Phoebe came to attend her mistress, she found her standing in the center of her bedroom, half undressed, staring out the window at nothing in particular. With a horrified clicking of her tongue, the little maid began divesting Kate of her begrimed muslin gown.

A few moments later, settled into a steaming bath, Kate allowed her thoughts to drift back to the morning’s occurrences. How odd, she mused. All these years, she had thought of David as a surrogate brother—someone she could turn to for solace in her bad times and for sharing in the good. Even when he had returned from the war so badly scarred inside and out, she had believed that she wanted only his friendship.

Absently, she slapped the washcloth against the surface of the scented water. His friendship, indeed. Well, yes, she wanted that, in addition to so much more. She wanted not only to share his problems and triumphs at Westerly, but to share his bed as well. Her love was no longer that of a child for a beloved playmate, but that of a woman for the man who meant everything to her—the man to whom she wanted to promise her heart and her life in a church blazing with candles, and whose children she wanted to bear.

No wonder she had been so infuriated last night when pretty little Lucinda Davenport had plied him with her not inconsiderable charms. She had been plainly and simply green-eyed with jealousy. David had smiled at Miss Davenport and conversed pleasantly with Miss Davenport. Would he eventually marry Miss...?

Her heart, already positioned several notches below despair, sank even further. He very well might wed that simpering little chit, for he certainly had no interest in marrying the commonplace girl he had known forever. It was obvious he considered her to have changed little from the tiresome child who had tagged so relentlessly after Philip and him so many years ago. The kiss? Merely a delayed reaction to a nerve-shattering crisis, one from which he’d recovered in short order.

He had told her he needed her friendship. She was more than willing to give it to him, that and anything else he might wish of her, at least until he married. She really could not bear the thought of living here with the Earl of Falworth and his new countess, whomever she might be. By the time David installed a bride at Westerly, she would have packed her belongings and found a place of her own in which to spend the remainder of what looked at this point to be a perfectly dreary life.

Her thoughts continued along this bitter path until the cooling of the water brought her back to her surroundings. Resolutely she soaped herself and washed her hair with great vigor, as though by such an action she could slough away her treacherous longings.

Phoebe had just finished tucking her into yet another dismal mourning ensemble, when she was surprised by a sharp rap on her door, immediately followed by the entrance of Aunt Fred.

The old lady strode into the room and grasped Kate by the wrist.

“I want you to come to the conservatory with me,” she announced baldly.

“To the conservatory?” queried Kate, “Whatever for?”

“I have a sudden yearning to smell the flowers. Now.”

With this, Lady Frederica spun about and hurried from the room, casting a single glance over her shoulder to make sure her instructions were being followed.

Kate followed in bewilderment, but not another word would Aunt Fred say until they had entered the cool moistness of the conservatory. Darting her gaze about the room, Aunt Fred exclaimed in a satisfied tone, “Good, we’re in time.”

Then, clutching Kate’s hand once more, she led her to a corner of the room sheltered from view by an assortment of exotic trees.

“Aunt Fred, what in the world is going on?” exclaimed Kate in increasingly baffled tones.

“I told you, I had a sudden wish to walk amidst the blooming whatever-they-are,” she replied, waving vaguely at a flowering plant.

“Now look here, Aunt. If you don’t...”

“Ssst!”—Aunt Fred gripped Kate’s arm—”Here they are. Now for heaven’s sake, be quiet!”

Kate peered from behind the ornamental shrubbery to observe that Cilia and Lucius had entered the conservatory. Cilia was erupting in high, girlish giggles.

“Now, don’t say you weren’t happy to escape from Mama and her positively excruciatingly boring guests. Just because David decided to feign an indisposition, I don’t see why we should have to sit and listen to them prose on forever.” She drew him further into the room. “See? Here is what I wanted to show you. It’s Mama’s acidanthera—very rare, you know, and it doesn’t bloom very often. Isn’t it lovely? Don’t the blossoms remind you of butterflies?”

Lucius eyed Cilia with a noticeable lack of enthusiasm as he removed her hand from his arm and attempted to back toward the door.

“Yes, very pretty,” he said quietly, “but I think we’d best be getting back to the others. Your mother will wonder where we have got to.”

“Nonsense,” trilled Cilia, reattaching herself to his sleeve in a playful manner. “She knows I am in your company, after all. Do look at the lovely flower.” Still retaining the wary Lucius in her grip, she bent for a closer look. Suddenly, she straightened, uttering a squeal of horror.

“Ooh, look! Oh, Mr. Pelham—it’s a big, nasty bug. Do drive it away!”

Lucius peered at the flower, then at Cilia.

“I don’t see anything.”

“Oooh!” Cilia repeated, uttering an even louder screech. “It’s flying. Can’t you see it? It’s—oh! Oh—oh—oh!” She pressed against Lucius, wriggling frantically. “It flew down my dress!”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Down my dress—the back of my dress! Ooh!” She flung her arms about Lucius’s neck. “Get it out! Get it out!”

“My dear Lady Cilia!” Lucius’s voice had become suddenly cold. “I shall fetch your mother. She will know what to do.”

“No, no, no!” gasped Cilia. “Just put your hand on my back. Perhaps you can crush the wretched thing. Oh, please. It’s— oh—ugh—it’s wiggling!”

Lucius merely set about removing Cilia’s arms from about his neck.

All through this fascinating scene, Kate had watched as though turned to stone. What in the world had come over Cilia to behave in this appalling manner? She was startled to feel Aunt Fred’s hand once more on her arm as the old lady strode forward, a bright smile on her lips.

“Poor dear. A bug, you say? But how unfortunate. Here, let Aunt Fred help you.”

Cilia suddenly ceased her gyrations. Her mouth dropped open and her eyes blinked several times in rapid succession, after which she immediately began to cry.

“B-but,” she wailed, “we’re supposed to be ...”

At this moment, the door to the conservatory swung open and a group of elegantly gowned ladies entered, led by Lady Falworth, who spoke to them over her shoulder.