Fortune's Lady (50 page)

Quinn spoke quietly. “He wanted me to tell you how grateful he is, how much he appreciates all you've done. He asked me to tell you good-bye. And to give you this.”

She reached out blindly for the envelope he was holding toward her. A glance inside told her it was money. Her hand dropped to her side and her eyes closed. She swallowed down fresh tears. “I'm so tired,” she rasped hoarsely. “Please—”

“Yes, of course. Forgive me.” He got to his feet. “Dora's here to look after you; she'll get you anything you need. Your belongings are here, Philip had them—” He stopped, cleared his throat. “The doctor will be in again in a day or two. He says you need rest, but he expects you to recover fully in about a week. You were very, very lucky, my dear, although I daresay it doesn't seem that way now. But the spirit will revive as the body heals, I promise you.”

She tried to smile, but couldn't manage it. For a second she thought he was going to touch her, pat her arm or squeeze her hand reassuringly; but in the end he only made a formal little bow and left the room.

Three days later, he returned. He was gratified to see her looking so much better, he said; did she feel well enough to travel? She told him she did, as an ice-cold wave seemed to break over her heart and she anticipated his next words. Would she like him to book passage for her on a ship leaving in four days for America?

A long moment passed. And then she said yes.

This time he did touch her, a fleeting brush of his fingertips on her shoulder. She'd never known him to be so gentle. “Leave everything to me,” he said quietly. “I'll take care of all the arrangements. You can leave directly from here. Dora will do your packing for you. All you have to do is concentrate on getting strong.”

She lay still for a little longer after he left, then reached for the bell-rope at the bedside. In a moment Dora came in.

“Yes, miss?”

“I'd like a proper bath today,” she said in her hoarse croak. “Will you press my high-necked green gown with the white petticoats? And after that I'll need you to help me with my hair.”

“Yes, miss,” said Dora, round-eyed. “Are you sure you should be getting up so soon, miss?”

“Very sure,” Cass said grimly, throwing back the covers.

The butler answered her knock almost immediately.

“Is Mr. Riordan here?”

His brows lifted a fraction in swiftly veiled surprise. “No, madam.”

“Is—may I speak to Lady Claudia, then?”

“Whom shall I say is calling?”

“Miss Merlin.”

“If you will wait here for one moment.”

It seemed less than a moment before he was back, begging her to follow him and leading her down an elegantly appointed hallway to an even more elegant drawing room. Claudia's home was everything she'd known it would be, she noted with a sinking feeling. But Philip wasn't here, and that at least was a mercy. She cursed her own cowardice.

It was a moment before she saw Claudia, stretched out on the sofa before the massive marble fireplace, wearing a dressing gown, a blanket covering her lower body. A bandaged foot protruded from the bottom of the blanket and rested on a satin pillow. She was still beautiful, but undeniably ill; whatever angry or unpleasant words Cass might have said to her died on her lips unspoken.

If Cass was surprised to see her in this condition, Claudia was looking at her as if she were a ghost. Swallowing her nervousness, she walked straight over to her. “I'm sorry to disturb you,” she said huskily, “but I didn't know you were ill. I only wanted to ask you a question.”

Claudia still stared. Finally she recovered enough to cry, “Philip said you were dead!”

Cass flinched as if she'd struck her. Tears threatened, but scathing anger saved her from that humiliation. “It seems he exaggerated,” she bit out. “Where is he? Is he here?”

“Here! No, of course not. He's at home.”

So, he was well enough to take care of himself now. She wasn't sure if she was glad or sorry. “I see. Then I won't trouble you any longer.”

“Cas—Mrs. Riordan, are you all right?”

“I'm not Mrs. Riordan,” she snapped. He hadn't even told her that, so she was innocent of Philip's treachery. Her feelings toward Claudia ought to have softened, but they didn't. “I'm perfectly well, thank you. Good afternoon.” And she left Lady Claudia as she'd found her, staring at her with her mouth open.

It felt strange to knock at the door she was accustomed to walking freely in and out of. She waited, resisting the need to lean against the doorpost; only an hour out of bed, and already she was exhausted. A man she'd never seen before opened the door. Walker's replacement? “I'd like to see Mr. Riordan,” she told him.

“I'm sorry, miss, but he's not receiving visitors; Mr. Riordan is ill.”

“I'm aware that he's ill,” she said tightly. “I want to see him anyway.”

“I'm sorry, that's impossible.”

The man was big enough to fill the doorway, and he was not going to let her in. Frustration made her grind her teeth. “I have no card, but if you take my name up, I think he will see me.” She thought no such thing; in fact, there was an excellent chance he would refuse to see her. But she knew she had to try.

“Very well, miss,” the man conceded impassively. “Whom shall I say?”

She told him her name, detecting no flicker of recognition in his face.

“Very good. Would you care to wait in the hall?”

“How kind,” she murmured, struggling to keep sarcasm out of her tone. She went inside, and immediately sank down on the armchair in the foyer while the butler, or whatever he was, ascended the staircase and passed out of sight. She rested her head on the back of the chair and closed her eyes as fatigue swamped her. She almost hoped he wouldn't see her. She lacked the physical and emotional strength for a confrontation now. Oh, Quinn was right, she should have gone directly away, not subjected herself to this! It couldn't possibly be anything but painful. But Riordan didn't deserve such passive self-exile from her. That he was telling people his “wife” was dead proved he expected her to accept her banishment docilely, but she was not going to disappear so conveniently for him. Not quite yet.

She heard loud, quick footsteps coming along the upstairs hallway. In a moment she recognized Beal, Riordan's valet, coming down the steps, wearing the same expression on his face she'd recently seen on Claudia's.

“Mrs. Riordan!” he exclaimed, staring, shocked. “We thought you were dead!”

The bitterness rising in her throat stung like acid, but she managed a tight smile for Beal's benefit. “Not quite,” she grated. “Is Mr. Riordan well enough to have a visitor, do you think?”

“Why, of course! He's sleeping, but he—why, he'll be—”

“Surprised,” she finished grimly. “Then I'll go up. It's all right, I still remember the way.” She left him standing in the hall, staring after her in amazement.

She might have seemed cool and collected to Beal, but she was trembling with nervousness as she walked down the dim hallway toward Riordan's bedroom. To survive the next few minutes, she needed to concentrate on the kind of man he'd proven himself to be. Liar. Hypocrite. Seducer. She paused with her hand on the knob to gather her wits, and to drive out of her mind the demoralizing realization that despite all that, she was still in love with him. She pushed the door open soundlessly and went in.

The room was dark; the only illumination came from the fire in the grate and two candles burning at the bedside. She stood listening to the silence and feeling the pounding of her heart. As her eyes adjusted to the dimness, she saw that he was asleep. A cowardly voice inside her reminded her that it wasn't too late to leave. She shook it off and moved purposefully toward the bed.

She folded her hands under her chin. A slow frown marred her features. Why, he was so thin! She could see the sharp, elegant bones in his face under the day-old stubble of beard. His black-and-silver hair had been brushed back from his forehead, and his face was paler than the white pillows piled around him. His nightshirt was unbuttoned to the waist; under it a thick white bandage was wrapped around his chest. One hand rested on his stomach, the other at his side. His eyelids flickered once, as if he were dreaming.

Cass bit her knuckles, hard, but it didn't stop the fierce, helpless rush of love. Speaking her mind to him seemed suddenly pointless. She hated herself far more than she hated him. “
Damn you
,” she whispered, and turned to go.

A flash of something gold on the bedside table stopped her. Her hand trembled as she reached for it. Her ring. The warmth of it in her hand went straight to her heart.
You and no other.
She swallowed painfully and dashed away treacherous tears. Why had he kept it? It slipped from her fingers as she tried to put it back, and landed on the table with a soft clatter. She stood perfectly still.

Riordan opened his eyes and looked at her.

Instead of reacting, he only rubbed his hand over his eyes in an oddly weary gesture and dropped his arm back to the sheet. He looked up again, and this time he frowned at her. And blinked. Shook his head and rubbed his eyes again. He pushed himself up a little on his elbows. He cleared his throat; his voice was tentative, almost amused. “Cass?”

“Hello, Philip. I came to say good-bye.” She took a step back and clasped her hands at her waist so he couldn't see them shaking. She was ridiculously aware of how low and raspy her voice sounded. “I didn't realize you were so ill—if I had, I wouldn't have come.”

He sat up a little higher, though the movement seemed to pain him. “Cass?” he repeated.

She'd thought he couldn't go any whiter, but he did. She began to feel concern, but hid it behind angry words. “It seems you told so many people I'm dead, you've begun to believe it yourself!”

Riordan drew in his breath sharply and his eyes burned with a fierce light. “Cass!” he whispered, and threw back the covers.

The vulnerable sight of his bare legs under his nightshirt caused her to feel a dangerous softening. She suppressed it. But when she realized he meant to get up, she rushed toward him and gently pushed him back down.

He clutched at her arms and wouldn't let go, staring at her as if he'd been struck by lightning. “Oh God, tell me I'm not dreaming,” he breathed. “I've seen you so many times. Is this real, Cass?” He put his hands on her face and tried to draw her down to him, but she took his wrists and pulled away. She hoped she knew better by now than to let him touch her.

“It's real,” she said tersely, backing away again. “Stop it, Philip. Don't!” But he wouldn't stop. He threw the covers off again and tried to stand. “Oh!” she cried, exasperated, and went back to him. “You shouldn't do this! Will you lie down? No, stop it—”

But he had his arms around her and was holding her tight between his knees, sitting on the edge of the bed, trying to look at her and bury his face in her hair at the same time. “Hold still, Cass,” he grunted, “you'll hurt me.” And finally she stopped squirming.

“Damn you,” she almost sobbed, standing stiffly, but unable to keep her arms from going around his shoulders.

“Wait, now. Wait. Don't curse me, love.”

“I curse you to hell forever, Philip Riordan.” Her whole body was shuddering. She breathed in the smell of his hair, his clean flesh, mortified that he could feel her tears now on his own cheek.

“Cass, Cass,” he crooned hoarsely, “I think I understand what's happened. Just let me hold you.” His heart was so full, he couldn't explain it to her yet. He closed his eyes and cupped her thin shoulder blades in his hands, pressing her against him as hard as the wound in his chest would allow. He could feel the long, shuddering tremors running through her body. He gentled his hold and pulled back to look at her; the pain in her eyes went straight to his heart. “I love you so dearly,” he whispered.

She sighed and turned her face away. “No more lies, Philip. I'm begging you.”

He slid his fingers into her hair and made her look at him. He had to ask. “Did Wade hurt you?”

She shut her eyes tight. “Yes,” she murmured brokenly. “But he didn't rape me. He tried, but he couldn't.” She couldn't tell him more. She opened her eyes. As strange as it seemed, the look on his face made her want to comfort him. Her fingers fluttered to his cheek in a helpless, fleeting caress.

“Listen to me,” he ground out through his teeth. “Quinn told me you were dead. I saw you hanging.” He couldn't repress a shudder of revulsion at the memory. Softly he unbuttoned the high neck of her gown and folded the cloth away from her throat. The sight of the scarred, abraded flesh brought tears to his eyes. “Oh, sweet Cass.”

She blinked to clear her vision. Was he crying for her? The worst pain of all was the pain of hoping. Numbness was better. And yet he'd said…

“Quinn told you?” she quavered. “Quinn—”

“Told me you died. And I wanted to die, too.”

“But—he told me you said good-bye. He said you were staying with Claudia. He gave me money from you and said I was to go away!”

He made an anguished sound and pulled her close again. “It was all a lie. Oh Christ, I thought you were dead.” He slid his hand between them and pressed it against her heart.

It was racing, and her mind with it. “Philip,” she breathed, beginning to weep again, “then it
was
all a lie? Are we truly married?” He kissed her where his hand had been, then raised his head. He didn't have to answer; she saw the truth shining in his eyes. “My love. Oh, my love. Forgive me, I should have believed you.”

He touched his fingers to her lips, parting them softly, and then he kissed her. They were both shaking. He held her breasts, feeling her breath tremble in and out of his mouth. “Yes, you should have believed me,” he murmured, watching her eyes darken as he kissed her and kissed her.