Kathryn Smith (3 page)

Rachel nodded, her smile fading. “You’re right,” she said, staring somewhere over his shoulder. Her gaze was shuttered, but the slump of her shoulders spoke volumes. “I might expect you—the handsome young knight—to save me all the time rather than save myself.”

Brave wasn’t certain how to take her bluntness. “Quite right,” he replied softly, keeping his tone light.

She leaned forward in the chair, the blanket fell back from her head, revealing the mass of damp, silver-streaked hair that framed her face like a halo. The line of one calf was also still visible, and Brave was certain he had never seen anything quite so seductive.

“I don’t expect you to rescue me again, Brave. You’ve done enough already. I shall always be in your debt.”

Part of him wanted to run. Another wanted to laugh, while a third part of him wanted to go to her and yank her to her big feet. He wanted to feel her breasts crushed against his chest, plunder her mouth with his tongue until all either of them could taste was each other. He wanted to lose himself in her luscious body, bruise that softness until he felt human again.

She said he would be her hero.

God, what was he thinking? He had to put an end to this
situation before it became even more like a child’s fairy tale. He had rescued the princess once—twice if he listened to her—but there was a limit to his knightly powers, especially when he knew all too well what a sham they were.

She watched him intently as he stood. A small frown wrinkled her otherwise smooth brow.

“No doubt your family is quite concerned about you.” He turned toward the door. “My mother always leaves clothes here for her visits. I will find you something to wear and see that you are taken safely home.”

“That is not nec—”

“No!”

She stared up at him, startled by his vehemence. Her eyes were huge and dark against the pallor of her face. He couldn’t blame her. He sounded like a lunatic.

“I insist,” he went on in a much softer tone of voice. “I would not rest easy knowing you were out alone.” With that said, he bowed briefly and strode from the room.

Every fiber of his being strained with the effort it took to walk away from her even though his mind told him it was the right thing to do. The sooner she was out of his house, the sooner his life could return to the closeted loneliness he’d come to find safety in. A woman like Rachel Ashton was anything but safe.

As soon as the door closed behind him he broke into a dead run.

S
oftly closing the door behind her, Rachel held her still damp clothes at arm’s length and tiptoed across the polished oak floor. Two wall sconces were lit, bathing the hall in mellow light. Hopefully, that meant Sir Henry was either not home or passed out drunk in his study.

“Where the devil have you been?”

Rachel stiffened. So much for sneaking in. Straightening her shoulders, she turned to face her stepfather.

“I couldn’t sleep and I went for a walk.” It was on the tip of her tongue to add that it was all his fault, but she was in no mood to argue with him. Besides, he would only take pleasure in her discomfort, and she didn’t want him to know that she’d uncovered his latest plans for her.

His eyes narrow, her stocky stepfather moved forward. The dim light darkened the creases of his face, making them appear deeper and the rest of his fleshy features all the more bloated. He looked just like a troll in a child’s bedtime story.

“What happened to your hair and your clothes?” he demanded, jerking his chins at the bundle in her arms.

Rachel’s jaw tightened. “I got too close to the river and fell in.”

Sir Henry circled her as he might a horse at auction. His close appraisal made the hair on Rachel’s neck rise. “Lucky for you that you didn’t drown.”

“Lucky for you as well.” She stared at a point over his shoulder, not even wanting to meet his loathsome gaze. “Otherwise, you wouldn’t be able to sell me to the highest bidder.”

Sir Henry swore, but otherwise ignored her barb. “Where’d you get those clothes? You look like a strumpet.”

Rachel looked down at the tight bodice of the gray-silk gown she wore beneath a soft cashmere shawl. Even though it displayed a shocking amount of bosom, it was the most exquisite gown she had ever seen, let alone worn.

Ignorant old goat. You wouldn’t know fashion if it bit you on your gout-ridden foot.

“Lord Braven loaned them to me,” she replied tauntingly. She raised her chin to meet her stepfather’s pale, narrow gaze. “They belong to his mother.” There was no way he could find fault now unless he wanted to insult the earl or the countess.

“Braven? I thought he was dead.”

Smiling in self-satisfaction, Rachel shrugged. “He is very much alive, and I’m afraid you not only owe my present wardrobe to his generosity, for ’twas he who pulled me from the river.”

From the edge of his receding hairline to the rounded paunch of his double chin, Sir Henry Westhaver flushed a dull red. “Well, just so you know, your poor mother’s been worried sick,” he said gruffly. “Now go to bed.”

“Yes, Sir Henry.” Obediently, Rachel turned on her heel and left the salon. She doubted her mother even knew she had been out. Henry just wanted to make her feel guilty. Oh,
she knew she shouldn’t think such thoughts of her father, and she wouldn’t—were Henry Westhaver her father.

Rachel was the product of her mother’s first marriage to a wealthy Yorkshire landowner. When William Ashton died in a carriage accident, leaving his estate entailed to a distant relative and his daughter’s dowry tied up until Rachel turned twenty-five, Marion Ashton had no choice but to seek a new life for herself and her child. Sir Henry Westhaver made the first offer.

Rachel never quite forgave her father for dying as he had, for leaving them.

It quickly became apparent that Sir Henry was far from the answer to their prayers. By the time his true nature revealed itself it was too late, and Rachel was powerless to protect her mother. She swore at a very young age that someday she would get them both out from under her stepfather’s roof. And then no one would ever hurt her mother again.

Opening the door to her room just enough to avoid making the top hinge squeak, Rachel slipped inside. The fire dying in the grate cast low shadows on the faded flowered wallpaper, but the room was warm and cozy regardless. No doubt Sir Henry had little idea how comfortable her room was, or he’d have her moved to the attic just for spite.

She did not remove the lovely gown upon reaching her room. Instead, she stretched out upon the faded rose-and-ivory counterpane and stroked the soft silk that stretched across her chest.

Judging from the tightness of the bodice and the fact that the skirts ended well above her ankle, Rachel judged the countess to be a tiny little bit of a woman.

Her son, however, certainly wasn’t a little man.

Lord, Rachel had thought her eyes were going to pop right out of her head when she looked up from her nest of blankets and saw him standing there in the firelight. In her panic at the river, she hadn’t noticed how much bigger he was than the last time she had seen him.

Lord Braven was a tall man, with broad shoulders and narrow hips. During his daring rescue, the buttons had come off his waistcoat, leaving the torn garment completely open in the front. His shirtfront was damp where he carried her against him, and the thin lawn clung and conformed to the muscles of his chest and abdomen.

Being accustomed to the soft form of her stepfather, she had been completely enthralled by the hard planes and ridges that made up the earl’s torso.

And that face! In the moonlight he’d look positively fierce—like something straight out of a myth. With those slashing brows, Romanesque nose, and grim mouth he’d been the perfect warrior sent to save her. Those puppy-dog eyes had been the only softness on his face, and even then they were so solemn she couldn’t bear to look at them for long.

Oh no, there wasn’t a woman in England who wouldn’t be content to go limp in the Earl of Braven’s strong arms and let him carry her wherever he wanted.

It was odd, calling him by his father’s title, even though it wasn’t that different from the nickname he’d earned years before. Some silly girl had apparently commented on how brave the future Earl of Braven was, and the appellation “Brave” stuck. Rachel had always thought it rather silly, but now she thought he rather deserved it. No doubt his father—the old earl—would be proud of the man he had become.

She remembered the old earl from her childhood. He had been a big man with sparkling eyes and big hands. He always had sweets for her whenever Rachel’s father took her with him on one of his visits to Wyck’s End. How kind he had always been. Rachel had actually wept at the old man’s funeral.

The present earl looked little like his father—except perhaps for his chocolate brown eyes and the size of his hands. He had sat with them on his thighs as if he had no idea what to do with them. Strong hands, obviously, because he had
hauled her out of the river as though she was nothing more than a piece of laundry. How awkward they looked holding the delicate china cup he had sipped his tea from. How warm they had been as they massaged her icy feet. The mere thought of those long fingers against her flesh was enough to make her feel hot all over.

Had David ever made her feel that way? Once maybe, but now all she felt when she thought of him was a strange mix of sorrow and relief. Sorrow that he hadn’t been the man she thought him to be. And relief that he’d chose to abandon rather than marry her. He would have made her miserable.

And she had enough misery in her life without a husband adding to it.

There was a sadness about Brave that she found utterly intriguing. There was something holding him back from life, she could sense it. The young earl had scars and secrets buried deep within him that made a woman want to open him up and look inside his soul.

“Stop thinking about him,” she muttered to herself crossly. “Remember how far beneath him you are.”

As if she could ever forget.

There was a soft tap at her door and she called out for whoever was there to enter, grateful that thoughts of her savior could be put aside.

The door opened. “May I come in?” asked a soft voice.

Rising into a sitting position on the soft mattress, Rachel frowned. “Mama, what are you doing up?”

Marion Westhaver shuffled into the room. Her long brown hair was unbound and hung heavily around her slender shoulders. The voluminous nightgown she wore hung off her thin frame. She looked like a child playing in her mother’s wardrobe, but her walk was that of a woman—a woman in pain. Every step was slow and agonizing—for both Rachel and her mother.

He mother closed the door. “I wanted to wait until Henry was in his chamber before coming to yours.”

A familiar, frigid rage curdled in the pit of Rachel’s stomach, sending tendrils of ice shooting throughout her limbs. “What did he do to you?”

Marion shook her head and wearily waved a thin hand.

“Nothing that he hasn’t done before.” She eased herself into a pink-cushioned chair and sighed.

Rachel fought to stifle her temper. She had long ago learned that Henry Westhaver was a coward. He would belittle and beat her mother, but whenever Rachel confronted him, he refused to act against her.

Whenever she retaliated on behalf of her mother, Sir Henry made life all the harder for Marion. Rachel had given up trying to fight her mother’s battles. Instead, she plotted for the day she could take her mother away from there—the day she turned twenty-five.

Only a few months away in January, Rachel’s birthday meant she would get the money her father had set aside for her—the money neither she nor her mother had been able to touch when they needed it. Once she had it, Rachel could afford to pay for a divorce on the grounds of brutality. And if that didn’t work, she would at least be able to take her mother away where Sir Henry could never find her.

So, it was important that Rachel avoid her stepfather’s efforts to marry her off at all costs, since a husband would automatically gain control of her money. Taking care of her mother meant that she would probably never marry a man she could love, at least not until her mother was safe, but she didn’t care. She cared only that she and her mother would soon be free of Henry Westhaver.

If Sir Henry didn’t succeed in killing her mother first.

“I thought we should have a talk since your stepfather wants to see you married soon.”

Rachel jumped at the sound of her mother’s tired voice.
For a moment, she thought the other woman had fallen asleep in her tiny, uncomfortable seat.

“Talk about what?” she asked, drawing herself up into a sitting position on the bed.

“About wifely duties.”

Rachel felt as though she had just been hit in the face with a snowball.

She already knew what “wifely duties” entailed. A few years ago Rachel had stumbled upon Sabine, a chambermaid, having
relations
with one of the footmen. Later, Sabine had come to her room and, sensing how much the discovery would distress a “virginal miss,” had explained the process in detail.

It was more detail than Rachel had wanted at the time, but it came in handy during her older years when scant few young men tried to lure her into dark gardens and secret alcoves. And it had kept her from making an irreparable mistake with David.

The idea of allowing Viscount Charlton to touch her as David had tried to touch her was somewhat sickening. Rachel didn’t even want to
think
of performing her “wifely duties” with Charlton.

“Rachel dear? Are you unwell?”

“I already know what is expected of me in the marriage bed, Mama,” she replied, rubbing her throbbing forehead with the heel of her hand. “Not that I entertain any idea of having to go through with the experience anytime soon, no matter what Sir Henry wants.”

Marion’s face took on the expression of fear that Rachel had become accustomed to since they had come to live with Henry Westhaver. Anxiety, despair, and a tiredness Rachel despised were reflected in the pale depths of her mother’s blue eyes and etched in the lines of her face.

“Don’t fight him, Rachel. I’ve tried fighting him for years, and I’ve yet to win.”

“I’m not you, Mama.” No, she wasn’t. She didn’t have a young daughter to think about and no one to go to for help.

She understood the fact that her mother had only Sir Henry and the poorhouse to choose from, but that didn’t stop her from sometimes wishing her mother had chosen the poorhouse. Ten years of watching her stepfather beat her mother into the ground had taken its toll. As had ten years of being pitied by the rest of the townspeople.

There had been times when she had just wanted to run away, leaving her mother to her own devices, but she couldn’t bring herself to actually go. After all her mother had done for her, she couldn’t just leave her. Not when it was her fault her mother had made such a disastrous marriage in the first place.

Marion flushed, but her gaze never wavered from her daughter’s. “No. You’re not.”

Rachel knew all too well there was a chance that life on their own would be no easier than life with Henry Westhaver, but at least they would be free. They would be left to their own devices, but they would have a little money left once the divorce was settled and they would answer to no one but themselves. Even if Rachel had to look after her mother for the rest of her life, she would have the satisfaction of defeating Sir Henry.

Patting her mother’s thin hand, Rachel managed a slight smile. “I appreciate your concern, Mama, but I really do know all I need to know. And if Sir Henry finds me an agreeable husband, perhaps we can come to an agreement.” She hated lying to her mother, but she didn’t want to risk her mother ruining her plans by confessing to Henry out of fear, either.

Her smile grew. “Although I don’t imagine even Sir Henry could find a man I wouldn’t drive to distraction with my stubbornness anyway.”

Her mother’s pale, nervous gaze met hers. “A wife shouldn’t provoke her husband, Rachel.”

Rachel’s face tightened. “And a husband shouldn’t beat his wife, Mama. Now why don’t you stop worrying and leave everything to me?”

In a rare show of humor, her mother smiled, reminding Rachel of the happy woman she used to be.

“
That
is what worries me,” she joked, lifting herself out of the chair with an agonizing stiffness that made Rachel ache just from watching her. Slowly, Marion crossed the floor to her daughter.

Rachel didn’t have to force a smile as her mother stood before her. Carefully, she wrapped her arms around her mother’s waist. From her seat on the bed, she could rest her head against her mother’s bosom as she had as a child. It still gave her comfort even though the woman who had once seemed so round and solid now felt little and frail. Rachel wasn’t certain if it was because she was now the larger of the two or if her mother had actually lost weight along with her spirit over the years with Henry.