Lord Monroe's Dark Tower: The Albright Sisters: Book 2 (6 page)

“He die with Cossacks hunting him?”

“No.”

“With wolves tearing his clothes as he run through woods? Was he hungry and frozen?”

Claire bit her lip and caught Flavian’s eye. There was warning there, bidding her to change the subject. She plunged ahead anyway. “You’re right, Abella. My uncle died on a sunny day while jumping his favorite horse. It was perhaps the nicest way for him to go. There was nothing about the moment before his death that he wouldn’t have loved.”

“Hernando’s death be beyond imagine.”

They were all silent a moment. Flavian put a forkful of eggs in his mouth.

“Tell me about him.”

Like a surly barmaid, Abella propped her elbows on the table and leaned close. “He have the black hair that curl on his head, and when he smile you thought was the morning. He was tall and he no speak much, but brave — no shy. Brave and strong. He watch other boys — he watch what they do — and then do it better. Higher, faster. And he smile at them, not like braggart, like a man. A man wants you to know he a man … ”

The girl’s eyes softened, and she shook her head in wonder, “Papa hate him … ”

“Always?” Claire asked.

“What you mean?”

“When you were growing up, how did your papa treat Hernando?”

“He like a dog, tearing at him … eating the flesh from his bones.”

“That’s not true,” Flavian interrupted. “I saw them together. Caballero de Vargas-Duarte was strict, but when the Grand Army took Hernando, he gave him a fine horse to keep him safe. He outfitted his son with the best accouterments a soldier could have.”

“He sell my brother for favors from Joseph Bonaparte.”

“Hernando wanted to become an officer.”

Abella threw her hands over her ears. She screamed in fury, and then grabbed her plate of toast and marmalade as if she were about to throw it. “My father murder Hernando!” she shouted, standing so abruptly she knocked her chair over. Then the girl put the plate down hard and ran from the room, screaming, “No!”

• • •

The rain continued into the afternoon, as did the oppressive atmosphere in the house left in the wake of Abella’s temper tantrum. Ensconced in the main parlor, Flavian tried to lighten the mood, but he knew Claire sensed the false gaiety of his conversation. Abella’s behavior worried him, especially around Claire. Would his ward do something rash? She seemed to accept Claire better than any other visitor; she even seemed to like her. And who wouldn’t admire Claire’s gentle ways, her soft hands, and the curve of her hips …
Hold man, you’re not to think these thoughts
, he reminded himself.

He stole a glance at Claire sitting in the window seat. With a little sigh, she dropped a book into her lap and looked wistfully at the garden. A little fresh air might raise all their spirits, he thought. “Have you a cloak?” He slipped a half-finished letter into his writing box. “The rain isn’t all that bad and we’ve a pretty path to the cliffs.”

“Oh, what a relief,” said Claire, jumping to her feet. “I would love a walk.”

Mrs. Gower, who had sunk low into the cushioned upholstery of her chair with her feet propped on a footstool, suddenly emitted a soft snore.

“I don’t seem to be entertaining my guests terribly well,” said Flavian.

Claire stifled a titter. “I think she’s worn out, poor soul.”

Flavian took a decorative shawl from the back of the settee and tucked it around the woman, then he motioned to Claire, and they tiptoed from the parlor, gleeful as school children.

Outside in the cool, water-laden air, Flavian took a deep breath and then appraised Claire’s readiness for the inclement weather. The idea of the walk was to avoid intimacy. With rain slashing against her face, she would be concealed beneath her cloak, so she wouldn’t catch cold.

Unfortunately, the rain was not slashing but misting, and sodden and unlovely as the sky was, the silvery light conspired against him by enhancing her beauty. The hood of her charcoal cloak circled her face, and the damp air added luster to her complexion. She appeared like a pink pearl set in tarnished silver. He cleared his throat. “I’m glad you’ve got on solid boots,” he said, striding down the driveway, “the sea is a bit far.”

“Can you tell me about your days in the Royal Navy, my lord?”

His heart stopped, but he reminded himself that she wasn’t asking because she suspected anything.

He lengthened his stride. The idea was to outpace her, not look at the curls of platinum hair decorating her brow. Besides, he needed time to think how best to respond to her question. But Claire seemed undaunted by his speed. Without huffing or puffing, without getting red faced or ugly, she remained at his side, looking to him expectantly for an answer.

“Ah, yes,” he said, concentrating on the ground. “Being the son of a rear admiral, Father had me on the sea by thirteen years old. At eight years, I was promised to the navy, as were my younger brothers. Lancelot, the heir apparent, was the only one to escape that fate … yet the rest of us outlived him.

“And here you are, Viscount Monroe.”

“And here I am … ” He made the mistake of looking at her. Had the rain caused her lips to grow moist? An overwhelming urge to kiss her overtook him, and he reached out, nearly touching her before he snapped back the errant limb.

Claire seemed puzzled by the gesture. He was so embarrassed he picked up the pace even more.

A minute or two of silent walking ensued before Claire asked, “Were you disappointed when your father took you out of naval life?”

“When I first set sail I missed my mother and governess so much that I wept over the gunnels. There I was a midshipman crying for my mummy. But God, how I learned to love the sea.”

“It was exciting?”

“Dirty, frustrating, gorgeous.”

“Were you ever in battle?”

“Many times.”

“Have you the scars to show for it?”

He laughed, pleased with himself that he had the self discipline to avoid kissing her. “Really only one, which is amazing when I think on it. My thigh got torn up during the Battle of Algeciras.”

“That was 1801. You must have been a child!”

“Fourteen, to be exact, hardly a babe.”

“And now you’ll tell me what happened and how you were wounded.” She looked at him with such a sweet air that his flesh heated and he felt compelled to open his coat. How he yearned to lay it on the ground and her upon it. Yet, if he told her everything that happened at Algeciras, would the truth gray her rosy complexion, harden her gentle blue eyes, and turn her cloak into a wall of granite that he could never hope to transverse? Perhaps he could share just the rough details. She needn’t know the rest. Clasping his hands behind his back, he rattled off the standard military fare.

“The French had three ships of the line and a frigate in Algeciras Bay. Protecting them were fourteen Spanish gunboats and batteries of Spanish cannons positioned around the shores. If those French ships had joined the rest of the fleet at Cadiz, England’s dominance of the Mediterranean would have been at risk. We had a superior force of six ships of the line.”

She held up her hand. “What does that mean, ‘ships of the line’?”

“They’re massive fighting machines with almost no maneuverability. The ship I was on, the
HMS Caesar
, carried eighty cannons and nearly three hundred men. We poured into Algeciras, one lumbering behemoth after the other, and then the wind died. Nine in the morning, with thousands of people lining the shore to watch the battle, and we were almost still. Finally, we came broadside of the
Desaix
, and the exchange began. There was so much gunfire we couldn’t see the water through the smoke.

“Then through the clouds a boat came with a message from the
HMS Hannibal
. She was grounded on a shoal and taking heavy fire from shore. Small boats were launched from every British ship to tow her. I was fourteen years old with only a year at sea, and they filled a pinnace with marines and set me in the bow as captain. Every small boat captained by those with common sense, pulled from the protected side of the
Hannibal
; but someone had to throw a line on the shore side despite the cannon fire. What better fodder than a boy who wanted to make his papa proud. So, though my mates pleaded with me to wait for the smoke to thicken so we could use it as cover, I gave the order to row around the
Hannibal’s
bow. Sure enough, we got hit. The pinnace shattered.”

“They shouldn’t have saddled you with that responsibility.”

The terror of that moment came back with such unexpected force, it put a hitch in his step. He stopped and pretended his cloak got caught in his boot. The taste of seawater filled his mouth, and he remembered how he’d swallowed buckets of it that day as cannon fire splashed around him. How he’d felt a bump at his back as he treaded water, and grabbed what he thought was a board from the pinnace, only to find a severed leg clutched in his hand. How the soup of blood and body parts bobbed around him until he thought he’d go mad from fear. But no matter his age, it was his ill-considered order that caused the carnage. He had been responsible.

Unable to face her, Flavian resumed walking. “I was the son of a rear admiral and they trusted me. I should have known better.”

“Every boy wants glory.”

“I was not a child after that day. It’s a pity six men had to die for me to grow up.”

“Terrible accidents happen in war for which no one should be blamed. Grown men, generals, have led men into far worse danger with horrible consequences,” Claire offered.

Flavian heard her; he just couldn’t acknowledge the logic in her argument. Others had spoken those same words, but they always rang hollow. The best course was to distract her. “The current took me ashore, and that’s when I met Hernando.” He hadn’t meant to connect Hernando to the battle of Algeciras.

“Abella’s brother?”

Flavian bit his lip. “Yes. He pulled me out. Until then, I didn’t know my thigh had been wounded. His family nursed me back to health.”

“But Abella is Spanish. Weren’t they allies of the French?”

“They hid me. Abella doesn’t exaggerate when she says Hernando was an exceptional man.”

“And here we are,” he announced as they reached the top of the bluff. Below, the British sea lapped against the shore, foam racing on the sand like an edge of fine lace. Ever valiant, the sun forced its way through the storm clouds in celestial streaks that touched the waves and burst into the sky.

“What a lovely spot,” she said.

His heart kicked against his ribs. Walls, warm hearths, and pools of candlelight — that’s what drew people together. By bringing Claire to this windswept cliff, Flavian hoped to escape affinity. But the rain on her face, the transcendental beauty of the landscape quieted his turmoil. Instead of escaping her, he became more acutely aware of her affect on him, of the tentative rap of her knuckles against the iron door he kept bolted against his soul. Unable to resist, he placed a hand on her shoulder, feeling her warmth beneath the wet wool. Oh God, to hold her body tenderly against his own, to experience the tickle of her breath on his ear as she whispered a prayer for more, more … He moved closer, and she looked up, her face shining and earnest.

“You’ve served Hernando’s memory well by taking Abella.”

He suppressed a gasp. If she only knew the bitterness inherent in those words. “Oh,” was all he said, and took his hand away.

• • •

“
Lawks
, you naughty things, sneaking out on me when I was taking a wee nap,” Mrs. Gower said, greeting them at the door. The chaperone shook a finger in front of Flavian’s nose, a pleased twinkle in her eye. “And you should be ashamed of yourself, my lord, taking advantage of an old woman’s fatigue to abscond with her charge.”

“Not to worry, Mrs. Gower,” Claire interjected, “Lord Monroe behaved like a perfect gentleman.”
Did I just sound disappointed?
Claire wondered in alarm.
I pray I didn’t just sound disappointed
. “We had a very invigorating walk to the cliffs.” Marlow removed her damp cloak and helped Flavian from his.

“If you’ll excuse me,” Claire said, trying to appear utterly carefree, “I’m going to change into some dry clothes.”

Seconds after the lady’s maid left her outfitted in a dry dress, she heard knocking. “I’ve come for a little chit-chat,” Mrs. Gower said, peeking in the door.

Shrugging casually, Claire said, “I’ve nothing to report.” She hoped Mrs. Gower didn’t hear the dismal tone in her voice.

The older woman entered anyway and took the dressing table chair. Claire flopped onto a chaise by the window. “All we did was walk.”

“Aye, but he likes you. I can tell.”

“But he shies away. One tiny touch and he pulls back into melancholy.”

Mrs. Gower giggled. “But he does touch all the same, and that’s a very good sign.”

Claire sighed and slapped a throw pillow into her lap. “Maybe I only want to marry him because I don’t want to face London.”

Crossing her arms over her chest, Mrs. Gower studied her skeptically. “The lad is only a viscount’s son. Being so far beneath you, I was surprised you’d taken to him in the first place.”

A surge of anger rumbled through Claire. “Only a few years ago I was the daughter of a mere scientist. A man of more fashionable taste could hold that against me.”

The chaperone’s right eyebrow rose. “What is it you don’t you like about him?”

“The way he retreats into himself.”

“What else?”

“Not his physical being, I suppose.” Unlike the flabby, smooth-skinned men who’d come snooping around after Uncle Sebastian died, Flavian’s flesh had character. Toughened by years in the navy, lined with concern for Abella and his family, scarred by war … No, his body was something she found quite … stimulating.

He was wise, too, yet not afraid to laugh, and his courage was unquestionable. And she admired his sense of honor and responsibility. His loyalty to the memory of Hernando’s kindness was truly touching. Who else would have kept Abella with all of her collecting?

Twisting her lip in thought, Claire said, “I don’t suppose there’s anything I dislike about him.”