Recklessly Yours (48 page)

They had to discover the truth—all of it.

For now, she smiled for Willow's sake, and for Ivy's, too. She encouraged them to take tea with the Ashworth women, but no, she would not join them, not now, for there was something she must do. After assuring them she was perfectly fine, and watching them stroll into the drawing room with the duchess, the dowager, and Sabrina, Holly pulled Colin aside before he could slip away to the stables again.

“This isn't over.”

“No, I didn't think it was,” he agreed simply.

“For good or ill, we must stay with Henri in the event he speaks again. He knows more than he admitted, and I believe he is regretting that now.”

Colin nodded. They had just started up the stairs when a footman called to him.

The freckled youth, his sandy-brown hair slicked neatly away from his face, held out a sealed missive. “My lord, the morning post arrived a little before . . . before the unfortunate gentleman was brought in. I'm dreadfully sorry, sir. In all the commotion I nearly forgot.”

Colin reached for the letter and tucked it into his coat pocket. “That's all right, Michael. Thank you.”

The youth bobbed his head and went about his business.

 

They sat at Henri's bedside for nearly three hours. The man never moved, much less spoke. Yet Dr. Fanning seemed encouraged. He hadn't expected the Frenchman to last this long.

Colin scrubbed the fatigue from his eyes, reaching with his other hand to massage Holly's shoulder. From her chair, she leaned a little in to him, then straightened.

“Why don't you get some rest,” he suggested, not for the first time.

She stubbornly shook her head. “He could awaken at any moment.”

Or never
. But he didn't say it aloud. Instead he took her hand and raised it to his lips, holding it there even when the doctor reentered the room to check on the patient. Without much interest, Colin watched Fanning, a middle-aged man with graying muttonchops, a balding head, and a large nose that reminded Colin of misshapen dough, lift each of Henri's eyelids. The man had repeated the examination several times, had listened to de Vere's breathing and heart, had checked his pulse. Always he clucked his tongue, raised his eyebrows, and shook his head.

This time the doctor flinched as, without warning, Henri's hand came up and gripped his wrist. The man let out a whimper as his patient's fist tightened. Holly surged to her feet, and Colin beside her.

“Hélène . . .”

“I'm here.”

Henri released the doctor and with a weak gesture beckoned her closer. Colin moved with her to the bedside, believing that whatever the man might utter would affect him equally as much, for better or worse, and would define his future as much as hers.

Henri struggled to push the words out. “Hélène . . . there is more . . . more than a fortune . . . at stake.” He had been straining to lift his head. Now, his scant strength waning, his head fell back against the pillow. His eyes closed, and Colin could feel Holly's disappointment though she said nothing.

Henri's lips moved again. “The de Valentins . . . the Bourbons . . . one family. Danger. Succession. You and your sisters . . . your sons. Danger.”

Holly darted an alarmed glance at Colin, then bent over de Vere. “What are you saying? That the de Veres and the de Valentins are—”

“Not . . . the de Veres. Il-illegitimate. The de Valentins only . . . in line. Claim, even now.”

“Claim . . . Claim what?”

Colin slipped an arm around her shoulders and pulled her closer in an effort to calm her. If what de Vere was saying held any truth . . . dear God. His heart heaved against his ribs. When Henri didn't answer, Colin said as gently as he could, “The French throne.”

Holly wrenched away from him, half turning and backing into the bedside table. The impact sent a cup and a vial onto their sides; they rolled off the table and onto the rug. She faced him like some frightened, infuriated young fox, her eyes glittering dangerously, her nostrils flared, her chin outthrust in defiance. “That isn't possible. It's . . . it's . . . madness.”

“My love.” He held his arms benignly out on either side of him. He moved closer to her, but when she stiffened as if ready to run, he halted. “It is what I believe he is trying to tell you.”

She began shaking her head. Her mouth opened, but no words came out. From the bed, Henri sputtered through his half-parted lips and opened his eyes. His hand came up, fingers groping at the air.

“Hélène—”

“Do not call me that.” Holly made no move to go to him. “I am Holly. Holly Sutherland.”

Henri compressed his lips, and tried again. “You are . . . who you are. There are those in France t-today . . . unhappy to have the king . . . restored. Want re-republic. Should Louis-Phillippe lose control of his crown . . . violence . . . like before. And you . . . your sisters . . . your heirs . . . perceived as threats. Next time . . .
all
claimants . . . dispatched . . . leaving no one . . . no one to claim the throne.”

The words reverberated through Colin and rendered him weak-kneed, immobile. But seeing Holly's legs about to give way beneath her, he reached her in a bound. His arms went around her and she sagged against him, a whimper of despair groaning like a winter wind from inside her.

 

Holly opened her eyes, only to shut them again against a blinding light. She turned away from it and tried opening her eyes again.

This time the rich tones of a burgundy and gold canopy met her gaze. She blinked and looked about her, taking in the unfamiliar surroundings of a bedchamber furnished in heavy, dark mahogany and deeply burnished cherry wood. The bright light had come from the window a few feet from the bed on which she lay, the sunshine spearing through a gap in the curtains someone had hastily drawn. Where was she? With a sense of alarm she braced her hands against the mattress and pushed upward. . . .

Into Colin's waiting arms.

His lips brushed her eyelids, the bridge of her nose, her cheeks, and finally her lips. Against them he whispered, “You fainted, but it's all right. You're in my room but no one knows we're here. They're all still drinking tea in the drawing room.”

She clung to his shoulders, her lips nestling against the warmth of his. “I fainted? How long . . . ?”

“Not long.”

“And Henri?”

She felt his lips curve. “Dr. Fanning is feeling encouraged.”

She pulled back a little. “Oh, I
am
glad. I was unkind to him. . . .”

“He understands.”

Her guilt persisted. “However distressing the tidings he brought us, and however much he erred in not confiding in my sisters and me sooner, I do believe he meant to protect us.”

“I believe that, too.”

“And if everything he says is true, then he is something exceedingly rare to us. A blood relative.” Holly couldn't yet determine exactly what that would mean to her and her sisters' lives, but it warmed her to think that from now on, there would be a new—or rather an old—family member in their midst.

Even so, a faint repugnance seeped through her. “I've never fainted before in my life. The Sutherland sisters are
not
swooners.”

Colin laughed, pressing his mouth to her cheek and holding it there. “Perhaps not, but in this instance it's no wonder. You're exhausted.”

Her fingers tightened around his shoulders. “What Henri said . . . do you believe it can be true?”

“Do I believe you and your sisters are descended from royalty?” He lifted his head and smiled, a grin that held boyish mischief on the surface, yet revealed something raw and vulnerable and endearingly humble beneath. “Do I believe a colt and a madcap herd of ponies hold mystical powers? Or that a Celtic princess once cast a spell over my family? Or that because I happened to fall in love with a stubborn, reckless goddess of a woman that spell has been broken, the princess appeased, my grandmother cured of her ills, and the people of Devonshire satisfied?”

She made a fist and pummeled it into his shoulder. “Stop toying with me. I asked you in all earnestness.”

He bewildered her by releasing her, sliding off the bed, and holding out a hand to her. “Are you feeling quite restored?”

“Yes, much better. But—”

“Then come with me.”

He refused to explain as he practically towed her through the house, down a set of back stairs, and through the service corridors to avoid being seen by their families. Her curiosity got the better of her when they came upon Maribelle—newly returned from Briarview in Grandmother's wake—saddled and waiting on the wide garden path. Digging in her heels, Holly demanded to know where they were going, but Colin refused to elaborate. He said only that there was something she must see. He boosted her into the saddle and swung up behind her.

It wasn't until they'd cleared the stables and the paddocks that Holly understood what he wished to show her. Within the racecourse, two bay horses with black points galloped and reared and kicked their hind legs as if with an inexpressible joy, their distinctive Ashworth stars flashing silvery in the sunlight. As Holly watched, the pair ran the length of the closer straight, then veered and parted, racing away from each other. From opposite corners they each let out piercing whinnies and kicked at the turf, arching their sleek backs and tossing their formidable heads in the air. At some agreed-upon signal the larger of the two animals galloped back to the youngster's side, and they began a neck-and-neck race round the track.

“Cordelier and Prince's Pride,” Holly whispered. Her heart clogged her throat and her eyes swam with tears she could not blink away, that stung painfully each time the wind buffeted her face.

Colin nodded. “I sent word down to Mr. Peterson to have Cordelier and the colt brought out to run together.”

“Good gracious . . . they're . . . glorious. So beautiful. So free.” Her tears trickled over, and a sob, mixed with irrepressible laughter, bounced on the breeze.

“And magical, no?” His arms tightened around her, his fingers splaying possessively over her abdomen. His mouth moved against her hair. “Up in my bedroom you asked what I believed.”

“Yes.” The word slid from her lips as a breathless gasp. With the exultation of the two Ashworth stallions before her and Colin's heat at her back, she felt wrapped in magic, in the certainty that anything was possible.

Colin abruptly dismounted. Standing at Maribelle's side, he reached up for Holly. She slid into his arms expecting him to set her down. Instead he cradled her and began whirling her round and round. Maribelle trotted away, going to the fence rail and calling out to her equine mates. Holly, meanwhile, encircled Colin's neck and pressed her cheek to his shoulder, while the racecourse and horses, the pastures and paddocks, and the bright sky blurred around her.

“I believe in all of it,” Colin said so loudly that he might have been heard from as far away as the stables. She instinctively shushed him, but that only made him throw back his head and laugh. Meanwhile, he continued dancing in dizzying circles, mindful not to trip over rocks and tree roots.

“I believe,” he said even more loudly, as if addressing the sky itself, “that there are phenomena in this world that science cannot explain. That there are forces even greater than those that can be studied in a laboratory.”

He suddenly stopped, though the world kept whirling madly around Holly. Feeling slightly ill, she might have succumbed to dizziness if not for the strength of his arms holding her secure and the wall of his chest steady against her. “I believe in love, Holly. I believe in the power of it. And most of all . . .” he murmured, but trailed off again.

With his lips he nuzzled her face upward, putting her mouth right where he apparently wanted it—entirely at his mercy. He seized her lips with his own and kissed them until they magically opened; then his tongue swept inside, sweeping
her
up in a giddy swirl of sensation. He kissed her again and again, deeply, wholly, until their surroundings went spinning away, leaving only tingling heat, safety and strength, and the love bursting from her heart.

He released her legs, but before her feet touched the ground he whirled her once about, then held her, still suspended, against him. “I believe in you, Holly Sutherland. I believe you and I are meant to be together, curses and naysayers and even the queen be damned.”

Her gasp was muffled by another kiss. Then he loosened his hold just enough to let her slide along his body until her half boots touched the grass. As they did, Holly's arms slid lower, too, and the sound of crumpling paper came from Colin's coat pocket.

“What's this?”

“Ah, yes, I'd forgotten. Just a letter that arrived today.” With a shrug he pulled it from his pocket and glanced down at the sender's direction. His brows knotting, he slipped a finger beneath the seal. “It's from a Captain Percival Smithers. . . .” His head snapped up and his arm dropped to his side, slapping the page against his thigh. The blood drained from his face, leaving him as white as the clouds drifting overhead.

His pallor raised an alarm inside Holly. “More dreadful news?”

His lips moved, but for a moment no sound came out. Then he drew a ragged breath. “There was a storm. My father . . . his ship went down.”

He swayed slightly and Holly drew him beneath the shade of the elm tree. He leaned against the trunk, and she grasped his free hand between both of hers and searched his pallid features. “Is he . . . ?”

Colin nodded. “Captain Smithers writes that his ship came across the remnants of the
Sea Goddess
a mere few hundred leagues off the European coast. He says there could have been no survivors.” The letter drifted from his fingers and fluttered to the ground. “He died only days after he left England. By Christ, do you realize what this means?”