Revenge Wears Rubies (40 page)

The last three miles to Moreland’s estate were humbling. His boots became so caked with mud that he was forced to stop every few hundred yards to scrape them off, as the weight was extremely cumbersome. Galen did his best to keep his horse on the best footing possible, but it sacrificed his own more often than not, and he began to wonder if they’d both be lame by the time they arrived.

At last, he noticed the treelined drive off the lane that an innkeeper had described as Moreland’s home, Mayfield. The grass along the drive was uncut and rough, but the fading grandeur of the lane was still apparent.

When the house came into view, Galen’s pace slowed as he took it in. It was a gray hulking beast in want of more than one coat of paint, and the walled water feature in front of it had given way on one side, creating a strange underwater garden as the deluge had been allowed to simply flow off into what might at one time have been a rose garden of sorts. One end of the house had sagged, the roof and walls leaning just enough to give a man pause to consider his safety before entering the rest of the structure.

There were no lights that he could see through the windows and no sign of smoke from any of the chimneys to betray a hint of warmth or even occupancy. Even so, Galen tied his horse under the spare shelter of a tree and made his way to the front door.

The rusted bell rang clearly enough, and he was grateful not to resort to banging on the door like some invading ogre. While he waited for a servant, he scraped the last of the mud off of his boots and composed what he would say to convince them that their mistress was somehow expecting a social call in the middle of a rainstorm and gain him entrance to the house—and to her. His nerves were on edge, and he swallowed a knot of trepidation at just how badly this could all go.

Finally, he could hear the door being unbolted and took one last deep breath to ready himself for—

But it was Haley in the doorway, and not some servant. It was Haley in the palest blue day dress embroidered with a tiny pattern of yellow birds, like spring untouched by the gray gloom around her. Her hair was pulled back without adornment, and she had a black smudge on her cheek; and Galen was sure he had never seen anything or anyone so beautiful in his entire life.

“Oh!” she exclaimed in surprise, shock holding her very still as she realized that he was no phantom and was on her doorstep.

“May I come in?” he asked, discipline alone keeping him from stepping forward and pulling her into his arms. The joy at seeing her again was like a flame whose warmth left no room for doubt.

“I’m not . . .” He could almost hear her thoughts. The rain was so heavy that it was hard to see across the yard, and he must have made a pitiful sight with his ruined boots and dripping clothes on her steps. It was hard to send any man back into that kind of weather, even one she probably still hated.

“Please, Haley,” he entreated softly.

She stepped back. “For a few minutes, then. Until the rain slows.”

He didn’t hesitate. Galen swept past her, grateful for any concession that meant he could finally speak to her again, face-to-face.

The inside of the house wasn’t faring much better than its exterior, and Galen instantly noticed the paler square and rectangle spots on the walls where artwork must have hung until just recently. In fact, there was nothing on any wall that he could see, and not a single piece of furniture. It was only an hour or two past noon, but the darkened skies outside made the inside of the house shadowed and unwelcoming. In sconces that would have supported a dozen candles, there were only single tapers alit.

Whatever wealth Mayfield had once held, it had been stripped of it without ceremony, and he was saddened to think of a family’s history and treasures collected by ham-fisted debtors with no mercy shown.

The air was cool, but at least he was out of the weather.

“Haley, I would have sent word I was coming, but I wasn’t sure you’d have opened any letter of mine. So I confess, I resorted to a strategy of surprise.”

“It worked. I think you’re the last person I ever expected to see.” She closed the door behind him, bolting it against the draft. She faced him, her expression serene and a little proud, as if there was nothing amiss. “May I take your coat and things?”

He had to nod, only because he was literally creating a puddle on the marble floor where he stood, but he hated to see her acting as a footman. “Here, let me put them somewhere for you. I’d hate to see you soaked from touching them.”

“It’s no trouble.” She took his coat and hat, and even the sodden scarf, setting them aside to drip in the corner on a makeshift coat stand. “Why don’t you come into the back drawing room? It’s a little more comfortable there.”

“Yes, thank you.” He followed her down the hallway, trying not to look too closely at the bared floors and damaged walls. He clenched his fingers into fists behind his back at the realization that she truly lived in this squalor and that he was partly to blame for it.

The back drawing room was a smaller room on the other side of the house and facing east; he suspected it would have been a brighter and warmer room on any other day. There was no fire in the corner grate, though it appeared she’d been in the midst of cleaning it when he’d rung the bell—and the black smudge on her face now made perfect sense. The furniture was mismatched and was obviously repaired bits and pieces salvaged from a storeroom that even the debt collectors wouldn’t have bothered with. Even so, there were decorated pillows on the chairs and embroidered cloths over the back of the sofa, and he could see a woman’s hand in making the best of it. As he approached the sofa he realized that one leg was missing altogether and had been replaced by a stack of books.

“Did you wish to sit down?”

Galen felt so awkward that he heard himself mumbling, “I’m afraid I’ll leave a watermark.”

A ghost of a smile slipped past her control. “I don’t think the upholstery will be much worse for it, Mr. Hawke.”

He waited until she chose a small wicker chair before taking a seat on the sofa. For a moment, it was all he could do to look at her. It was so strange, to see her like this, and so far, there’d been not a hint of emotion from her, beyond her initial surprise at seeing him. Of his own feelings, he had no questions, but suddenly, it struck him that too much time may have passed and that her heart may have already shed him completely.

“Haley, there’s so much to tell you that I’m not sure where to begin. But I’d rather that you . . .” He took a deep breath, studying the first hints of a storm in her blue green eyes with a surge of relief. “I’d forgotten how beautiful you are, Haley.”

“Had you? Is that a compliment?” Her eyes darkened with emotion. “That I’m so easily forgotten?” Her grip on the arms of her chair tightened reflexively. “I have forgotten nothing, Mr. Hawke. Was there anything else, or should I just see about fetching you a change of clothes so that you can be on your way?”

“I misspoke.” He leaned back, a hunter settling back to see which way his quarry would break.
God, I love her temper!
“You have every right to hate me. And I’m not forgetting anything. Not one minute that I spent in your arms, not one kiss, not one—”

“How dare you! You speak of . . . what happened between us? As if it wasn’t just part of your vile scheme? As if it meant anything to you beyond the twisted pleasure you took from . . . hurting me?” She stood, anger bringing her to her feet. “Did you come to see for yourself how far I’d fallen? Is that why you’re here? To see where your attention and promises have led me and then make some moral point about a woman’s sins? Does this give you pleasure? Well, I apologize for being abrupt, Mr. Hawke, but on your way to Hades, you can teach another girl the consequences of submitting to your kisses. I don’t need any more lessons.”

“No, I never—” He stood as well, determined to hold whatever ground he could.

“I want to know only one thing from you, Mr. Hawke.” She took a step closer, some of the anger dying in her eyes, but Galen couldn’t rejoice, as it was replaced by a raw pain that tore at his soul. “Why? Why did you hate me so? I had never met you before that night when I found you in the balcony. What did I ever do to deserve such . . . malice and treachery?”

All those days and weeks, he’d thought himself prepared. He’d considered every tactic, every sweet, soothing word, every gesture to try to bridge the chasm that he alone had forged between them, and now . . .

Chapter
28

“You did nothing.” Galen could feel his heart pounding in his chest as the weight of his impending failure mounted. But he couldn’t stop now. “I made a horrible mistake and at one point, actually believed I was doing the right thing. But that sense of righteous indignation was short-lived and I . . . I cannot describe the heaven and hell it was, to be so impossibly happy when I was with you, but to know that I had achieved your trust with the worst deception.”

She stepped back, her balance unsteady, and he instantly guided her back to her chair, kneeling at her feet to complete his confession. “You’re not making any sense.”

“I’d almost convinced myself that it didn’t matter anymore. That I would just ask you to marry me, and you need never know how falsely I’d behaved because I was going to spend the rest of my life making it up to you, Haley. But then you found the caricature . . .”

“It called me a whore, Galen. A fortune-hunting whore and I . . .” A single tear rolled down her cheek and Galen’s stomach clenched in agony at the sight of it. “Why? Why would you ever think such a thing?”

“I was a fool. Hell, I probably still am! It was the worst kind of misunderstanding, and I am the worst villain to draw breath to be so determined to act so cruelly. But if you only knew—Haley, I don’t think I can survive another day without asking for your forgiveness.”

“Forgiveness?” she whispered, then her chin lifted defiantly, her eyes flashing. “I think you’d be amazed at what a person can survive, Mr. Hawke.”

He smiled, a humorless grimace, as he realized that this was a debate he could sadly win. “No, I wouldn’t. I wouldn’t be amazed at all.”

He stood and walked to the windows for a moment, taking in the dreary view of her rain-soaked kitchen garden and the overgrown remnants of a hedge knot pattern that had turned into an unsolvable puzzle. He finally spoke with his back to her. “I survived a fever as a child that took my younger brother. I survived India. I survived vermin and torture and hunger. I survived the Black in a dungeon that I thought would have broken my mind and rendered my soul from my body.”

“Oh, Galen!”

He slowly turned back to look at her again, surrendering his pride. “I survived when others in our small group did not. And I think it was there, in India, where I started to love you a little—but only because it sounded so wonderful to think of an angel faithfully waiting for at least one of us to return safely. And when John Everly died, I didn’t—and that was somehow harder than all of it combined. He was . . . so carefree. My opposite in every way. And a part of me was convinced that between us, he was the one who most deserved to make it out of there.”

“John Everly?” She became very still in her seat, her face paler but very calm. “I knew him. We were friends—playmates, really.” Her brow furrowed. “We’d heard word he’d died in India but . . . You were with him?”

“Your father said nothing?”

“My father?” Haley’s look was pure confusion.

“I mentioned to him that I knew John when I spoke to him that night at Kendall’s.”

She shook her head. “He’s never said a word, but . . .” Her cheeks colored. “When I recall the conversation after the party, I can understand how he might have forgotten it in the . . . heat of the moment.”

“He died in my arms in India.” Galen crossed back to sit down again, needing to be closer to her. “His last words were of you.”

She gasped. “How is that possible? I mean . . . he was so dear, but I was hardly the love of his life.”

Galen flinched as if she’d slapped him. “It seems you were.” He ran a hand through his wet curls, praying that one word in ten sounded less jarring in her ears than it did in his. “John spoke of you often, and in his mind, you were perfect.

Whenever he described you, it lifted our spirits, but I never realized that he’d enhanced his memories of a mere girl of thirteen. When he said he intended to marry you as soon as he returned to England, I assumed that you were, in fact, already betrothed—that you were waiting for him.”