Authors: Danelle Harmon
The coach hit a rut and she heard him catch
his breath in pain. Gingerly, she rested her arm across his chest
to better steady him against the swaying rock of the coach. His
blood, warm and sticky against her skin, had soaked through her
bodice, her skirts, her stomacher. His eyes were closed, but she
suspected he was conscious and merely drifting in his own private
hell of pain and fear. She ached to speak to him, yearned to ask
him all about Charles, tell him just who she — and Charlotte —
really was. But she did not. It didn't seem quite right to intrude
upon his thoughts when he might very well be dying, and so she
remained quiet, cradling his head and now, seeking his hand in the
darkness to assure him that he was not alone.
His fingers tightened immediately over hers,
dwarfing them, and sudden tears stung her eyes as she gazed down at
him.
Dear God, he reminds me of my beloved
Charles....
The ache at the back of her throat became
unbearable. Her nose burned and she blinked back the gathering mist
in her eyes.
Damn these tears. These weak, foolish, useless
tears.
She squeezed her eyes shut and tried not to think of
Charles and his cavalier smile, the hardness of his body and the
way his mouth had felt against her own. Instead, she tried to see
the dim shapes of trees passing just outside in the darkness, to
concentrate on the squeak and rattle of the coach, to lull her mind
into numbness and keep at bay the huge waves of emotion that
threatened the dam of her self-control.
And then her gaze fell on the baby, still
swathed in the blanket and nestled in the tiny space between
Gareth's head and the padded side of the coach.
Charles's daughter.
She didn't realize she was weeping until the
brother's pained whisper broke the choking silence.
"Are they for me?"
Her nose was running now. She sniffed,
sniffed again, flashed a smile that was too quick, too false. "Are
what for you?"
"Why, your tears, of course."
Oh, Lord.
She shook her head, not
trusting herself to speak for fear she'd give in to the great,
wracking pain that threatened to burst from her. This man,
suffering so quietly, so bravely, did not deserve to see tears; he
needed hope, comfort, encouragement from her, not an appalling
display of weakness. She suddenly felt selfish and ashamed — and
guilty, too. After all, the tears were not even for him, poor man.
They were for Charles.
"I'm not crying," she managed, dabbing at
her eyes with the back of her sleeve and staring out the window to
hide the evidence.
"No?" He gave a weak smile. "Perhaps I
should see for myself."
And then she felt them; his fingers,
brushing her damp cheek with infinite softness and concern, tracing
the slippery track of her sorrow. It was a caress — achingly kind,
gentle, sweet.
She stiffened and caught his hand, holding
it away from her face and shutting her eyes on a deep, bracing
breath lest that dam of her self-control break for good. She
managed to get herself under control, and when she finally dared
meet his gaze, she saw that he was looking quietly up at her, at
her distressed face and the tears she was trying so valiantly to
hold back.
"Is there anything I can do to help?" he
asked, gently.
She shook her head.
"Are you quite certain?"
"Lord Gareth, you're the one who's hurt, not
me."
"No. That is not true." His eyes searching
her face, he touched her other cheek, the one the highwayman had
cuffed, his whole manner one of such gentle, selfless concern that
she wanted to lash out at someone, something, for this injustice
that had been done to him. "I saw that … that scoundrel strike you.
If I could kill him all over again for that, I would. Why, your
poor cheek still bears the mark of his hand...."
"I am fine."
"But —"
"Dear heavens, Lord Gareth, must you keep at
it so?"
The words had come out angrier than she
intended. She saw the sudden shadow of confusion that moved across
his eyes, and a sharp pang of remorse lanced her heart for having
put it there. Her anger was not for him, but at the fates that had
taken first one of these dashing brothers and would now, most
likely, take another. It wasn't fair. It just wasn't fair. And here
he was worried about her cheek, her silly, stupid cheek, when his
life's blood was oozing all over her skirts and onto the seat, and
his flesh was feeling colder and clammier by the moment. She wanted
to cry. Wanted to put her head in her hands and bawl until all the
grief and pain and rage and loneliness still locked inside her was
purged. But she did not. Instead, she took a deep breath and met
his questioning gaze.
Same romantic eyes. Same kindness in their
depths, same concern for other people. Oh, God ... help me.
"I'm sorry," she murmured, shaking her head.
"That was unfair. I didn't mean to snap at you. I'm so
sorry...."
"Please, don't be." He smiled, weakly.
"Besides, if those tears
are
for me, I can assure you there
is no need to waste them so. I shall not die."
"How confident you sound! I — I wish I
shared your convictions."
"Well, I simply
cannot
die, you see?"
Again that slow, lazy grin that sought to reassure her even when
the hot, tinny smell of his blood could not. "My brother Lucien
would not allow it."
"And is Lucien a god whom even death
obeys?"
"But of course. He is the Duke of
Blackheath. A deity into himself, I am afraid...."
His eyes had closed. He was growing weaker,
his voice little more than a thready whisper now, yet even so, he
tried to inflect a certain jaunty humor to his tone that tore
fiercely at Juliet's heartstrings. How brave he was. How totally
selfless. She gazed down at him, and shook her head in growing
despair. "Save your strength, my lord. I know you're just trying to
bolster my confidence that you will indeed survive."
"Perhaps." He opened his eyes and looked
guilelessly up at her. "But as I'm trying to bolster my own as
well, what harm is there in it?"
She sought his hand. Laced her fingers
through his and squeezed. A long moment passed between them, with
neither saying a word as they held hands in the darkness and the
coach bounced over the night-lonely road.
"Why did you do it?" she finally asked, her
voice breaking. "Why, when you could have just turned your back on
all of us and gone safely back in the direction from which you'd
come?"
His eyes widened in blank surprise, as
though he was confused that such a question even needed, let alone
deserved, an answer. "Why, 'tis my duty, of course, as a gentleman.
There were women and children amongst your lot ... I could not have
turned tail like a coward and left you all to perish, now, could
I?"
"No," she murmured, sadly. "I suppose
not."
She pulled her hand from his to make sure
the strip of cloth with which she had bound his wound was still in
place. Her fingers came away wet with blood. Fresh dread coursed
through her and she surreptitiously wiped her fingers on her cloak,
stilling her expression so as not to alarm him.
He was not fooled, though. She could see it
in his eyes. But he knew she was already upset, and was too kind to
distress her further. Like the gentleman he was, he changed the
subject.
"Speaking of those children...." He tried to
turn his head within the curve of Juliet's arm so that he could
look at Charlotte. "It appears that one of them ... is yours."
"Yes, my daughter. She's just over six
months."
"Will you lift her up so I may see her? I
adore children."
Juliet hesitated, thinking that sleeping
babes were best left alone. But it was not in her to deny the
wishes of a man who might very well be dying. Carefully, she picked
up the infant and held her so that Gareth could see her. Charlotte
whimpered and opened her eyes. Immediately, the lines of pain about
Gareth's mouth relaxed. Smiling weakly, he reached up and ran his
fingers over one of the tiny fists, unaware that he was touching
his own niece. A lump rose in Juliet's throat. It was not hard at
all to imagine that he was Charles, reaching up to touch his
daughter.
Not hard at all.
"You're just ... as pretty as your mama," he
murmured. "A few more years ... and all the young bucks shall be
after you ... like hounds to the fox." To Juliet he said, "What is
her name?"
"Charlotte." The baby was wide awake now and
tugging at the lace of his sleeve.
"Charlotte. Such a pretty name ... and where
is your papa, little Charlie-girl? Should he ... not be here to ...
protect you and your mama?"
Juliet stiffened. His innocent words had
slammed a fresh bolt of pain through her. Tight-lipped, she pried
the lace from Charlotte's fist and cradled her close. Deprived of
her amusement, the baby screwed up her face and began to wail at
the top of her lungs while Juliet stared out the window, her mouth
set and her hand clenched in a desperate bid to control her
emotions.
Gareth managed to make himself heard over
Charlotte's angry screams. "I am sorry. I think I have offended
you, somehow...."
"No."
"Then what is it?"
"Her papa's dead."
"Oh. I, ah ... I see." He looked distressed,
and remorse stole the brightness that Charlotte had brought to his
eyes. "I am sorry, madam. I am forever saying the wrong thing, I
fear."
Charlotte was now crying harder, beating her
fists and kicking her feet in protest. The blanket fell away.
Juliet attempted to put it back. Charlotte screamed louder, her
angry squalls filling the coach until Juliet felt like crying
herself. She made a noise of helpless despair.
"Here ... set her on your lap, beside my
head," Lord Gareth said at last. "She can play with my cravat."
"No, you're hurt."
He smiled. "And your daughter is crying.
Oblige me, and she will stop." He stretched a hand toward the baby,
offering his fingers, but she batted him away and continued to
wail. "I'm told I have a way ... with children."
With a sigh, Juliet did as he asked.
Immediately, Charlotte quieted and fell to playing with his cravat.
Silence returned to the bouncing coach, with only the rattle and
squeak of the springs, Perry's occasional shout, and the sound of
the horses galloping over the darkened roads intruding upon the
quiet within.
His hand on her back, Gareth steadied the
baby so that she would not fall. He looked up at Juliet. "You have
done much for me," he said at last. "Will you honor me by
confessing your name?"
"Juliet."
He smiled. "As in Romeo and Juliet?"
"I suppose."
Though my dear Romeo lies
cold in his grave, an ocean away.
She looked out the window
once more — anything to avoid gazing into those romantic,
long-lashed eyes that reminded her so much of Charles's, anything
to avoid watching his hand, so large and strong against Charlotte's
tiny back and possessing the same graceful elegance that the baby's
father's had had. Coming here to England, she now knew, had been a
mistake. A dreadful mistake. How on earth could she bear this pain,
this constant reminder of all she had lost?
"You have an accent I do not recognize," he
was saying. 'Tis certainly not local…."
"Really, Lord Gareth — you should rest, not
try to talk. Save your strength."
"My dear angel, I can assure you I'd much
rather talk to you, than lie here in silence and wonder if I shall
live to see the next sunrise. I ... do not wish to be alone with my
thoughts at the moment. Pray, amuse me, would you?"
She sighed. "Very well, then. I'm from
Boston."
"County of Lincolnshire?"
"Colony of Massachusetts."
His smile faded. "Ah, yes ... Boston." The
town's name fell wearily from his lips and he let his eyes drift
shut, as though that single word had drained him of his remaining
strength. "You're a long way from home, aren't you?"
"Farther, perhaps, than I should be," she
said, cryptically.
He seemed not to hear her. "I had a brother
who died over there last year, fighting the rebels.... He was a
captain in the Fourth. I miss him dreadfully."
Juliet leaned the side of her face against
the squab and took a deep, bracing breath. If this man died, he
would never know just who the little girl playing so contentedly
with his cravat was. He would never know that the stranger who was
caring for him during his final moments was the woman his brother
had loved, would never know just why she — a long way from home,
indeed — had come to England.
It was now or never. "Yes," she whispered,
tracing a thin crack in the squab near her face. "So do I."
"Sorry?"
"I said, yes. I miss him too."
"Forgive me, but I don't quite
understand...." And then he blanched and stiffened as the truth hit
him with debilitating force. His eyes widened, their lazy
dreaminess fading. His head rose halfway out of her lap. He stared
at her and blinked, and in the sudden, charged silence that filled
the coach, Juliet heard the pounding tattoo of her own heart, felt
his gaze boring into the underside of her chin as his mind, dulled
by pain and shock, quickly put the pieces together.
Boston.
Juliet.
I miss him, too.
He gave an incredulous little laugh. "No,"
he said, slowly shaking his head, as though he suspected he was the
butt of some horrible joke or worse, knew she was telling the truth
and could not find a way to accept it. He scrutinized her features,
his gaze moving over every aspect of her face. "We all thought ...
I mean, Lucien said he tried to locate you ... No, I am
hallucinating, I must be! You cannot be the same Juliet. Not
his
Juliet —"
"I am," she said quietly. "
His
Juliet. And now I've come to England to throw myself on the mercy
of his family, as he bade me to do should anything happen to
him."