Kitabı oxu: «The Wicked Truth»
Table of Contents
Cover Page
Excerpt
Dear Reader
Title Page
About The Author
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Copyright
“Provoking baggage!” the Earl exclaimed.
“Nothing frightens you, does it? You are the most shameless hussy.”
Elizabeth knew ’d begun to recover himself, at least enough to be embarrassed about all he’d just told her. No doubt it was the first confession of this sort he’d ever made. And a man as strong as Neil couldn’t be comfortable baring his soul that way.
“Kiss me half as well next time round, and I may tell you how I got that way.” She pinched his cheek. “Now, why don’t you take a short nap while I go and make you breakfast?”
“Damn it, Bettsy, don’t be so bloody kind! I’m trying to warn you I can be dangerous!”
“My God, you are blue-deviled this morning! Now, shut up and lie down or I’ll kick you in the shins. You haven’t seen a vicious rage until you’ve seen one of mine!”
Dear Reader,
Every year at this time, the editors at Harlequin Historicals have the unique opportunity of introducing our readers to four brand-new authors in our annual March Madness Promotion. These titles were chosen from among hundreds of manuscripts from unpublished authors, and we would like to take this time to thank all of the talented authors who made the effort to submit their projects to Harlequin Historicals for review.
This year’s books include a second-place finisher in the 1995 Maggie Awards, The Wicked Truth by Lyn Stone. In this delightful story set in Victorian England, a woman with a ruined reputation and a straidaced physician join forces to discover the real culprit in a murder they are both under suspicion for.
The other three titles are: Emily’s Captain by Shari Anton, the story of a heroine whose father sends a dashing Union spy to get her safely out of Georgia against her wishes; Heart of the Dragon by Sharon Schulze, the medieval tale of a young woman searching for her identity with the help of a fierce warrior, and The Phoenix of Love by Susan Schonberg, a Regency novel about an unusual marriage of convenience between a reformed rake and a society ice princess who must overcome tortured pasts and present enemies before they are free to love.
Whatever your taste in reading, we hope you’ll find a story written just for you between the covers of a Harlequin Historical
Sincerely,
Tracy Farrell
Senior Editor
Please address questions and book requests to:
Harlequin Reader Service
U.S.: 3010 Walden Ave., P.O. Box 1325, Buffalo, NY 14269
Canadian: P.O. Box 609, Fort Erie, Ont. L2A 5X3
The Wicked Truth
Lyn Stone
www.millsandboon.co.uk
LYN STONE
A painter of historical events, Lyn decided to write about them. A canvas, however detailed, limits characters to only one moment in time. “If a picture’s worth a thousand words, the other ninety thousand have to show up somewhere!”
An avid reader, she admits, “At thirteen I fell in love with Bronte’s Heathcliff and became Catherine. The next year I fell for Rhett and became Scarlett Then I fell for the hero I’d known most of my life and finally became myself.”
After living four years in Europe, Lyn and her husband, Allen, settled into a log house in North Alabama that is crammed to the rafters with antiques, artifacts and the stuff of future tales.
Love and thanks to Bonnie, Pat, Sabrah and Tammy,
my critique group for this book;
to my daughter Pam, my Edith Head who also designs
clothes with words;
to my son Eric, who teaches me to
listen with my heart;
to Dennis, Katie and Sarah, who raise love
to an art form;
and especially to Allen, the absolute master of
research, historical and hysterical.
Chapter One
London, November, 1858
“You can’t think to marry that wicked little tramp, Terry. She gulled you into proposing, didn’t she? God, I can’t believe how naive you are!” Neil Bronwyn knocked back his whiskey with an audible gulp and poured himself another. He felt like taking a stick to the boy. “Whatever possessed you to announce such a thing? And at White’s, of all places? Everybody’s laughing.”
“You think I care? Just because you’re eight years older, you think you can tell me—”
“Shut up and look around you, man,” Neil said with a sweeping gesture of his glass that threatened the Aubusson carpel. Havington treasures dotted even the study of the town house—expensive cherry, Ming dynasty vases, silver-crested crystal decanters, a Rembrandt drawing, a solid gold paper-weight with the family crest. A long-dead countess, immortalized by Vigée-Lebrun, glared at them from over a classic mantel designed by Wren. Probably turning in her grave, Neil thought. “Recall who you are, for God’s sake—an earl now, with all the responsibilities that come with it. Your name and title are who you are, Terry.”
“I will marry her,” the boy said simply. There was no belligerence now, no wrathful, rebellious tone. The angelic face with its guileless blue eyes looked calm and determined. The narrow shoulders were firmly set against Neil, who was easily twice his size. He admired the lad’s resolve, if not his cause.
Until the rascal spoke. “I will have her, Neil.”
“Then take her to bed if you must! But marriage? Hell, you’re only twenty-one. You have no conception of what commitment is all about, and she wouldn’t know the meaning of the word. I know you don’t believe me, but she’ll play you false before the ink dries on the license.”
Neil mellowed a bit after his outburst, both from the whiskey and a sharp wave of sympathy for the lad’s infatuation. He’d been where Terry was and survived it. The scar had healed. Almost. Watching his nephew struggle through a similar coil didn’t bear thinking about.
“She’s not that sort, Neil, regardless of what you think. I know you mean well,” Terry said with a protracted sigh, “but I’ll remind you that I am of age. The time has passed when you need to wipe my nose.”
“If you’d keep it clean, I wouldn’t have to,” Neil scoffed. “I promised Jonathan on his deathbed that I would—”
“I know, I know. Watch after me.” To Terry’s credit, he didn’t show half the resentment Neil knew he must be feeling. “Neil, he was a good father to me and to you as well, even if he was your older brother. You’ve always been more like a brother to me than an uncle. I do appreciate your concern, but…”
“But you’re the earl and will do as you damn well please, eh?” Neil asked, knowing the answer. The boy had a head like marble.
“Just so. I am the earl,” Terry said unequivocally.
“Then I bid you good night, my lord,” Neil said quietly. He set his glass down carefully on the mantel and strode to the door.
“Aw, Neil.” Terry came after him and caught his arm. “Don’t leave angry.”
“Just leave, eh?” Neil offered a tired smile with the tired joke. He loved his nephew and hated to see the boy distressed. But damn it all, how could he stand idly by and do nothing while Terry wrecked his future? “Meet you at the races on Saturday?”
Terry nodded once and let go of his sleeve.
“I’ll see myself out,” Neil told him. “And, Terry…please think very carefully about all the repercussions of this, won’t you?”
Lost in his thoughts, Neil strode down the brick walkway to his waiting carriage. Terry left him no alternative but to approach the woman. Hell, he couldn’t even buy her off; she already had a bloody fortune. Perhaps if he appealed to her sympathy, Lady Marleigh would be willing to set her sights elsewhere. Not likely, though, if all he heard was true.
Old Marleigh’s daughter had a reputation as black as the devil’s hoof, smutted beyond repair by every wagging tongue in London. The Gazette published accounts of her antics almost weekly. She had to have worked damned hard to ruin herself so completely in the four months since her father’s death. Totally wild, they said, as amoral as an alley cat. Worse than Caro Lamb, old Byron’s paramour. And God knew that one had been a trollop of the first water. Decades later her adventures were still legend, just as Lady Marleigh’s were becoming.
Neil peered out into the night as his carriage trundled along toward his bachelor digs near the hospital. The foggy night and his mission left him with a chill that his fox-lined cloak couldn’t warm. Godamercy, he should be with the army now, where he could do some good. Horrible as it was, he’d at least felt. useful. What the hell was he doing here, trying to sort out Terry’s life when his own lay in pieces?
If only Jon had lived. Coming home on leave had been a mistake. Would it have been any easier if Neil had heard of his brother’s death while in the Crimea? Would he still be alive if the fox hunt to entertain Neil had never taken place?
Jon’s deathbed request had forced Neil to resign his commission so he could stay and look after Terry. Pitiful job he had made of that! The three months he had needed to study the latest medical developments—first in Florence, then in Boston—had been three too many away. He never should have left Terry at such a vulnerable point—orphaned, young, newly titled, inexperienced. And ripe for plucking by a jaded little tart who knew exactly what she was doing. Women like that were a scourge!
Jon had always been so careful about the Bronwyn name and the Havington title. How adamant he was, even as he drew his last few breaths, that Neil protect the boy and give him proper guidance until he gained maturity. With both his mother and father dead, Terry would have no one else, Jon had said.
Why couldn’t Jon have survived and handled this himself? Neil cursed his brother’s carelessness in taking a jump beyond his mount’s ability. He despaired at the helplessness he felt watching his brother die. All those years spent becoming a physician and he could do nothing. Jon lay dead only half a year, and now his only son planned a marriage that would destroy him socially, politically and probably emotionally as well. No, by God, Neil vowed, he’d do his duty by Jon, and by Terry as well. He’d put a stop to this if it was the last thing he ever did.
Neil pulled out his watch; it was a bit past ten. He ran a gloved thumb over the timepiece, considering whether it might be too late. Then he raised his malacca cane and rapped on the top of the carriage. When it slowed and his driver peered down through the small opening, Neil ordered, “To St. James’s, Oliver. Marleigh House.” Might as well have done with this distasteful business now. Tonight.
Elizabeth Marleigh stuffed her traveling case to bursting and sat on top to pack it down for fastening. Footsteps in the hallway gave her just enough time to drag it off the bed and see if she could lift it. “What?” She answered the knock.
“Sorry, milady, but there’s a doctor downstairs in th’ foya wishin’ to speak wi’ you. Says it’s frightful urgent,” the tweenie said, sounding upset. “Mr. Thurston’s abed and I didn’t know where ta put—”
“Tell him I’ll be down directly,” Elizabeth interrupted. Who had called a doctor? Thurston complained so constantly she hardly paid attention anymore. She hadn’t seen him up and about for several days, though. No doubt he’d been just as useless in his prime, when he’d been in her uncle’s employ. She ought to have turned him off when her father died, but he had nowhere else to go. Butlers in their dotage were in short demand. Maybe the doctor would recommend retirement and she could let Thurston go with a pension. Well, with her away in Scotland, there would be very little for him to do but rest and recover, anyway.
She quickly buttoned the jacket of her traveling frock and pushed her untidy hair back off her brow. With her regular maid gone and Thurston indisposed, no one would question her plans or know where she had headed.
The doctor waited at the bottom of the stairs, his hat and cane gripped tightly in one leather-gloved hand while he tucked away his timepiece with the other. Ready to leave already, thought Elizabeth. Thurston must not be too seriously ill, then. “So, how is he faring, Doctor?” she asked, eager to have the interview over so she could be on her way.
“Truly besotted, I should think,” the doctor answered with a quirk of one dark brow.
The small movement drew Elizabeth’s notice to his face. Good Lord, he was handsome…and familiar. But no, she’d have remembered meeting this one, she was certain. She shook her head to clear it. He was just the physician and they were discussing Thurston. “Sotted, you say? He drinks?” She’d never known Thurston to indulge before. “Peculiar.”
The doctor grunted impatiently, shifting his cane to his right hand. “Don’t treat this lightly, my lady. I’m asking you, pleading if I must, to let him go gracefully. And as gently as you may.”
“Let him go? Of course, I was just thinking I should have done so months ago.” She wondered where Thurston would go. Perhaps her cousin, Colin, would offer him a cottage on the estate for retirement, just for old times’ sake. The old man fairly worshipped the son of his old employer. “He’ll be upset, of course, but you’re quite right. I’ll make it as painless as possible, I promise you.”
He smiled then, and her knees almost gave way. Devastating was the word that came to mind. The man was devastating. Dangerously so. Women patients, ill or not, must fall at his feet with astounding regularity. He was well over six feet tall and built like a brick wall. The somber black waistcoat, trousers and knee-high boots emphasized his build. A snowy shirt, one with the new turndown collar and soft, unstarched cravat gave him a sort of Bohemian air. He carried a wide-brimmed, low-crowned hat, also black, fashionable but still a bit daring. As was his scent, not the usual bay rum or witch hazel most men wore, but spicy and unidentifiable, subtly teasing.
There was an easy grace about him, a comfortable acceptance of his form that communicated itself. Dark blue eyes, almost black, glittered like gemstones in their lush, black-rimmed settings. Midnight hair, carelessly brushed back, tick-led his collar. A deep wave of it fell over his forehead and right temple, softening his strong features. His nose was long and nobly formed, accented by sharply planed cheekbones. Smooth skin, slightly tanned, spoke of outdoor exercise. Of course a doctor would take care of himself. This man looked as though he worked at it. And his mouth…
Elizabeth cleared her throat and held on to the newel post for support. Men didn’t affect her this way. They just didn’t. Or they never had before. She felt so stunned she hardly heard his next words.
“I hadn’t expected such understanding,” he said. “You’re being a real brick about this, Lady Marleigh, and I want you to know I do appreciate it.”
“Thank you for saying so, but it’s no great thing. I can easily find someone else,” she mumbled automatically. Then she squinted at him. “Have we met before, Doctor?”
“No,” he said amiably, still smiling. “I don’t believe we have. Perhaps it’s just the family resemblance—the eyes, I’m told. Most people remark on it. I’m always flattered, but Ter-rence—”
“Terry! You’re Terry’s uncle! I recall he mentioned you were a doctor just returned from serving with the army. What a coincidence you’ve come…”
Then the truth dawned—the awful truth about why he was here in her foyer. She shrank inside, a painful shrinking that made her feel queasy. Her face hardened and felt as though it would shatter. “You didn’t come about Thurston, did you?” she asked in a near whisper. “This isn’t about him at all.”
His smile vanished. The beautifully molded lips drew into a thin line, white around their edges, before he spoke. “I’m sure I don’t know a Thurston. If he’s another of your conquests, I have no interest in him. All I want is for you to withdraw your affections—and your claws—from my nephew.”
Elizabeth fought the rage rising inside her. She had almost forgotten for a moment—for a sweet, blessed moment, while talking to a man who didn’t pounce before greeting—that she could expect no more than revulsion, leering or lust. She ached to slap his face, to scream at him and tear out his hair. How could she have believed for a second that he was any different? “And if I don’t withdraw, Doctor? If I refuse?”
He drew himself up to full height, seeming to tower over her even though she stood on the second step up. “Then, my lady, you must believe that I’ll do anything necessary to remove you from his life.” He paused—for effect, she thought—before adding ominously, “Anything.”
Oh God, he was the one! It was him! Fear gripped her like a vise and she couldn’t move. Her eyes cut from one side of the deserted foyer to the other, searching for help. Why had she dismissed all the servants? Only a bedridden butler, a wine-soaked cook and a hen-witted between-stairs maid were all she had left in the house. None of them could do the least bit of good against this threat. Terror choked off her breath and she felt faint.
“Do you understand?” he asked in a gravelly tone that chilled her blood.
Elizabeth nodded.
“Then take care of it.”
Without a further word of farewell, he turned on his heel and marched out the door. It banged shut with a whoosh of cold November air.
Elizabeth collapsed on the stairs and clutched the rail for a long moment until her heart stopped pounding in her ears. Then, with a haste that threatened her footing, she raced up to her room, grabbed her overstuffed valise and ran down the back stairs to the carriage house.
Humphrey stood waiting, and the coach was ready, just as she’d ordered earlier. “North,” she gasped breathlessly as she shoved her case at him and scrambled inside. “And make haste.”
The wheels bounced over the cobbles, vibrating the inside of the carriage as though coach springs hadn’t been invented yet.
Elizabeth tried to calm herself by calculating the time it would take to reach Scotland. No one would expect her to go there. Hardly anyone knew about her father’s old hunting box. It wasn’t grand enough that he would have invited any of his cronies to it. He had purchased it in his youth and kept it strictly as a refuge for the times he wanted to spend alone. She would never have known about it herself had they not gone to Edinburgh earlier this year. A quick stop on the way home to insure the lodge was properly stocked was the only clue he’d ever given that it existed.
She would take the carriage to Edinburgh, dismiss Humphrey and ride alone to the lodge. It would be a perfect place to hide.
The doctor couldn’t kill her if he couldn’t find her. Oh, she understood full well why he wanted to, but it did seem a little extreme. Why had he waited until tonight to warn her? He must be a fool to think she needed three attempts on her life to scare her into heeding his demand.
She would never have married Terrence Bronwyn, anyway. Hadn’t she told him as much time and again? He seemed to have some misguided notion of restoring her to society. Saving her from the wolves of the ton, as he had put it. Righting the wrongs. She’d reminded him it was a bit too late for that. Those wolves had already ripped her to shreds, and there wasn’t a damned thing he could do about it.
Now that she knew who wanted her dead, all she could do was disappear for a few months until Terry—and this murderous uncle of his—forgot about her. Maybe she’d never come back. Life alone in a hunting box couldn’t be nearly so bad or so lonely as life in her London town house…. By the time they left the cobblestoned streets for the open road, Elizabeth had drifted into a fitful sleep.
Neil almost turned back an hour into the journey. It was fairly obvious now that the woman wasn’t on her way to meet Terry. When he’d seen her carriage careen past his at breakneck speed, a possible elopement had been his first thought. Where the devil was she going in such a lather? Curiosity prevented him from abandoning his surveillance. That, and the possibility that she might be meeting someone else. Now that would be helpful. As soon as Terry found out about her rendezvous with another man, surely he would wake up to the facts, see her true character—or rather, the lack of it.
A guilty thought worried its way up from the back of Neil’s mind. She might be running from him after that intimidating little speech of his. Terrorizing women wasn’t a thing to be proud of, and Elizabeth Marleigh had definitely been terrified.
“She deserved it!” he said aloud. “Fractious twit.” Who did she think she was to play fast and loose with the earl of Havington? She’d admitted her willingness to give over that Thurston fellow, whomever he was. Hopefully, she’d be showing poor Terry the gate next. The lad would get over it, of course, but not if they became locked in a meaningless marriage.
Neil could see how Terry had become entranced, though. The girl was a goer—wicked as sin, but with the innocent air of a schoolroom miss. Who could resist that? If he didn’t know all she’d been up to, Neil admitted to himself he might have… No!
He certainly had more sense than to involve himself with another like her, even temporarily.
Emma Throckmorton had been enough to make a man swear off women entirely. Well, almost entirely. Neil hadn’t had the slightest urge to commit himself to more than a quick night’s pleasure in the last six years. No, he had learned his lesson quite well, thank you. The moment he found himself looking cow eyed at a woman again he’d take a bloody scalpel to his wrists and be done with it. Less suffering that way.
This Marleigh woman might be one of the most beautiful he’d seen in some time, but beauty meant nothing. Her hair was odd—a lovely color, red-gold, but no longer than a finger’s length all over her head. He had to admit the feathery curls set off those liquid brown eyes entirely too large for her face, that pert nose with its flaring little nostrils and the generous mouth enclosed by dimples. The whole of it came together like a well-written sonnet—marvelous to admire but imperative to leave alone.
Devil it all! Her face counted for little but good skin and a fortunate arrangement of features. And body parts, of course. Oh yes, luck favored Lady Marleigh in that respect as well. She possessed a slender bone structure that would age quite well. Dainty women were the worst kind, in his opinion, for a man to tangle with. Neil catered to the robust type himself, women who were sturdy enough to look after themselves, women who didn’t rouse his protective instincts. He and his nephew would both do well to stay away from the likes of Elizabeth Marleigh.
His thoughts ran on along the same lines until he felt the carriage pull to a stop. Instantly alert, he stuck his head out the window and met little but dense fog. Only small, wavery blobs of light penetrated the gloom.
Oliver leaned over the side to speak. “Inn up ahead,” sir. Think it’s th Dowdy Maid. Th’other rig pulled up just now so I stopped outa sight. Whatcha want ta do?” The driver shifted his close-fitting cap and scratched his head.
“Pull up beside the stables and wait. Maybe they stopped to eat.”
“No, sir,” Oliver said. “They’ll be in fer the night. Stable lad’s unhookin’ the team and her man took her bag inside.”
“Well, keep the team hitched. I’ll be going back to town shortly.” When they reached the stables, Neil alighted, left his puzzled driver and approached the inn.
Stepping just inside the doorway, he carefully kept to the shadows. Elizabeth Marleigh’s back looked tense and ramrod straight as she argued with the innkeeper. “I must have a private room, sir,” she said.
“Sorry, there ain’t none available. Ye’ll have to sleep in the common.” The man eyed her with suspicion, probably because she was not attended by a chaperon or even so much as a maid. It just wasn’t done, even in these enlightened times, Neil thought. At least not by respectable women.
“Oh, but you see, my husband is joining me later tonight. He’ll be expecting his comfort when he comes to meet me.” She turned on the charm. Very convincing charm, Neil admitted. Of course, the coin she pushed forward didn’t hurt her effort any. He could imagine the batting eyelashes even though he couldn’t see them.
The man pointed up the stairs and handed her a large key. “Number three.”
With a nod, she hefted her leather valise and headed up the stairs.
So her husband was joining her, eh? Neil thought about Terry’s insistence that he meant to marry the woman come hell or high water. Could Terry be meeting her here? If not, why hadn’t she simply declared earlier that she had already terminated their relationship?
Lord, he’d stumbled on their elopement in progress!
This demanded drastic action. He had to do something before Terry arrived, something to stop this tragedy from taking place and ruining his nephew’s future.
Neil slipped back out into the swirling fog, virtually feeling his way to the carriage.
“Oliver, when I go back inside, pull up in front and leave the door open for me. Hold that lantern over here.”
The driver complied as Neil reached in for his medical bag. He extracted a small, brown, stoppered bottle and pocketed it, stowing the bag under the seat once more.
“I’ll have a patient with me. When we come out, I want you to drive west to Bearsden, posthaste. No stops.”
“All th’ way to Middlesex? In this soup? But, sir—”
“I know the place is not staffed, but we’ll need privacy. Absolute quiet.” Neil shot the man a pointed look that dared him to question the business any further.
“Aye, as ye say, sir. Bearsden ‘tis then. Posthaste.” He saluted with a tug of his cap and a sly, gap-toothed grin.
Neil reentered the inn and looked around the taproom. The Marleigh driver hadn’t come in, probably intending to sleep in the stables. Neil approached the burly keeper. “I’m to meet my wife—short woman, reddish hair, dark eyes. Which room?”
The man squinted and pursed his lips. “Maybe she’s here, maybe she ain’t.”
Neil sighed, plopped two guineas on the bar and cocked his head. “She’s been quite ill, the poor dear, in hospital until yesterday. Did she seem all right?”
“Can’t say. Don’t care. Third room on the right, top o’ th’ stair,” the man said, hefting the coins in his hand.
The stairs creaked under Neil’s weight, and he fingered the bottle in his pocket as he climbed. At the third door he stopped, saturated his handkerchief with the concoction, re-stoppered the bottle and knocked softly. He heard her answer, “Yes?”
“Hurry, darling, you must hurry! He’s coming!” he whispered frantically, hoping she’d take him for his nephew.
It worked. The door opened a crack and Neil pushed his way through. She opened her mouth to scream and he covered her face with the wadded linen. She fought him, struggled wildly for a few seconds and then collapsed against his chest. Quickly, he lifted her deadweight in his arms and laid her on the bed.
How light she was, like swan’s down. So delicate. He turned her this way and that until he had her securely bundled in her cloak. Then, cursing, he awkwardly shut her overstuffed suit-case and carried them both downstairs.
“A relapse,” he explained to the wide-eyed innkeeper. Managing the door latch with some difficulty, Neil exited the inn with his burden, dumped her into the waiting coach and climbed in behind her. He arranged his little charge in a comfortable position as Oliver barreled through the fog toward Middlesex.
The tiny witch would have a hell of a headache when she woke up, but nothing compared to the one she’d probably give him. What did one do with a shameless, greedy female secluded in a deserted old manor house to make her want to stay awhile?
Neil dismissed his scruples and smiled. The possibilities seemed deliciously endless.
Chapter Two
Bearsden Manor, Middlesex
Sunlight streamed through the window and sliced across her face. Elizabeth forced one eye open and quickly clamped it shut against a shard of brightness. Her head ached abominably and her stomach churned like a kettle at full boil. She tried to roll off the bed to find a chamberpot, but froze when a huge hand settled on her shoulder.
“Stay where you are,” a deep voice warned.
Elizabeth screamed.
Terrorized, she struggled with all the wildness of a cornered fox. This was it. He’d kill her now! But not, by God, without a fight! She struck out with her fists. Desperate to live, Elizabeth flailed against him until her body heaved violently.
He dodged to one side as her stomach emptied the little that was in it. Heedless of indignity or even death, she retched endlessly before collapsing back against the pillows.
Fear shifted to anger and frustration. She’d done all she possibly could and it wasn’t enough. Her eyes wouldn’t open. They joined the rest of her body in total and complete exhaustion. “Do it, then,” she rasped. “Just do it.”
“Look, I’m sorry about this, but it’s your own fault.” The voice was calmer now, only tinged with irritation.
Elizabeth braced herself for whatever came next—hands around her throat, a knife, a pistol ball? What did it matter? Her muscles felt disconnected and refused to react. Rage deserted her suddenly, left her empty, spent. She was just too tired to care anymore. Let him do his worst. Everyone else had.
If only her voice would work, she could curse him. One parting shot: See you in hell, you bastard! No, she wouldn’t go there. She’d already paid for all her sins. Surely.
Thoughts scattered as she grasped for something pleasant to distract her from whatever pain might ensue. His words now were seductive, scary, threatening, luring her back from every comforting scene she tried to picture. Couldn’t the wretch just be quiet and get on with it? Her muzzy mind couldn’t grasp the content of what he said, but she sensed exasperation in his tone. Was the idiot trying to talk her to death?
His muttering ceased as he tugged her this way and that, rustling and yanking at the bedcovers. Then there was a peaceful stillness, broken only by the sound of pouring water. Her limbs lay weighted, lifeless. Her eyelids felt too heavy to open. The odor of sickness faded.
A cool cloth was swiped across her face and neck. Ah, that felt good, brought memories of Mother. Good memories to die with. “Mama,” she whispered, hoping her mother would be waiting to welcome her. Her father, too.
“No, I’m not Mama. Here, drink this,” the voice ordered, gruff and impatient. “I said drink!”
She drank. Poison, then. Of course. He was a doctor. She welcomed the creeping oblivion, weary of fighting a useless battle she couldn’t begin to win or even understand. The weeks of sleeplessness and watchfulness had only delayed the inevitable. Death in a water glass. Ironic.
Her last thought contained relief and a little regret. She ought to have married old Purvis Hilfinger when she was sixteen. She’d be in Northumberland right now, raising babies and counting sheep. Ah, counting sheep…one, two, three…
Neil started to cover her. He ought to undress her so she would be more comfortable, at least get her out of that pinching corset. God only knew how long she had worn the damned thing—all day before, probably, and certainly throughout the night. ‘Twas a wonder she could breathe at all.
He placed his hand lightly on her chest Breathing was too shallow and she looked pallid as a corpse. A bad reaction to the chloroform? Nonsense, the queen herself had used it. He’d employed it on hundreds of patients without any ill effects.
But none of them were women, his conscience reminded him. Maybe he’d used too much and for too long a time. What did he know of delicate constitutions such as Miss Marleigh’s or even of female medicine in general? Nothing outside the medical texts and an occasional treatise on feminine complaints. There’d been cadavers in med school, of course, and as an intern he’d observed indigent patients. But Neil could count his actual female patients on the fingers of one hand. Hardy trulls every one—camp followers he’d treated for the grippe or diseases better left unnamed.
Military medicine was virtually all he knew. Battlefield surgery, dysentery, saddle sores, the odd appendectomy. What if, in his desperation to protect Terry, he’d done real injury to this fragile girl? Suppose she died right here in his bed?
Neil shook himself. Where the hell had he put his objectivity? Her functions had simply slowed because of the drug and her constrictive underpinnings. Stupid to react like some cork-brained first-termer who’d never attended a bedside before. You’ve given her a stimulant, now take off the damned corset and see if she improves!
Still he hesitated. She was no willing paramour who wanted him to see her naked, but a helpless woman he’d rendered unconscious. This was wrong, all of it. After taking the oath to preserve health and life, he’d purposely put someone at risk.
Hell, he always got too involved with his patients, but how could he help it? The responsibility for another’s life was daunting, too much like playing God without a rule book or the proper power to pull it off. As with Jon.
If only he had thought this out first and found another way to prevent her meeting with Terry. Neil cursed himself for reverting to that inborn proclivity to act on impulse. He thought he’d had that conquered years ago.
“I’ll make it up to you, you know. Anything you want” Anything but let you wed Terry, he added silently, reason returning.
Nonsense, he thought. What unmitigated foolishness. She’s just a hardheaded adventuress with a nose full of chloroform who needs a bit of care to bring her around So get on with it.
Bending over her, Neil released the row of tiny buttons on her bodice and stripped her as efficiently as he had all the battle victims he’d tended.
The breathing improved immediately, Neil noticed with relief. Her skin color looked better, too. Peaches and cream, soft, silken…beautiful. He forced his gaze away from her breasts, embarrassed at his lack of decorum, guilty at the way his body reacted to the sight of her. He cursed the impulse to touch her.
Stalking across the room, he snatched one of his old linen shirts out of the wardrobe. It smelled of cedar and starch, but not unpleasantly. She’d certainly prefer this to his rummaging through her valise for a night rail. The weathered case looked ready to explode at a touch. He didn’t think he could deal with a scattered sea of her frilly furbelows.
When he’d dressed her and neatly tucked her in, he bundled her soiled clothing along with the sheets he’d removed and stowed them outside in the hall. Then he pulled the bedroom draperies shut and sat down to wait. Exhausted as she was, it might be awhile before the mild stimulant kicked in and she woke again.
What the devil would he do with her then? Several things hopped to mind. His lecherous thoughts had dissipated a bit, only to return now with hurricane force. Neil suspected that was going to happen with disturbing frequency as long as he kept her here, his guilt notwithstanding.
The delicate little piece looked like a tuckered-out child lying there. This feeling of tenderness toward Elizabeth Mar-leigh bothered him. It was undeserved on her part, and maddening on his. But she seemed so vulnerable. Her cap of red-gold curls framed such an angelic face, barely free of its baby roundness. This one was no infant, though, and most assuredly no angel. He’d do well to remember that and keep his sympathy—and his hands—to himself.
Why had she embarked on such a wanton life? he wondered. If she had controlled her baser nature, there would have been no impediment to her wedding his nephew—a beautiful, wealthy heiress for a fine, fledgling earl. The Marleigh name was one of England’s oldest and most respected. That is, until she had destroyed it with those foolish escapades of hers.
Neil passed his thumb over the watch Jon had left him, rubbing it like a talisman, renewing his promise to keep Terry safe. He looked down at, the case and the glint of gold mocked him, made him think of the Marleigh woman’s gilded curls.
She had ruined herself, but, by God, she wouldn’t ruin Terry! If hiding her here was the only way to prevent the marriage, so be it. Perhaps when the lad found her missing at their appointed rendezvous, he’d become disenchanted and give up thoughts of marriage. He might search for her, of course. Probably would, given Terry’s tenacious nature. But he would never look here.
Bearsden had stood vacant since Neil’s maternal grandparents died. He felt no sentimental attachment to the place and should have sold it long ago. Still, for some twisted reason, he’d kept it cared for, and even visited occasionally. He doubted Terry knew the property existed.
How would Lady Marleigh explain to her young lover an absence of a week or so from town? Yes, this ought to work. If Neil could just keep her here in the country awhile, word would get around that she had struck up with another paramour.
No one would take her seriously even if she told exactly what had happened. Who would believe it if she named him as her abductor? A respected physician stealing away with the likes of her? Neil could hardly believe it himself. Or countenance the fact that he’d really done it. Leaning his head to one side and clasping his hands across his middle, he allowed himself to doze….
Neil awakened with a start, almost falling out of the wing chair. The patter of hurried footsteps on the bare floor of the hallway brought him to his feet, running. He tore out of the room and down the hall, catching her at the top of the stairs. Clamping his arms around her, he forced her forward against the banister.
She landed a backward kick to his knee that almost sent them both plunging headfirst over the rail. Neil tumbled her to the floor facedown, clutching her this way and that, struggling to subdue clawing hands and kicking feet.
Lord, she was strong! It was like trying to stuff a wildcat into a sack. His fingers closed over hers, squeezing them into fists while he threw one leg over both of hers. She finally went limp, her back heaving against his chest. Neil relaxed his hold and started to speak. She leaned forward and bit the back of his hand.
“Ow! Damn you, stop! Stop it! I’ll thrash—”
She bit harder. He clamped his own teeth over a mouthful of her curls and yanked her head back sharply. She let go of his hand with an ear-piercing screech. Neil rolled sideways and landed on top of her, their hands imprisoned beneath her and her face pressed to the hardwood floor. “Be still or I’ll throttle you, you wildcat!”
All the life seemed to drain out of her once more and she stopped breathing. Silence reigned for a full minute. He frowned down at her. Was this another trick to throw him off guard? The one eye he could see didn’t blink, but stared at the wall. Tears poured out in a steady stream, but she didn’t sob. Didn’t move. He could feel the rapid beat of her heart under their joined hands.
“Will you fight if I let you up?” he asked.
No answer.
“I won’t hurt you.”
She still said nothing, just stared at the baseboard, weeping silently.
“I promise I won’t hurt you.”
He gave up waiting for an answer and moved off of her. She sucked in a deep breath and shuddered, making no move to rise. The shirt he’d put on her had become wound around her waist, so her lower body was bare. Neil froze at the sight of her pert little buttocks. He fought the sudden stirring in his groin.
Fury at his unwanted arousal made him gruffer than he meant to be. He yanked at the tail of the shirt to cover her. “Get up!”
Slowly she pulled herself to her knees and stared at him, wide-eyed and tense. Her lower lip trembled and the tears continued to freshen and fall.
The sight undid him completely. He caught her to him and held her as he would a frightened child, smoothing her soft curls and pressing her face against his chest. “Don’t cry. Please don’t.” Gently, he lifted her, carrying her back to the bed.
She made no attempt to get away, no move at all, as he settled onto the edge of the mattress beside her. Still, her eyes never left his, and he hadn’t yet seen her blink.
“All I want to do is talk to you,” he explained, keeping his voice soft and using his best doctor-patient tone. “That’s it—lie back and take a deep breath. Another. It’s all over now.” He stroked her wet cheeks with the back of his fingers.
“Get it over with,” she whispered. “I don’t want to…dread it anymore.”
“What?” he asked, still soothing her with his hands, patting, caressing. “What shall I do?”
“Kill me,” she squeaked. Her chin lifted and her eyes narrowed in a brief show of bravado.
“Don’t be absurd!” He grunted in disbelief, shaking his head. “Surely you don’t think…? I have no intention…I’m certainly not going to kill you. What gave you that idea?”
She wore the look of young men after their first battle-uncertain that they had survived it and already dreading the next one. “You said you’d do anything! And even before that I knew it was you who… The boat, the knife and the chocolate…” Her voice dwindled on a defeated sigh.
“What the devil are you talking about?” She must be in shock. God, he hadn’t meant to frighten her this badly. She really believed he wanted her dead for some reason. Well, he remembered, he had implied…no, had actually threatened her.
This was really getting out of hand. No one, even someone like her, deserved to feel such fear.
“I don’t want you to die,” he said earnestly, hoping to ease her mind, convince her. Ought he to use her Christian name? Patients always responded better to the familiarity. “Do you understand me, Elizabeth? You are in no danger. I just don’t want you to marry my nephew. That’s the only reason I brought you hens—simply to get you away from Terry. That’s all, I swear.”
She didn’t believe him. He could see her disbelief and virtually smell her fear. The poor thing still expected a death blow at any moment.
“Look, you little dimwit, if I wanted you dead, you’d never have awakened. Don’t you see? I could have done you in a hundred times over, dumped you somewhere and dusted my hands of it. You needn’t be afraid, Elizabeth. I do not want you dead.”
For a long minute she studied his face intently, biting her lips and breathing hard. She shifted uncomfortably and straightened her back. When she finally spoke, her words were soft. “Would you…leave me alone then? Please?”
He understood immediately. She had been abed all night and most of the morning without relieving herself. She looked somewhat calmer now, sane enough to trust to herself for a while.
Hopefully.
Neil glanced at the room’s only window, which he knew from experience was impossible to coax open. Should she break it, there was a thirty-foot drop beneath. One who clung to life so tenaciously was hardly suicidal enough to jump.
“Certainly. We can talk downstairs. There are towels on the stand, water in the pitcher, and the necessary room’s in there.” Neil waved as he stood up. “Your bag’s in the wardrobe. Why don’t you dress and come down to the study when you feel up to it? The door will be open. If you need to rest awhile, it’s all right. I won’t disturb you.”
She still didn’t fully believe him. Neil dragged forth the practiced reassurance he doled out like laudanum to the wounded. “I promise you, you’re safe, Elizabeth. My word as a gentleman.” Ha! She’d surely credit that after his conduct up to this point.
“Will you let me go?” She sounded a bit stronger, he thought, but very doubtful.
“Of course I’ll let you go,” he answered patiently. In about a week, he purposely didn’t add.
Slowly he descended the stairs, lost in his thoughts. “Lord, what have I done?” he asked himself, rolling his eyes heavenward. “This is sheer madness.”
Here was a side of himself kept well buried since he was a child. It had emerged only once in the intervening years.
With Emma.
Recklessness and disregard for consequences had already ruined his life twice. How many lessons did one need?
First his mother had left him, unable to deal with the wild child his aged father had spoiled rotten. How well he recalled the last incident before his father died.
Neil had had the best of intentions. Listening for days to his mother bewail the fact that she needed a grand hunt scene painted for the dining room, he had sought to oblige. He knew exactly how, he’d thought, after weeks of watching a visiting artist capture his mother in oils. His own attempt on the wall above the buffet wasn’t bad for a five-year-old. She didn’t agree. After her screaming fit, Neil made hasty amends. Mother must be pleased.
“What takes paint away, Jed?” he had asked the footman.
“Bird shit,” the disgruntled man replied, busy scrubbing the nasty stuff off the lord’s glossy carriage.
Well, chickens were birds, Neil reasoned. He’d visited the henhouse and set to work on the unwanted picture that very afternoon. Now that he looked back, he wondered that Mother had stayed as long as she had.
Married at sixteen to a man three times her age, Norah Guest Bronwyn had probably whooped with delight when her husband expired six years later. Until she realized she was only a dowager countess, stranded in the country with her own little hellion and an eighteen-year-old stepson—the new earl—who loathed her.
Without a word of explanation, Norah had packed her things and Neil’s, deposited him at a second-rate boarding school and hared off to God knew where. He hadn’t seen her since. But later, as a man, he’d met dozens of women just like her.
As far as he knew they were all like her—flighty, shallow, feather-headed females set on taking all they could get at the least possible cost.
Even after he’d realized that, he still fell responsible for her desertion. If only he’d been well behaved. If he’d been quiet, agreeable and more circumspect, she might have taken him with her or stayed and at least tried to love him. She wasn’t all she should have been as a mother, but he knew the fault was mostly his own. He should have been different.
With that thought dominant, he’d reformed his whole personality by the time he was twelve. He grew determined to find affection somewhere, somehow, and hold on to it. His older brother had doted on him after he changed, delighted with Neil’s newfound maturity. Didn’t that prove the theory?
Thank God Jon had been too preoccupied with estate business to notice Neil’s relapse at the age of twenty.
He’d thought Emma different from his mother. Showed how green he was—green as a goddamned summer cabbage. The old impulsiveness had reared its ugly head, caused him to think he could behave irrationally, love without analyzing the thing to death and get away with it. Lo and behold, another gut punch.
Now here he was, dead center in another harebrained fiasco that reduced his former lapses to insignificance. Why hadn’t he considered the repercussions first?
This incident would forestall Terry’s marriage, all right, but at what cost? The poor girl was scared out of her wits. And Terry might believe every word she said when this was over even if no one else did. Why in God’s name hadn’t Neil stopped to think before he acted? Hindsight was hell. Would he never learn?
Neil lifted his second glass of brandy as she appeared in the door of the study, interrupting his tardy self-recriminations.
She wore an unbecoming, dark, broadcloth dress buttoned up to her chin, and carried her valise. Like a child dressed in nanny’s clothes, he thought. Her shadow-smudged eyes dwarfed her other features. She faced him with that chin up, however. Tentative though it was, she had found her courage somewhere.
“I’d like to go now,” she said in a small, insistent voice.
“No doubt,” Neil answered with what he hoped was a reassuring smile. “Sit down and have a bite to eat. Only biscuits and tea, but that should do you. How is your stomach? Still weak?”
She nodded and dropped the case to the floor with a thud. Carefully, she inched her way to the chair he indicated and sat on the edge of it, watching him warily.
“You really are quite safe, Elizabeth,” he said as he handed her a cup. “I may call you that, may I not? I truly mean you no harm.” How many times would he have to say it to get that look off her face? he wondered.
Her brow screwed into a charming little frown as she seemed to consider his words. “Very well. I’ve thought about it at length. I suppose you’d have done your worst by now if you really meant me to die.” Her voice grew stronger with every word. “But why did you frighten me so before? I could have expired of heart failure! And why all this? Why did you abduct me?”
Neil had a ridiculous urge to praise her for her recovery. Her anger was righteous, but he couldn’t let it sway him now.
“I told you that. Because you were eloping with Terry, and I’ll not have his future destroyed. I had to stop you somehow.”
“Eloping? Are you mad? Why would you think that?” Then she pressed her forehead with the heel of her hand. “Of course, the silly dolt told you he had proposed. What am I to do with him? He won’t hear a no.” The dark eyes hid under shadowed lids and she sighed. “He has a good heart, but he’s such a fool sometimes.”
“Well, I agree with you there,” Neil said with a short, bitter laugh. “He’s not the first young pup to sniff after a skirt and call it love.”
Her head came up with a jerk. “Love? Is that what he told you? Well, I suppose he would say that.” She smiled, and the sadness in her eyes surprised him. At least she didn’t gloat.
“I overheard you tell the innkeeper that your husband was expected. I figured that it was Terry,” he said, sipping his brandy thoughtfully.
“You assumed wrongly, Dr. Bronwyn. Making up that story was the only way I could avoid sharing the common room. I never had any intention of meeting your nephew at the inn or anywhere else. Terry’s simply the only friend I have, and he thinks he can save my good name if he combines it with his. Sweet idiot.”
“Naturally you would say that.” He took another sip, peering at her over the rim of the snifter.
“You don’t believe I refused his suit?” she asked, looking so troubled he almost believed her.
Neil regretted what he had to admit, but spoke nonetheless. “Let us say that I doubt you enough to insure that no wedding takes place. In order to guarantee it, I must ask you to accept my hospitality for a while—perhaps a week—until his, uh, ardor cools. I promise you’ll be perfectly safe.”
She nodded thoughtfully. “All right.”
He couldn’t hide his shock at her ready agreement. She displayed no slyness, no taunting and no further fear. Just “all right,” as though they were cementing a minor business deal? What did she think to gain? Her capitulation was too easy.
“I think I understand why you thought it necessary to do what you did,” she explained. “I can’t say I’ll ever forgive you, but what’s done is done. Staying here for a while will suit my purposes as well.” She nodded once. “Yes, I’ll stay.”
Then she smiled.
Oh God, that smile. So she would turn her charms on him now, would she? Now that she couldn’t have Terry? Neil beat back the thrill that shot through his soul. Not bloody likely would he succumb to her! Not if he were careful.
“You really will be safe here, you know. In every way,” he said. “Please understand, I have absolutely no designs on you.”
“Well,” she said with sad sarcasm and a roll of those lovely dark eyes, “won’t that be a novelty?”
Impudent chit. He wanted to wring her neck. “No doubt it will. The trout all jumping at your boat, are they? Can’t believe there’s one won’t bite your bait? Well, I’m no randy hatchling, young lady, and I’ve had more seasoned anglers than you toss hooks in my direction. Just believe me, I am off-limits!”
She laughed. The bloody tart laughed so hard she was spilling her tea. Hysterical hen wit!
When she had calmed a bit, she pressed a hand to her chest, gasping for breath. There were tears on her cheeks again, but they weren’t the product of fear. Well, maybe an after-product of some sort, he decided grudgingly. Relief now that she understood she was safe.
“I should have brought a net!” she said, and was off again, bending double in her chair, holding her sides with laughter.
“I fail to see the humor!” He drew indignant shoulders back, took a deep gulp of brandy and waited for her to subside.
It took awhile.
“I’m sorry,” she said, wiping her eyes with her serviette. “It’s just that you looked…” her lips compressed, holding back a further outburst “…like a carp.”
Neil squeezed his eyes shut and relaxed his mouth, knowing she was probably right. He squelched the urge to laugh with her. How in hell was he going to deal with the little tramp when she was so damned appealing? It was as though she erased every resolution he’d ever made to maintain his decorum. Even when she mocked him, he found her so enchanting he wanted to kiss her.
There was a reckless thought. He must remember what she was. “I know all about you, Lady Marleigh,” he said.
She sobered as though he had doused her with icy water. “So, you’ve heard it all, have you?”
“Oh, yes indeed. That orgy at Hammershill, the statue, the midnight swim, your…menage a trois. Have I missed anything? Do fill me in.” He begged to God she wouldn’t. Neil hated the snideness in his voice, but it grated on his soul to think of her cheap theatrics. How could she be so flagrant? Why did he have to picture her dancing naked, cavorting with another…no, two other men? Christ, he wanted to shake her!
“I guess that covers it rather well,” she said quietly, all traces of laughter gone, cut away by the knife of his sarcasm.
Neil heard the catch in her voice and hoped it meant she regretted those foolish actions. He hoped she cried from now until doomsday for all that could have been. For what he might have offered…. No! Not him. He’d never have offered her a damned thing! Nothing.
The front door knocker clacked loudly, echoing in the high-ceilinged foyer outside the study. “Stay here and eat your biscuits,” he ordered curtly. “And drink that tea.”
Who the hell would be calling on him here? The house had been closed for years, his presence a secret. Could be the care taker he paid to make a monthly check, he supposed. Neil pulled the study door shut as he strode to the front entrance.
The man who stood waiting frowned in greeting. “Hullo, Doc. I recalled your mentioning the house here once, and hoped I might find you. I’d looked everywhere else.”
Neil froze, subconsciously barring the way inside. Scotland Yard? Had someone reported his abducting the girl? Surely not this soon. No one had seen him but the innkeeper, and the man had no idea who he was! But what the hell was Mac-Linden doing here? They hadn’t even seen each other since Neil returned to London.
“Lindy? What do you want?” Then, with effort, he recovered himself and forced a laugh. “I’m sorry, old man. You quite took me by surprise. Come in, come in.” Neil stood aside to allow him entry. Guilt must have sapped his reason. It was absurd to think the authorities would send a friend to arrest him.
MacLinden curled the brim of the dapper bowler he was holding, turning the hat round and round. An uncharacteristically nervous gesture for Lindy, Neil thought.
As a rule, Trent MacLinden was the soul of composure. Even the blinding pain of his war wound hadn’t affected him this way. His eyes, a dark, mossy green in the weak lamplight, didn’t meet Neil’s. Even the ruddy mustache, shiny from a recent waxing, worked impatiently as Lindy raked his upper lip with his teeth.
Judging by their previous ease in each other’s company since serving together in the Crimea, it was a sure bet this was no social call. Something was definitely wrong.
“Didn’t mean to be rude, old son,” Neil apologized. “It’s just that the sight of the estimable Inspector MacLinden strikes fear in the hearts of us mere civilians. Congratulations on your promotion, by the way. I only heard of it when I arrived in town this week. You’re a real top peeler now! We should celebrate.”
“Thank you. I’m here in an official capacity, Doc. Could we perhaps sit down?” Lindy headed for the closed door of the study.
“In here.” Neil redirected him to the parlor across the hall. This had to be about some other business. There was no way Lindy could know about the woman. Not this soon.
He closed the door behind them with a prayer that Lady Marleigh had fallen asleep over her teacup. If she came bursting out of the study, hurling accusations, he’d just have to confess.
With a distracted sweep of his hands he yanked off the dust sheets covering two overstuffed chairs. Large as it was, the room smelted musty and airless. Neil felt trapped—by the age-grayed walls, by the impending disgrace, by his own reckless idiocy. What else could have brought Lindy here but the abduction?
Terry would hate him if the truth came out. And arrest was a real possibility.
Neil would receive a light sentence, probably—at least he hoped so. It was a first offense and he hadn’t harmed the girl. Not really.
He was so preoccupied forming his defense, he almost missed Lindy’s announcement.
“Terry’s dead, Neil.”
Pulsuz fraqment bitdi.
