Cates, Kimberly (30 page)

"Don't be ridiculous! You can't believe that!"

"It's the truth! I'll never forgive myself for what happened tonight. There's nothing left. Nothing."

"Angel, I know this seems like the end of the world. But people are damned resilient. Believe me. I know. A year from now, you'll be settled in a new life. You'll barely remember this place, what happened here." He'd see to it, damn his soul. Fill every minute with loving.

"I hope you're right. I hope I can forget what an empty-headed fool I was." Her eyes were cold when they met his, the love that had shone in them while they'd made love extinguished like the blaze of the fire, almost as if their loving were some sort of cruel dream that had never been real at all. "But most of all I hope I can forget you."

Adam drew back as if she'd struck him. "You don't mean that," he rasped. "After tonight in the garden house—"

"It was a mistake. A horrible mistake. One I'll pay for for the rest of my life. I'll never forgive myself—or you!"

She was destroying him, shattering him as no cannonfire ever had, abandoning him in a wasteland of pain. She blamed him for what had happened. But even more chilling, she blamed herself. The change wrought in her face was the most horrible thing Adam had ever seen.

It was as if her words had drained the final embers of life out of her, extinguished the sparks of fury in her eyes, leaving them empty of all but desolation as she looked about the ruined garden.

Flowers lay scorched, blackened, the herbs she'd tended so carefully trampled beneath careless feet. The iron gate swung open on its hinges, creaking out a keening lament. There was nothing left to guard inside the stone garden walls except for broken dreams.

Adam's gaze swept the bench that had held the basket of food for the beggar children every night since he'd arrived at Angel's Fall, and he wondered how the waifs would keep their stomachs full and their fingers warm without the bundle of hot rolls and meat pies Juliet had provided.

"Juliet, where are we going to go? What are we going to do?" Millicent asked, looking forlorn and strangely childlike.

The query did what even Smythe's cruelty could not. Hot spots of color stained Juliet's cheeks, her voice harsh, fists white-knuckled and shaking. "I don't know! Why are you looking at me as if I had all the answers? Can't you see what a fool I was?" Her self-condemnation tore at Adam's heart like the fangs of a wolf.

"No!" Felicity cried. "That's not true."

"The proof is all around you!" Juliet swept her hand toward the smoking ruin. "You could have all burned to death because of my stubbornness and carelessness and... and for what? So you could pretend to learn how to sew even though you hate it?"

"Juliet, listen—" Elise rushed forward, but Isabelle grasped her by the arm.

"Stop, Elise. Reflect," the Frenchwoman interrupted. "Look at this ruin. It is hardly fair to expect Juliet to play savior to us after all she has lost. We cannot play these games any longer."

Elise swallowed hard, drew back, but Adam could sense the pain in this, Juliet's most fragile angel, and the resignation.

"You're right. Of course," Elise agreed, but Adam heard the slightest tremor in her voice. Where the devil would she go now? Where would any of them go? Hell, it wasn't his responsibility, was it? Any more than it had been Juliet's.

"'Twill be lovely to be independent again, don't you think?" Isabelle asked. There was something in her face that raked across Adam's battle instincts, a brittle brightness. His gaze flicked to the jewel chest still clutched to Isabelle's bosom.

"Easy enough for you to say!" Millicent cried. "You're the only one who managed to carry anything away from the fire!"

Isabelle's lips curled in what was almost a smile. "It comes of long practice, my dear."

Practice? Adam wondered darkly. What an odd thing to say. Or had the fading courtesan known all along what was going to happen here tonight? He recalled the strange conversation they'd had, Isabelle, always hinting at things, hiding things, concealing motives that no one could discern. It was possible life had taught her to be thus, just as Adam had learned to gird himself in an armor of recklessness, carelessness when it came to his bastardy. Or perhaps there were more sinister reasons hidden behind Isabelle's brittle mask.

Whatever the truth, did it matter now? With Juliet all but ready to collapse with heartache and exhaustion? There would be time to cut to the heart of this later. And by damn, he would do so after—after what? After he found somewhere to stash the rest of these women until he could get them decently clothed. An inn would be perfect, except that if he marched them through the common room garbed in their nightshifts it would incite a riot. Besides, Juliet didn't look as if she could make it to the end of the street without fainting dead away.

Adam scowled, gnawed at the inside of his cheek. "I know a place we can use temporarily," he was stunned to hear himself say. "My brother's townhouse."

"The—the earl's house?" Fletcher choked out. "You're going to take them to the earl's house?"

"You have a better damn suggestion? Just get my blasted horse before I change my mind."

The boy raced off, and Adam stalked to the well. Scooping up one of the buckets abandoned on the turf, he drew enough water to wash his face, anything to keep from watching Juliet standing there so alone.

He splashed the handfuls of water over his cheeks and jaw and gritty eyes, letting the moisture cool the burns where embers had struck his skin, washing away the soot. When he straightened to wipe away the water with the tail of his shirt, his nape prickled with wariness as someone laid one perfectly manicured hand upon his shoulder. He wheeled around to see Isabelle, almost untouched by the ordeal.

"You must think of this unpleasantness as dealing with a battle wound,
mon ami,
" she said. "The swifter you tear the blade from Juliet's flesh and cauterize the wound, the sooner the end of pain."

"What the devil do you know about it?"

"Just that the sooner Juliet is settled elsewhere, the sooner she will forget."

The words were similar to those he'd spoken himself, but he jerked away from Isabelle, loathing the woman in that instant. It was so damn easy for her, wasn't it? Gazing at the destruction all around her with her shuttered eyes and lips that kept a thousand secrets. She had saved the only thing that mattered to her, her treasure box snatched out of the very flames. But then, from the first he'd known Isabelle had that feline ability to land on her feet, no matter what precipice she was tossed off of. It was an ability Adam had long admired, had cultivated in himself. Why did it suddenly seem so chilling, sinister?

"One thing you may be certain of," Adam growled. "Once Juliet is settled, I'll damn well find whoever was responsible for that blaze."

"But of course you will, you stubborn fool. You didn't get all those scars by leaving well enough alone." She gave a wry smile. "This is what you wanted,
non?
An end to this insanity? Why not embrace it as good fortune? Carry Juliet to safety? I have eyes. I see the way you look at her. 'Tis your chance to sweep her onto your charger like a knight errant and play the hero."

"I'm no bloody hero, and you know it." But Adam was dismayed by the sudden knowledge that at this instant he wanted to be one for his Juliet.

His retort was cut off by the sound of hoofbeats, Fletcher running up, leading Adam's mount. And Adam wanted nothing more than to scoop Juliet into his arms, ride as far away from the world as possible, carry her off into some kingdom of dreams where he could love away her pain, wash away the memories of Angel's Fall and the fire and the heartbreak that had so altered her eyes.

But to carry a woman to such a place, you had to believe in fairy kingdoms yourself, like Gavin did.

Adam strode to Juliet. "I'm taking you to Glenlyon House."

"No!" Juliet protested. "I won't take your charity—"

"You'd rather freeze out here than accept my help? What the blazes are you going to do? Run all over London in your nightgown singing for your supper?" He dared not give her any quarter. "Or would you prefer that I take you to the inn, Juliet? Stroll through the common room with all your enemies drinking toasts to the destruction of Angel's Fall, gloating over their triumph?"

Agony slashed in jagged streaks across her face, and for a moment, just a moment, he hoped his harsh words would lash up the magnificence inside her; Juliet Grafton-Moore, the woman he'd first laughed at, grown to respect and then, God help him, come to love. Jesus, God, he'd never known that emotion could hurt far worse than any battle wound.

If he couldn't bestir her to fight for herself, maybe there was another way. He could get her to fight for her fallen angels.

Guilt was a damned underhanded tactic, one that didn't sit well in his stomach. But he had no choice. Adam forced his mouth into a mocking sneer. "Perhaps you're ready to embrace martyrdom, but are you willing to condemn Elise to it? Millicent and Felicity and all the others?"

"The house is gone. I've nothing left to give."

"Well, that's too damned bad, because they're all looking to you, Juliet. You owe them better than this."

She raised her eyes, and Adam watched her stare at the cluster of women who had drawn back into the shadows. "You're right. They'll need someplace to stay while they make other arrangements. I don't have any choice but to make use of the place you offer. But won't your brother object to former courtesans invading his family home?"

"It's not as if we were moving in permanently. And Gavin rarely comes to the city anyway—not since that unfortunate ruckus his oldest son kicked up while touring the Tower of London. I think the guards have orders to shoot Drake on sight." It was a feeble attempt at humor, one that fell dismally flat.

She gave another sick laugh. "I suppose an earl's house is as good a place as any to arrange for the new protectors the ladies have been searching for all this time. Perhaps the earl can provide a list of suitable candidates."

She started to turn away, all but fell. Adam's hand shot out to steady her. "Damn it, Juliet, you're ready to drop. Fletcher!" he bellowed to the boy who was hanging back, the reins of the gelding in his hand. The lad jumped in surprise.

"Make yourself useful, for pity's sake. We'll need a coach—two of them if you can manage it. Otherwise, we'll have to make two trips."

"Aye, Sabrehawk. I'll be back in a trice." Fletcher handed over the gelding's reins and sprung into action.

"I'm going to ride ahead, prepare the earl's servants for the invasion," Adam barked after him. "I'm taking Juliet with me."

"No!" Juliet protested. "I'm not going with you. I'll wait for the coach."

He didn't bother to argue with her. Mounting the gelding, he leaned down from his saddle and scooped Juliet into his arms. He wanted her to struggle, to rage at his dictatorial ways. Wanted to goad her into defying him as she had from the first moment he'd looked into her eyes. But she only stiffened for a heartbeat, before surrendering the battle.

Adam's heart sank as her eyelids fluttered closed. She lay agonizingly still against his chest, as if a part of her had died.

Chapter 16

Glenlyon House had the aura of a giant cat drowsing in the warmth of the new-fledged sun. Elegant, exquisite, every stone was witness to the exorbitant tastes that had driven the family to the brink of ruin until Adam's father had wed a wealthy merchant's daughter to recoup the Glenlyon fortunes.

Gazing up at the edifice, Adam wondered if that salvation had been worth the anguish it had caused. A whole generation lost in misery.

His father, denied his dream of becoming a soldier, saddled with a wife he held in contempt when he was already in love with another woman—a woman pregnant with his bastard.

Adam's mother, the beautiful laughing Lydia Slade, who forsook her family, her good name, traded her future to live a charade. And Gavin's mother, that poor simple girl who had her heart broken by the knowledge that her reluctant husband had done his best to forget she existed, lavished his time and adoration on another family, slept in another woman's bed a day's ride away from her.

And Gavin—the heir born of this cursed marriage—he had paid the highest price of all—despised by his father until he'd been driven to attempt to win his love on a battlefield for a cause he never believed in, with a sword he'd never wanted to wield.

Only one good thing had sprung from that morass of pain—the bond between half-brothers, merely three months apart in age, worlds different in personality, had been forged in rage and resentment and mistrust, tempered by time into a fierce love, though they understood each other not at all.

But even that close bond had fallen victim to the wild years of Adam's adventuring. Guilt constricted about his throat like a too-tight neckcloth. He'd ignored Gavin's letters, brushed aside pleas that he return home to see a new niece or nephew, a new man-killer of a horse Gavin had managed to gentle, or to visit with Mama Fee, the old Scottish woman who had kept house for the fugitive brothers in a wild cave in the highlands.

Hellfire, the way he loved Gavin, it should have been easy to ride up to his manorhouse, stomp into the entryway in the big boots the children loved. Those few times he had, he'd been welcomed with such delight it had been damned near embarrassing.

Showered with kisses from Gavin's wife Rachel and the bevy of children, embraced by Gavin, and carried off as if he were Odysseus returned from his voyage.

After all the pain Gavin had endured, it was heaven to see him happier than any mortal had a right to be. It was what Adam had wished for his brother for so long. So why did it open up such a raw place in his chest when he saw Gavin and his lady love? He'd never guessed the truth until now, as he rode through his brother's gates with Juliet Grafton-Moore in his arms.

Envy—that bitter poison that had almost destroyed any chance the half-brothers had at closeness as boys had popped open again like Pandora's box.