Elisabeth Fairchild (4 page)

She had not imagined him such a cruel man. He had once professed to love her, to need her. And now, he seemed set on breaking down every wall of defense, that he might destroy her, to destroy every option save the one that would break her spirit, her pride, her self-esteem completely.

I shall not fall prey to your guile. I will not.

Lord Wharton’s gaze shifted from one to the other of them and back again. “You could come to Wales,” he drawled lazily.

Palmer was left temporarily speechless.

Elaine found herself tempted to smile at Palmer’s thunderous expression. It did her heart good to see all glee, all confidence fade from his features. The monster’s plan, destroyed by another of his kind.

She could not, of course, trust this father of a bastard child to treat her with any more respect than Palmer had--and yet, she felt grateful in the moment that the notorious Valentine Wharton made it seem she had options.

He stared, not at her, but at Palmer, with the most amused and congenial of expressions, a perfect reciprocal for Lord Palmer’s sudden frown.

Theater masks. Quite a little drama played out between the two of them in the moment of silence that stretched and grew.

Palmer’s scowl shifted, redirected at her. “You would offer your services to a known profligate?”

“You presume to know me better than yourself, Palmer?” Wharton murmured.

His light tone provoked a murderous glare from her former employer.

She said nothing.

Valentine Wharton turned his delving regard upon her again, nothing remote or distancing in his gaze this time, mischief sparkling in his eyes one moment, profound understanding the next. “And so it would seem you are caught betwixt the devil and the deep blue sea,” he said quietly.

Between two monsters.

“I must gather my belongings,” she said, her situation appalling, her future bleak.

Without another word she turned on her heel and left them.

V
al helped his daughter into his own rain-drenched coach all the while eyeing the gloomy black carriage across the courtyard. Palmer’s coach, Palmer in it, stood waiting, black horses rain sleek.

Miss Deering’s dragon.
Are we all beset by them?

Bags safely stowed on top, Val leaned in the window one more time to insist Felicity must
not stick her head out
. He told her
yes he meant to go and see if dear Miss Deering meant to come with them.
He turned away to find his subject watched them from the arch of the entryway--her gaze fixed on them--measuring him--as Penny had measured him that day he rode toward her across the lonely fells--the empty fells.

Penny, pretty Penny,” he had said. “You wanted me?”

He had twisted the words, her reason for coming to see him.

She had looked about uneasily, at the empty road, afraid, as he had never meant to make her fear him--as this governess feared him. So pale she looked in unremarkable black wool. A cape. A bonnet. She carried a heavy, well-stuffed valise in each hand.

Through the soft fall of rain he went to her, the question on his lips silenced by the question in her eyes, so solemn that gaze, so serious.

“Is this everything?” he asked, assuming she meant to join them.

She glanced toward the dark, motionless coach, then to his own mud-splattered vehicle, where Felicity sat, nose pressed to glass.

She drew herself up, clutching the bags fiercely, the angry resolve in her eyes outshining the mist of rain that beaded the edge of her bonnet.

“He wanted more than a governess, my lord.”

But of course he did
.

“Do you?”

So fierce the look in her eyes, the hard edge to her voice.

“I will turn you down as soundly as he if . . .”

He stopped her with a look, the slightest gesture, knowing her fear, knowing what she had heard of him, why she stood searching his eyes with the frozen stance of a trapped rabbit.

“I made the mistake once, Miss Deering,” he said carefully, gently, afraid that with a single wrong word or gesture she might bolt. “--of assuming the dreadful gossip I had heard in connection with a young woman of my acquaintance was true.”

She blinked, digesting this.

“I hope you will not refuse this position assuming all the dreadful gossip you have heard in connection with me is also true,” he said.

She studied his face as if she might read his history there, the trustworthiness of his character. The demons within.

A good thing she could not hear the chorus of women in his head, the women of his past. Penny had seen the good in him, but the bad had drawn so many other women--flies to honey.

He studied this prim, rather aloof tabby-cat of a governess, unblinking, wondering if curiosity might draw her to him, wondering what his life might have been like had he always played the role of gentleman, no danger posed to any of the skirts he so skillfully lifted.

He had resolved to learn the difference, for his daughter’s sake--for his own.

She asked, “Where in Wales do you mean to go, my lord?”

He schooled his features, reluctant to reveal the sudden surge of hope that welled within.

“St. David’s. Do you know it?”

She shook her head, still doubtful, still confused. He felt a pang of pity and regret for all the women he had confused throughout the course--or was it the curse?--of his life.

“A friend of King Arthur, was he not? St. David?”

How much the governess she sounded. How like a lost child she glanced at Palmer’s coach.

“Patron saint of Wales,” he said.

She dragged her gaze away. “Why there?”

He looked up, at dragons spitting rain, and remembered the sun, the warmth, the difference within himself, the sound of his father’s voice, the carefree innocence of early childhood, seashells in a bucket, sand between his toes, the rush of the tide.

“I’ve fond memories. Of the sea. The islands. Seals. Shells. Gannets by the score.”

Something changed in her eyes. She seemed, in some way to see him for the first time, to see part of him that longed to be recognized, that part that clung to innocence, to childhood, to seashells in a bucket. It startled him, her delving look. He had not expected it.

He tipped his head, closing his eyes, seeing it in his mind. “There is an island . . . where they nest.” Raindrops pelted his hat, cascaded from his hat brim and yet he could feel the heat of the sun, hear the waves, the bark of the seals, the cry of the birds. His voice was keen with anticipation, with memory. “Thousands of them, big as swans, with ink-dipped wings and Egyptian eyes. Such a din they make. There are seaweed nests by the hundreds upon the ground. Their fishing takes one’s breath away.” He opened his eyes.

Raindrops glittered in her plaited hair, on the brim of her bonnet, a braided straw bonnet glowing golden in the rain. Penny’s bonnet, Penny’s eyes, but the light in these eyes shone brown, not blue.

He shook his head, remembering the birds.

“Ever seen gannets fish?”

Miss Deering shook her head, raindrops trembling. He caught his breath. She was beautiful. He had not thought her beautiful, only useful.

“I have never seen the sea.”

“I have never seen the sea.” Penny’s words. Miss Deering’s voice. He blinked, nonplused. Odd how life, and words, repeat themselves. “Never?” he breathed.

She ducked her head, the bonnet hiding her eyes’ dark mysteries.

He shook his head. His hand soared upward, thumb and pinkie finger making wings, the movement drawing her gaze. “They fly high.” He turned his face to the sky, to the cold pelting of the rain, to wash her away, to wash away the memories. “Then they fold their wings.”

He drew his fingers together, let his hand fall, as he had fallen that night in the rain, the burn of the ball in his leg, the child clasped in his arms.

“Plummet--as a tern will, but from a great height. Straight down to the sea.” His bird hand smacked his flat open palm, cracked like gunfire, like Cupid’s best shot. His thigh twinged. He rubbed it.

Her gaze followed the movement of his hand, stirring heat.
Breath of the dragon. Breath of desire.

She seemed intent upon his every word, her interest genuine, and yet there was a bleakness to her expression.

“Surely you remember.”
Penny had worn just such a look.

“In they plunge--these great white birds--” He gave his head a shake. He had plunged. Reckless. “-- with such force, such a splash, one wonders if they have broken their own necks.”

Into love. Into war. Into fatherhood. Reckless plunges.

“Then up they pop, fish wriggling in their beaks. Worth seeing.”

Her bonnet tilted in listening to his account. An arrested expression took possession of her even features. Like birds, her brows. Up they soared in her interest.

“I should like to see that,” she murmured.

“Leap of faith.”
His mother’s voice. She had stood, hand raised to shade her eyes. Watching.

“Leap of faith my mother called it, and I was impertinent enough to correct her in saying they do not leap, they fall.” He paused a moment, watching white wisps of breathy stream rise from Miss Deering’s nose and mouth.
Dragon’s breath.

“Will you brave such a leap?”

Uncertainty plagued the eyes that glanced away from his, fear of falling. She looked toward Felicity, who drew a question mark in the steam her breath had made upon the coach window.

“To question is a sign of wisdom.” She ventured a nervous smile.

“Yes,” he agreed. “To question my motives demonstrates your wisdom. You would not be the first.”

Smile fading, she eyed him intently beneath the peak of her bonnet.

He glanced toward Palmer’s coach. “I know my own reputation. I do not deny it.”

She went very still. Not a rabbit. Not a tabby cat, but a brown-eyed bird--watching the fox, poised to fly.

He exhaled heavily. The white wing of his breath fluttered.

“I vow I am changed by my own foolishness, Miss Deering.”

So hard to read, that demur, dark-eyed visage.

“Will you come with us, Mistress Governess? Or do you wish to be governed again by such as Palmer?”

“Not Palmer,” she said forcefully. “Never Palmer.”

He arched his brows in silent question.

She drew her cloak more closely about her, eyed the dark coach across the courtyard with misgiving, then frowned at the sky, bird-like brows arching, falling.
Leap of faith.

“It is a long walk to Leeds in the rain,” he ventured. “Might I offer you transport?”

She seemed taken aback. “You are very kind.”

His lip curled. “You do not really believe that, or you would agree to go to Wales.”

“I will agree to accept a ride to Leeds, and I thank you.”

He reached for her bags, and for a fleeting moment, as he leaned toward her, as his gloved hands met hers, fear darted in her eyes.

Silly puss. What has Palmer done to you?

She regained her equilibrium, her sensible manner, as she relinquished the bags, as she watched him toss them to a footman.

“Thank you,” she said again.

He glanced at Palmer’s coach as he followed the dark sway of her cloak, as he swung wide the door. The black horses were whipped into motion. Palmer’s coach wheeled out of the courtyard.
A dragon flown.

Felicity squealed a welcome.

Miss Deering stilled his child with a word, arranged her skirts with practiced hand, and squinted at him, through the misted windowpane as he slammed the door shut.

“He does not mean to come with us?” he heard her ask Felicity.

His daughter, who knew his habits, said, “He always rides in the rain. Curious, is it not?”

As a cat,
he thought, and smiled.

Mrs. Olive, his housekeeper, hard of hearing, spoke loudly as he swung into the bay’s saddle. “Enjoys the elements since his French tour.”

It is the stillness I enjoy. The sound of my own breathing. The pounding heat. Life between my legs.
He watched his breath drift white upon the breeze, heard Cupid speak again, softly, giving him courage.

The footmen who clung to the back of the coach, eyed him balefully beneath dripping hats, caped coats buttoned high. They hated this sort of weather. No dragons among them.

He spared them no pity. It was nothing to surviving a bit of wet when one knew a warm fire, hot food, and dry bed waited every night. Not like serving one’s time in a wet tent choking down weevil pitted hard tack, not knowing if the morning’s light would bring victory or death. He nudged the horse into motion. Cupid would understand.

He regretted the thought. He could not think of Cupid without thinking of Penny, whom he had promised himself he would not think of again today.

My mouth is dry, my reputation soaked. Lord. I need a drink.

As if God heard, it started to rain harder.

With a chuckle Val turned his face to the sky and opened his mouth, catching raindrops on his tongue, the droplets teasing his thirst rather than quenching it.

A drink. A proper drink. Just a mouthful would do. A tongue nipping swallow of whiskey, a throat warming sip of brandy.

But no.
He would not, could not. Especially not now, with Mrs. Olive just returned to him, Felicity in his care, and dear Miss Deering watching his every move with her bright, dark eyes through the coach window. So Palmer had wanted more than a governess! Palmer, who prided himself on being better than everyone else, with his perfect home, perfect wife, and three doting children. Palmer had wanted the doe-eyed Deering?

The want within him burned fiercely. Not for this Deering, but for a misspent Penny. Foolish to yearn after that which he might not have, not ever again. No better than Palmer.

The pounding of the horses’ hooves seemed bent on pounding that truth into his skull.
No drink. No Penny.
He vowed he would not think of her again, and found, as he raced along the lane, legs wrapped around the bay’s surging, muscular sides, that his mind would fix on nothing else.
Penny. Pretty Penny. Touch-me-not. Touch-me-never.