Fallen Angel (9 page)

The words trembled on her lips, but before she could utter them, the door behind them ground out a warning. It was pushed open and soft footfalls entered behind the cold draft.

"Yer lordship, yer lordship, are ye here?"

Deveryn recognized the voice of the blacksmith's boy. "Damn!" he said under his breath, and quickly detached Maddie from his arms. "Don't move from this spot till I return. N o need to give the locals a sight of you and set their tongues to wagging. I'll be back directly."

As his long strides carried him toward the narthex, the blacksmith's boy appeared in the archway.

"Lord Deveryn!
Mistress
Serle said she thought she saw ye come into the kirk. My master sent me to find ye."

"Out boy! You can give me your message outside!" His harsh tone brooked no argument, and the boy slunk away. Deveryn waited till the door had closed behind him.

He spoke over his shoulder. "This won't take long. The blacksmith is repairing the wheel of my carriage. If you're a good girl, I'll take you home in style."

"Deveryn? Is that your name?"

He turned to face her. She was standing in deep shadow in the centre of the; aisle.

"No. It's my title. Jason Verney, the Viscount Deveryn, at your service," and he inclined his head slightly, then pivoted on his heel and made to follow the boy out of the church.

"No! It can't be!
You
cannot be Deveryn!"

Again he turned. "Oh, oh! Has my reputation preceded me?" His voice gentled. "Don't let it trouble you. I swear, from
this moment on, I'll be a reformed character."

"Wait!" She was almost pleading. "It cannot be so uncommon a name, surely?"

"Sweetheart, we shall talk of this later. But you must know that peers of the realm, with few exceptions, rarely share the same title. I shan't be more than a minute or two."

He found the blacksmith's lad shivering on the doorstep. The youngster brought the intelligence that his lordship's coach was fit for the road. Deveryn, slightly shamed by his former rough tone, pressed a shilling into the astonished boy's palm and told him to convey his thanks to his master.

It took only a moment to retrace his steps to where he had left the girl. She was gone. On the stone floor, beside the pew where he had left her, was her leather riding crop. He made the connection immediately. He sprinted out of the building and down the stone flagged path. As he pushed through the iron gate, he heard a shrill whistle from one end of the street and her mount's answering whinny from the opposite direction. As the horse brushed past him, he made a grab for the bridle, but missed it by inches.

To give chase was undignified and pointless. She had the foresight to put as much distance as possible between them. As her mount reached her, she scrambled on its back and checked its pace with a firm hand on the reins. He watched, motionless, as she brought the restive beast round to face him, the wind whipping about the folds of her cloak, the snood shielding her from his gaze. He had the urge to call out, to say something that would compel her to return, but he knew that it would be useless. She had set her mind against him. As she wheeled her horse, and shot forward into the shadows, the thought consoled him that it would be no great labour to discover her identity. Nevertheless, that she had not committed herself to him without reservation was a bitter pill to swallow. For a moment there, he had been so sure of her. He did not believe, however, that once he found her, she would hold out long against him. Her guardians, he thought without conceit, would be falling over him to secure the match. He was the Viscount Deveryn, independently wealthy, and heir to a great fortune and title of some note. There were no obstacles that he could foresee to obtaining his heart's desire.

Maddie could never afterwards remember that wild ride home between Inverforth and Drumoak. Fortunately, her mount needed little direction, for Banshee was used to carrying her mistress on this favourite haunt along the southern shore of the Forth estuary. Maddie was scarcely conscious of the muffled drum of Banshee's swift hoofbeats on the wet sand, nor the ferocious spray from the breakers which saturated her heavy mantle, drenching her to the skin. As Drumoak's welcoming lights came into view, she automatically urged her mount over the sand dunes to the path which traversed the east pasture, her mind still burning with the name of the man whom she had encountered outside the church. Deveryn! Her thoughts chased themselves in wanton confusion as impressions of his conversation, his confident assumptions and his persuasive lovemaking pressed in upon her. Deveryn—the name she hated above all others!

What she said to Janet and her aunt as they divested her of her wet things, remained a mystery to her. She knew that she conducted herself with little semblance of composure and that she had no satisfactory explanation to offer for the state she was in. But the ladies clucked over her like two mother hens and she was put to bed with one of Janet's potent hot-toddies. The whisky burned her throat, but it had the desired effect of bringing her out of shock. As her teeth stopped chattering and she returned the empty glass to Janet, whose watchful eyes were shaded with anxiety, it occurred to Maddie from all the remarks she heard that the ladies had devined that
she was suffering from delayed shock at her father's sudden demise. It suited her to let them think so.

As Aunt Nell hovered around the bed making soothing noises, Maddie heard Janet's rough voice say in warning, "Dinna
fash
yerself, Mistress Spencer. The lass will be the better for letting her guard down. It disna do to bottle yer feelings the way she has done this last fortnight."

Janet then turned her full attention upon her young mistress. "There, there, my wee lamb. Old Janet is hereto look after ye. Hush now and go to sleep. Things will look better in the morning."

Maddie's eyes obediently closed and the last thing she remembered before sleep overtook her was Janet's hushed tones and work-roughened hand as it smoothed back the damp tendrils of hair from her brow.

It was still dark outside when she wakened. On the mantel, a candle was burning low and there was a feeble glow in the grate. The faint but pleasant aroma of the slow burning peat fire tickled her nostrils. She tensed in expectation of that first wave of grief which habitually assailed her every morning since her father's tragic death. It came, but muted, and overlaid with a confusion of emotions which were as unfamiliar to her as they were discomposing. Deveryn! The word seemed to drum in her brain.

She threw back the covers of the tester bed and stalked to the clothes press in search of her warm dressing gown. It was on its usual hook, just inside the press door. She wriggled into its warm folds and tied it snugly around her waist. Apples, she thought, and went still.

She brought up one arm and buried her nose in the soft sleeve of her dressing gown. She inhaled deeply. Apples, she thought again, and let out a slow breath. Deveryn! Oh Deveryn! Memory flooded her and she was overcome with a wave of longing.

She walked to the long sash window and looked out. It was still snowing. She wondered where he was and what had brought him into Lothian. Very tentatively, she began to examine each separate impression the man had made upon her, from the first moment she had caught sight of his hair shining like an angel's halo in the lamplight, to that last look of appeal
he had thrown at her the second before she had dug her heels into Banshee's flanks and fled from him.

She could not believe that the man who had held her so comfortingly in his arms and who had brought her body and heart alive with that sweet unfamiliar ache could be the man she was sworn to hate. The man who had treated her father so shamelessly was worse than-a felon. One day, she swore, she would be revenged on him. But he could not be
her
Deveryn. Every feeling revolted against such a conclusion. It had been the first shock on hearing that hateful name which had thrown her into such a panic.

She sat down at her dressing table and absently began to run a comb through her hair. Was she half in love with this Deveryn? She thought it very possible and she smiled to herself. He was like no other man she had ever known, but then, for a girl of nineteen years, she was singularly lacking in male acquaintances. Not that it mattered. If she had been acquainted with a thousand eligible young gentlemen, she would have instantly recognized that Deveryn was special to her. Oh no, she told herself again with increasing confidence,
her
Deveryn could not possibly be the man who had been responsible for turning Donald Sinclair into a broken shell of a man.

She rose to her feet and began to stride about the room in some impatience. Her Deveryn was gentle, compassionate, amusing, clever, bold—very bold, she amended, and smiled again to herself—the epitome of everything that was best in the English character. Her heart told her so. He was an English gentleman and there was no higher enconium a man could aspire to.

A soft laugh fell from her lips and she turned back to her dressing table. She rummaged in the top drawer and pulled out a folded lace handkerchief. She shook it out, and three small trinkets fell into her open palm. Reverently, she laid the silver charms in a row on the highly polished surface of the dressing table—a baby, a ring, and an angel. She picked up the angel and stared at it for a long moment. She thought that a little polish would soon rout the tarnish.

He had intimated that his reputation was slightly tarnished. Much she cared! She would forgive him a hundred lightskirts—a thousand, if necessary. If only . . . if only . . .

She damned the impulse that had goaded her to run away from him. If only she had waited to hear his explanation! Deveryn! Surely there must be others of that name! She knew of a river Deveryn though she could not remember if it was north or south of the border.

Outside, the sky was beginning to lighten, but not so that it made an appreciable difference to the interior of Maddie's chamber. She took a taper from the mantel, lit it from the lone candle which was beginning to sputter in its pewter sprocket, and lit several more candles around the room. Sleep was the furthest thing from her mind.

Deveryn, she thought again, and wondered how she should contain her impatience till she could go to him. Though she had no notion of where he was to be found, she was confident that Malcolm would know where to begin to look for the viscount. She determined to ask for his help when she saw him at the church service in a few hours time. Perhaps Deveryn would be there. She looked at the clock on the mantel. Only four hours to wait. She used the great iron tongs to position a fresh block of peat on the dying embers of the fire, and then she settled herself in the faded damask chair slightly to one side of the large stone hearth. Moment by moment she began to relive every minute of the encounter which, she was sure, had changed her forever.

As it turned out, Maddie's hopes for meeting up with Deveryn at the church service were to be dashed. The fall of snow during the night made the roads treacherous, and Aunt Nell decided not to chance the carriage on the three mile trek, especially as Sam, Drumoak's lone shepherd, had predicted more snow to follow. Morning prayers were held in the front parlour with the servants also in attendance. Maddie longed to saddle Banshee and go tearing off to Inverforth, but she knew better than to suggest such a thing. This was the Sabbath, and in Scotland, it was observed to the letter. Still, she was grateful that modes at Drumoak were less rigid than at some other households she could name. She had the freedom to read any book she cared to choose. In some staunchly Presbyterian families, only the Bible, the Holy Bible, was considered appropriate reading for the Sabbath. But time hung heavily on her hands. Maddie could not settle to anything. After lunch, she retired to her chamber to work on her translation of
Medea.
She managed only a few lines before sleep claimed her.

In the middle of the afternoon, she was wakened by Janet's urgent voice calling her by name. Maddie quickly smoothed her dress and ran a comb through her unruly crop of curls and swiftly left her chamber. She was halfway down the long staircase, when the front door was opened by Duncan, and a tall greatcoated stranger stepped inside the vestibule in a flurry of snow. He removed his curly brimmed beaver, and ran a hand through a mane of dishevelled-blond hair. Deveryn! Maddie's steps slowed and faltered to a halt. She steadied herself with one hand on the smooth oak handrail. Deveryn looked up and caught sight of her. She heard the hiss of his breath as he expelled it softly.

"You," he breathed, and came toward her.

Joy leaped to her throat, and she had to suppress the urge to fling herself down the last few steps and into his arms. A moment later, she was glad that she had not obeyed that first, rash impulse. A movement caught her eye. Her gaze shifted and she watched with something close to disbelief as Cynthia Sinclair made her entrance. In her form fitting, black redingote trimmed with black Russian sable, Cynthia's dark beauty was riveting.