In My Wildest Fantasies (30 page)

Where had she gone, he wondered? If she had left the palace, he would have a hard time finding her, and pray God she didn't leave to confront Rushton alone or surrender to his demands. If she did, Devon would have only himself to blame. He had offered her no help or support. He had made her feel like a prisoner.

He turned from the room and met the footman and housekeeper waiting in the corridor. "If you would be so kind," he said, "as to help me locate my wife. If you find her before I do, tell her I wish to speak with her in my study."

"Of course, Lord Hawthorne."

He strode off and went from room to room. He searched the library, the gallery, the breakfast room, the saloon, each of the drawing rooms, but she was nowhere to be found.

With growing panic, he went back upstairs to his study, hoping the housekeeper had already brought her there, but the room was empty like all the others. Bloody hell, had she left? Had he been that much of a brute the night before? Oh, he knew he had. That was without question. But surely she would not have been so foolish and impulsive to actually leave without telling anyone...

What if she had? What if he had lost her?

He ran back down the stairs again to find the housekeeper, but passed a footman carrying a pot of coffee. "Where are you going with that?" he asked.

"To the breakfast room, my lord."

"Someone is up at this hour?"

"Yes--"

Devon turned and ran in that direction, and burst through the door. Lo and behold, there she was--his precious, lovely wife--sitting at the white-clothed table with a book, dressed for the day and looking completely at ease in a sunny yellow gown with lace around the collar.

He had never been so relieved to see anyone at breakfast in his life. If anything had happened to her...If he had lost her...

What? he asked himself with a frown. What would he have done? How would he have felt?

It was pointless to deny it. Despite all his worthy efforts to avoid falling hopelessly and desperately in love with his wife, despite his intentions to focus on his duties, not his heart, his heart was in pieces in her pretty lap.

"Where have you been?" he asked, struggling to recover from the panic still searing his brain. "I've been looking everywhere for you."

She frowned at him and lowered her book. "You did not make it entirely clear, Devon, whether that footman was posted at my door to keep unwelcome visitors out, or to keep me in. And I confess the mere idea that I was not permitted to leave my room was offensive to me in every way. Did you actually think--for one single min ute!--that I would run away in the night and submit to Mr. Rushton's attempt to blackmail me?" She slammed a fist onto the table. "You forget I have a will of my own, Devon. I will not be forced to do something I do not wish to do! And I am not stupid!"

The footman walked in at that moment with the coffee pot, saw the fire blazing in her eyes, her fist on the table, then promptly turned around and walked out.

Devon realized he was short of breath from running up and down the stairs, not to mention the disconcerting effects of walking into this room just now and discovering his heart was not as impervious as he had thought.

And now--after listening to Rebecca's very impressive tirade....

Damsel in distress? Clearly not.

How could he ever possibly win the fight against loving her? He could not. It was as simple as that. He was conquered, defeated, done for.

"I apologize," he said, "for not being clear on that point. The footman was intended to keep unwelcome visitors out. You are of course free to move about the palace at your leisure."

She leaned back in her chair, appearing somewhat satisfied to hear it, even though it was a bald-faced lie. He had in fact wanted to keep her locked inside, because he did fear she might wish to save her father and would leave without a word. Without him at her side to...

To do what?

Protect her?

Be her hero?

Choke the very breath out of Rushton's throat?

He approached the table. "It's time we discussed what must be done about the situation."

"You actually wish to discuss it with me?" she asked with a note of scorn in her voice. "You don't intend to make the decision on your own, and simply inform me of it after the fact? If in fact you plan to do anything at all."

He deserved her open hostility and he knew it. He had not been sympathetic to her problems before now. He had been thinking only of his own fears. He was thinking of them still.

He also knew he could not control what he felt. He could only control his actions and his words.

It was clear she deserved some courtesy. She was not a burden. She was self-reliant. "I have a suggestion," he said, "as to how we should proceed."

He pulled out a chair and sat across from her at the table. The footman returned and set the coffee pot on the sideboard, then more servants entered and set plates of eggs and sausage on the sideboard as well.

As soon as they were gone, Rebecca leaned forward. "I am listening."

He leaned forward, too. "You told me Rushton wants you on his doorstep by midnight tonight."

"That is correct."

"Then that is where you shall be," he said. "I will deliver you there myself, and I will stand at your side when you knock on the door."

She frowned. "What then?"

"The man believes he has all the power because you cannot see his cards. We must deal with this man head-on, and knock those cards out of his hands."

"How?"

"With knowledge. We must find out what your father did or did not do. We must know whether or not Rushton is lying."

She sat quietly for a moment, then rose from her chair and walked to the sideboard, saying nothing while she poured herself a cup of coffee. At last she turned.

"What if he isn't? What if it is true? What if my father is guilty of something?"

"Do you suspect he is?"

She took a long time to answer. "All I know is that Rushton has a note about a bracelet which implicates Father, and he claims the note was written by the victim, Serena Fullarton."

"Did you see this note?"

"Yes, and Rushton also claims the woman is buried on my father's estate--wearing the bracelet."

Devon leaned back and inhaled a deep breath.

"There is something else I have not yet told you," she said, "and if we are to face Mr. Rushton tonight, you must know everything."

"I'm listening."

"He warned me yesterday that if I did not do exactly as he said, not only would he expose my father, he would somehow arrange for you or other members of your family to meet with...a fatal accident."

"He has threatened not only you, but my family as well?"

"Yes."

If there was one emotion he was willing to surrender to this morning, it was rage toward that man.

Devon crumpled the napkin in his fist and stood. "Go and pack your bags. We will be leaving the palace immediately, and God help Rushton when I finally lay eyes on him."

Chapter 23

It should have not have come as a surprise to any of them that the rain would not let up during the ten-hour journey to Creighton Manor. They were cooped up inside the coach the entire way--Rebecca, Devon, and Blake, who had insisted on accompanying them, after Devon had explained the situation to him.

The trip was cold and damp and endless. Water poured down the coach windows and the horses trotted through miles of puddles and muck. Rebecca sat next to her husband, but they could speak of nothing personal. She could not ask him if he forgave her for all the trouble she had caused, as Blake was always present.

Even if he had not been, something would have held her back from more intimate communications with her husband, for he was preoccupied and gravely silent. He was determined to solve the immediate problem of Mr. Rushton's attempts to blackmail her and her father.

By the time they arrived at Creighton Manor, it was past dark. The coach pulled up at the front entrance, and though Rebecca was exhausted from the journey, she could barely keep from stepping out of the coach and running inside to see her father.

She had not said goodbye to him before she left almost a month ago, and though she had been furious with him and continued to be uncertain of him now, he was still her father. He had once been the center of her life.

Which was why none of this made sense to her, and why she felt as if the entire world was crumbling to pieces under her feet.

The door of the coach opened at last, and Rebecca waited for her husband to step out and offer a hand. He escorted her to the door, and she rapped on the knocker.

The maid answered. "Lady Rebecca!" Mary lunged forward and threw her arms around Rebecca, then spotted Devon and Blake behind her. "Begging your pardon, it's Lady Hawthorne now, isn't it? Good heavens, would one of these gentlemen be your husband?" She let go of Rebecca and stepped back.

"Yes, Mary. This is Devon Sinclair, Marquess of Hawthorne, and his brother, Lord Blake. We have come to see Father."

Mary curtsied to both of them and took their coats. "Welcome to Creighton Manor," she said.

"Go and fetch him right away, please," Rebecca said. "We will wait by the fire."

"Yes, your ladyship."

Mary picked up her skirts and dashed up the stairs, while Rebecca led the way to the stone hearth in the great hall. She held her chilled hands out to warm them over the fire.

Devon and Blake crossed the hall slowly, looking up at the high timber ceiling, the stone walls and sparse furnishings.

"What a magnificent house," Blake said.

Rebecca managed a smile. "Thank you. Father has always been reluctant to modernize it, so it still shows its medieval origins, though the south wing is new. My grandfather had a ballroom added with crystal chandeliers. Unfortunately it's never been used. At least not in my lifetime."

Devon and Blake reached the fire and stood beside her to warm their hands as well.

"It is good to be here," her husband said, lifting his exhausted gaze to meet hers, and for the first time that day, he gave her a small nod of encouragement. It was not much, but it was something, and it revived a tiny fragment of hope.

His gaze turned upward and swept around the expansive hall, which had once been used for feasts and banquets. "This place is very different from Pembroke Palace," he said. "I can see why you felt secluded."

Just then she heard that familiar tapping upon the winding staircase. Her father's cane. She turned.

He took the final step and reached the ground floor. His white hair had not been combed, his clothing was shabby and wrinkled, as if he had not donned a fresh shirt in days. How old he appeared, as he hobbled across the hall toward her.

Suddenly she was overcome by despair, and walked straight across the room into his arms. "Father, I am so sorry."

But what did she have to be sorry for? She had only been trying to save herself from a life of misery.

And what of the accusations? She could not bear to think of it being true.

"No, my dear," he replied, wrapping his frail arms around her. "I am sorry. I have been weak. I failed you."

She pulled back to look into his eyes. She wanted more than anything to understand what he meant. Was he implying he had committed a terrible sin? Or was it simply an apology for arranging a marriage she did not want?

She turned around and looked at her husband, who was watching her.

"If you wish, Blake and I can see to the horses."

"No, Devon, please stay." She turned to her father again. "We have come a long way to speak to you."

His brow crinkled with apprehension. "I understand." He limped toward the fire.

"Lord Creighton," Devon said, "allow me to present my brother, Lord Blake Sinclair."

They shook hands.

Her father gestured to both men. "Look at you, brothers without a doubt. The same dark features and self-assured demeanor."

Rebecca was quick to interrupt. "Father," she said, "we must speak to you about Mr. Rushton. He came to Pembroke Village, and he is not prepared to give up his intentions to have me as his wife."

The flames from the fire reflected in her father's eyes as he glanced uneasily at each of them. "You spoke to him?"

"I did," she replied. "He has made some grave accusations."

He paused, then spoke harshly. "What has he told you?"

Rebecca could not bring herself to say it. She was thankful when Devon answered for her. "He has threatened to expose you as a murderer, sir."

Her father backed away from them and sank into a chair. He cupped his forehead in a hand. His fingers were trembling. "Lord help me."

She went to him and knelt, resting her hands on his thin knees. "Is it true, Father? Tell me it is not."

At last he dropped his hand, and she could see his face. "Did he try to use this to force you to leave your husband?"

She nodded. "He expected I would obey him to protect you. But you must tell me, Father, is there anything to protect? I cannot accept what he says as true. Tell me he is lying."