Mary Jo Putney (4 page)

That should ensure the girl decent treatment from her father, since it would be in the man's best interest to keep her safe and healthy. She had smelled clean; perhaps her father already had some kind of keeper for her. A full-time nursemaid must cost almost nothing in this godforsaken part of the world.

Gervase stood, placing the card on the table. The girl was shivering, so he took a moment to rummage in the wardrobe for a blanket. She cowered fearfully away as he spread the blanket over her. His mouth tightened at the sight; it was no more than he deserved.

Her dark unfocused gaze followed him to the doorway, where he paused. His legal wife was like a frightened woodland creature frozen in panic as a predator waited. His throat tight with guilt, he whispered, "I'm sorry."

The words were more for his benefit than hers, since she seemed to have no idea what was happening. Though he had never had grounds to believe in a benevolent Deity, Gervase prayed she would soon forget what had happened. He knew better than to hope that he would do the same.

* * *

Five hours later Gervase and his servant Bonner were in a fishing boat carrying them toward the mainland. Bonner was a tight-lipped former military batman who nodded without comment when ordered to discuss the events of the night with no one, ever, and he had efficiently taken charge of packing his master's gear. Gervase had waited outside, unwilling to be in the same room with his bride a moment longer than necessary.

As the boat threaded its way between the islands, Gervase's face was set in granite lines, his attention focused on rebuilding the mental walls that prevented his self-hatred from overwhelming him. Logically he knew that the events of the previous night were of no real importance. The thousand pounds a year he would settle on the girl would keep her and her appalling father in luxury without making a significant dent in his own fortune. Though most men would curse the loss of their freedom to marry whom they chose, it made no difference to him. He had known for the last ten years that he could never marry.

But no logic could dispel his implacable guilt when he thought of the hapless child he had abused. No amount of legitimate anger or whiskey was great enough to justify those moments of violence.

The incident was one more cross he must learn to bear. His remorse taunted him, mocking the resolution he had made to become his own man in India, to free himself from the past by building a new life. Perhaps Hamilton was right, and men were damned before they were even born.

Gervase had always distrusted intuition, but as he watched the dark shore of Mull fall away behind him in the misty dawn, he could not escape a heavy sense of doom. Somewhere, sometime in the future, he would pay a price for last night's disastrous stupidity, and for his own unforgivable loss of control.

Chapter 1

Yorkshire, January 1806

The wind blows without ceasing on the high Yorkshire moors, in the spring bright with promise, in the summer soft as a lover's caress, in the autumn haunted with regret. Now, in the depths of winter, the wind was ice-edged and bleak, teasing the shutters, threatening the doors, taunting the impermanence of all manmade structures. But High Tor Cottage had held firm against the wind for hundreds of seasons, and its thick stone walls were a warm haven for those sheltered within.

As her son's lashes fluttered over his dazed lapis-blue eyes, Diana Lindsay gently touched his dark hair, feeling the spun-silk texture before settling in the bedside chair to wait until he was soundly asleep. Most days, as she dealt with the demands and occasional irritations of an active five-year-old, her love for Geoffrey was not on the surface of her mind, but at times like this, when he had suffered a bad seizure, she was so filled with tenderness that she ached with knowing how precious life was, and how fragile. For all the worry and occasional despair it occasioned, her son's disorder gave Diana a greater appreciation of the wonder that was a child.

When Geoffrey's breathing was steady, Diana rose to leave the room. She could have spent all night quietly watching him, yet to do so would be mere indulgence on her part. Even now, years before he would leave her to make his own way in the world, Diana knew how hard it would be to release him when the time came. Walking out this night was just one more of a thousand small disciplines she performed in preparation for the day when Geoffrey would belong to himself more than to her.

As she walked from her son's small bedchamber into the hall, she heard the wind beginning to gust, the windows rattling to protest the oncoming storm. Though it was only four in the afternoon, the light was almost gone and she could not see the small farm shed across the yard when she looked out.

Usually Diana enjoyed the winter storms, loving the solitude and peace of the high moors when the weather was too harsh for trips to the village. It made her feel safe, for if the inhabitants of the cottage could not get out, surely no dangers could get in. Security was a fair compensation for the lonely simplicity of life in this remote corner of Yorkshire.

Diana brewed herself a cup of tea and sat down to savor the solitude. The third member of the household, Edith Brown, was suffering from a heavy winter cold and Diana had packed her off to bed for a rest before supper.

Edith was officially housekeeper, but she was equally friend and teacher. The women shared all the tasks of the household, from cooking and milking to child-rearing.

There was no need for Diana to rush to the milking. Apart from that and a little mending, there were no other chores and she would be free to spend the evening reading or quietly playing the piano.

The prospect should have pleased her, but tonight she felt restless without understanding why. The solid gray stone walls had stood firm against the wind for over two hundred years, and there was food and fuel enough for weeks if need be.

Yet still she found herself crossing to the window to gaze out, seeing only whirling snowflakes. Absently brushing strands of dark chestnut hair from her face, she tried to analyze her deep sense of unease. Over the years she had learned that such feelings could be ignored only at her peril. The last time she had felt a warning this strong, Geoffrey had been two years old. Diana had thought he was napping, and then blind panic had driven her frantically from the house barely in time to pull her son from the stream where he had crept out to play, and where he had slipped into a drowning pool.

Just remembering the incident made her heart beat more quickly, and she made herself sit down again in her Windsor chair by the fire. Closing her eyes and relaxing, she tried to analyze what she felt, patiently sorting out the threads of concern for Edith and Geoffrey and the other minor worries of daily life. What was left was a hazy, unfamiliar perception that she was hard-pressed to name. It wasn't danger that approached; she was sure nothing threatened her small household.

But she felt in her bones that something, or someone, was coming with the storm. Diana's fingers tightened around each other, and she forced herself once more to relax. In a flash of intuition she realized that what approached was something she both feared and welcomed: change.

* * *

Madeline Gainford had been born and bred here on the rooftop of England, but she'd forgotten how bitterly the wind blew. She had been only seventeen when she left, and her blood had pulsed with the fires of youth.

Now she was past forty, and when the carter had set her down on the small village common of Cleveden, her home village looked strange to her. Yet Cleveden itself had changed very little. The differences were all in her.

The cart had been nearly full and the driver allowed her to bring only the small soft bag now slung over her shoulder. She had left her trunk at an inn in Leyburn, not wanting to wait for different transport because the coming storm might have trapped her for days among strangers. And more than anything else on earth, Madeline had wanted to die among friends.

She pulled her fur-lined cloak tightly around her as if she could blot out the aching unpleasantness of the interview she had just had with her widowed sister. They had been friends once, until Madeline had left home in disgrace. The occasional letters the two women exchanged had been terse and to the point, but Madeline thought she had sent back enough money over the years to buy a welcome back into her family home. Isabel had been widowed early, and had it not been for the funds Madeline sent, it would have been hard times for her and her four children.

When Isabel opened the door, her body had stiffened at the sight of her younger sister, her expression of surprise quickly followed by anger and disgust. In a few vicious sentences, Isabel Wolfe had made it clear that while she had graciously accepted her sister's conscience money, she would not let her children be corrupted by having a whore under her own roof.

Her last bitter words still rang in Madeline's ears:
You made your own bed, and a whole legion of men have lain in it.

Madeline would not have thought words could hurt so much, but then, she had never been called a whore by her own sister. Only now that the hope was gone did she realize how much she had counted on finding refuge here.
 
Her despair and pain were so great that she might have crumpled to the ground where she stood if the impulse to escape had not been stronger.

Shelter could be bought in one of the other cottages, but there was no point to it, no point at all. Why buy a few more months of increasingly painful life surrounded by disapproving strangers?

Slinging the strap of her bag across her shoulder, Madeline continued walking uphill along the rough track that followed the stream to the top of the dale. As a child she had followed this path when she could escape her chores, finding empty dells where she could dream of a world beyond Cleveden. It was only fitting that she escape along this track for the last time.

The wind sharpened outside the shelter of the cottages, and icy snowflakes bit her face before whirling down to whiten the ground. Though it was almost dark, the meager available light diffused through the snow to lend a soft glow to her progress. In spite of the years that had passed, Madeline recognized the moist heaviness of air that heralded a major blizzard, the kind that could cut off the high country for days or weeks.

Madeline had heard that freezing was a painless way to die, though she wondered who had come back from the grave to recommend it. The thought produced a faint smile and she was glad that a ghost of humor was left to her. It had been foolish to hope Isabel would be different than she was, and Madeline had no strength left for recriminations.

It was surprising how far she was able to walk before fatigue finally stopped her in the protection of one of the few stubby trees, her tired body slowly sinking to the ground. She could have chosen a tree nearer the village, but she had always preferred action to waiting, and even now that was true.

The snow was beginning to drift, and its silence was as pure as she remembered from childhood.
 
The warm, heavy folds of her cloak cushioned the hard earth. She had missed the snow. There was little in London, and it never stayed clean for long. And of course London was never quiet.

Resting her back against the tree trunk, Madeline closed her eyes against the night and wondered how long it would be until she fell into the final sleep. One was supposed to see scenes from one's life when dying, but mostly she thought of Nicholas. In her mind she could see the hurt and the anger that would have been etched on his thin face when he discovered that she was gone.

He would attempt to find her, but apart from her lawyer, no one knew where she had gone, or even where she had come from in the beginning. A courtesan never burdened her protector with the mundane details of childhood.

For the first time she felt tears on her face, icy in the bitter wind. There had been more than business between her and Nicholas or she would not have gone away. But if she had stayed in London, he would never let her dismiss him, and she had her pride. The thought of him watching her waste away, losing what remnants of beauty she had, was unbearable.

Nicholas might have abandoned her, which would have hurt dreadfully. Much more likely, he would have remained with her to the end. The agony on his face would have multiplied her own hurt. Far worse would be knowing the intolerably high price he would be paying to watch his mistress die. Loving him, she could not ask that he pay it.