My Angel (52 page)

He laughed, chucking the old lady under the chin good-naturedly. "Anything you say, Mama. Just take good care of her."

The woman went on. "I will take a look, and if I've need of your advice, I will ask." She stepped between the man and Angela before turning to say, "Get a cup of coffee."

The man's expression turned grave. "I think she might be pregnant," he said. "Best you check that out, too."

Angela had already turned over, her swift inhalation of breath
muffled in the pillow. The woman lifted her shirt, a slight gasp escaping her at the sight of her back.

"God have mercy." The man was suddenly beside the bed, his voice devoid of emotion. "Who could have done this to her?"

"Do you really think anyone will pay for her safe return? It seems to me they were more than eager to get rid of her. A few more strokes and she might have died."

Angela could hear the man pacing behind her. "We will keep her here. If no one looks for her or claims her, I will marry her."

"No," Angela said, her voice raspy against the pillow her head rested upon. "No, I'm going home."

"Hush, we can talk later. You are in no condition to go anywhere--least of all back to a place where they would beat you so. The aristos should take better care of their people."

Angela could not reply. A cool cloth was pressed against her back. The fire there seemed to stop for a minute. The woman gave her something to drink; then she continued to clean the dirt from her back, the pain dulling to an indelicate throb.

As if lost in a fog, Angela heard the man and the woman speak. She heard words such as
rebel
and
angel
--
war
and
punishment
--words that would have astounded her if she could have focused more clearly. Their conversation seemed to go on forever then she slept a deep, all-consuming sleep in which there were no dreams or pain, no confusing words.

She woke refreshed to the busy clatter of cooking, only a dull throb across her back. The woman hummed to herself as she worked. The man was not in the room.

Angela began to sit up, stopping when she realized she was naked beneath the covers. She lay back down, her face turned to the woman, who had noticed the movement.

"How are you feeling?"

The woman moved slowly today, not at all as she had before. With stooped shoulders, she carried a bowl of steaming, liquid to Angela. "Now sit up and eat."

Angela practically choked, a blush heating her cheeks. "I've nothing on."

The woman looked taken aback, as if she'd forgotten or wasn't sure what to do about the girl's condition. "You need to eat," she insisted. "It is just the two of us."

"Where are my clothes?" Angela didn't care how many people were in the room. The man who'd brought her here could come back at any time. She wanted the protection her clothes would give her.

As if reading her mind, the woman said "He's gone. He'll not return soon."

Angela breathed a long sigh of relief, and energy seemed to surge through her. "How long have I been here?" she asked.

The woman sat on the bed, the bowl of steaming liquid in one hand, a spoon in the other. "Eat."

A spoonful of broth at her mouth, Angela obeyed, feeling the warmth seep through her, slowly at first. "How long?" Angela asked again.

The woman shook her head, setting the food aside. "Long enough for someone to have come looking for you," she said.

"Alexi," Angela said without thinking.

She heard the old women's quick intake of air. "You know him?'' Angela queried.

"His father I knew very well, for he is also Stephan's father. Stephan and Alexi are half brothers. Alexi, I knew, only when he was younger." Her voice was harsh and cold.' 'His mother's first husband was a murderer, as was his older half brother. I did not know until it was too late. Until my welcome at his home wore thin and I was forced to leave."

As Devil Blackmoor, Alexi had killed when necessary, but this woman knew nothing of that man. She couldn't. Alexi's father lived in another country. His mother's former husband and his older half brother were both dead.

"Perhaps this Alexi is not as evil." The old woman said. "I would not second-guess any of the Popov men. They all come from bad stock. But Alexi's father is not a Popov. So perhaps he does not possess the evil that was inbred in the Popov men."

"He does not," Angela said her hand on the old women's arm. "If he comes to look for me promise me you'll..."

Angela did not know what she wanted.

"Yes?" The woman's voice was harsh. "Why do you hesitate?"

"I love him." Angela knew the truth more clearly than ever before. She did love him. But he didn't love her in return. She wanted nothing less than what her parents had.

A true and deep love. A forever love. One that would last a lifetime and through eternity.

The knock on the door startled both of them.

"Stephan!"

Angela pulled the sheet tight around her as the big man entered, her pulse racing. The man slanted her a cursory look, then went to the kettle of soup simmering over the fire. His back to her, he stayed at the kettle long enough for her to slip more securely beneath the covers.

"They followed the trail I set for them. But it won't take long for either of them to see the trickery." He turned after he spoke. "How is the patient?"

Stephan was suddenly by the bed, his hand on her forehead. "She is not as hot. Perhaps she will live then?" He laughed while the back of his hand touched her cheek gently.

"How long did I sleep?" Angela asked once more.

"What? The old woman wouldn't tell you? You've been asleep for a solid day. Long enough for me to discover you were indeed missed."

"Alexi?" she asked.

"Yes," he said, their eyes meeting, and she saw the anger and latent hatred there. "And an older man."

Puzzled, Angela caught herself sitting up. "Do you know him?"

"No, but I think you do. If what I overheard was right, he is your father," Stephan told her, his face set.

"Impossible." She sat up, clutching the sheet to her breasts, her pulse pounding. She would have to go back to Alexi; a confrontation was inevitable. Her father would know everything, would know she had slept with Alexi.

Panic swept through her.

Stephan trailed his finger across her naked shoulder. She bit
back hysteria, caused not by his touch but by the knowledge that her father was here, looking for her.

"I will protect you, little one. You will be safe with me." Stephan read her fear.

She'd heard those words before. And here she was, unprotected and definitely not safe.

"No!" She scooted back out of his reach. He dropped his hand, his smile gone.

"I will fight him for you, for your honor."

"No."

He rose from the bed and walked to the door. "Too bad. They will be here
in
a few hours. You might want to dress. The position you now occupy in my home will not appear quite so damning if you're up and about. And dressed..."

"Your home? I thought ..." She could tell she'd angered him.

"You thought wrong,."

"Where are my clothes?" Her voice trembled. The woman had disappeared, and she was left alone with Stephan.

"My mother is retrieving them for you. I had them washed. The bloodstains are gone."

"Thank you," Angela said, but she could not keep her lip from quivering or her insides from turning over.

"No thanks are needed. If you change your mind about your feelings for me, let me know."

Chapter Eighteen

"Get out!" Feodora screamed at Ivan.

"Never." His voice sounded suave, sophisticated, not at all like the stable master he was supposed to be, and his aristocratic polish was unnerving.

In a blinding rage, Feodora threw the largest vase of flowers she could set her hands upon directly at Ivan's head. Moving with the grace of a Siberian tiger, he ducked, walking steadily toward her, the flying object crashing against the wall behind him. Water from the upset pot drenched his shirt, running in tiny rivulets down his face.

"Get out," she screeched again, and sidestepped his advance. His muscles flexed with every movement, his advance toward her never wavering. He appeared, every inch of him, a powerful male animal on the prowl.