My Runaway Heart (8 page)

"Very well. I once called India my home."

She made no sound, her fingers curled in his coat, and
he imagined when he saw her lashes droop that she might have even fallen
asleep.

"We lived in
Calcutta,
in
a huge house with so many servants I couldn't name them." Yet that wasn't
true; he had known all the servants, even considered most his friends, never
imagining that . . .

Jared grimaced as the snake inside him sank its fangs
into his flesh, a deep chill coming over him.

Was he a bloody fool? Did he think for a moment that
the past had eased its death grip enough to permit him to talk casually of the
life he had known?

"Calcutta . . . India. More, Jared."

More? His bitter laugh made Lindsay start, her eyes
fluttering open to stare once more into his. Just as he stared down at her,
suddenly feeling cruel and even more a fool for taking this reckless little
bird under his wing.

So she reminded him of Elise. Did he truly think he
could save her if fate had already decreed that she would suffer as wretchedly
as his sister had suffered?

His gaze swept her face, her lovely features unmarred
by care or woe, her blue eyes clear as a crystal pool and offset by dense
lashes and delicate winged brows as dark as her hair was light. And her lips,
bespeaking innocence yet generously full and provocative as sin. He had
indulged her. Why not indulge himself if, indeed, she had already been chosen
through her rash nature to be a victim of the brutality that was life?

"You want to hear more, Lindsay?" he taunted her
in a half whisper, fixing his gaze upon her mouth even as she nodded sleepily. "More
about Calcutta, where we dined in the morning on pineapple and at night drank
sweet cherry brandy as red as your lips?"

"Sweet . . ." came her soft murmur.

"Yes, sweet," he echoed, drawing her roughly
against him as he crushed his mouth upon hers.

He heard a gasp, felt her hands fisting in his coat,
then thought of nothing else but the warmth of her lips, the pliant softness of
them. Her mouth opened to his fierce onslaught like a fragile flower to rain,
her captured breath meeting his, filling him.

As he filled her mouth with his tongue, plundering,
ravishing, the lingering taste of ale melding with a sweetness that seemed her
very own, an essence so intoxicating that he feared wildly that he might not be
able to stop—

"Piccadilly, milord!"

The coachman's voice a welcome warning bell in his
brain, Jared tore
himself
from Lindsay's mouth and
gathered her limp form in his arms, for her lush body had gone so slack as to
lead him to think she had fainted.

"Just as bloody well." The door was barely
opened before Jared lunged from the carriage, Lindsay's weight so slight that
he felt as if he bore no burden at all. "Wait here, man. I'll be no more
than a moment."

So Jared hoped, taking note that the town house
remained dark, no one aware that the beauteous Miss Somerset had been out
sampling the seamier side of London. Treading light as a thief once he entered
the front double doors, he suddenly realized that he had no idea where Lindsay's
bedchamber might be.

"Lindsay, wake up." He shook her, but the
chit slept on within his arms as peacefully as a newborn kitten. "Lindsay,"
he hissed, a bit louder this time. "I need you to show me—"

"I'll lead the way, milord, but on one condition."

Jared spun around, his low oath hanging in the air as a
stout apparition swathed in a prim white night-robe came out from behind the
open door. Matilda, Lady Penney's maid, set her hands squarely on her hips.

"Swear to me ye haven't touched the lass—on pain that
yer
soul writhe in eternal hellfire if ye lie—and I'll
say nothing of this night's odd business to my mistress. Do ye understand me
well, milord?"

Jared gave a nod, feeling like a green schoolboy under
the Scotswoman's stern scrutiny.

"So do ye bring her back as pure as she left here
or no?"

He swallowed a twinge of anger, wholly unused to
explaining himself to anyone. But he could see, in this instance, that he had
no choice.

"I haven't touched her, or compromised her in any
fashion. On that I give you my word."

Silence reigned for what seemed an interminable moment;
then Matilda finally nodded. "Very well, then, follow me. And take care ye
step where I do, for the stairs squeak like the devil."

Having no idea what this woman's knowledge might
portend for Lindsay, Jared also told himself firmly that it was none of his
concern as he followed Matilda up an imposing staircase. Then
came
a long hallway, their little trio passing by a closed
door from which emanated the most outrageous snores, until they came at last to
a room at the front of the house.

"This'll be Miss Somerset's bedchamber, not that I
imagine
ye'll
be seeing it again after this night."

Making no reply to Matilda's thinly veiled reprimand,
Jared carried Lindsay into the decidedly feminine apartment with its lace
curtains and pastel pink wallpaper and laid her on the canopied four-poster,
the bedclothes already turned down as if awaiting her return, a lamp burning
brightly on a side table. Imagining no matter his sworn oath what the Scotswoman
must be thinking to see Lindsay in such bedraggled condition, the smell of ale
and tobacco clinging to her cloak and tousled hair, he decided it was time he
left.

Perhaps even London, he thought darkly, though he knew
that must wait until his business was accomplished.

"Good night to ye, then, Lord Giles," came
Matilda's voice, her back to him as she began to divest a limp Lindsay of her
soiled slippers. "I take it ye can find
yer
way
out?"

He could tell from the Scotswoman's tone that she didn't
expect an answer, and he didn't give one. His face as grim as she had sounded,
he couldn't wait to leave the house, and when he did, he closed the door firmly
behind him.

As firmly as he trusted Lindsay Somerset was well out
of his life, although, settling once more into the carriage, he couldn't help
thinking that his oath to Matilda hadn't been entirely true.

So he had kissed the chit. Did that make him a liar?
God knows he already had enough transgressions heaped upon his soul to send him
straight to hell.

"Driver, the Boar's Head tavern!" he
commanded the coachman, his gaze drawn to the pale light streaming from the
windows of Lindsay's room even as he made himself look away.

Chapter 7

"Oh, Lord."

Lindsay slumped onto her side and gripped her head, her
low groan sounding as loud to her as the crashing of cymbals. She wondered
weakly if she could open her eyes. She wanted to, but it seemed her eyelids
were stuck to her lower
lashes,
either that or the
sensation was some dire warning that she should keep her eyes firmly closed.

She could tell it was daylight. Her bedchamber was
always bright in the morning, especially on sunny mornings. And she knew it was
brilliant outside for the warm rays slanting across her face, which made
her
slit her eyes to take a peek.

"Oh . . . oh, no." Her fresh groan like a
banshee's shriek inside her aching head, Lindsay now knew why she should well
keep her eyes shut, the sunlight blinding her. She rolled onto her stomach and
lay there limp as a rag, wishing she had something to drink to wash the
unpleasant taste of ale from her mouth. Oh, Lord, ale . . .

"Good morning, miss, and a fine morning it is,
too! I've brought
yer
breakfast."

Lindsay didn't move except for a feeble flutter of her
hand, Matilda's cheery voice making her wince.

"My, my, miss,
ye're
looking a bit peaked—wan as a ghost, I'd say. I hope
ye're
not coming down with a cold."

Anything, Lindsay thought miserably, a nasty cold, a
fever,
anything
would be better than
how she felt at that moment.

"I-I'm fine, Matilda—well, not truly," she
somehow managed, attempting a second time to open her eyes. "I fear
something I ate or drank at the
Whimseys
' card party
last night didn't agree with me."

"Aye, that tiny bit of sherry, no doubt."

Matilda had spoken so sharply that Lindsay lifted her
head, but the stout Scotswoman was busy sprinkling what appeared to be loose
tea into a cup of steaming water.

"Is . . . is that for me?"

"Ha! Surely not for me, lass. I've no headache
such as the one plaguing
ye
this bright morning."

"Headache . . . how—"

"Never
ye mind
. Just roll
yerself
over and sit up so ye can drink."
Matilda cut her off sternly, her deep brown eyes fixed on Lindsay as she held
out the cup. "
Ye'll
feel better after a sip or
two of my willow bark tea, but, Lord knows, mayhap I should just let ye suffer."

Lindsay was so stunned she couldn't but obey, no matter
that her head seemed to pound all the more as she lifted herself to a sitting
position. With trembling hands she took the cup and brought it to her lips,
which made the Scotswoman cluck her tongue disapprovingly.

"Aye, from the look of
ye
when Lord Giles carried ye into the house at three this morn, I'd say
ye're
lucky to be awake before noon. Stunk like a drunken
sailor, ye did—"

"You saw the Earl of
Dov
—I
mean me? Both of us?"

Matilda's brusque nod made Lindsay gulp, fragmented
memories of the night before falling together like a puzzle in her mind.

What shall we do
with a drunken sailor? What shall we do
—

She grimaced and shoved the bawdy drinking song from
her thoughts even as she was struck by another foggy recollection of her
drumming on Jared's lower back and his . . . his—oh, dear, she hadn't, had she?

Her face burning, Lindsay slumped against the
headboard.

"Now, now, miss, drink
yer
tea. The world hasn't come to an end. Lord Giles assured me he laid no hand
upon ye—I made him swear an oath
ye're
a virgin
still."

"Matilda!"

"Aye, and rightly so I did!
'
Tis
not my place to be judging
yer
actions, but I can't imagine what possessed ye to traipse so late from the house,
and ye being a proper-brought-up young lady! Certainly the earl's a
fine-looking man, but ye heard well what Lady Penney thinks of him."

"Oh, no, Aunt Winnie!" Lindsay had nearly
dropped the cup, the hot tea she gulped scalding her throat. "She doesn't
know about last night, does she?"

"Know? Have ye any sense in
yer
head, lass? If I told my mistress of
yer
doings, she'd
fall to her bed with the vapors and mayhap never arise!"

Relief flooding through her, Lindsay set the teacup on
the bedside table and looked earnestly at Matilda. "And she must never
know, you must promise me, please promise me. I wouldn't want to hurt her, she's
been so kind."

"Aye, so she has. But if I hold my tongue, what
will ye promise me then?"

"Promise . . . me to you?" As the Scotswoman
nodded firmly, Lindsay felt a sinking sensation in her stomach. "If . . .
if you mean will I say I won't see Jared again—"

"Jared, is it?" Looking wholly exasperated,
the Scotswoman flung up her hands. "Heavens, lass,
ye've
only just met him and already
ye're
calling him by
his given name?"

"Of course. What else would I call the man I plan
to marry? 'Lord Giles' seems silly, and besides, he asked me to call him Jared .
. . Matilda?"

The old Scotswoman's face had gone chalk-white. Lindsay
threw aside the bedclothes in alarm, but Matilda had already sought the comfort
of a chair, plopping down as Lindsay rushed to her side. Her head was
throbbing, her stomach suddenly queasy, but she couldn't think of her
discomfort now. She took the maid's plump hand in her own.

"Matilda, what's wrong—"

"Wrong? Lord in heaven, lass, are ye so determined
to bring Lady Somerset's wrath down upon
yer
poor
aunt?"

At the Scotswoman's poignant dismay, Lindsay had to
grit her -teeth, just as she had done so many times in
Porthleven
because her domineering stepmother wielded such power to distress people. For
years she had watched Olympia belittle and browbeat her father, Randolph
Somerset finally turning to strong drink as a refuge from the second wife he
had brought to his home not long after Lindsay's mother had succumbed to a
fever.

Lindsay couldn't count the occasions she had wanted to
rail at the ridiculous woman—double that number the times she had prevented
Corisande
from venting her legendary temper on her best
friend's behalf—but Lindsay's love for her father had kept her from making his
life any more miserable than it already was. Yet somewhere this tyranny had to
stop, if not for her father, at least for herself. It had to!

That was why she would wed no man who would allow that
woman to govern their lives. And if once married she was adventuring far, far
away from Cornwall, so much the better. But no matter if near or far, she knew
in her heart that a bold spy and hero of the realm like Jared Giles wouldn't
hesitate to stand up to the likes of Olympia Somerset.

"Matilda, you don't have to fear for Aunt Winnie,
I promise you. Jared will see to my stepmother. But I won't promise not to see
him again."

"Aye, so I thought
ye'd
say."

"And he's not anything at all like Aunt Winnie
described—surely not a rogue, but gallant and brave and daring, everything I've
always dreamed for a husband."