No Greater Love (13 page)

He frowned, for he was beginning to think that there was a certain pleasure to be gained in controlling life and death. And that could only be had when the powerful vanquished the weak. Cyril shifted again. He still wasn’t clear on that point, despite how powerful he felt after the fact, for the animal tended to haunt him in his sleep. That made no sense when it was supposed to be dead.

He was distracted by the footman removing his soup bowl and placing the fish course in front of him. He ate his turbot quickly, his appetite like a great gnawing thing inside of him, then called for the next course. He impatiently watched the footman carve the saddle of mutton, thinking all the while of how he’d like to carve Nicholas just so, and he knew exactly where he’d make the first slice. If ever there was a man who deserved it, it was Nicholas Daventry, who seemed to feel he could conquer the world by the sole means of his genitals. There were some things Cyril would like to say to his high-handed cousin.

“Would you care for gravy, my lord?” the footman asked.

“You kn-know I never take g-gravy, fool,” Cyril answered petulantly. “And k-keep the vegetables well away from the m-meat.”

“Certainly, my lord.”

Cyril looked at the man suspiciously, for he was sure that he wore a slightly smug expression. But he was too hungry to delay the delivery of his food by filling the minion’s ear with the chastisement he so richly deserved.

He dived into the plate that was put before him and polished it off in no short order. “M-more,” he said, and the footman looked astonished.

“Did you say
more,
my lord?”

“I did. M-more, Harrington. And I would like it n-now, not t-tomorrow.”

“Certainly, my lord. The cook will be most pleased to know that his efforts have met with your approval.” He refilled the plate with alacrity, and Cyril dived in once again. When he had finished with his second helping of pudding and drained his tankard of ale, he threw down his napkin and set off for the billiards room with the intention of practicing a few shots. It was one of the few things in life he did well, other than shoot, and he was religious about keeping his hand in.

He sighted the ball, imagining it to be one of Nicholas’, and he hit it square on with a great deal of satisfaction. Who did Nicholas think he was, anyway, ordering him around as if he were a servant? If it hadn’t been for the fact that Nicholas had something to hold over his head, he wouldn’t have tolerated it for an instant. But at last this way he could keep a closer eye on the goings-on at the Close, even if he did have to put up with his cousin’s foul presence in the process.

He pocketed all of the balls swiftly, with intense concentration, and then he started off to bed. But he halted as he heard voices speaking in hushed tones. Hushed tones always meant secrets, and he had learned to listen well over the years. He pressed himself back against the wall and he listened for all he was worth.

“It was a brave thing, Mr. Daventry walking in just as if he still lived here,” the voice was saying. “I was that astonished. And he’s the finest figure of a man,” she added with a giggle. “All strong and tall and dark, with those eyes … Ah, those eyes is enough to send the chill up your spine and right down into your privates.”

“I wouldn’t mind a quick roll in the hay with him myself,” said the second voice. “I haven’t seen one that fine for many a year, although I don’t think I’d have a bit of luck casting my eye that way. Lucky Mrs. Wells, is all I can say, not that I can’t see the match—her with her fair beauty, him with his good looks. Must be nice on the cold nights, putting the two together. From the look of him in them tight pantaloons,” and she lowered her voice, “he has all that it takes and more. Not that I don’t love my own Frank when I have the chance to see him, but he never did stir the imagination quite the same.”

“I know just what you mean,” replied the first voice, and it was all Cyril could do to control his rage and remain hidden. “I wonder if it’s true what they say about his evil ways.”

“I can see it myself. If you looked like that, wouldn’t you take advantage every chance you had? He could be the very devil, and I’m sure I wouldn’t care. If he tilted one of those eyebrows in my direction, he wouldn’t have time to drop it again before I was on my back.”

“Nice of him, though, to want to see his lordship. Too bad Mr. Jerome had to refuse him. Seems there’s not another soul save for Mr. Jerome who cares whether the old man lives or dies, the young lordship included—not that he isn’t the strangest, coldest thing that ever was.”

“And never mind her ladyship,” the second voice said with a snort. “But now mayhaps things will change for the better if Mr. Nicholas Daventry and his packed pantaloons regularly come a-visiting. You won’t hear me complaining.”

They both cackled furiously, and then their voices faded as they disappeared down the hallway.

Cyril, now that they had gone, found that his fingers were digging violently into his face and he was shaking all over. A terrible, ungovernable rage poured over him, through him, obscuring thought, reason, everything but a need for revenge.

How dared he?
How dared he?

He wanted to strike out, needed to strike out, to hurt the man who had brought him to this humiliation. He would show him that he could not invade his life. So Nicholas thought he could just walk in the front door, did he? He thought he could flaunt himself, make the staff drool with desire? It wasn’t enough that he had married the seamstress. He had to have them all. And as if that wasn’t bad enough, he thought he could march into Ravenswalk and ingratiate himself? Not likely.

It would not happen. It could not happen. And Georgia? She would pay for her insolence. A lowly seamstress giving him orders? She who’d had the temerity to refuse him and then run off with his vile cousin? He would make her very sorry indeed.

And he knew just where to start.

Nicholas buried his head in his pillow, then swore and impatiently rolled onto his back in an attempt to take the pressure off his groin. He had been ready to jump out of his skin all night. Dinner had been a living hell. Georgia. He was getting to the point where he couldn’t even look at her without becoming aroused. Night was the worst. This night took the prize. Georgia had been nothing but sweet, amusing, and good company. And he had done what? Responded like a primitive beast, watching her, thinking about how it would be with her, only vaguely attending to her conversation.

He had known from the beginning that he wanted her. Oh, yes. He had wanted her as any sane, hot-blooded male would want a woman, especially a woman with her unusual fair beauty. But now it was different. He didn’t know how, or when it had happened exactly, but everything had changed, and he knew that he needed her, and needed her in a way he had never needed before.

Gone was the desire for just a woman. He wanted Georgia, the woman who cried over his house, who worked on his lost garden, who laughed and delighted in the simplest of things, yet was so deeply attuned to nature, to life. What other woman would have given him a mangy dog for Christmas, and yet Raleigh was the most perfect present she could have found. What other woman would insist that he not buy her things, but would smile as if he’d given her the world when he presented her with a simple piece of material, and then make a shirt for him out of it. A woman who made him
shirts?
And yet he treasured the shirts she made for him, as if they came from the finest tailor in London. In truth, they weren’t far off.

He was living in poverty for her sake, and yet he felt more alive, more full of purpose, than he had felt in years. Georgia made him laugh, she made him angry at times, certainly frustrated, and she startled him often. But from the very beginning she had touched him. It had been so long, so very long, since anything, or anyone, had touched him. And then he had returned home, and in one fell swoop he had been thrown back into the maelstrom without so much as a chance to take breath. Except for Georgia. Georgia might be a constant torment, but she was also a lifeline. If there was any hope for him at all, he suspected it rested in her.

After all, he hadn’t drowned in nearly two months, he considered, and that was a record. It was probably the physical punishment that was responsible. He never slept deeply enough to dream. He barely slept at all.

He rolled over onto his side, wishing his erection away. It had become a constant and unwelcome companion, but like a toothache, it had settled in for the duration. And, like a toothache, it was of no use at all. He would think of the roof. No, he thought of that all the time. He would think of his business affairs. Yes, that was it. He’d think of business, of the latest reports. The figures looked promising, profits were up again.

Nicholas groaned. Those were the wrong words for his state of mind. He needed release. He needed Georgia.

An hour later she came to him.

“Nicholas? Nicholas, wake up,” she said, touching his shoulder, then shaking it hard.

He sat up abruptly, wondering if he’d had the accursed dream. But he was breathing normally, and his mind was clear.

“Georgia? What are you doing in here?” He reached out and touched her arm to make sure she was solid and not a figment of his imagination. He couldn’t quite believe his luck. It was the middle of the night, Georgia was in his bedroom, and he was in bed. Best, he was sure he was awake.

But she did not look like a woman with ardor on her mind, he quickly realized. She was white as a sheet and she was shaking from head to toe. “Georgia, for the love of God, what is it? What happened?”

“I think you had better come and see,” she said, turning and going back through the door to her room. Nicholas quickly followed. Georgia stood in the middle of the room, her head bowed, and in the better light he saw her face more clearly. She looked sick.

“Georgia? Georgia, what is it?”

She pointed at her bed without looking up, and he turned his head. There, lying on her pillow, was a cat. Its throat had been cut, and cut so deeply that its head was almost completely severed from its neck. Its eyes were half-open and staring. The bed was soaked in blood.

“Oh, dear God.” He went over and pulled the sheet off the mattress, wrapping the poor animal in it. “Wait here. I’ll be right back.” It took him only a minute to take the bundle down the hall and leave it in one of the spare rooms. He would dispose of it on the morrow. Right now Georgia needed him.

She was still standing in the middle of the room when he returned. He poured some water into the basin and quickly rinsed his hands, then went over to her, pulling her into his arms without thinking. He held her tightly against his chest. “Georgia, Georgia, sweetheart. I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”

Her only response was to bury her head more deeply into his shoulder.

Not wanting her to stay in the room for another minute, he scooped her up in his arms and took her through to his own bedroom, firmly shutting the door behind them. The fire still crackled in the fireplace and gave off some decent warmth without smoking, now that the chimney had been cleaned. Nicholas sat down in the chair next to the fire, cuddling her in his lap. Her face stayed buried in his shoulder, and he knew she was trying not to cry. He held her tightly against him, stroking her back, her soft hair, his cheek resting on her head. She was cold as ice. She must have learned long ago not to give in to emotion, nor fear, nor despair. She must have learned a number of protective devices to shield her from the harsh world. He knew. He had an arsenal of them himself. But to see her so vulnerable, so hurt, to see her without any protective clothing at all, made his heart ache. Her fantasy had been sullied, her happy dream bloodied with reality.

“Georgia,” he whispered. “Georgia, love, listen to me. It was a cruel joke, that’s all. A horrible, cruel joke.”

She didn’t move at all, and he knew by that just how badly upset she was. “I’m sure it was meant for me, sweetheart. I don’t know how anyone got into the house without someone hearing, but we did spend quite some time in the dining room tonight. You’re safe, love. You’re safe now.”

He felt a nod against his shoulder.

“I won’t let anyone hurt you,” he continued softly. “I promise you that. Please don’t be afraid. Please, Georgia? I can’t tolerate the thought that this vicious act might take away whatever small happiness you’ve had here.”

She suddenly raised her head and met his eyes. The fierce expression in them took him by surprise. “Nothing will take that away,” she said. “Nothing and no one. And no one will take Raven’s Close away. I don’t care what they try to do.”

“Good girl. That’s good.” Very gently he took her face in his hands and held it between his palms, his thumbs stroking the hair off her temples. “You’re right. No one will take it away. Wherever this attack has come from, we’ll meet it head-on.”

“Oh, Nicholas, the cat—the poor, poor cat … How could anyone be so cruel? Why would someone do such a thing?”

“I don’t know, sweetheart. I really don’t, except to say there are people in the world who do horrible things for inexplicable reasons. I don’t know why in this case, although I intend to find out. It was a terrible thing for you to have witnessed.” He held her tightly against him, stroking her back, her hair, trying to avoid anything more personal.

“I’m sorry to have made a fuss. It was a shock, pulling the cover back and seeing the poor thing there. She’d been nursing kittens, Nicholas.”

“Had she, sweetheart?” He tried to keep his voice even, but now that the initial shock was over, heated anger welled up in him. He had a terrible feeling that he knew exactly who had done this thing and why, but he wasn’t going to put the idea in Georgia’s head. She had enough to worry about.’ ‘What were you doing up so late?” he said, trying to distract her. “I thought you were going to come to bed straightaway.’’

“I decided to do some sewing. There was a piece I wanted to finish.”

“Georgia, you work too hard. You need your sleep and you don’t get enough of it.”

“I don’t need much. And I enjoy sewing. It’s soothing, now that I don’t have to do it day and night for other people.’’