Ransomed Jewels (7 page)

Even after they’d finished, he’d sat with her for the rest of the evening. They didn’t talk about anything important, but more than once he gave her the opportunity to tell him where she’d hidden the necklace. Of course she couldn’t, and the frown on his face deepened as the minutes stretched on. In the end, he gave up and went downstairs.

When he was gone, Claire let Tilly help her into bed, then lay there until the house grew quiet. Eventually she heard him come upstairs. Then she waited another agonizing hour longer until she was sure he was asleep before she got out of bed and put on her robe.

She’d chosen to search the wine cellar first because she hadn’t been down there yet, and because it was farthest away from the rest of the house, therefore the least likely that anyone would hear her. When all was quiet, she’d crept down the servants’ stairway and opened the door with the housekeeper’s key to begin her search. She’d said a quick prayer that she would find the necklace in time to save Alex’s life and pulled the first of the hundreds of bottles off the rack.

That had been hours ago. Now, Claire’s shoulder ached and the cold seeped through to her very bones.

She shivered as she opened one of the crates sitting on the floor and sifted through its contents. Finding nothing, she lifted more bottles off the rack and checked to make sure they contained only wine.

She thought of the major sleeping upstairs, and her stomach rolled nervously. She’d never been so frightened in all her life. Never felt so alone. If only she could trust him enough to ask for his help to free her brother. But she couldn’t. He’d never think Alex’s life was more important than the necklace.

And, he thought there was a connection between her and Roseneau.

She walked around a rack that reached nearly to the ceiling and tried to ignore the daunting task before her. Each slot contained another bottle of the fine wines Hunt had been so proud of. She remembered how much he’d enjoyed serving the rare vintages. Recalled the pleasure he’d taken in stocking his cellar with only the best wines.

She did miss him. She’d been so very comfortable with him. Even though many aspects of their marriage left a void filled with disappointment and regret, there were parts of their life together she would always cherish.

Such as the hours they’d spent in each other’s company and the lively conversations they’d enjoyed. Hunt often told her she was his best critic as well as his best verbal sparring partner.

And for seven years she’d told herself she was satisfied with what they shared. But it had never been enough.

And a part of her hated him for what he couldn’t give her.

Claire reached for another bottle and a sharp pain jabbed through her shoulder. She clutched her hand to her arm and waited for the pain to abate. Her knees trembled from weariness and she was so exhausted she could barely stand any longer. It was time to quit. Tomorrow night she would be stronger. Tomorrow night she’d be able to last until sunup. But not tonight.

She blew out all the candles but one and took the single taper with her. No one heard her as she made her way up the back stairs. When she reached her room, she quietly closed the door behind her and crawled into bed. She was so cold; so tired.

She pulled the covers up around her throbbing shoulder and fell asleep.

Chapter 9

Sam leaned back against the blue velvet cushions of the plush chair angled near the settee where Claire sat in the drawing room and watched her pour the tea he’d insisted be served. He couldn’t tamp down the niggling fear building inside him as he watched her. Something was wrong. Instead of improving, her health seemed worse each morning when she awoke.

It had been three days since he’d caught her out of bed. Three days for her to gain back more of her strength and for her health to improve. Instead, she barely seemed able to keep her eyes open, let alone lift the floral china teapot. It took every ounce of his willpower to hold himself back from reaching out to take the pot from her trembling hands.

Outwardly, he saw slight improvements. The bruises on her face had faded to various shades of purples, greens and yellows, and the wounds on her shoulder and neck were healing remarkably well.

As the discoloration and swelling lessened, she should have taken on a hint of her former healthy glow. But her coloring was pale and sallow, while the black circles rimming her eyes grew darker by the day. There was also a vacant look in her eyes that frightened him, and her lethargic movements evidenced an underlying illness. Most of the time it was obvious that she could barely hold on to consciousness.

Sam took the cup she handed him and leaned back in his chair. “Do you feel all right?”

Her gaze remained fixed on the cup and saucer in her lap, as if looking up required too much effort.

“Yes. Fine.”

“I think I’ll have Bronnely look at you anyway.”

“No.” Her gaze shot up and she issued him a defiant look. “I’m fine.”

He rose to his feet. “You don’t look it. You’ve lost even more weight, if that could be possible, and you have about as much color as this napkin.” He held up a white linen Tilly had brought in with the tea, then wadded it in his fist. “I’ve seen soldiers coming in from battle who look better than you.”

“And whose fault is that?” She dropped her cup and saucer on the table with a clatter and bolted to her feet.

Sam moved to let her rise. This was the strongest he’d seen her react in days.

“How do you expect me to improve when I’ve been placed under house arrest and accused of hiding a necklace that will result in the deaths of thousands of men? When you watch over me every minute of the day, evaluating my every move? When I am forced to stand by while you search my home room by room, floor by floor?”

“You don’t have to watch.”

“It’s my home!”

“Perhaps you are only concerned because you’re afraid I’ll stumble onto the necklace while you aren’t around and you’ll lose the slim chance you have of giving it to Roseneau.”

“How dare you! You don’t know—”

“I know Hunt loved you. I know Hunt took the necklace and he gave it to you.”

“You don’t know that!”

“He told me! His last words were that he loved you. His marchioness. That
you
had the necklace.”

Her face paled even more, and Sam reached out to steady her when she staggered. Her knees buckled beneath her, and she sagged against him.

“Sit down,” he said, lowering her to the settee. He sat beside her. He tried to pull her against him, but she stiffened and turned away.

“He didn’t . . . say that,” she whispered, her voice thick.

“Yes, Lady Huntingdon. Your husband’s last thoughts were of you. He said to tell you he was sorry. That he loved you. And that I was to get the papers from you.”

She looked up at him, her eyes wide with panic. “He didn’t give them to me.”

Sam stiffened and pulled away from her. Anger rose in him like an active volcano. “How long do you think you can play this game? How long before I find them and make you pay for what you’ve done?”

She tried to move away from him, but the arm of the settee trapped her close. He refused to move. For several long seconds he watched her struggle to keep from crumbling under his domineering scrutiny. Finally, he gave in and rose to allow her to escape his confinement.

“I think you’ve been up long enough. You need to go back to your room to rest.”

“And while I’m locked in my room, what do you intend to do, Major?”

He leveled her a knowing gaze. “Begin my search of the guest bedrooms. I can do at least one before I lose the light.”

He watched her struggle intensify. A part of him regretted how cruel he’d been to her. She was, after all, Hunt’s widow. A woman who’d evidently been the perfect wife to her husband. A woman who’d been an ideal match for someone as virile as Hunt was reputed to be.

Sam remembered the rumors that had followed Hunt before he and the marchioness married. Rumors concerning a certain actress Hunt had kept for years. A mistress no one thought Hunt would ever give up. But he had.

The biggest shock of the Season had been when Hunt had married the lovely daughter of the late Marquess of Halverston, Lady Claire. Everyone doubted there was a woman who could keep the Marquess of Huntingdon satisfied. But Lady Huntingdon must have been just such a woman. Not once in the seven years they were married did even a hint of scandal or impropriety touch Hunt and his marchioness.

Sam turned his hardened gaze on her as she rose from the settee, then reached out to steady her when she swayed. She shrugged away as if his touch burned her. As if being near him was more than she could bear.

“If you intend to search my bedrooms, then by all means, let us begin.” She lifted her chin and pasted a smile on her drawn face. “It’s getting late. I’d hate to think you’d lose a minute of daylight in your quest to see me hanged.”

She grabbed a handful of her black bombazine mourning gown and swished it away from him, then stormed past him, her shoulders high, her back ramrod straight.

Sam followed on her heels. When they reached the first guest room on the second floor, she swung open the door and entered the room. “Where would you like to start?”

“I’ll search the room. You can sit in that chair and wait. Unless, of course, you’ve changed your mind and would like to go to your room and lie down. You look like you need the rest.”

“Thank you, Major. I’m always so flattered by your compliments. And no. I wouldn’t think of forcing you to do such an unpleasant task by yourself.” She walked toward the large wardrobe against the far wall. “I’ll start here, if that’s agreeable with you.”

“As you wish,” Sam said, watching her stalk away from him. She lost her balance and staggered. She was not well. Perhaps it was the strain of having him here . . . of losing her husband . . . of having her world change so completely. But he didn’t think so.

If she was no better tomorrow, he’d send for Bronnely whether she liked it or not. Then he’d confine her to her bed so he could search the rest of the house without her interruption. He had to find the necklace and the papers that would tell him who the traitor was.

And he had to find them soon.

Sam stood out in the garden behind the Marquess of Huntingdon’s house and listened to the quiet sounds of the night. There was something disquieting about this time of the day, the hours long after midnight, yet well before sunrise. The hours where all one’s thoughts and worries grew larger and more insurmountable than in the light. Where no solution seemed to be in sight for the problems that loomed so monumental.

Perhaps that was why he couldn’t see this clearly. Why the niggling doubts wouldn’t go away. Why his mind kept telling him she had the necklace and the papers, while something deeper inside told him she might not.

He knotted his fingers into a fist and brought it down against the sturdy rock wall he was leaning against, then took another swallow of the brandy he’d brought with him. He knew the answers to his questions even if he didn’t want to admit it.

He wanted to believe her.

He didn’t want to think she’d done what the evidence told him she had. In his heart, he wanted to believe Hunt
hadn’t
given her the necklace or the papers.

But Sam knew he had. Hunt’s dying words proved it.

He swallowed the rest of his brandy and turned to go inside. The minute his gaze hit the outline of the house, his steps halted and his breath caught. Light streamed from Hunt’s library. A light that hadn’t been lit before.

He made his way to the house and crossed the terrace in long, angry strides. He stepped through the open glass-paned doors, then softened his footsteps so she wouldn’t hear him. He wanted to surprise her. Wanted to catch her either getting, or hiding, or moving the necklace and papers. Wanted to prove to her he wasn’t the fool she thought he was—that he’d known all along she had the jewels.

Sam stepped through the terrace doors to Hunt’s study, then down the darkened hallway to the library. He reached for the knob. She may have used her body to charm Hunt into betraying his principles, but Sam wouldn’t let her do the same to him. He was immune to her strength, to her spirit. He knew her lying, deceiving ways and intended to expose her. He turned the knob and threw open the door.

He expected to find her hiding the papers in a new, more secretive place. Or perhaps even strolling around the room with the necklace draped around her neck. But she wasn’t. She was crumpled in a heap on the floor with piles of open books scattered about her. She was asleep.

Sam closed the door with a muffled click and walked over to her. She was dressed for bed, her pale peach satin robe fastened over her nightgown. Her hair was bound back in a long plait that hung over one shoulder, and her slippered feet were tucked beneath her. Her head was tilted to the side and rested against the leather spines of a row of Hunt’s rare books. Her relaxed posture exposed the fading bruises on the left side of her face.

He reached down to lift the book from her lap. Long, wispy lashes rested seductively against her cheeks, and her hands lay limp in her lap as if they’d fallen there from exhaustion. She didn’t stir, dead to the world.

He looked from her to the ladder she’d used to reach the higher shelves, then to the open book in her lap. And he knew. Knew without a doubt what she’d been doing.

She’d been searching for the necklace and the papers, just as he’d been doing. She’d been searching the house room by room in hopes of finding them before he did. The reason could only be that she didn’t have them. And that meant she’d been telling the truth all along, while he’d refused to believe her.

What if she doesn’t have them?

Sam felt his knees weaken and a heavy weight press painfully against his chest. Why had Hunt told him he’d given them to her if he hadn’t?

He looked down at her sleeping so peacefully and felt an uncomfortable stirring. Hunt’s widow was truly beautiful, but with a beauty that surpassed the obvious. She had an inner strength that allowed her to go on even after she’d nearly been killed. An intelligence that was the match of anyone he’d ever met. And an unyielding determination that gave her the ability to battle him on equal footing. But that didn’t answer the question of why she was so intent on finding the necklace before he did. Or whether or not she’d give it over if she did.

He reached down and picked her up in his arms. He thought she’d awaken, but she was so exhausted that even being lifted from the floor didn’t rouse her.

Now he knew the reason for the dark circles that rimmed her eyes. For her pale complexion and emaciated look. Instead of sleeping, she’d spent every night searching for the necklace. And she’d watched him all day long to make sure she was close by in case he found it.

He walked to the maroon velvet sofa angled before the fireplace. He intended to lay her down so she could sleep more comfortably, but he lost the desire to be separated from her when she breathed a sigh that wafted like a gentle breeze against the bare skin at the base of his throat.

He knew he didn’t want to put her down when she snuggled closer to him and nestled her head in the hollow beneath his chin. Then, when she looped her small arm around the back of his neck in a graceful, yet intimate gesture, he couldn’t have let her go if he’d been ordered to.

He sat in one of the oversized wing chairs scattered throughout the room, and held her in his arms.

He was sure she’d wake, but she didn’t. Not completely. Just the slightest stirring, as if something warned her everything was not as it should be.

She absently threaded her fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck. She didn’t open her eyes, but Sam could see by the small frown on her face that the feel of him against her registered in small degrees. It wouldn’t be long before reality forced her to wake.

He watched her intently. One arm supported her back as she wound herself around him. His other arm lay loosely over her torso. His hand kept her hip pressed snugly against him.

He hadn’t intended to react to her nearness but lost his battle early on. Her long, thick lashes fluttered as she slowly woke and attempted to open her eyes. Her fingers continued to thread through his hair as if she enjoyed the feel of it. It was all he could do to ignore the uncomfortable heaviness in his groin. There was nothing more arousing than watching her wake.

He knew the moment her predicament registered. Her eyelids flew open, and she jerked upward.