Sattler, Veronica (39 page)

Ashleigh
eyed her carefully for a moment. She had the feeling Megan was not dealing
directly with her question, but as the redhead had suddenly turned away to
adjust the wick of a nearby lamp and avoided her gaze, she shrugged and decided
to let the matter drop.

Yawning
as she stepped up to the high tester bed and slipped between its silken sheets,
Ashleigh forced herself to ask the question that had been nagging all day; the
rest could wait until tomorrow. "Megan, does anyone know... That is, what—
what has—has Brett been saying or—or doing through all this?"

Megan
gave her a long, thoughtful look. "He's not been up here t' see ye, has
he? Or made any attempts t' talk with ye?" A solemn shake of the head.

Megan
sighed, then reached to place her hand over Ashleigh's, which were folded over
her chest atop the coverlet in a posture that was curiously childlike... and
forlorn. "Ye must know that the two o' them had fierce words over the
matter last night. Oh, 'twasn't about the business o' how His Grace came t' do
ye wrong. Ye must have guessed Patrick had already heard about that—minus yer
identity, until he put two and two t'gither there in the drawin' room.... No,
it had more t' do with Patrick tryin' t' fathom the nature o' His Grace's
attitude toward the incident and toward
ye,
or, more particularly,
toward
women
in his life.

"Ah,
Ashleigh, I fear the man's all twisted apart inside when it comes t' females! I
suspected somethin' o' the like before, but..." Sadly, Megan shook her
head. "It has somethin' t' do with the way he was raised by that
grandfather o' his, the old duke... and with betrayals and losses goin' way
back t' his childhood."

Here
Ashleigh interrupted with a question that had been plaguing her for some time.
"What happened to—to Brett's mother? Did she die a long time ago?"

Megan
shook her head. "That's just it—she didn't die. There was some trouble
with the Westmonts and she... she left, when His Grace was but a wee lad. I
think—"

"She
deserted her own child?"
Ashleigh sat up, wide-awake now, with a
look of horror imprinted on her face.

"I'm
not sure. The duke's words seemed t' imply it, but Patrick..." Megan's
expression grew speculative, then suddenly, the green eyes met Ashleigh's.
"Ashleigh, how much do ye know about the friendship between yer Patrick
and the duke? How far back does it go?"

"I—I'm
not sure. Since they're about the same age, and my family's home was located
not too far from here, I guess I just assumed they knew each other back then,
when I was just a baby and too young to be aware of it. I know I never met any
Westmonts as a child, but that never puzzled me after coming here to Ravensford
Hall as an adult. My father was only a minor nobleman, you see, and the lofty
Westmonts—"

"Didn't
Patrick talk about it, or about what happened t' him durin'—"

"Oh,
wait! I think he did say something... it was when he spoke of his seafaring
venture and changing the spelling of our name to the old one... he didn't want
any special privilege, just as—as
Brett
hadn't when they were cabin boys
together, years earlier! I'd almost forgotten that because I was so distraught
over..." She stopped and made a helpless gesture with her hands.

"Hmm,"
murmured Megan. "I think perhaps we'd better be havin' a talk with
Patrick. The saints only know, we can use all the information we can get t'
shed some light on the nature o' that puzzle ye're about t' wed!"

At
the mention of the man who was to become her husband, a look of panic flooded
Ashleigh's face. "Megan," she whispered, "I know he—he hates
this! I saw his face in the library. We all did."

"Hush,
darlin'. Don't fash yerself so... and, besides... I'm not so sure.... Oh, I
know the man's full o' more than his share o' hatin'—but I doubt that what ye
saw in the library had as much t' do with weddin' ye as it had t' do with bein'
forced t' somethin' that wasn't his own doin'. He's full o' more than his share
o' pride, too, I can tell ye!"

"B-but,
Megan, it amounts to the same thing! He resents Patrick for forcing it, and me
for—for the part I play in it."

Megan
gave her a sly look. "Would ye be wagerin' on the prospect he'd rather
have the Lady Elizabeth?"

Ashleigh's
thoughts flew back to the day before, to images of Brett and his fiancée
walking together... talking together, and for some strange reason, she felt a
lump form in her throat.

Megan
saw her look and laughed. "Ye can stop fashin' yerself where her
High-and-Mightiness is concerned. Take me word fer it,
macushla,
he's
gladly rid o' her, 'screechin' harpy' that she be!"

They
shared a small laugh over this, but soon Ashleigh's face grew somber again.
"But Megan, that still doesn't mean he wants marriage to
me,
any...
any more than I do," she finished lamely.

"Aye,"
said Megan, the word coming out in a sigh as she reached to tuck the coverlet
gently about Ashleigh's shoulders. "But the deed's been set in motion, Yer
Grace-t'-Be, and that's the fact o' the matter. Now all we can do is work t'
find a way t' make it better." She leaned toward the nightstand to
extinguish the lamp. "Trust me, darlin'," she whispered as she bent
to place a kiss on Ashleigh's brow in the darkness. "I've found a way out
o' worse fixes than this before, and I'll find a way t' help us do it
again."

With
quiet footsteps, Megan left the chamber as Ashleigh's even breathing told her
she slept.

Minutes
passed, and then, noiselessly, the door to the chamber opened and a tall figure
stepped into the darkness. Without a sound, Brett walked toward the bed until
he stood beside it and gazed down at the shadowy form of its sleeping occupant.

He
wasn't entirely sure why he'd chosen to come here at this time, when he was
sure she was asleep. He only knew that, ever since early this morning, when
he'd ridden purposefully away from the Hall with the idea of separating himself
from the sources of his anger, he'd been hard put to keep thoughts of her at
bay. Even when he'd thrown himself into the work of the estate, ceaselessly
pushing himself for hours, to attend to things that, under more ordinary
circumstances, would have taken him days to accomplish, he'd been unable to dismiss
her from his mind.

But
the anger had won in the end, refusing to yield even when, after only a light
supper of bread and cheese, he'd closed himself in his chamber and attempted to
blot it out with a bottle of brandy, ruthlessly downed. Well, the brandy had
almost accomplished what the hours of work had not...
almost.
He was no
longer furious with Patrick, of that he was sure. Indeed, he'd come to view the
actions of his friend with a rational eye, seeing them as nothing
untoward—nothing, in fact, too different from the way
he
would have
reacted, had their positions been reversed. Patrick's motivations had sprung
from a sense of upholding his family's honor; Brett could readily relate to
that.

And
even his fury with that hysterical bitch, Elizabeth, had been reduced once
again to the level of disdainful contempt with which he'd always regarded her.
He'd even had a moment of faintly amused pity for Elizabeth, thinking that now
she'd be forced to market her coldly chaste body in exchange for a title beneath
that of duchess. There just weren't that many eligible dukes around!

But
where Ashleigh Sinclair was concerned... or was it now St. Clare? The corners
of his mouth twisted into a smile of grim self-deprecation as he thought upon
the ironic little quirk of fate that had caused him to separate the two
spellings of his friend's surname in his mind, or, rather, the two
pronunciations!
What dullness of wit had it been that had led him to think of Patrick only
in the Americanized version of his name?
He,
who'd been surviving by his
wits for years when it came to making a success of his work for the crown!
Surely if he'd been on his toes, when he'd heard the chit's name was Sinclair
and, already having an awareness of Patrick's search for his sister, he'd have
given pause....

Brett's
smile grew even grimmer as he stopped himself— suddenly bitterly aware he was
wasting productive energy with such self-flagellation. It was keeping him from
focusing on the real source of his concern: the young woman lying in the bed before
him and the state of confusion she brought to his mind.

Why
was he still so angry with
her?
And why were his angry images of
Ashleigh equally riddled with relentless memories of the night he'd taken her
body, of overwhelming longings to taste that sweet flesh again? Even now, as he
stood here above her in the darkness, it was all he could do not to slip
in
beside her and take her into his arms, to make delicious, prolonged and
passionate love to her until she yielded to him, erasing the irrational anger
from his mind.

A
rational, practical part of him told him it might be guilt that played the
demon, but he was not convinced. If guilt were the culprit, why then should he
not welcome the chance to make amends, assuaging it by "making an honest
woman out of her"? After all, she was far sweeter by nature, and therefore
infinitely preferable, to Elizabeth. Since he must eventually wed anyway, why
not this beautiful baronet's daughter who pleased his flesh as well? Marrying
her would serve several purposes at once, even mending and solidifying his
friendship with Patrick, one of the few men he respected and admired. What,
then, was his problem?

Suddenly
his gaze shifted to the window, which, as it was a warm night, had been left
open and the drapes undrawn to encourage the breeze that was gently wafting
through. At that moment the moon, which was nearly full, appeared from behind a
high, passing cloud, throwing a shaft of silvery light across the coverlet and
onto Ashleigh's still face.

God,
she's lovely!
thought
Brett as he watched the moonlight wash those delicately shaped features,
imparting them with an ethereal glow that made them seem as if they were not of
this world. Slowly, he let his eyes follow the fragile contours... the slightly
flaring brows, the sooty fringe of midnight lashes, the small, straight nose
and finely drawn mouth, its ripe lips barely parted in slumber. His glance
sought the dark mass of her hair, separating it from the inky shadows on her
pillow, tracing the richness of its luxuriant silk as the moonlight caught the
shine of a curling lock here and there. It was a silent poem to all that was
beautiful in the human form—lovely not only for the physical perfection
residing there, but from something far more ephemeral.

Here
was beauty from an inner light—the loveliness of child-just-become-woman, of
the spring of life in its freshness and goodness and, yes, innocence, in the
best sense of the term. Here was a female who, even in her waking hours lost
none of the qualities he viewed now. Here was no trick of features temporarily
released in slumber, only to revert to the artful poses of the real world when
she awakened, as he'd had occasion to witness countless times in the women he'd
bedded. Ashleigh Sinclair was totally different from all the other women he'd
known, and it was this, he realized at last, that troubled him.

When
would it begin? When would the cankerous poison that he knew to be a portion of
her sex begin to insinuate itself, as it surely must, destroying all he saw
here, changing it before his very eyes as he lived with her day by day? The
very notion sent a sharp twist of pain to his center, causing him to turn his
head and look away.

Oh
damn! At this very moment she could be visited with dreams that turned her
guileless thoughts to ones of bitterness and revenge for what was being forced
upon her. He'd seen her face when her brother broke the news. The only thing
that matched it was his memory of her reaction that night at Hampton House when
she'd learned he'd come for her. But then, at least, he'd been able to view her
with some detachment. Such was not the case now.

Now
he must shortly bind himself to this enchanting creature he'd just begun to
come to know and proceed to watch helplessly as she slowly turned evil.... From
deep within the recesses of memory Brett felt the ghost of an old pain: it had
happened before, and it would happen again.
Oh, Christ! It did not bear
thinking on!

With
a convulsive swallowing of the bitter bile that rose in his throat, Brett shut
his eyes for a moment in a vain attempt to blot out the pain, then whirled and
stumbled blindly from the room.

A
fortnight later Ashleigh stood in the mauve-and-cream-decorated bedchamber
upstairs in the dowager's cottage near the lake and looked about her with a
sigh. In a few more hours it would be done; she would be wed to Brett Westmont,
ninth duke of Ravensford, and spend her wedding night here. Yet, why did it all
seem unreal to her? Why did it feel as if it were someone else standing here in
an exquisite cream silk gown lavished with old lace, waiting to become a
duchess?

Once
again, her eyes traversed the expanse of the chamber that had been hurriedly
refurbished for this occasion. A wry smile broke out as Ashleigh considered the
way this had come about. She had seen almost nothing of Brett since the awkward
night of their betrothal, but one morning soon thereafter, he had sent Hettie
Busby to her with a note saying it had been a tradition for the Westmont brides
to take up residence in the dowager's cottage in the weeks prior to their
nuptials; that in earlier times it had often been with a Westmont dowager in
residence as well, but as the nearest thing to a dowager Ravensford Hall had
was the Lady Margaret, he was sending instead his housekeeper with instructions
to take Ashleigh to the cottage with a crew of workmen and others from the Hall
to see it was made ready to receive a bride.