Sattler, Veronica (49 page)

The
rumble of Patrick's joyous laughter met her ears. "I can still say I love
ye and hope ye'll not have as much trouble believin' I'm askin' ye t' wed me as
well, colleen,
asthore!"

Megan's
deliriously happy cry reached him through her tears. "Oh, Patrick,
I
love ye!"

"And...?"
he questioned, stretching her at arm's length to grin into her laughing face.

"And
I'll wed ye!" she grinned.

Patrick
pulled her to him again, his glad laughter joining hers. "Ah, colleen, I'm
going to enjoy doing all I can to make you happy!"

* * * * *

A
long time later, after they had made slow, languorous love that transcended
even the rapture of last night, Megan turned to look at him as he lay, smiling
his repletion, beside her on the floor.

"Patrick?"

"Mmm?"

"How
is it ye came t' learn o'—o' me past?"

"Oh,
that." He smiled, then raised himself up on one elbow to look at her.
"Do you remember when I disappeared for a couple of days last week while
we were awaiting the wedding?"

Megan
nodded. "Ye said ye had some affairs t' take care o' in London. I assumed
ye were referrin' t' the purchasin' o' yer weddin' gift fer Ashleigh and
Brett." She smiled, remembering the beautiful set of Belleek china with
its four hundred exquisite pieces, each bearing the initials AWB, and the
Ravensford coat of arms.

"Well,
yes," said Patrick, "I did purchase that in London, but I also went
there to look into what kind of a place it was that my sister had resided in
for so many years."

"Ye
didn't know?"
Megan
questioned incredulously.

Patrick
chuckled. "That it was such a house? Oh, yes, Ashleigh told me as much,
although I'd already learned the basics from Brett. But I wanted to know more
of the specifics. I wanted to learn just how it was that she'd been able to
retain her innocence for so long, despite her surroundings."

"So
ye spoke t' Madame." Megan's tone was flat.

"Yes,
I did, but more important, I spoke to Dorcas," he said with a meaningful
look. "It was from that dear woman I learned of a multitude of kindnesses
extended to my sister, not the least of which involved consistent protection by
a tall, beautiful redhead with a heart bigger than she is."

Megan
shrugged, then offered him a small, self-effacing smile. "'Twas nothin'
much. I love the wee lass, Patrick."

"I
know,
macushla,
but never underestimate what you did for her—you and
Dorcas, bless her."

Megan's
eyes grew dark. "But 'tis what I was finally unable t' do fer her that
fashes me now. Oh, Patrick, what are we goin't' do fer the poor lass? 'Tis the
present I'm concerned about!"

Patrick
nodded, his eyes equally troubled. "I cannot help thinking her running
away is a mistake. But I have my own guilt to deal with for forcing the
marriage. Megan, when she met us looking so heartbroken, so much in pain, what
else could I do but promise to help her get away?"

It
was Megan's turn to nod. "Aye, 'twas a difficult situation fer ye. I
wonder what he said t' her, t' convince her he'd be an unfaithful husband. I
mean, I couldn't help feelin' there was more t' her tale than she told."

"I
know," Patrick agreed. "I felt it too." His eyes drifted to a
point somewhere across the room. "I cannot help thinking it would have
been an unlikely thing for Brett to tell her on their wedding night, no matter
how angry he'd been. After all, he told me earlier he held no grudges."
Patrick ran a hand carelessly through his rumpled hair. "And I also cannot
shake the notion that Brett has some feelings for Ashleigh. I've seen the way
he's looked at her—when he thought no one was watching."

His
gaze found Megan's again. "Well, we've not left England yet, and it will
be several days before we can. Perhaps we'll be able to bring her to open up to
us more, maybe even persuade her to reconsider... in time."

"Oh!"
said Megan, sitting up suddenly. "Speakin' o' time, what o'clock is it?
I'd forgotten the beasties are locked in yer chamber, and although that
porker's housebroken, I wouldn't care t' test her too far."

"True,"
Patrick grinned, reaching for his breeches, "and if I know my little
sister, she might already be seeking me out in my chamber. She's an early
riser, and if she fails to find me there, she's apt to come here. Then she'd
put two and two together quickly enough!"

Megan
laughed as she reached for her shift.

* * * * *

A
half hour later, Megan raised worried eyes to Patrick's as they stood outside
Irish Night's stall at the inn. "What could have prompted her t' leave, d'
ye think, and without any word t' us?"

Patrick
shook his head, bewildered. "And beyond that, where has she gone?"

"Somethin'
isn't right about this, Patrick. The innkeeper said he didn't see her leave
this mornin', but he also said Mrs. Quimby's the early riser. I'm goin' back
inside t' see if she's returned from her trip t' the hen house. Perhaps she saw
Ashleigh leave." Megan turned and headed for the inn.

"I'll
search around here a bit," Patrick called after her. "Perhaps I'll
turn up a clue."

As
Patrick entered the empty stall, Finn joined him, his shaggy head bent to the
ground. Behind them, a softly grunting Lady Dimples imitated the wolfhound's
posture.

Suddenly
Patrick heard Finn begin to sniff, and rather loudly. He glanced down to find
the big dog pushing his nose into the straw—or was it straw? The light in the
stable was poor, but he caught sight of something white beneath Finn's paw as
the hound suddenly raised his head and barked.

"What's
that, boy? Found something?"

A
moment later Megan came running through the door. A puffing Mrs. Quimby, the
innkeeper's wife, was right behind her.

"Patrick!"
Megan called. "Someone sent her a note last night. Mrs. Quimby says—"

"I
know," said Patrick, looking at her oddly. He handed her a piece of
wrinkled parchment. "Finn just found this on the floor there."

Megan
took the parchment and rapidly scanned its surface, then raised her eyes to
Patrick's. "Tis my writin' form, but, Patrick, I niver wrote this!"

"Oh,
no," asserted a breathless Mrs. Quimby as she craned her neck about
Megan's shoulder to view the parchment. "'Twas a gentlemun gave me that.
Th' lady 'ere, she'd already gone abed."

Patrick's
eyes went from the innkeeper's wife to Megan, then returned to the parchment.
"I didn't think you could have written it, Megan. You were with me from
the time Ashleigh left us until—" he glanced briefly at Mrs. Quimby, then
threw Megan a half smile "—until you retired. But," he added with a
tap on the parchment with the backs of his fingers, "someone with a knowledge
of your penmanship went to a great deal of trouble to make Ashleigh believe
you'd written it."

"Someone
rather skilled in the art o' forgery," Megan added grimly.

Patrick
turned to the stout, middle-aged matron. "Mrs. Quimby, you said a
gentleman handed you the note. Can you tell us what he looked like?"

"Oh,
that I can, sir," said Mrs. Quimby, suddenly brightening and no longer
twisting her apron nervously with her hands. "'E was tall—oh, not as tall
as you be, sir, but tall enough, just th' same—and 'e 'ad 'air th' color o'
ripe chestnuts—'andsome 'e was, too, with eyes neither blue nor green, but a
startlin' color somewheres in betwixt—beautiful eyes, if I may say so."

"Oh,
no," groaned Megan.

"Brett,"
groaned Patrick.

"Is
aught amiss?" questioned Mrs. Quimby, her hands again wringing her apron.

"Nothing
you need trouble yourself about, Mrs. Quimby," Patrick sighed. "Thank
you for your help." He glanced over at the stall that held Saint. "I
may have to ask your help in one more matter, however, or Mr. Quimby, perhaps.
My horse requires at least another couple of days' rest before he can travel.
I'll pay well for someone to tend him, as well as for a mount to hire until
he's fully mended. If you'll assist me..."

* * * * *

Ashleigh
sat wrapped in a monogrammed silk sheet and gazed about the chamber she'd come
to regard as her silken prison. For three lonely, frightening days and three
miserable nights, he had kept her imprisoned here. Beyond the lack of clothes
and someone to talk to, she hadn't wanted for anything. Well-prepared meals
were served to her three times a day by a taciturn Higgins; Higgins also lit a
fire for her in the beautiful Georgian marble fireplace if the evenings became
chilly; daily baths were prepared; candles were provided for the numerous
silver candlesticks in the chamber, and even lighted for her following the
manservant's trip with the evening supper tray.... She had everything she
required—except her freedom.

She
had no doubt as to why he'd brought her here, of course. It was to punish her
for leaving him; that much was clear. But what she hadn't learned was what his
plans for the future entailed—or if he indeed had any.

A
carriage rumbled by in the street outside the open front courtyard, but
Ashleigh paid it no heed. It wasn't that those passing by couldn't hear her if
she chose to open the front window and yell for help; it was that she was
completely helpless to do so. How could she yell publicly through a window in a
fashionable part of the city when she wore no clothes? Even if she dared risk it,
what could she say to an answering stranger, wrapped as she was, only in a
sheet? Considering the incredible details of her story, and whose house she was
in, she suspected such passersby would think her a shameless prankster, or
worse, stark raving mad; and this was to say nothing of the scandal it would
create!

Her
thoughts swung back to her husband and his unmitigated anger, as well as his
relentless determination to keep her in the dark as to what he planned to do
with her. Oh, it wasn't as if she had no access to him! On the contrary, he
entered the locked chamber nightly, always arriving well after midnight in the
blackest of moods.

He
rarely spoke two words to her then, but would cast dark and forbidding looks
her way before staggering to the bed and throwing himself, fully clothed, upon
the mattress beside her. And always, on these occasions, she would smell the
scent of liquor and some strange perfume he brought with him, before flinging
herself to the far side of the bed in fear and disgust.

But
he never made any further moves to touch her. In the mornings, when she awoke
later than was her custom—for she usually had trouble falling back to sleep
once he joined her— she'd find him gone, with nothing to show he'd even been
there, except a lingering scent of brandy and perfume. And if she'd had doubts
about leaving him and the fears that had prompted it, this present behavior
erased them from her mind. Not only was he spending his evenings with other
women; he was deliberately coming to her with evidence of it—flaunting it
before her with obvious intent.

So,
as the gray light of dawn crept through the windows, Ashleigh's thoughts would
focus on one thing: escape. Desperately, she willed Patrick and Megan to find
her, clung to the hope that they would—and soon—for she wasn't sure how much
more of her present wretchedness she could endure.

* * * * *

While
Ashleigh sat upstairs contemplating her fate, Brett was facing a problem of his
own on the floor below.

"Really,
Lady Margaret, I cannot see why you've come," he said with cool annoyance.
"You hardly ever come up to London, and I especially don't see why you
should be here in the warm season."

"Well,
then, Brett," said Margaret as she stepped farther into the entry foyer,
"you will simply have to allow me to explain myself." Glancing about,
she added, "Where are your servants? I'm aware that you occasionally stoop
to answering your own door, but—"

"I've
given all but Higgins a week's holiday."

"Holiday?
But whatever for? Surely you realize—"

Impatient,
Brett cut her off a second time. "Lady Margaret, kindly state your visit's
purpose and then leave. As you can see, without a staff, I am hardly in a
position to entertain guests."

Ignoring
him, Margaret walked toward the double doors on their right. "In the drawing
room, if you please, Your Grace. You can hardly expect me to discuss anything
standing in your foyer. Your manners are disgraceful! And ring for Higgins to
fetch some tea," she added while pulling open the double doors. "I've
had a long ride."

Sighing
with dislike and frustration, Brett did as she said, and a few minutes later,
found himself sitting across from her in an upholstered chair in the drawing
room. "Now," he said, "what is of such monumental importance
that it would bring you all the way up to London in the heat?"

"To
begin with,
this,"
she told him, handing over a sheet of paper
she'd extracted from her reticule.