Taken and Seduced (22 page)

Was that the right thing to do? she wondered in desperation. Perhaps Adam really would come after her, instead of going to London. But then again, it might only delay the inevitable. Christina had urged her to stop—and now so was Sir Timothy, who obviously loved Adam.

“She’s not going with you,” said an angry voice through the trees.

Florrie stiffened and looked over her shoulder to see Adam emerging. She could not lie to herself—she was glad that he’d come for her.

She knew she had fallen in love with him, regardless of how it would change her life.

R
elief flooded through Adam at seeing Florrie safe. After capturing the other Bladesman watching his encampment, he’d known she was a prisoner of the League, which gave him some comfort.

He looked at his foster father grimly. Before he could speak, Timothy grinned.

“’Tis good to see you, son.”

“Under these conditions?”

“Under any conditions. And tracking us here, in the gloom before dawn—so impressive and rare. But you always did have the eyes of a cat.”

Adam wasn’t in the mood for fatherly praise. “Did you tell the League that you’d given me Martindale’s name as the suspect in my parents’ death?” He gestured to Florrie, and she immediately came to his side so that he could unbind her wrists.

Sir Timothy put his hands on his hips, not shirking away from the question. “Aye, I did, and it grieved me. At first I withstood their pressure,
but young Rob disappeared, too, and then the Lady Florence. ’Twas pointless to deny that you knew Martindale’s identity.”

Adam nodded. “You know me better than almost anyone. How could I live with myself if there was no justice for my parents? And ’twas my fault that the pendant wasn’t at the site of the murders to connect Martindale with the crime.”

“Adam, you speak of the past as if you were a man full grown then, instead of a grieving little boy. Come to peace with yourself, son.”

“That is where you misunderstand me, Timothy. I am at peace with this decision to challenge Martindale.” Why did he sound as if he were trying to convince himself? Surely Timothy could see that, too. “He’s not even truly the marquess. He’s illegitimate, a secret he’s been hiding for a long time. And I think my parents discovered it, which is why they were killed.”

“Then you’ve learned the reason, and without proof, who will believe you—who will care?”

“But there’s proof, a parish death record. If Martindale hasn’t destroyed it already. He keeps it in his bedchamber.” Adam wanted to rub his hands over his face. He was so tired. He looked down at Florrie, and she was watching him solemnly. Was Robert right—did she love him? And what was he supposed to do about it? For after all, she didn’t trust him.

But the thought of her love gave him an unexpected pang of need. Was that not a weakness?

Timothy changed the subject. “Lady Florence tells me you were attacked by a band of men. I was the second team sent, so they were not Bladesmen. I know you think that makes them Martindale’s soldiers”—he glanced at Florrie apologetically—“but I think not.”

Adam stiffened. “Tell me what you know.”

Timothy almost seemed uncomfortable.

Quietly, Florrie said, “You may speak before me, Sir Timothy. I want only the truth, and your good opinion matters.”

Timothy sighed. “I believe those men cannot be Martindale’s, because he sent a message for you, Adam.”

Adam frowned in confusion. “For me? I only told him the name of one village where we could communicate, but there was no message waiting for me there.”

“It came later, and the Bladesmen involved forwarded it to me.”

Timothy fell silent, and Adam’s unease grew.

“What did it say?” Florrie asked.

Adam heard a tremble in her soft voice, but as usual, she would face anything, however difficult.

Timothy said, “Martindale wrote that since you had taken his daughter”—he cleared his throat—“compromised her, that Lady Florence is yours now, without a dowry.”

She gasped, putting a hand to her lips.

“Further, he said that you should be grateful he doesn’t claim you as her rapist.”

Adam thought of Martindale’s motive for such a missive—was he trying to trade the silence of one crime for the other, as if Adam were expected to be a part of some kind of pact? Then he watched Florrie’s face pale, saw the way she schooled her features, tried to dismiss her own pain. She’d spent her life doing that.

Even though Florrie knew she shouldn’t be surprised at her father’s open dismissal of her—he’d made sure she knew she didn’t count—the pain of such an abandonment was almost too much to bear. After all, he didn’t know Adam, or how she’d been treated. Adam could have been…a cruel monster. And her father didn’t care.

She saw Sir Timothy watching her with the sadness of a parent who understood a child’s pain. Her own father had never been that kind of parent. She was glad Adam had someone who cared so deeply about him.

Adam was watching her, too, and she saw an echo of her pain in him, but he seemed to put it aside just as she always did. They were more alike than he realized, she thought sadly.

“Timothy, go back to the League,” Adam said. “You’ve delivered your message, and you’ve tried to do what they wished. Tell them to leave me alone.”

Timothy watched Adam in surprise. “I hear…bitterness in your voice when you mention the League. It surprises me.”

“It should not. I have been thinking much about my childhood, and much about how the League cared more about helping others than helping me find justice for my family.”

Timothy winced. “We’ve been through all of this, Adam. But as for your childhood—”

Adam held up a hand. “We can discuss it at another time.”

“Nay, listen to me. From the beginning I failed you. I allowed a vote by the League council to matter more than my opinion about how best to raise you. I wasn’t a father; I thought I did not have the right or the ability to express my opinion.”

“You did not fail him,” Florrie said, feeling the tightness in her throat. “You did the best you could, and you raised three boys to honorable men. Not many can say that.” She hated that she sounded bitter. That was not who she was.

“I can make up for a small part of it,” Timothy continued. “I can warn you. Be careful, Adam, for they have men watching Martindale in London.”

“If I make a public challenge, no one can—”

“Titles and crowns could be thrown into chaos by the simplest action. Make sure you understand what you do.” He took a step toward his horse. “My partner?”

“He is with Robert.”

Timothy led his horse forward. “My lady, would you care to ride my partner’s horse? Adam can ride with you, and I’ll take the lead.”

She was suddenly so tired. Without speaking, she only nodded. Adam mounted and leaned down for her. She took his hand, then let him pull her up until she could reach the stirrup and slide her other leg behind him. Sir Timothy swung into his saddle, then led the way back through the trees.

Though she’d just been half dragged this way, riding back seemed just as long. She clung to Adam’s waist, her anger with him forgotten, pressing her cheek against his broad, warm back. At last they reached their little encampment, where Michael was guarding their new prisoner. When Sir Timothy’s partner saw him, the man heaved a sigh.

“Will you release him?” Sir Timothy asked Michael.

Michael looked to Adam, who nodded.

“Heed my words,” Adam said, too quietly. “Go now and do not return. Make them understand that you raised me; therefore, they must trust what I intend to do.”

Timothy stared at him thoughtfully, then nodded without speaking.

Adam dismounted, and Florrie followed him. Robert, smiling with chagrin, went to Sir Timothy, who reached down and touched his head as if he were still a child.

“I hope you understand my part in this,” Robert said.

“I do.” Sir Timothy smiled. “You are helping your brother. I hope you can understand—and forgive me—for my part…in everything.”

The other Bladesman mounted his horse, and together the two of them rode away.

Florrie stood beside Adam as they watched the men disappear through the trees. “You did not settle anything with him,” she said.

“’Tis not the time.”

“Will you make time someday?”

He glanced down at her. “I will. But what of you? That was a terrible thing your father did.”

She suddenly felt on display, knowing that Robert watched her curiously. Although Michael busied himself with a meal, he, too, was listening.

“I…I do not wish to talk about it right now. We will sleep through the morning?”

Adam nodded. “Do you want something to eat first?”

She shook her head, crawled into her blankets, and wished she could bury herself and not have to feel.

Adam had gotten several hours rest himself, then let Robert sleep while he stood guard. But he was watching Florrie too much. Her sleep seemed disturbed by dreams, for behind her lids her eyes moved too much, and the occasional frown chased across her sweet features.

How much more would she have to bear?

He found a patch of flowers and laid some beside her, hoping that seeing something beautiful would lift her spirits, as she’d taught him.

His parents had not been at fault when he’d been left orphaned; the same was not true of Martindale. He’d discarded Florrie as if she were nothing to him. How many more sins could such a man commit?

He thought again of everything Florrie had done to try to change him—to redeem him in Christina’s words. At last it dawned on him that all this time, if Florrie had been triumphant in keeping his combat with her father from ever happening, she would have been sentencing herself to the convent, where her father wanted her.

How could anyone be so selfless? She was a woman who was trying to save Adam’s soul more than save her father’s life. Christina was right.

Except for Sir Timothy’s awkward parenthood, such selfless caring had been rare in his life, and it had taken him too long to recognize it. With his ignorant stupidity, he’d hurt Florrie too many times. How could he be the one to hurt her again, when she felt herself abandoned in the world?

He realized at last that he could not challenge her father to combat.

The sudden absence of the goal that had driven him his whole life was like a void inside him. But he would find other ways to fill it. And he still
meant to confront Martindale, and discover the truth. But Florrie did not want the stain of killing on his soul, and that was enough for him.

Was this love? he wondered. But how could he love a woman who was the daughter of his enemy, who didn’t yet trust him?

He looked down at her innocent face, free of expression, as if in her dreams she’d found peace at last. But soon she would wake up and remember. He would give anything not to see the shadow of hurt that would come into those vivid green eyes.

Florrie came slowly awake as she heard the men move around their camp. She felt stiff and groggy, not rested in the least. And then she saw the white daisies beside her.

Adam had given her flowers?

She pushed herself slowly into a sitting position, then reached for the flowers. They were something beautiful, when the rest of the world seemed so cold and barren this morn.

She lifted her gaze and found Adam watching her solemnly. How did he feel, knowing he’d suddenly become responsible for her? She could not imagine allowing such an embarrassment. And she wouldn’t. She had to make him understand.

He came over to her and knelt down. “How do you fare?”

She shrugged even as she gave him a small smile. “I will be fine. The flowers are lovely.”

To her surprise, he ducked his head. It was…endearing.

“Foolish, I know,” he said, “especially when things are so bleak. But you said you liked to look at pretty things.”

“They certainly can lift a mood,” she said brightly, knowing that today it wasn’t the truth.

“Come with me,” he said, taking her hand and helping her to her feet.

He nodded at Robert, who nodded back, looking amused. Florrie could have blushed at the picture they made, with one hand in Adam’s and the other clutching daisies.

He took her back to the stream where Sir Timothy had captured her just hours ago. But in daylight, with the sun dappled through the trees, and more flowers peering between rocks and ferns, it was a place to soothe the soul. She sighed and tried to let such beauty work its magic.

“Florrie, that missive from your father—” He broke off.

She wouldn’t let her hard-fought contentment wane. “Think nothing of it, Adam. Though it was a blow, I gradually realized it was not unexpected. I was always an afterthought to my father, and he wanted to be rid of me one way or another. You provided a legitimate excuse.”

“But you had hoped for…contentment in the convent.”

He sounded so wary, she almost laughed. “So I told myself. I will find contentment in other ways.
You do not need to worry. I am certain Christina would gladly allow me to live with her. Thank you so much for giving me the opportunity to know her better. She’s—”

Suddenly, he grasped her shoulders, and her traitorous body began to surge to life.

“I do not wish to talk about Christina, or the distant future. I want you to know I’ve reconsidered, and I will not challenge your father to combat.”

Her gasp was deep and ragged, and her eyes stung with grateful tears. She wrung her hands together to keep from clutching him. “Oh, Adam what made you change your mind?”

He looked away. “Many things, but my decision is final.”

He might be annoyed if she cried, so she kept it inside, humbled by gratitude toward God for allowing her to somehow help Adam.

“I am glad, Adam,” she said quietly. “For you see, ’twould have been an easy victory for you. My father is old and frequently ill.”

He frowned at her. “How can that be true? Only last spring, I heard word of his victory over that Frenchman named…”

His voice died away as she shook her head.

“All his recent ‘victories’ of the last few years were fabrications on his part. He was too vain to believe that the world should know he was an old man, long past his prime. I didn’t tell you this, because I knew you would make the right decision eventually.”

He folded his arms across his chest. “You could not be certain of that. Even I was not certain until just this morn, although I’d begun to have my doubts. Are there any other truths you’ve withheld?”

Solemnly, she said, “You know everything I know.”

“Then I will tell you the rest of my decision,” he answered. “I must yet face your father, Florrie, even though I have promised not to challenge him.”