You Only Love Twice (5 page)

He arched one brow. “Yes, I heard about the nuns, but I can hardly believe the story I was told. Why don’t you explain it to me in your own words?”

“There’s not much to tell. We’re going to bring some of our boys from the orphanage here, to teach them how to run a farm or apprentice them to local tradesmen, you know, so that they will have a chance of improving their lot when they leave here.”

“Just you and the nuns?”

“Oh no. We’ll hire people to help us.”

He laughed harshly. “And you expect me to believe that?”

When he took another step toward her, it flashed
through her mind that he was far more dangerous than she’d realized. Now that he was only a pace away, she saw things she hadn’t noticed before. He was in the grip of some powerful emotion he could hardly control. He stood there, staring at her, jaw clenched, hands fisting and unfisting at his sides.

She heard the catch in her throat and was aware that her pulse had leapt. If he wanted to, he could really hurt her. But she had the gun.

His voice was husky. “Why? Why did you come back?”

“I told you. For the children. We’re going to teach them to be farmers, or help them learn a trade.”

“Was it for the title? The money? Did you think the past wouldn’t make a difference? Answer me, Jess.”

Whatever he knew of Jessica Hayward obviously wasn’t to her credit. She didn’t have time to think about that now. He was closing the gap between them, forcing her to retreat. Her next step took her into the hall.

She moistened her lips. “Lord Dundas—”

He acted as though she’d struck him. “Christ, if you call me that again—”

He was reaching for her, and she jerked up the gun, pointing it straight at his chest. He stopped dead in his tracks. “I know how to use this,” she said, trying to control the wobble in her voice. “I’m warning you, don’t come any closer.”

The hard planes of his face gradually softened and he laughed low in his throat. “Now this is more like the Jess I know.” He spread his arms wide and took another step toward her. “Go on, then. Pull the trigger. You can’t miss me from that distance. Aim for here.” He touched his heart. “What’s the matter, Jess? Have you lost your nerve?”

She aimed for the floor, shut her eyes and squeezed the trigger. Nothing happened. It was a mistake that cost her dearly as she knew the moment she opened her eyes. His
face was livid with color and his lips were pulled back, baring his teeth.

“Christ! You vicious little bitch! If you had remembered to cock that firing piece, you would have emasculated me.”

Though she quailed before the thirteen stone of quivering masculine outrage that loomed over her, there was just enough of Sister Martha in her to be outraged as well. “Blasphemy,” she coldly informed him, “is not tolerated in this house.”

“The hell it isn’t!”

With a suddenness that caught her off guard, he grabbed for the gun and with one yank wrested it from her hands. She had the presence of mind to give him a hard shove, then she took off. She heard another violent oath, then the thud of his boots as he came after her. Panting as though her lungs would burst, she flung into the kitchen and made straight for the paddle beside the brick oven. Without waiting to take aim, she swung it in an arc and caught him a glancing blow on the shoulder. He staggered and cursed, but still came on. There was no stopping this man! She swung the paddle again, missed, and sent the crock of flour she’d set out on the table tumbling to the floor. A fine brown powder floated up.

He gave one of his infuriating low laughs and lunged for her. She swung at him again. This time her paddle collided with the pan of strawberry jam and sent it spinning. It hit the mantel with a resounding thud and exploded in a shower of gooey crimson rain. It rained on the ceiling, it rained on the floor. It rained on him, it rained on her.

Hands on hips, he threw back his head and hooted with laughter. “If you could only see yourself!”

She didn’t care what she looked like, not when she was facing a madman. Her eyes were trained on him, watching his every move. Her hands were clenched around the paddle, holding it like a lance. When he came at her, she
went for him, but he neatly sidestepped her. As she charged by, he grabbed her from behind, pinioning her arms to her sides, and he lifted her effortlessly off her feet. She bucked, she kicked, she twisted, she squirmed. She could not budge him. He was squeezing her so hard she thought she would suffocate. In a blind panic, she dropped the paddle. Almost at once, the pressure of his arms eased.

When her feet touched the floor, he slowly turned her to face him. “What in hell’s name did you think I was going to do to you?” he demanded, giving her a rough shake.

She didn’t have the breath to answer him. She was using the dregs of her strength to strain as far back as his hands would allow.

“Dammit, will you stop squirming?”

She stopped squirming.

His brows were a dark slash. His eyes moved slowly over her face. “You’re frightened of me,” he said, “really frightened.”

She wheezed out, “You attacked me.”

He gave a crooked half smile. “Jess, you were the one with the gun. You provoked me. You know you did.”

He was using the tone of voice she, herself, sometimes used with the children in the orphanage, when she wanted to soothe their fears. He didn’t seem like a dangerous lunatic now. In fact, that crooked half smile made him look almost harmless. With that thought, some of the tension drained out of her. She shrugged helplessly. “I thought you were mad.”

“And I thought you were … sweet.”

When he reached out with his hand, she jerked back. “Don’t!”

His hand dropped away. Something came and went in his eyes, pain, regret—whatever it was, it made her feel less threatened.

“It’s only a blob of jam,” he said.

She brushed her face with her hand. “Jam?”

“Allow me.” Again, his hand reached for her, but this time she didn’t flinch away. With the pad of his thumb, he removed the sticky substance from her chin. “Jam,” he said, showing it to her. Then, with eyes holding hers, he spread the jam on his tongue and swallowed.

The muscles in her throat contracted involuntarily. She felt the swift rise and fall of her breasts. A strange expectancy gripped her. As his eyes continued to hold hers, her heart began to pound.

He let his breath out slowly. “It’s still there, isn’t it, Jess? You feel it, too. Is this why you came back? Is it, Jess?
Is it?
No, don’t push me away. I won’t hurt you. I just want to hold you.”

She didn’t resist when he drew her into the circle of his arms. Something stirred in her, something that went beyond memory. Her brow wrinkled as she searched his face. Here was someone who could tell her all she wanted to know about Jessica Hayward. Then his dark head descended and she froze as his mouth touched hers.

Before she could draw a breath to protest, every fiber of her being was electrified. The terror she had experienced only moments before at the hands of this man was forgotten, as were the rules she was sworn to uphold as a nun. Sister Martha might never have existed for all the impression she made on Jessica. The kitchen of Hawkshill Manor slipped quietly into oblivion. The only reality she was sure of was the rightness of being in his arms. Her mind might not recognize this man, but there was something in the deepest reaches of her psyche that was profoundly affected. In that moment, she could have sworn he was as familiar to her as the beat of her own heart.

She was captivated by the gentleness of the powerful arms that held her; she was enthralled by the reverence of his lips as they moved on hers. He kissed her again and again, each kiss sweeter than the last. Her lips softened
beneath the pressure of his, and her hands moved of their own volition to slide over his shoulders and into his hair.

That small act of surrender changed everything. He tore his mouth from hers and covered her face with hard, random kisses, her throat, her breasts. His chest rose and fell rapidly. Air rushed in and out of his lungs.

“Jess,” he whispered hoarsely, “Jess.”

She cried out when he lowered her to the table, then she relaxed as he came down beside her. She wasn’t afraid. Memories that were born and bred into every cell and sinew of her body had taken over.

He was staring down at her through the veil of his thick dark lashes.

“I trust you,” she whispered, and the truth of it awed her.

He went perfectly still. “You trust me?” She nodded.

With a savage oath, he pulled to his feet. A muscle clenched in his jaw and the violence was back in his eyes.

Shocked, she rose to her elbows. “What did I say?” she cried out.

He lowered his head till his face was within an inch of hers. “You have a poor memory,” he said, snarling the words. “That’s exactly what you said the last time. I lost Bella because of you, and for what? A toss in the hay that didn’t amount to much.”

His sneer became more pronounced when he straightened and began to adjust his clothing. “For God’s sake, tidy yourself. And get off that table before someone walks in here. Or is that what your scheming little mind is hoping will happen? If you think I can be browbeaten into marrying you, you can think again.”

Jessica’s scattered thoughts were beginning to come together, and the more they came together, the more appalled she was. She was the lunatic, not he! With a gasping cry, she scrambled off the table and stared at it in horror, wondering what on earth could have possessed
her to go so far. Burning with shame, she turned to face him.

The contempt in his eyes goaded a temper that she had not known was there. “I didn’t invite you here,” she said. “You invited yourself. And as for browbeating you into marriage, I’d sooner take my vows.”

His mouth curved in an unpleasant smile, then he turned on his heel and strode for the door. At the threshold, he turned back. “You still haven’t answered my question. Why did you come back? And don’t give me that faradiddle about the boys from the orphanage. That may do for the nuns, but it won’t do for me.”

She lifted her chin a notch and looked him squarely in the eyes. She wanted to shake him as much as he had shaken her. “I came back to find a murderer,” she said.

All the color washed out of his face and his eyes flared. In a low, driven tone, he said, “I want you out of here. Oh, the nuns can stay, but you go. Get back to your nunnery, Jess. There’s no place for you here. If you won’t go willingly, I’ll make you go. Do I make myself clear?”

He didn’t wait for her answer, but slammed the door as he left.

CHAPTER
4

T
he attorney passed the documents to Jessica, sat back in his chair and gave her a moment to absorb what she was reading.

Finally raising her eyes, she said, “Two thousand pounds?” It seemed like a fortune. This was the residue of her father’s estate after taxes and various obligations had been discharged.

“Naturally, it’s invested,” said Mr. Rempel. “You’ll have a small income, and if you’re careful and leave the capital intact, it should be enough for your needs.” He shook his head. “There should have been more, much more, but your father was not exactly a provident man.”

Jessica felt as though a weight had been lifted from her shoulders. When she’d come into town in answer to Mr. Rempel’s brief note, she’d feared he would hand her an eviction notice signed by Lord Dundas. Three days had passed since he’d threatened to drive her out of Hawkshill, but so far he’d taken no action against her. Now, he could do what he liked and it wouldn’t matter. She could
move out of Hawkshill and take lodgings in town. Modest lodgings, but she was used to that.

She hadn’t been prepared to like Mr. Rempel when she’d entered his office. A great deal had changed in five minutes and she looked at him with different eyes. He was small and rotund, the picture of a congenial country gentleman who spent more time out of doors than he did at his desk.

“I didn’t expect anything like this,” she said, handing him back the documents.

He misunderstood. “No. As I said, your father wasn’t a provident man. If it had not been for Lucas there would have been even less of an estate to pass on.”

Her shoulders involuntarily stiffened. “What does Lord Dundas have to do with my father’s estate?”

“When Hawkshill went up for sale, Lucas bought it for far more than it was worth.”

“Why would he do such a thing?”

“Why?” The attorney picked up a pen and studied it carefully. “You’ll have to ask Lucas that question.” He looked up and shrugged. “I’ve known Lucas since he was a boy. He has always been openhanded, even when he was poor and living off the charity of his relations. He felt responsible, I suppose, perhaps even guilty, though no one blamed him for what happened to your father that night.”

“What happened to my father?”

He looked at her in surprise. “You don’t know?”

She shook her head.

“It was in all the papers, oh, not just the local papers, but in the London
Gazette
as well.”

“I didn’t see them.” When he hesitated, she went on. “Please, don’t spare my feelings. I have to know.”

He looked down at his hands. “He was shot to death by some assailant as he made his way home from a local tavern. Shot in the back, to be precise.”

She felt as though the ground beneath her feet had
suddenly shifted and she was tottering on the edge of a black hole. She had never imagined anything like this.

All she’d known was what the woman in the infirmary had told her, that her parents were dead. Mrs. Marshal had said nothing of murder. Perhaps she hadn’t known. Or perhaps she had known but hadn’t wanted to upset one of the nuns who was nursing her.

The solicitor was watching her, waiting for her to react to the news he’d just broken. A normal girl would have feelings; a normal girl would break down in tears, or rant and rage about this horrible thing that had happened to her father. But she wasn’t normal. She had no memory of her father. Then why did she feel so shattered?

“Miss Hayward, are you all right? Can I get you a glass of water? Brandy?”