Jillian started down the path again, snatching a late-blooming chrysanthemum as she passed by. "Don't start on me again. You know why I've not said anything. If I tell Duncan, he'll kick Algernon out of the house."
"He shouldn't be here."
"And who will care for the dowager besides hired servants when Duncan and I have gone to America?" She spun around on the path, walking backward. "Tell me that."
Beatrice shook her head, pulling her brown wrap tighter around her shoulders. "That's not up to you. She's Duncan's grandmother. That's his duty. But your duty, as wife to the earl, is to tell him what happens in his household."
Jillian gave an exasperated sigh as she turned face-forward again. "Algernon is also Daphne's grandson, and he's harmless."
"You hope. You pray."
"He wouldn't hurt me. He wouldn't dare." She thought grimly of what had happened when she struck him. Algernon had crumbled. "He hasn't the bullocks."
Beatrice covered her mouth with her pale hand, shocked by her sister's bold talk. "Jilly!"
Jillian chuckled, amused by how easily her sister was offended. Jillian guessed she herself had been spending too much time in the company of Duncan and Will, that was where her boldness was coming from. "I don't want to talk about this anymore, Bea." She tucked the white flower behind her ear. "The subject is closed. Now, come on, let's go see that horse the dowager wants us to. You know how annoyed she gets when she has to wait on anyone." Jillian smiled at her sister.
After a moment, Beatrice smiled back. "All right, but promise me you'll think about talking to Duncan." She hurried to catch up. "Promise me if Algernon bothers you again you'll tell your husband."
"I promise! I promise!" They turned the corner around a Roman pillar, and the estate's great barn loomed ahead.
"Ladies!" The dowager waved when she saw them, motioning to them. "Come, come, while the groom is still leading him." The dowager was dressed in a burgundy riding gown of the latest French fashion, with a skirt, and a coat identical to a man's riding coat. Her cocked hat, set perfectly on her dyed red head, was ornamented with a burgundy feather. "Good afternoon." She smiled as the girls approached. "I've been waiting for you." She pointed, turning to watch the groom lead the roan horse by them. "Isn't he a handsome sight?"
Jillian wondered if Duncan's grandmother meant the horse or the groom, but she didn't dare ask. "Aye," she answered, watching the horse go by. "And so calm. You've done a superb job with him, Daphne."
"Stuff and nonsense! I've done nothing but give him a little time and a little lead line." She eyed Jillian speculatively. "The horse was sorely treated by its last master. What he needed was understanding, and patience."
Jillian wasn't certain, but she got the impression the dowager was not just talking about the gelding. She was talking about Duncan, too, wasn't she?
"Sometimes situations are not as they appear," the dowager went on. "But these matters can be settled."
Jillian exhaled. "Duncan and I are all right, Daphne. We're simply taking time to get to know each other."
The dowager watched as the gelding walked by again. "Well, I must say, in my day, a bride and groom slept together, but then what am I but an old woman? What do I know, but of soft porridge and aching bones?"
Jillian caught Beatrice's eye and smiled. "Don't worry about us. Duncan and I will settle our differences in due time."
"I want great-grandchildren. I'm not getting younger, you know."
Jillian stroked the old woman's arm. Jillian knew the dowager well enough to realize that, despite her gruffness, she wished them good will and happiness. "There will be children, God willing."
The dowager tapped her silver-tipped cane on a flagstone, thoughtful. "I wish you had known him when he was a child, before he went to those Colonies, before he changed."
"What was he like? He won't talk about himself or his past."
The elder woman smiled, her head surely full of dusty memories. "He was a smart lad. Curious, always laughing . . ."
Jillian could have guessed the intelligence, the curiosity, for she surely saw that was a part of him now—but laughter?
"Indeed," the dowager continued with a chuckle. "I'll never forget him, that Christmas morning. He couldn't have been more than three years, barely into his breeches. His father gave him a rocking horse." She reached out, closing her eyes, stroking the toy she imagined in her head. "It was made of sleek mahogany." She inhaled deeply. "It smelled of freshly oiled wood." She opened her eyes, smiling. "That boy rode that horse straight through until evening. He even made his father carry it up to his trundle so the horse could sleep beside him."
Jillian smiled at the thought of young Duncan being so carefree and couldn't help wondering where that boy had gone. What terrible events that the dowager would only hint at had occurred in the Colonies? What had changed him, and how could she help him? "I wish I could have seen him like that," Jillian told Duncan's grandmother. She watched the gelding go by. "I wonder what happened to that rocking horse."
"I imagine the old thing is still in the attic with his cradle."
"Is it?" Jillian had a thought. "Do you think I could find it up there?"
The old woman shrugged her shoulders. "Imagine you could, if you had a mind to." She turned to look at both sisters. "So who's going riding with me? Bea? Shall we put a little rose to those pale cheeks?" She squeezed her hand with good humor.
Beatrice shrank back. "Oh, madame, I'd rather not. You know I'm not terribly fond of horses."
"I'll go," Jillian piped in. "Do you mind waiting whilst I change? I've a mind for a little fresh air and wind."
"I'll wait for you, granddaughter." The dowager shooed the women with a gloved hand. "But you'll have to hurry. The Countess of Shrewsbury is expecting Beatrice and me at six." She began to walk away, headed toward the stables. "I fear we'll have to hear about her ague again, but at least her cakes are sweet and her footman sweeter." She gave a wink over her shoulder.
Jillian was still chuckling to herself when she and Beatrice entered the house. Hand in hand, they went up the grand staircase, now partially blocked by skeletal scaffolding.
At Jillian's bedchamber door, the sisters parted. "I'm going to see that the dowager's gown is pressed for this evening. You know how she likes to show off in front of Shrewsbury," Beatrice told Jillian. "Enjoy your ride."
Beatrice had just turned to go when Jillian heard a sound in her bedchamber. Odd, she thought. The room had already been cleaned thoroughly this morning. What need would there be for a servant to be in her apartments?
Beatrice must have seen the perplexed look on her sister's face, because she stopped midway down the hall. "What is it?" she asked softly. "Something wrong?"
Jillian pointed to her closed door. "There's someone in there," she mouthed.
"Duncan?"
Jillian made a face. Beatrice knew Duncan wasn't sleeping with her. Apparently everyone in the household knew, probably everyone in London. "No. He went to the docks early this morning," she whispered. "He said he'd join me for supper tonight."
The two sisters' gazes met. Jillian knew Beatrice was thinking what she was thinking. Algernon. Would he dare, with his grandmother on the property?
Beatrice came to Jillian, taking her arm and whispering. "Just come to my chamber with me. I'll send a servant for something. That will scare him off."
Jillian stared at the closed panel door. Algernon didn't have a right to make her afraid like this. She'd not stand for it, she thought stubbornly.
When Jillian reached for the doorknob, Beatrice tried to grab her hand, but it was too late. "What do you think you're doing?" Jillian demanded as the door swung open.
To the women's surprise, they were met by Duncan's sheepish face.
"Duncan?"
"Jillian?"
Jillian touched her breast lightly. Her heart was pounding. "It's just Duncan," she told Beatrice with a breath of relief.
Beatrice was already backing out of the
doorway, her face red with embarrassment. "Good day, my lord," she called making a fast exit.
"Whom were you expecting?" Duncan asked. "Is there something wrong? The two of you are acting damned odd. Odder than normal."
Now Jillian felt silly. She closed the door behind her. "It—it was nothing. Just . . ." She dug for a tiny lie. This wasn't the time to discuss Algernon. It wasn't the place. Besides, he'd not bothered her in days. She'd not even seen him. "I suspected one of the serving girls has been sneaking into my room to snitch my perfume. I only thought to catch her in the act and teach her a lesson."
He nodded his head, but seemed unconvinced.
Jillian's brow crinkled. "What are you doing here anyway?" In my chamber, she wanted to add. He'd not even attempted to set foot inside since their disastrous wedding night. "I thought you'd gone to the wharfs." She glanced behind him. He seemed to be hiding something on the side table beside the fireplace. "Duncan?"
"I . . ."
She walked toward him craning her neck. Behind him on the cherry table lay a bundle of freshly picked flowers, surely the last in the dowager's fall garden. "Duncan?" She looked at him. "You were doing this? You've been putting the flowers in my room?" She knotted her fingers together, smiling. "I've always thought it was the servants. I thought your grandmother sent them up. She didn't deny it when I thanked her."
Jillian could have sworn she saw Duncan's cheek blush. "It's nothing. I . . . " He was struggling for words, something Jillian found touching. "I only wanted to make you feel more at home." He turned and stuffed the flowers unceremoniously into the empty vase. "It was really nothing."
Jillian walked up behind her husband and took his arm, gently turning him until he faced her. "Thank you, Duncan. It was very thoughtful."
He looked down at her. "Just flowers, Jilly."
She threaded her fingers through his. "Just flowers," she mimicked. Then she raised up on her toes and pressed a bold kiss to his mouth. "Just flowers," she whispered. "And just a very sweet gesture." Then she leaned over the table and took a deep breath, inhaling the sweet scent of the late blooms.
Duncan suddenly seemed flustered. "I—I came back for some records." He started moving toward the door, going on faster than before. "I had said I'd return home in time to sup with you, but I fear I won't make it. I've business with my goldsmith and then I'm to meet with a group of merchants. They've a shipping venture to discuss."
"It's all right." She smiled, pleased with him, pleased with herself. She was making progress with this masked man. It was slow and they had setbacks, but she was truly beginning to believe that she could make a life with the Earl of Cleaves, even a happy one. "I'll see you for breakfast."
He had reached the door. "Good. Excellent. And . . . and tomorrow afternoon, we'll go with Will to the bearbaiting if you'd like."
She wrinkled her nose. "I'd rather see a play. Cleopatra is playing at the King's theater. Your grandmother said she enjoyed it."
"Fine. Good. Until tomorrow, then."
And before Jillian could say another word, Duncan had hurried out of her chamber, closing the door behind him.
Duncan reached the staircase before he grabbed the rail and closed his eyes. He could feel his heart pounding, his palms cold and sweaty. He couldn't get any air, as if a Huron had his hand on his neck, squeezing his life's breath out of him.
Duncan squeezed his eyes tighter, trying to blank out the memories. He didn't know what set them off. He didn't know why he couldn't control them . . .
Suddenly Duncan's head was filled with the sound of laughter . . . his sister's laughter. Sally . . . Sally . . .
Then he saw her.
She was running through the field of wildflowers, her baby honey-blond hair rippling down her back. Duncan was pretending he couldn't run as fast as his little sister. It was her favorite game.
Then the scene changed and Duncan was standing alone in the field, his hands useless at his sides. He couldn't scream. He couldn't move. He was paralyzed by his terror. At his feet lay sweet Sally, a bloody mass where the four-year-old's face had been. Where was her hair? Where was the blond hair that a moment before had blown in the summer breeze?
Then, as quickly as it had come, the waking nightmare was gone.
Duncan felt the tears on his cheeks and wiped at them with the back of his hand. Cautiously, he raised his head to look in one direction and then the other. The staircase was empty, the hall behind him empty. Getting his bearings, he started down the steps again, feeling like an ass. That was how he always felt when this happened. Out of control. He needed to work, to concentrate on getting his ships loaded. As soon as his wife was pregnant, he would set sail. There was so much work to be done on his plantation in the Maryland Colony that he wouldn't have the time for this nonsense there. There the visions would leave him. There he'd finally have some peace.
Late in the evening, when Beatrice and the dowager had turned in for the night, Jillian lay in her bed trying to read a book of sonnets Duncan had brought her. She liked the poetry, but for some reason tonight she couldn't concentrate.
She had been very pleased to discover that it was Duncan who had been bringing her the flowers ever since the first day she'd come to his home. That was tangible proof that he cared for her, wasn't it?
But that wasn't enough. Jillian knew that it was up to her to bridge the gap between them. She had to be the one to convince him to lower his veil, both literally and figuratively.
She thought of the young boy the dowager had spoken of today, and then an idea came to her.
Jillian rose from her bed and covered her sleeping gown with a flowing silk night rail Duncan had given her. He said it had come in on one of his boats from the Orient. She slipped her feet into a pair of mules. Then, taking a candlestick off the fireplace mantel, she crept out of her room. The hallway was dark and empty, of course. Duncan still wasn't home. With Algernon gone on another one of his reported binges of drinking and whoring and the servants having turned in for the night, Jillian was completely alone in this wing of the house.
Swallowing against her childish fears of the dark, Jillian went down the hallway to the end and opened the small paneled door. A narrow staircase loomed before her. This led to the rambling attic that ran the full length and width of Breckenridge House. The dowager had taken Jillian and Beatrice up one afternoon to see it. The attic was a maze of rooms cluttered with centuries of cast-off furniture, portraits, and clothing. Each section led into another, attic extensions built as additions to the main house were added through the years.
Even in the light of day, Jillian had found the attic eerie. The ghosts of years past had seemed to her to hover in the dust motes. It occurred to Jillian, as she stood at the bottom of the steps, that perhaps she should wait until daylight to go up alone; but up there, somewhere, was the rocking horse. Up there, in the darkness, she told herself, was a piece of Duncan she didn't know.
"What a silly goose," she said aloud, chuckling. "Ghosts, indeed!" And her voice comforted her, chasing away her silly fears. She was a grown woman, married, for heaven's sake. By right, this was her house. And she certainly wasn't afraid to walk about it at night.
Hiking up her silk robe, Jillian ascended the steep staircase, raising the candlestick to light her way. At the top of the stairs, she turned right with confidence. She remembered a small room in this direction where she'd seen crates of books and piles of children's old toys. Perhaps there she would find Duncan's rocking horse.
Now that Jillian was in the attic, she really wasn't afraid. Actually, the low-ceilinged rooms seemed rather friendly, reminding her of the attic at her father's country home where she and her sisters had grown up. This attic smelled the same. There was something about that telltale scent of warped floorboards, musty books, and rodent droppings that gave her a sense of continuity. Perhaps someday her own son or daughter would traipse through this attic in search of a lost childhood memory.
Jillian ducked her head to avoid a l
ow rafter and rounded an old leather trunk, walking into a smaller room. She knew she was close now. She recognized a torn portrait of some great-uncle left leaning against a three-legged chair.
It was when she stepped down into the next room that she heard a sound that made her turn on the balls of her feet. What was it?
A mouse? A rat?
She stood for a moment, holding her breath, listening . . .
Then she heard it again.
Footsteps?
A chill ran up her spine. "Hallo? Someone there?" she called.
Nothing now . . . not even the footsteps.
But Jillian knew someone was there. She knew it. "Algernon!" she shouted.
No answer.
Then, after a long moment of eerie silence, she heard the footsteps again. This time there was no mistaking them.
A chill crept up Jillian's spine. This had been stupid, coming up here alone in the dark. How could she have been so foolish? What if Algernon tried to attack her? He had threatened her, hadn't he? Even if she screamed, who would hear her now?
Staring into the darkness in the direction she'd come from, Jillian put out her candle with her fingertips. It was all she could think to do.
Instantly, she was surrounded by velvety blackness. He had almost reached her now. He carried no light, but she knew he was there. She could hear him breathing.
Ten
Jillian held her breath, inching her way backwards. She prayed that in the darkness he wouldn't see her . . . wouldn't hear her heart pounding.
"Who's there!"
The male voice, coming from so near, startled Jillian so that she flinched. She recognized the voice immediately, but it wasn't Algernon's. She gripped the candlestick tightly in her fingers. "D—Duncan?"
"Jillian?"
She exhaled with relief. "Oh, you scared me." She reached out in the darkness to him, her heart still thumping beneath her breast. Her hand met with the solid wall of his chest.
"What the hell are you doing up here in the dark, Jillian? Why are you calling for Algernon?" But even as he spoke the angry words, he was pulling her into his arms to comfort her.
My Savage Lord (Hidden Identity) Page 10
