The Secret Lover

by Julia London

  Which left her with the image of Caleb to haunt her.

  The more miles between her and London she traveled, the more imperative it became that she accept the fact she would never see him again. The despair that welled in her was enough to drown her; it filled the emptiness, the dull ache that would not go away, would not let her sleep. How she had managed to let propriety and protocol and all the little rules of the ton guide her heart was now unfathomable to her. It seemed so shallow…but it had been so easy to do.

  She could have learned from Caleb instead of hurting him—he had accepted who she was, and had shown more regard for the person she was than her family ever had. Her gift in return was an outright rejection of his love because of who he was. She missed him. Missed him so much that she felt she was dissolving under the weight of it.

  By the time the coach pulled into the tiny courtyard of the Ravenfield Inn in the hamlet of St. Neots that evening, Sophie thought she was on the verge of being ill. The throbbing pain in her head was enough to drive her to her knees. The children were pouting and restless, and the man sitting next to her had fallen asleep, his arm a dead weight on her leg.

  “All out for the night. We resume the drive to Petersborough at precisely seven o’clock on the morrow,” the driver called up as he opened the door.

  That announcement caused one of the children to whine. Their mother—who looked as exhausted as Sophie felt—pushed first one, then the other, through the door, wiggling out behind them. The man went next, slowly and carefully, causing the coach to tilt dangerously to one side. When Sophie finally disembarked, it felt as if she were standing on hundreds of needles, her legs and feet were so numb.

  She wandered about the courtyard for a few minutes, trying to circulate her blood. The sound of laughter and cheerful voices filtered out into the courtyard through an open window—the inn was obviously very crowded. Curious, Sophie walked to the window and peered inside. The place was filled to almost overflowing; the entire village of St. Neots had come for a tankard of ale.

  When she stepped through the entrance, her senses were immediately overwhelmed by the smell of ale and fish and human flesh. Several heads turned in her direction, then quickly away again when the patrons realized she was no one they knew. Sophie walked farther into the room; a small little man hurried over to her, stood hopping from one foot to the next as he wiped his hands on a rag.

  “From the public coach, are you? We’ve an attic room for the night, if it suits you, milady. A little close, but the bed is clean, it is.”

  That was, remarkably, a rather strong selling point after last night. “Thank you, that will be fine,” she muttered, finding several coins in her reticule for him.

  He pocketed the coins. “I’ll fetch you a key. In the meantime, you need not put up with this rabble. We’ve a private room in the back if you’d like—or a table in the corner just there.” Like a bird, he motioned with his head in the general direction of the table.

  The last thing Sophie wanted was a private room where her misery could swallow her whole. “Thank you, but the common room will be fine,” she said, and pushed through the crush of tables and people toward the small table he had indicated. Shoved up against the wall as it was, she could see the entire room. As she removed her gloves, a young girl no more than fourteen or fifteen years of age stepped to her side.

  “What will ye ’ave, mu’um?” she asked.

  Taking a page from Honorine’s book, she said, “A tankard of ale, if you please, and a large one at that.”

  The girl nodded and hurried away, pausing to slap one man’s beefy hand from her skirts when she passed by.

  As she waited for her ale, Sophie noticed another set of rooms just beyond the common room; several men wandered in and out. A gaming room, she guessed. Such arrangements were popular on the Continent.

  After the girl brought the tankard, Sophie quietly sipped the dark ale, lost in her own despondent thoughts, idly watching the crowd swell and bustle around her.

  After a half tankard, however, she grew weary of her despondency, and looked up, searching for something to look at, to think of, until she could climb the stairs to the attic room above and attempt another night of sleep. As she wearily surveyed the crowd, her eye caught sight of something dully familiar. She lowered the tankard, shifted her gaze…

  Trevor.

  He was standing on the threshold of the other rooms, boring a hole right through her with his narrowed gaze.

  Chapter Twenty

  SOPHIE’S PULSE QUICKENED as Trevor shoved his way through the crowd toward her wearing an expression far too reminiscent of William Stanwood’s. It sent a familiar chill up her spine; she pushed the tankard aside, clutched the edge of the little table as he reached her, halting there, towering above her. His jaw clenched tightly shut, he eyed her from head to toe, folding his arms tightly across his chest as an impatient father might.

  “What in bloody hell are you doing here?” he demanded.

  “I might ask the same of you.”

  His jaw clenched tighter still. “Who brought you here…the Frenchmen?”

  Sophie shook her head. “A public coach.”

  “A public coach?” He spat the word like it was rancid. “What exactly are you about, Sophie?”

  The very suggestion that she somehow owed him an explanation washed over Sophie in a wave of indignation. There was a time she would have been cowed by it, but sitting there, watching the bulge in his cheek—as if he had a right to be angry—snapped her fear like a twig. Whatever she might become, she had had enough of being held to arcane standards that were not her own. Who was this man who thought he might announce to a crowded parlor that he would offer for her without so much as mentioning it to her? Who was he to question her presence in St. Neots? What, did he think he owned the bloody hamlet?

  She was standing before she realized it, bracing herself against the scarred tabletop, leaning forward so that he would not miss a single word. “I stopped in this quaint little inn for an ale. That is exactly what this is about.”

  Her curt response obviously surprised him. He blinked, seemed to suddenly wake from his pique, and glanced nervously about them. “All right, all right,” he hissed beneath his breath, and reached around her to hold her chair. “At least sit, will you? I prefer not to attract a crowd.”

  “I beg your pardon, but it would seem too late for that.”

  He glanced apprehensively over his shoulder at the several patrons who had turned toward them. “Come on then, be a good girl and sit so that we might discuss this like adults, will you?”

  “I am not the one who is being childish,” she said. Then she sat. Hard.

  Trevor sat, too, much more carefully than she, and gingerly ran his palm across the tabletop as he considered her.

  Defiant, Sophie sipped her ale.

  “You seem to be a bit agitated, my dear,” he said, taking a smoother tack. “Perhaps if you told me whatever you think to do here, I can help you.”

  Patronizing buffoon. “That’s quite all right, Trevor. I don’t need your help,” she said, and lifted the tankard to her lips again.

  He lifted a brow. “What is your destination? Kettering? I’m afraid you’re a bit east of it. I confess, I am a bit perplexed—you did not tell me of any travel plans.”

  The tankard came down on the table harder than she intended. “I did not have travel plans until two days ago. But let me be perfectly frank—had I planned this little sojourn as much as two weeks ago, I had no obligation to tell you. You have no right to me, sir!”

  The blood drained from Trevor’s face. He moved suddenly, grabbing her wrist and pressing it against the table in a painful vise. “Watch what you say, my dear, because I cannot vouch for my patience!” The harsh tone of his voice belied his composed expression, donned for the benefit of the crowd. “I have no right to you as yet, but I daresay you will not speak to me thus when we are wed!”

  Sophie jerked her arm up and away from him, y
anking back hard until he let go. With a quick, surreptitious glance around them, he casually straightened his neckcloth. But as he leaned back in his chair, his gaze was one of fury.

  So was Sophie’s. She angrily rubbed her wrist where he had gripped her. “As to that, there is one small matter you have overlooked.”

  “Is there?” he snarled. “Then by all means, please astonish me with a sane explanation for your foolish behavior.”

  “Haven’t you forgotten something? Haven’t you forgotten to ask me to be your wife?”

  An incredulous bark of laughter escaped him. “Do I understand your meaning, madam? Are you implying that you have chased halfway across the countryside so that I might perform the formality of asking you to be my wife?” Again, he laughed with the disbelief of it.

  Sophie’s fury was quickly giving way to a full-bodied rage. “Let me assure you I have most certainly not followed you. I am in search of Honorine—”

  “A bloody waste of time. I’ll see that madwoman imprisoned before the week—”

  “Not if I find her first,” Sophie said low.

  “I beg your pardon—”

  “And secondly,” she continued, not allowing him so much as a breath, “asking a woman if she would like to marry is not a formality—”

  “A formality, please! It is not as if you are dripping with suitors, Sophie. It’s not as if you have any prospects at all, save me. In this instance, I would suggest that yes, it is a formality,” he snapped.

  The insult literally stole her breath. Sophie stared at him, watched the smirk grow in his eyes. “Perhaps you are right,” she said slowly, marveling at the cruel smile that turned the corners of his lips. “But you have my solemn vow I shall die an old and penniless spinster before I will ever consent to marry you, Trevor Hamilton.”

  For an instant it seemed as if the air were sucked from the room—the din around them was suddenly gone, the smell of ale and flesh gone. For an instant, there was nothing but Trevor and her, and in that instant, Sophie feared for her life.

  The look on Trevor’s face was one of vicious rage, a look so intense and piercing that she could feel it through her bones. The sickening heat of anticipation spread rapidly through her, the anticipation of being struck, again and again, until she vomited. She lurched backward, knocking up against the chair back, almost unconsciously prepared to curl into a ball like she had with William.

  But miraculously, his expression faded to raw anger. “Bitch,” he said low. “I offer you a chance to save your tattered reputation, and you would throw it back in my face? You will regret what you have done here tonight, mark me! Your childish temper will not spare you from my offer!”

  “But why?” she exclaimed incredulously. “Why do you want me as your wife when I so obviously despise the idea?”

  Oddly enough, the question seemed to confuse him. He frowned, twisted a cuff link as he considered her. “I have my reasons—and I am quite certain your brother will convince you of your good fortune in such a match. He’s as encouraging of it as anyone.”

  Sophie’s rage was on the verge of spiraling out of control. Did they all think to barter her away like some old cow? “Well look around you, Trevor. Julian is not here. I am here.”

  His jaw bulging with his anger, Trevor suddenly shoved up from the table, then leaned down so that his face was mere inches from hers, his eyes burning with resentment. “I’ll forgive you your stupidity once, Sophie, but not again,” he breathed angrily, and slowly straightened. He sneered with disgust as he looked down at her. “Go to your room—you look like a whore sitting there. You’ll ride with me on the morrow.”

  With that all too superior pronouncement, Trevor stalked across the room, practically pushing the serving girl aside as he disappeared into the connecting rooms.

  Only when he had stepped through the dark opening did Sophie breathe again. She looked down; she was gripping the table so tightly that her knuckles were stark white. Slowly, she let go, drew a ragged breath, but could not stop her hands from shaking.

  She had done it. She had, for once in her bloody life, stood up to someone, to a man, to the ton, the world, and everyone in it. It left her feeling wobbly and giddy all at once. With both hands, she held the tankard, lifted it to her lips, felt the warm liquid sluice down her throat.

  She lowered the thing, and with a small inward smile of victory, watched an old man put a fiddle to his chin and begin to play a festive old Gaelic tune.

  The fiddler’s music drifted out into the courtyard of the Hawk and Dove as Caleb handed the reins to the hostler’s young son. “There’s a crown for you if you’ll rub her down and feed her,” he said, rubbing the slender neck of his Arabian. The boy’s eyes lit up; he nodded eagerly and instantly began murmuring to the horse.

  Caleb watched him lead the mare toward the stables, then turned to look at the inn. Light streamed from the small bay window; the strains of a Scottish jig pulled at his heartstrings, reminding him of home.

  Home. Scotland. How he longed to be there, particularly those moments when he felt adrift and rudderless in this world. Moments like now. Fatigue and hunger made him question his sanity as he moved slowly toward the inn. He had ridden like a madman across England after the woman who had broken his heart. And for what? She was in there now, he was certain of it, and he hadn’t the vaguest idea what he would say.

  That he loved her, would always love her.

  As he moved across the courtyard, the confusing sense of betrayal and longing muddled what was left of his brain—he could make no sense of his actions now, other than an overwhelming need to see her, to touch her hair, to kiss her.

  Hardly noticed as he stepped across the threshold, Caleb found the common room exceedingly familiar, having been in dozens just like it across England in the course of building the railroad. At one end, a fiddler stroked a lively tune; a dozen or more folk danced a jig, their heels kicking higher with each refrain. The darkened door to his left undoubtedly led to the gaming room; a tail of smoke streamed from it into the common room. The stale air was thick and heavy—there were at least four dozen souls stuffed inside, their tankards held high, their voices rising above the music.

  His gaze swept the crowd; he did not see her. Was it possible the coach had gone on? Was she perhaps trying to sleep above the racket?

  Then he saw her.

  A lump swelled in his throat as he gazed at her slender back. Seated at a tiny little table in the corner of the room, he watched her lift the tankard, lower it again, her knee moving in time to the music, almost unnoticed beneath her voluminous skirts. He was moving before he knew it, moving toward her, the desire to touch her overwhelming the fear of further humiliation and the need to hide his heart from her. He had to touch her, had to breathe her in, assure himself no harm had come to her.

  Then he would determine what he would say.

  Sophie felt him before she saw him. The feeling came over her like a rush of cool air, sharpening her senses, waking her from her ruminations. How she knew was impossible to fathom, but she knew it, knew Caleb had come into the room, was coming to her.

  The tankard slipped from her grasp; she shoved to her feet, uncertain what she should do with herself, which way she should turn, what she should say. But she could feel him approaching her, feel him almost at her back, and all thoughts of reason or propriety or even common sense flew out of her head.

  She whirled about, saw him standing ragged before her, his clothes dirtied with the grime of the road, the shadows of fatigue on his face. She had never seen a more beautiful man in all her life—the smile, the shining of his green eyes, sent her reeling. She had thought she would never see him or touch him again. Without thinking, Sophie lurched forward, threw her arms around his neck, buried her face in his collar, and inhaled the scent of him. His arms surrounded her, squeezed her tightly to him.

  “Caleb,” she murmured tearfully onto his shoulder.

  “Don’t. Don’t say anything,” he whispered into
her hair. “Just let me hold you, let me breathe you, let me fill my soul with you once more.”

  The tears spilled from the corners of her eyes as he squeezed her to him. “I’m sorry!” she rasped. “I’m so very sorry!”

  “Don’t cry, please don’t cry.”

  “How very wretched I have been! I have thought only of you, have dreamed only of you, have prayed and begged God to let me take it all back! Caleb, Caleb, I thought I’d never see you again, that you were lost to me forever! I didn’t know where you lived, and you didn’t come back to the park, and I thought you had left—”

  “I am here now,” he said, and she felt herself being lowered into a chair. “Don’t cry, darling—I am here.”

  She fumbled for his hand, afraid to let go, lest he disappear. Reluctantly, she opened her eyes.

  He was here.

  In a curious state of shock, she looked at him seated across the table from her, almost afraid to believe this miracle. She shakily wiped the tears from her cheeks, unable to tear her gaze from him. Caleb put a kerchief into one of her hands; the other he clasped tightly in his own. Sophie wiped her nose with the kerchief, looked up, and smiled at the several people around them who were watching with considerable interest.

  Caleb took the kerchief from her and smiled warmly. “How good it is to lay eyes on you. I thought…I thought…” He expelled his breath harshly. “I’ve been trying to imagine what I might possibly do without you,” he said awkwardly. “And I confess, I could not very well imagine anything a’tall.”

  After what she had done, he would say something so sweet? “How can you be so kind after what I did?”

  He smiled sheepishly. “I love you.”

  The explanation was so simple and heartfelt that Sophie felt her entire being lift to some preternatural realm, one where she felt instantly comforted and safe. Loved. If only they could keep going, deeper into that realm, away from here and England…but they were here, in the middle of England. Nothing had changed. “W-what are you doing here?”