Donovan sat at the edge of the bed for a long, long time, shaking his head and wondering what the hell had just happened. He could hear muted sniffles under the bedclothes, but eventually they quieted, Corisande, he imagined, having fallen asleep.
Eventually he lay down, too, after returning the knife to the bottom wardrobe drawer where he kept his pistol.
Yet he couldn’t sleep, instead listening to the mounting wind whistle and howl outside and glancing from time to time at the still, shrouded figure on the opposite side of the bed. She looked more like an Egyptian mummy underneath all those bedclothes than his temporary wife.
Hell and damnation.
Women.
Chapter Twenty
Men!
If it wasn’t enough that Donovan continually occupied Corisande’s mind, this past interminable week had proved a trial like nothing else she’d known, now that Oliver Trelawny’s whereabouts plagued her, too. And she was growing more worried by the hour.
Staring out the window of her bedchamber into the pitch-dark night, Corisande hugged her arms to her breasts as she looked for the signal that she’d been awaiting for three days now. It wasn’t ten o’clock yet, though she still couldn’t help looking.
Corisande sighed and glanced over her shoulder at the small gilt clock above the mantel. No, only quarter to ten. Fifteen minutes yet to wonder and worry if Oliver and the twenty-man crew of the Fair Betty were back safe and sound from France. Lord, what could have kept them?
Oliver hadn’t sailed out early last Wednesday morning as he’d planned, the gale he’d so welcomed becoming a fierce spring storm that had churned up the sea and slashed the Cornish coast with torrential rain, delaying his departure until Friday before dawn. Those two days for Corisande had been the worst, when she’d been cooped up in the house with Donovan because the weather was simply too foul to venture outside.
Oh, he’d left her alone. He’d left her alone all week, in fact, those first several rainy days by staying in his library much of the time and saying he had work to do. So she’d played the agreeable wife and left him alone, too, spending her time reading dusty old novels and exploring the house with Ellen Biddle.
It hadn’t been her idea, but the housekeeper had seemed eager to get started on what yet needed to be done around the place, and she wanted Corisande’s opinions. Of course, Corisande knew nothing about the latest styles in drapery and upholstery fabric and the best ways of arranging furniture, but she tried to show suitable interest. Yet all the while she couldn’t help thinking again of how within weeks every room would be shuttered and closed, the house settling once more into dust and disuse.
Oddly enough, the thought had bothered her. Everything seemed to be bothering her, so she tried to keep such troublesome musings out of her head.
Like the fact that Donovan rarely spoke to her. No, not even in front of the servants, which had made her task of appearing content all the more difficult. He was especially silent at night when that dreaded time came for them to adjourn to bed. Thankfully much of the awkwardness had been eased straightaway when he’d gruffly said it made no difference in whose room she was found sleeping in the morning now that she had been “properly bedded.” Since then, he had made no other reference to that disconcerting night, clearly not wishing to discuss it further, and neither had she.
That bothered her, too. Not that he wouldn’t discuss what had happened, but that it had happened at all.
Oh, Lord, she still couldn’t believe she’d come so close to allowing Donovan to kiss her. He might have done so before, but this time had been different, disturbingly different. She didn’t like to admit it, but she’d wanted him to kiss her. At least for a split second before she’d come to her senses.
It was all so ridiculous. What a stupid fool! To think she had believed for even an instant that Donovan might have spoken sincerely—that sarcastic, self-centered cad! Then her getting so upset, crying even. Bloody ridiculous!
Her face blazing at the memory, Corisande looked outside again, but she saw nothing, only inky blackness. Sighing more heavily this time, she began to pace although she didn’t stray very far from the windows.
When the storm had finally passed and she’d been able to go about her business, she had felt as if she’d been released from prison. But not before Donovan had insisted on Friday morning that she first see the document he had drafted saying the tinners would continue to be paid fairly no matter the state of his personal affairs or his whereabouts, which had bothered her too.
And it bothered her that she should be bothered! So what if Donovan could think of nothing but annulling their marriage and returning to Spain. Good riddance! And where was Oliver, that grizzled rogue? The Fair Betty should have been sighted late Saturday, and here it was Tuesday night…
Corisande swatted at the blue velvet draperies when another glance outside proved fruitless; with another ten minutes to kill, she needed something to clear her mind.
One bright spot in the week had been a letter from Lindsay, posted the very day Corisande had written to her about Donovan, so Lindsay had known nothing yet about her temporary marriage. Held over in Helston because of the storm and delivered to the parsonage on Friday, the letter had been raced over to her at the church, where she was working on the accounts, by a breathless and giggling Estelle, an indignant Linette, and Marguerite hard on her heels.
“A letter, Corie! From Lindsay!” Estelle had announced gaily.
“I had it first, too, but Estelle took it from me,” Linette had groused, scowling at her younger sister only to glance back pleadingly at Corisande. “Remember, Corie? You said we would read it together—”
“And me!” Estelle had chimed.
“Me too!” Appearing as eager as the others, Marguerite had looked expectantly at the letter, her lovely brown eyes alight. “I want to hear about London, Corie. Go on, open it!”
Corisande had done so, perusing the letter very quickly to make sure there was no reference to Donovan and their sham marriage before she’d read it aloud, delighting in every word. She went to the writing desk now and retrieved that same letter, smiling to herself as she plopped onto the bed.
Suddenly it felt as if Lindsay were there in the room, breathlessly recounting everything she’d seen since she’d gone to London, her somewhat reckless handwriting spilled forth in an animated tumble as lively as her speech…
Oh, Corie, I can hardly believe I’m here! So many things to tell you—where to begin? London is so very, very grand, and so much bigger than I’d expected! I’ve never seen so many people—ah, but more of that later!
Aunt Winifred is a dear, though terribly cowed by Olympia, poor thing. It seems she received reams of instructions on where I’m to go, how I’m to deport myself, how I’m to dress, the people I must meet—what silly rubbish! You know I hope to strike out on my own, but Aunt Winnie is quite excitable, even more than I remember—Lord, her lady’s maid, Matilda, doesn’t dare leave the house without smelling salts in hand! So I must take care—oh, Corie, you won’t believe what I’ve to tell you!
Some things here are so strange. I’ve seen gentlemen in corsets! Yes, corsets, their waists cinched so tight they look like plump-breasted pigeons, and their collars so starched they can no easier look to the left and right than if their necks were encased in plaster…
Corisande let the letter drop to her lap, imagining what it must be like to see such startling things.
Of course, she didn’t regret that she hadn’t gone to London; she would never have met Donovan and…and for heaven’s sake, that wasn’t the point either! She wouldn’t have been able to help the tinners on such a vast scale if not for Donovan, and that was virtually the only thing for which she had to be thankful about meeting him.
Corisande focused once more on Lindsay’s letter, but she felt all bothered again and hardly in the mood to read. And she still had five minutes to go, she saw irritably as she glanced at the clock. Lord, if that signal didn’t come t
onight—
“Corie, may I come in?”
She froze, her gaze flying to the sitting room door, a door she’d left pointedly closed all week as a clear sign that Donovan was not welcome in her bedchamber. He hadn’t made any move to disturb her until now—bloody hell, why tonight of all nights? It was almost ten o’clock and, oh dear, she’d retired early, claiming a headache, and here she was dressed in her sturdiest clothes and ready to go out at the first sign…
Corisande had only a moment to leap into bed, still holding Lindsay’s letter, fully clothed, shoes and all, and yank the covers under her chin before she heard Donovan enter the room. Her eyes were squeezed shut, and her heart raced. She made no move at all as he crossed to the bed, but she knew at once he didn’t believe she was sleeping when she heard him sigh heavily.
“You haven’t bothered to douse the lamps, Corie, and I heard you pacing just a few moments ago. You can’t have fallen asleep that fast.”
She didn’t readily open her eyes, moaning instead. “Of…of course I was pacing. My head hurts so…”
“Then I should have Ellen Biddle bring you a pinch of laudanum in some tea—”
“No, no, I don’t want any laudanum!” Realizing that she’d half shouted, Corisande tried to control her annoyance as she stared up at Donovan. “I mean, my headache isn’t all that terrible, but it does hurt. I—I’m sure I’ll be fine if you’d allow me to sleep. Would you please turn out the lamps for me, Donovan?”
He seemed taken aback by her docile request although quite reluctant, too, to leave her side, the tension in his body plain to see. “Actually, Corie, I thought we should talk—”
“Please, Donovan, not tonight.” Her gaze skipped to the clock—oh, Lord, it was almost ten!—and then back again to his face. His expression had hardened. “It’s so late, and I’m so tired. Tomorrow would be better.”
“Very well, tomorrow.”
He didn’t sound at all as if he wanted to leave, sighing with exasperation, but finally he went to douse the lamps, plunging the room into darkness but for the low red glow of the fire. She could sense his barely restrained agitation as he came back around to stand beside the bed. She gave as audible and as wide a yawn as she could summon, rolling over onto her side and snuggling her head into the pillow.
“Thank you, Donovan. Good night.”
No answer came but for the sitting room door closing behind him a long moment later, even the dull thud sounding disgruntled.
Somehow Corisande managed to wait another moment, just to make certain he didn’t come back in again, then she could stand it no longer as the clock began to chime ten. She was on her feet and over to the windows in a flash, taking care to move silently. Her breath stopped as she spied a lantern’s yellow glow far off in the distance, the light swinging back and forth in an arc.
Thank God.
She was cloaked and heading to the door in the next moment, her every thought concentrated upon getting to the stable as quickly as possible.
The men who had signaled her wouldn’t be waiting for her, but on their way already to crisscross the parish and alert the others that the Fair Betty was anchored near to shore and waiting to be unloaded. Trusted tinners, farmers, fishermen in Porthleven, and even a few gentry would be converging at the prearranged cove by midnight with scores of hardy ponies, small boats, and willing hands ready to assist in an endeavor that had lined some pockets with coin, true, but brought hope to many lives too.
And thank God Ellen Biddle and she had gone exploring about the house, Corisande thought as she moved stealthily into the hall and closed the door silently behind her. She had only to creep a few feet to find the panel on the opposite wall that wasn’t solid at all but a concealed doorway opening into a servants’ staircase that led to the basement.
With a low exhalation of relief she hurried down the narrow wooden steps, hoping, though, that she wouldn’t run into anyone. The huge spotless kitchen was silent and empty, Grace Twickenham having retired to her room.
Cautiously Corisande stepped past the cook’s door, light streaming beneath it, only to freeze against the wall when Grace called out, “Is that you out there, Ogden? Well, if you’re planning to make yourself some tea, I’ll not have you leaving a mess. Mind now, I worked my knuckles raw to polish that kitchen. I want it to stay that way!”
Corisande didn’t wait to see if the woman popped her head out the door, but fled to the servants’ exit leading out the back of the house. With a prayer of thanks she plunged outside into the balmy night air, smiling to herself, too, at the thought of somber-faced Ogden being ruled by a houseful of women servants. Well, there were the two young footmen who’d joined the household last week, the main reason why Corisande had opted not to use the front door.
She couldn’t relax, either, for there was still the obstacle of the stable. Fortunately Will Brighton, the stocky, amiable coachman, was nowhere in sight, making it easy for her to saddle the big brown gelding whose name she’d learned from Henry Gilbert was Pete. A plain, unassuming name for a wonderful animal, but she’d scarcely had much chance to ride him, having deferred to Donovan’s request that she take the carriage.
That compliance had been not so much to oblige him as that she was still puzzled by what had happened last week. She had no idea who could have raced across the heath like a swooping bat to catch her.
She shivered at the unsettling memory; well, she might have an idea, but that made her shiver too. She didn’t want to think about it and right now she didn’t have the time. No, not even to wonder why Donovan, oddly enough, had wanted to talk to her after a week of brooding silence. Quickly she led Pete from the stable and mounted.
“Shh now, Pete, not a sound.” Corisande drew up the reins and squeezed her knees together to get the gelding moving, but only at a walk at first. “Easy now, until we’re far enough away from the house…”
The horse tossed his head and chewed at the bit, clearly eager to stretch his legs. Corisande winced when he gave a full-throated whinny just before they cut through the tall copse of elms lining the drive. But there was no help for it, and she urged the animal into a gallop, hoping that no one would think anything was amiss.
At least they wouldn’t be seen, the night so pitch-black that if she hadn’t known the rough surrounding countryside since childhood, she might have been reluctant to venture forth. She veered the gelding to the southwest and rode hard, astonished to see the familiar lantern light some way off in the distance.
Had the men decided to wait for her after all? They weren’t standing where they’d been before but were heading toward the coast, which made sense.
She cut to the left a little and rode straight for the light, Pete’s hooves thundering so hard that she didn’t hear her name being roared from the house.
Chapter Twenty-One
“Corie!”
Good God, it was useless! Cursing to himself, Donovan ran for the stable, his lungs already afire from sprinting so hard to get outside.
Hell and damnation, where was she going? He’d just stepped out onto the balcony when that whinny had cut through the night, and he’d watched in disbelief as a cloaked rider was swallowed up by the dark. He hadn’t needed to check Corisande’s room to know it was her—the wily chit! She must have been fully clothed under those covers, pleading a headache and then meekly as a dove asking him to douse the lamps, when all the while she’d simply been waiting for him to leave so she could…
“Go where?” Donovan growled under his breath as he dashed inside the stable and made for Samson’s stall, his horse throwing back his head and snorting a greeting.
The last time Corisande had ridden anywhere by herself had been a full week ago; Donovan had never before seen her so flushed and exhilarated as when she’d galloped in from the dark. She’d glanced behind her as if looking for someone—bloody hell, he hadn’t really considered it before now. Might she have gone to meet a lover?
Donovan refused to dwell on the thought.
He told himself fiercely as he saddled Samson and vaulted onto the animal’s back that it mattered nothing to him where she was going, just that she had ridden out alone.
He hadn’t been concerned as long as she seemed willing to use the carriage, but now—
dammit, he didn’t trust Jack Pascoe to stay away from Corisande no matter the dire threats he’d made the man. He hadn’t wanted to alarm her but he could see now that he should have given her some warning about the potential danger. He should have known she’d eventually do something like this.
“My—my lord? Is there some trouble?”
“Out of my way, man!”
A sleepy-eyed Will Brighton nearly toppled backward in his long white sleeping gown in his haste to stand clear of the stable doors as Donovan rode past him out into the night.
He had barely left the lights of the house behind him when he heard a high-pitched whinny from somewhere out on the heath that froze his blood.
A terrified horse. How many times had he heard that sound on the battlefield? Heard it from his own mounts as musket and cannon fire hit and thundered all around him, some of the poor animals even cut down beneath him?
Oh, God. Corisande.
“No, no, leave him alone! Who are you? Who are you?”
Corisande’s piercing shrieks rent the air as her hooded attacker swung the lantern a second time at her horse’s head, the stricken animal rearing out of the way and pawing the air in fright. She clutched at the reins, fighting for control. When the lantern made a third blinding arc, the gelding reared so high that Corisande went tumbling from his back and hit the ground with a painful thud, knocking the breath from her body.
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