Entangled (A Private Collection)

by Fresina, Jayne

  Still, he held the reins of his temper and, for a third time, quietly advised the man to leave.

  Westerfield apparently preferred to take his chances. He swung again. Luke calmly blocked it and delivered his own punch hard into the other man’s gut.

  The fight was over before it had barely begun.

  Wheezing, the young man bent double and almost fell to his knees.

  After watching him for a moment, and wiping a speck of blood from the corner of his own lip, Luke pressed a hand lightly to the back of the boy’s head. “Keep it down. Don’t try to stand up. You’ll get your breath back. Just don’t try to stand straight.”

  But the shame of it must have been too much for Guy Westerfield. Hissing and spitting, he shook off Luke’s concern and, eventually, lit by another pulse of vivid lightening, he stumbled away across the lawn back through a hole in the hedge.

  He’d return again, Luke had no doubt. Daisy wasn’t the sort of prize a man gave up on. He actually felt some pity for the wretched creature. A very little pity. Blackwoods, of course, were notoriously merciless.

  Still wiping his bloodied lip with the back of one hand, he walked toward the conservatory accompanied by a rolling timpani of thunder. And that was when he saw her standing there, a dark silhouette against the lights from within, her hands on her waist, a letter in one hand.

  Chapter Ten

  Daisy watched him slowly emerge from the storm. Strolling across her lawn in his shirtsleeves, he looked relaxed. A man at ease, enjoying the evening and everything he surveyed, even the thunder.

  A damned cuckoo in her nest.

  She moistened her lips, trying to soften them up so he wouldn’t see her fury immediately. Didn’t want the bastard running off before she had a chance to slap him hard across his lying face.

  “Who were you talking to out there? I heard voices.”

  “No one,” he replied, feigning innocence with a lift of his brows and another of those lazy shrugs. His hands were in his pockets. Just like a boy about to be punished, she mused grimly.

  “Well, I wouldn’t want you to catch cold out here, Lawrence. Come on in.” She stood aside and let him pass into the conservatory. “What happened to your lip? Is that blood?”

  “Oh, I cut myself shaving.”

  It was such a pathetic lie it wasn’t worth her breath to challenge it. She watched him walk to the chaise and flop down, stretching out his legs, tucking his arms behind his head. It was already a familiar pose to her and she’d only known him a day and a half. Thunder shook the glass panes beside her. The air was thick with menace.

  A day and a half. Her heart dropped heavily. In that time he’d managed to make her fall in love with him. He’d deceived her with countless lies. She wasn’t the strong woman she thought she was and it hurt to realize she was that weak, that foolish.

  “Would you like dinner?” she heard herself asking in a calm, soft voice. “There are only three guests in the dining room, and Mrs. Smedley made a wonderful steak and kidney pie.”

  “Perhaps later.” He smiled up at her. “When the guests are finished.”

  “You’re not hungry now?”

  “I can wait.”

  “Are you sure?” She walked slowly around the chaise, his gaze following her. “Don’t you want to fill your belly up with more of my hospitality?” A slight shimmer of doubt, a new wariness flickered through those dark eyes. “I know how you like to overindulge. I experienced your appetite last night, and this afternoon. And you never know when you might have another chance. Lawrence.”

  He squinted. Was that a bead of sweat breaking on his brow, or just a little evening dew from the garden? “I’m sure I’ll be hungry later,” he muttered. “Mrs. Smedley will save me some, I’m sure.”

  “Yes. I daresay she will. You managed to charm her quite successfully. You’ve charmed everyone. Even me.”

  His gaze held hers.

  “Quite a feat,” she added. “You must be pleased with yourself.”

  “Oh, I am.” His gaze now dropped to the folded letter in her hand. “What’s that?”

  “This? This is the end.”

  He didn’t move. Not an eyelash.

  “Your little game is over.”

  Still he remained in his lounging pose, as if he was stuck there, frozen. But his mouth moved. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “This is a letter from your cousin.” She dangled it over his head and when he reached up, finally springing to life, she snatched it away and held it behind her back. “Lizzie informs me, much to my surprise, that you’ve decided not to come here after all. Because you’re going to marry someone else.”

  “Someone else?”

  “That’s right. A nurse you met while in the hospital. In Cardiff.”

  He touched the little cut on his lip with one finger and then looked down, probably to see if it was still bleeding so he could use it for her sympathy. Oh yes, she was wise to him now. If only she’d been this wise yesterday, or earlier today.

  “I can’t think why she’d tell you that,” he mumbled, blinking, the corners of his mouth turned down.

  “Because it’s the truth.”

  “How can it be?” He glared up at her. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

  Amazingly, he still thought he could pull the fleece over her eyes. She marched around the chaise and flung the letter at him. “Read it for yourself and then you can explain to me what you’re doing with Randolph Blackwood’s painting.”

  He sat up, feet swung down to the floor, the letter crumpled in one fist. “You went prying again?”

  “Of course I did. Since I found you to be a rotten liar, I’m entitled. You’re a Blackwood, aren’t you? You’re one of Randolph Blackwood’s sons.”

  At last the storm broke and rain crashed down pelting the windows of the conservatory. The sky tore open. Heavy raindrops sizzled across the stone terrace and spat into the puddles already formed earlier in the day.

  His shoulders sagged. He rested his forearms on his knees and looked down at the carpet.

  “You bastard!” It spat out of her. She couldn’t stop it. Had he looked up at her just then, she would have slapped his face, but he wisely kept it turned down.

  “I did try to tell you,” he said, his voice hoarse. “I tried several times.”

  “Not very hard.”

  “Perhaps not. I fell in love with you before I knew what was happening.”

  “Stop lying to me. Haven’t there been enough lies?”

  He was silent, the letter still closed in his fist. He didn’t bother to read the evidence.

  “So which one are you?” she demanded, catching her breath.

  “Luke. Lucien Blackwood.”

  All Daisy knew about Randolph’s sons was that there were three and they made a general nuisance of themselves with the female population. Much like their father.

  “I’m the middle one,” he added.

  Pacing before the chaise, she rubbed her forehead with one hand, as if that might help get things straight inside. “What are you doing with my painting?”

  “When our father died, he left the paintings in his private collection to the three of us. He wanted each of us to return one of the portraits to the woman in it. And we had to do it in person.” He looked up at her. “I chose to find the redhead. I chose you.”

  She stopped pacing and folded her arms, for lack of anything else to do with them. “So that’s why you were here yesterday. To bring me the painting.”

  She should have known when she saw his brother that morning, standing in her foyer and grinning handsomely, bursting to tell her the truth, laying a few hints. His brother had known what was going on. She’d been made a fool. Damn them all, including old Randolph, who’d sent him here to make mischief.

  “I knew it,” she cried, pressing her hands to her hot cheeks. “I knew the moment I saw you it was trouble. I should have sent you away then, but no, I was too…too…argh!” She squealed, batting his
arms away when stood and reached for her. “You did this. It’s all your fault. You made it happen.”

  “Things got away from me. The more time passed, the more difficult it was to tell you the truth. Eventually, it didn’t seem important. I just wanted you.”

  She groaned. “Well, now I’m married to Lawrence Bailey, aren’t I?”

  “We can get that changed,” he replied eagerly, as if he’d been thinking it over.

  “Do you think it’s as easy as changing a name on a parish register? You deceived me about everything. How can I ever trust you?”

  “Daisy, we can make this right.”

  “No we can’t. You’re leaving. First thing in the morning. I want to forget this ever happened. I want to forget that painting, and I want to forget you.”

  He stepped closer and she stepped back.

  “Leave. Please. I want you out of my hotel.” Her heart was aching but she couldn’t let him see. Desperate, she bit back her tears. Just a few hours ago she thought she was in love with him, but he’d cheated her, lied to her, just to get her into bed. It was unforgivable, surely. Why then did her heart plead with her head to let him stay?

  He was a Blackwood and the entire world knew how they behaved with women. He’d tricked her, seduced her, and pretended to marry her. All the time he was laughing at her. Now he pretended he loved her. Where would the pretense end?

  “I’ll tell everyone my husband left me,” she added, trying to keep her voice steady. “Perhaps then they’ll leave me in peace to run my hotel.”

  He stared at her.

  “I’ll pay you back every penny you’ve spent on me and on this hotel over the last day and a half.”

  “With what?” he snapped. “You haven’t any money.”

  She shook her head. “I’ll find a way to repay you. Send me a bill.”

  “You can’t afford to—”

  “I may not be rich financially,” she exclaimed proudly, “but I have what counts. I have blood, sweat, and tears.” Only at the end did she raise her voice a little too loudly. “I have plenty of those now, don’t I?”

  “You’re not making any sense.” He scraped a hand back through his hair, and she thought she heard his teeth grinding as he tried to hold his temper, but then he spat, “Typical, damned woman!”

  “Yes I am a woman. That appears to be the only thing you noticed about me.”

  “I also noticed your epiglottis. Had you let me get a word in edgewise, I might have explained who I was when I got here.”

  “I gave you many opportunities to tell me the truth, Blackwood.”

  He glowered at her through the shifting shadows of rainfall and lamplight. “Do you know what I think? I don’t think you really wanted to know.”

  She felt the blood draining out of her face.

  “I think you suspected I wasn’t Lawrence Bailey, but after awhile you didn’t care because you wanted me as much as I wanted you.” He flung out his arms and she flinched. “But oh no, you could never admit that because that would suggest you’re willing to lift your skirts for a complete stranger, wouldn’t it? And although you’re not averse to marrying a man you barely know, using him to keep a blasted pile of old bricks in the family, you certainly wouldn’t let him sleep with you.” He leaned down, his face angry and straining. “Would you?”

  She slapped his face. The sharp sound echoed around the conservatory and shook the glass panels overlooking the lawn.

  “So I was right,” he muttered, one hand to his cheek, moving his jaw as if it was stiff and sore. “You didn’t want to know the truth about me. And you don’t want to know it about yourself.”

  She threw the wedding ring at him and ran out, afraid to embarrass herself by weeping in public.

  * * * *

  The next morning the storm had passed and he was gone, taking his trunk of books and Randolph’s oil painting with him. Only the scent of crushed crocuses remained in his room.

  Chapter Eleven

  July 1888

  She took one last look around her office, stifling the sadness that welled up inside. Pull yourself together, Daisy. No point being maudlin. She gave it her best effort but, in the end, it wasn’t enough. Guy Westerfield was right all along. There were limits to what a woman could do alone no matter how she tried or how badly she wanted it. Perhaps it wouldn’t always be that way. She hoped in the future women would prevail. But it seemed a long way off and, in her current dejected spirits, it felt as if she was the only one fighting.

  Her six months were up and, although the hotel was no longer deep in debt, her brothers weren’t satisfied with her efforts to maintain the place. The little bit of a profit she’d worked so hard to earn was deemed insufficient to show her capable. She could argue until she was blue in the face, but they were impatient to make their money. They changed the rules on her at the end of the game, claiming it wasn’t merely a profit the hotel must turn, but a healthy one. In those six months, they’d asked for the impossible and now she was out on her ear. They’d sold the Wellfleet and the new buyer would arrive today.

  Perhaps, as her brother Thomas said, it would be best if she took her share of the sale and left Middleton entirely. Someone around town had started slanderous rumors about her behavior, and she had a strong suspicion it was either Jonas Carbury out of greed and malice or Guy Westerfield out of petty spite because she’d thrown him over.

  To her brother’s surprise, she agreed about the move. But, unbeknownst to him, she had another more important reason to go where no one knew her. In January she’d have a baby to take care of and she wanted a fresh start for them both. In another town she could turn herself into a respectable widow and raise her child without those nasty rumors over their heads. She had part of it planned, but she didn’t know yet where to go. The Wellfleet hotel still held her in its embrace, as it had since the first time she crossed its threshold, and it couldn’t seem to let her go.

  Her one comfort was that Jonas Carbury had been outbid. At least the Wellfleet wouldn’t fall into his mean, grasping hands. And the new buyer was keeping all the staff, so she needn’t worry about them finding new posts.

  With a sigh, she closed her office door for the last time then stared at the little painted “Private” sign nailed to the wood panel.

  Behind her the bell on the counter rang sharply making her jump.

  “Miss Daisy Wellfleet, I presume?”

  Slowly she turned.

  He stood at the counter with a large calico wrapped parcel under one arm.

  That rotten, damn liar, Lucien Blackwood. Who was he pretending to be this time?

  She couldn’t take the hand he offered. In fact, she was incapable of moving anything such was the shock of seeing him again. He withdrew his hand.

  “It is Daisy Wellfleet, is it not?”

  “Bellis Perennis,” she muttered under her startled, torn breath.

  “Hmmm?”

  “That’s Latin for Daisy.”

  He was somber. “Yes. I know.”

  They stood looking at each other for a moment. Her throat was too dry to swallow, but she finally managed to ask, “What are you doing here?”

  “Ah.” He lifted the parcel onto the counter. “My father asked me to bring this to you. I believe it’s yours now.”

  She reached for it, her arms stiff, uncertain. “Thank you.”

  “I would have been here back in April when he died, but— something came up.”

  Was that a guilty grin tugging on the corner of his mouth?

  “Did it?”

  “Yes. I was unavoidably detained,” he added, trying to straighten out his lips, trying to frown and remain serious.

  “It must have been very big— this thing that came up. To detain you. For nearly four months.” Where the Devil had he been all that time? Tricking some other poor, naïve, young woman into sharing his bed?

  “It is sizeable. I’ve been informed it’s one of the largest of its kind. Often renders women speechless when they se
e it. Even women of the loquacious variety.”

  She shook her head, lips pursed at his arrogance.

  “I’ve never had any complaints,” he added, low. “Not even from you.”

  Two female guests walked by, plainly admiring the tall, handsome man at the counter and eavesdropping on the conversation.

  Clearing her throat briskly, Daisy thanked him again for the painting. “You needn’t have come all this way to bring it in person,” she added.

  “Oh, but I have other business here,” Luke said, eyes gleaming as he rubbed his hands together and looked her up and down.

  “Really?”

  “Yes,” he said. “I’ve just bought the hotel.”

  * * * *

  He leaned over the counter as she wilted slightly, that small face suddenly as pale as the petals of her namesake. Even her freckles faded.

  “Perhaps you’ll show me around, Miss Wellfleet,” he said smoothly. “Before you leave.”

  “What do you know about running a hotel?”

  He answered quickly. “At least as much as the previous owner.” Stepping back, he gestured for her to lead him upstairs. “After you.” He sincerely hoped she hadn’t lost her gumption, because he didn’t want to chase her all around the hotel and toss her over his shoulder. But he would if necessary.