My Fallen Angel

by Pamela Britton

  “Hell,” Garrick muttered.

  “Well, at least you’ve remembered that much.” Arlan’s eyes held a warning as they stared across at him. “You must be circumspect, Garrick. Prove the identity of that little boy within twenty-four days and you’ll earn your spot in heaven. Fail and it’s back to the Well of Souls to await a hearing. And do you have any idea how long it takes to get a hearing? An eternity.

  “My advice is to stay as far away from Lucy Hartford as possible since you seem to be so, er, attracted to her. ”

  “Garrick, please, please wake up.”

  If there was one thing Garrick had learned to hate it was the way he was zapped from one location to the other. The same thing had happened the first time he’d been tossed from heaven. Kapow … and he was on the ground watching Lucy Hartford’s behind hurtle toward him from above.

  A tentative hand touched his shoulder, bringing him back to the present. Was it his imagination or did that hand linger? He opened his eyes, then wished he hadn’t. She was close, too close.

  “Oh, thank God. I thought you dead,” she murmured.

  God should be so kind.“How long?” he mumbled, throat dry. After the sunlike brightness of Arlan’s room, the candle she’d lit seemed as dim as moonlight in comparison.

  “Only seconds,” she answered, “but we must leave. When your head hit the floor, you sounded like Goliath falling to the ground.”

  He nodded, then sat up.

  “Garrick,” she said softly.“You’re not angry with me, are you?”

  “No,” he snapped, pushing himself to his feet, fed up with the whole situation: Arlan, Lucy, the bloody mess this day had turned out to be.

  She stood up alongside of him, then tugged at his arm. Reluctantly, he turned to face her.

  “I’m so sorry for pushing you away,” she said hesitantly.“What you did just startled me so. Not even dear Harry has done that.”

  Dear Harry? Who the hell was dear Harry? Never mind, he didn’t want to know.

  He shook his head, furious with himself for losing control in the arms of an innocent—an incredibly responsive innocent, but still an innocent.

  “And I suppose I should warn you that I’m not the world’s most graceful person,” she went on to say as he stood.“Things just seem to happen around me. I mean, I didn’t plan for that branch to break earlier, but it did.” She sighed.“My aunt says I’m as clumsy as a pig on ice. And dear Harry refuses to dance with me—”

  “Miss Hartford,” Garrick interrupted.“I assure you I will never touch you again.”

  He wouldn’t? Lucy thought. Whyever not? But then she realized she shouldn’t want him to touch her. Sheshould want dear Harry—a man who was expected to propose to her—to touch her. She should be outraged, horrified, disgusted by Mr. Wolf’s behavior. She should be stricken with maidenly affront. At the very least she should slap his face.

  Instead she felt a brazen need to make him want to touch her again. She peeked up at him.

  He glared.

  Her heart sank. Just sank to the bottom or her dirt-stained heels. He didn’t like her. That much was clear. A lump the size of Sir Wilmont’s garden grew in her throat. She tried to swallow, nearly choked, then looked away. Heaven knows she should be used to such reactions from men.

  Heaven knows she wasn’t.

  Turning, she blindly reached for the door, wanting only to escape. It was hard to say who was more surprised when she opened the door and came face-to-face with two servants—her or the servants. One man’s mouth gaped open. His face filled with horror, the dim light of the lantern he held turning his features into a ghoulish mask. He crossed himself.

  Unfortunately, the other servant wasn’t so timid.“Thief!” he screamed, pointing at her.

  “Well!” Lucy huffed, sniffing back her tears.“I never. Thief indeed. Why, I’ll have you know—”

  Whatever else she’d been about to say was unceremoniously cut off when Garrick jerked her back and slammed the door in the footmen’s faces.

  “Stop!” came a muffled voice from the other side of the door.

  Garrick shoved the lock in place, then pulled her toward the adjoining sitting room. He tried the window, but it was closed now. She watched as he struggled with the latch for a moment, then gave up and tugged her toward the door.

  They burst into the same hallway as their pursuers, and a cold gust of air blew out Lucy’s candle. She dropped it to the floor, then glanced over her shoulder and saw that the two servants had spotted them.

  “Stop, thief,” one of them yelled, charging in their direction.

  She faced forward again only to crash into Garrick’s back a moment later. He almost tumbled down the dark chasm before them. A stairwell.

  He hesitated a moment, then plunged down the steps; Lucy followed closely behind. They made it down with nary a misstep, only to meet up with another servant at the bottom.

  Lucy, unable to stop her momentum, sent the man flying backward with an “oomph.”

  “Beg your pardon,” she blurted, managing to stay upright only because Garrick had a vicelike grip on her upper arm.

  “Stop!” ordered their first pursuer from the stairs above.

  They headed for the front door, bursting into the chilly night air a second later. It was blacker than a witch’s cauldron outside, but Lucy noted Garrick somehow knew instinctively where to go.

  The sound of pursuing footsteps receded, but still Garrick pushed on, practically shoving her up a smallknoll, which Lucy dared to hope was the same knoll where her cart was hidden. When they crested the rise, she wheezed in relief at the sight of her pony cart.

  “We can’t go in that,” he immediately announced. The wretch didn’t sound the least bit out of breath, she noted.“We’ll take my horse.” He pulled her forward, dragging her behind like a poodle on a leash.

  Horse, what horse? But then her eyes opened wide upon spying the white horse tethered next to the pony. Where had that come from? And the sudden moonlight, too?

  “Hurry, they’re pursuing us.”

  Lucy heard the thrashing footsteps as well.“B-but what about my aunt’s pony?” she asked breathlessly.

  “Leave it.”

  “We can’t,” she gasped in a breath.“My aunt will be furious.”

  In response he quickly untied the pony’s traces, then slapped the little animal on the rear. Lucy watched in dismay as her aunt’s pony and cart rumbled off into the night like a mail coach on its way to London. Next Garrick untied his horse and quickly mounted. He held out a hand to her.“Hurry,” he ordered.

  “I can’t.”

  Garrick looked from her to the two servants nearly upon them, one of them brandishing what looked to be a pistol.“This is no time for theatrics, Lucinda,” he rasped.“Give me your hand.”

  “But I hate horses,” she wailed.

  She saw him frown just before he reached down and grabbed her by the back of her shirt and pulled her atophis animal. The breath was forced out of her as she landed face down over his thighs. He gripped her derriere, then kicked the horse forward.

  Lucy forgot everything as she struggled to stay aboard the lurching beast. Something swung alongside her head and she realized distantly it was Garrick’s leg. She clutched at it frantically.“Garrick! Let me down!”

  He ignored her words.

  Minutes later Lucy prayed fervently for Garrick’s horse to throw a shoe, have a fit of horsy apoplexy, or drop dead—anything to put her out of her misery. The ground sped by at a distance far too close for comfort. Her hair all but dragged on the ground. Her stomach felt ready to purge itself.

  And then the horse lurched. Lucy gasped.

  Seconds later they both flew through the air.

  4

  “Are you all right?”

  Lucy lay still for a long second, the breath knocked out of her from her collision with the ground. She sucked in some air, her mind refusing to comprehend the blessed relief of immobility. Never mind that she’d
just tumbled from a horse galloping at full tilt. She’d fall off a hundred horses if it meant not having to ride a single one ever again.

  “Miss Hartford?”

  Slowly, she opened her eyes. A dark shape stood silhouetted against a star-infested sky, nearby trees even bigger blobs against the horizon. Tall, tall grass rose on either side of her. The smell of green blades filled her nostrils, almost as heady and rich as Mr. Wolf himself.

  “I’m fine,” she finally managed to say.

  “Good,” he grunted, turning away.

  Lucy’s heart plummeted. No soft words? No helping hand?

  Squelching the sharp stab of disappointment that agentleman could dislike her so intensely after knowing her for less than an hour, she pushed herself to her feet. But all her disgruntlement faded when she spied the white horse on the ground some ten feet away.

  “What happened?” she gasped.

  “He’s dead.”

  Lucy’s mouth flopped open like a castle drawbridge.

  “Fortunately, he staggered off the road before dropping to the ground.”

  “Fortunately?” she exclaimed. “You call that good fortune? Your horse is dead.”

  She could see the silhouette of Garrick’s big shoulders shrug. She would wager the next county could see his big shoulders shrug.

  “It happens sometimes,” he said.

  She looked down at the horse. Poor, poor beast, she thought. To die while carrying them to safety. What a valiant animal. She might hate horses, but this had been an outstanding equine beast.

  “We need to bury it,” she announced.

  Silence. An insect buzzed by her face.

  “At the very least we need to offer a prayer up to heaven for its safe passing.”

  More silence. And then, “Miss Hartford. That is a horse. One does not bury a horse.”

  She straightened, turning to him, noticing the way his blonde hair seemed to glow in the moonlight, the way his shirt defined the shape of him. “Why not?”

  “Because,” he said in the clipped voice of a man on the verge of losing his patience, “a horse is not a human.”

  “But it has a soul.”

  She didn’t like the way he dropped into silence. As if he didn’t trust himself to speak. But she refused to give in. Every one of her pets had had a funeral. Even the frog she’d accidentally stepped on.

  “Fine. Then say a short, fast prayer,” Garrick finally gritted out.

  She relaxed, unaccountably pleased by his concession, though a bit disappointed by his attitude. Didn’t he love his horse? Wasn’t he attached to it at all? She might not like horses herself, but this was his pet. Surely he had some feelings for … Just what was its name, anyway. Thunder? Gray Fox? Silver?

  “Horse,” he announced after she asked.

  Horse, she thought, feeling her brows rise. What kind of a name was that? She almost asked him, but then lost her courage. She had a feeling he was like that branch, ready to snap at any moment. She was used to people feeling that way around her, had even grown to accept the fact. But she didn’t have to like it. She reached for his hand.

  He gasped.

  Her heart thumped. “Oh dear,” she breathed, wondering if he’d been hurt in their fall. She held the limb up to her face and tilted it toward the moon so that she could inspect it. “Are you hurt?”

  He didn’t move. Didn’t say a word.

  Was he in so much pain he couldn’t speak? “It’s probably sprained. I’ll wrap it when we get back to my aunt’s house,” she said with a gentle, reassuring pat, not releasing his hand.

  Again he didn’t speak. She looked into his eyes, barely discernible in the darkness.

  “Lucy,” he said softly.

  She could have sworn she heard a kind of longing in his voice, then assured herself she was being fanciful. According to her aunt, she was always being fanciful about something. But since her parents had died in that fire, she’d relied on her imagination. She imagined them as they had been, all smiles and love. She did the same thing with John, her brother. She refused to imagine him fighting in the war. She preferred to think of him astride a gallant white horse, not unlike the one that had just died. Her fantasies were the only thing that kept her going. She supposed that loneliness was why she’d taken such a shine to Tom. He wasn’t much younger than her eighteen years. She felt sorry for the boy, and sorrow was a word she understood.

  But all sorrow faded as she stared up at Garrick. He was certainly nothing to be sorry about. In fact, he was ten times better than any fantasy she could have conjured. Even so, there was a loneliness to him, and a longing.

  Holding his hand closer, she wondered what had happened to make him that way. Much to her surprise, he let her clasp his hand. Tiny scars crisscrossed the fingers, visible even by moonlight. She wondered where they had come from. Turning her face to his, she tried to discern the answer in his eyes.

  Loneliness stared back down at her.

  Her heart gave a soft little cough. “Oh, Garrick,” she said softly, letting her own loneliness leak into her voice.

  She wanted him to kiss her again. Wanted to kiss away his pain, his longing, the despair she’d glimpsed through the soul of his eyes. The thought became a chant in her mind. Please. Please. Please. Kiss. Meeeeeeee.

  He lowered his head. She stood up on tiptoe.

  “Lucy,” he groaned.

  “Yes,” she murmured back, waiting.

  “Say your prayer.”

  Her eyes snapped open. She rocked back on her heels.

  He stared down at her, and even in the darkness she could feel the coldness emanating from his gaze.

  Oh, Lucy, you silly, silly girl, she chided. You’re a fool to have thought he’d want to kiss you. He wants no part of you. That much is obvious.

  Defeat made her shoulders slump. She turned toward the horse, wishing …

  Wishing for what? For things that could never be? For a man such as Garrick to fall in love with her despite her shortcomings? Impossible. She might as well wish for the moon.

  Closing her eyes, and despising herself for letting the realization hurt when it shouldn’t, she tried to gather her composure. So she wasn’t what society considered a classic beauty, she could live with that. And what was so bad about being accident-prone? What she lacked in grace, she more than made up for in intelligence. At least, that’s what she often told herself. Sometimes she even believed it.

  She took a deep breath, buried the knowledge that men such as Garrick were far beyond her reach, and began her prayer.

  “Dear Lord,” she said in a husky I-refuse-to-cry-whisper. “We thank you for your kindness—”

  Garrick released a breath that sounded suspiciously like a snort.

  Lucy paused, opening one eye to peer up at him. He stood perfectly still. Must have been her imagination. She closed her eye again.

  “I know Horse was only a horse, but he was a good horse. Fast. Easy to, ah, mount. That is, I think he was easy to mount. But I don’t know for certain.”

  Garrick growled. Lucy hurriedly finished, her words running together. “I ask that You receive him into Your welcoming green pastures. Reward his valiant spirit.” Garrick squeezed her hand. “And may he always eat golden oats. Amen.”

  She opened her eyes, determined to come back to bury the animal herself tomorrow, or at the very least, hire somebody to do it.

  Garrick let go of her hand. Lucy felt like a ship suddenly cast adrift.

  “Let’s be on our way.”

  He turned. Lucy watched him walk away. And despite all her brave words, despite telling herself otherwise, she suddenly wished with all her heart he wasn’t so beyond her reach.

  Fifteen minutes later Garrick wished he was back on board his ship, fighting against his enemies instead of his own desire for Lucy.

  He found himself following a barely visible strip ofroad with a woman who was about to drive him to distraction, not to mention hell, plodding by his side.

  He’d
had no idea this would be so hard. For the first time in his life he realized one didn’t need to see a woman to be aware of her presence. He could hear her breathe, feel the soft brush of her arm as she walked alongside him, smell her elusive scent. What was it? Violets? Lavender?

  Roses. It was roses. He clenched his hands at his sides, tempted to stop, duck his head, and take a longer sniff.

  But he didn’t. He couldn’t.

  The realization made him angry. Anger was good. Very good. It helped to keep him focused. It helped him keep his emotions buried deep down inside where nobody could get at them, not even one little sprite of a woman.

  She stumbled. Garrick reached out to help her. Their hips brushed. His chest seized up.

  “Thank you,” she mumbled.

  Garrick jerked his hand away. It tingled, almost as if he’d immersed it in a pool of ice-cold water.

  “I’ve been thinking,” Lucy said. “We need to go to London.”

  And her voice. Never could he remember hearing such a voice: a low, husky alto that stirred his blood and made him think of warm beds and sweet, passion-filled moans.

  But he would not let himself be attracted to her. He would treat her as he would a sister, even though he had no family. He would ignore the way her body spoke tohim. He would ignore the loneliness he heard in her voice. And above all, he would squash this ridiculous admiration he felt for her reckless courage.

  “Which means we have to break the news to my aunt.”

  She was nothing but a young girl. She had her whole life ahead of her, while he had only twenty-four days.

  “And we should probably leave on the morrow in the event the countess connects our break-in to Tom.”

  The mention of the boy’s name caught his attention. He halted. So did she. Years of adjusting his eyes to darkness allowed him to see her almost perfectly. Even in moonlight, he noted, her hair sparkled, a soft breeze causing it to shimmer like the gold braid of a uniform. He hadn’t wanted to be nice to her, he admitted. But it wasn’t her fault that fate had played such a cruel trick on him.