by Shana Galen
Brook.
After all these years, she still knew him. As though her touch burned him, he pulled his hand out of hers and pushed her aside. The man who’d led her from the cellar was there, and he took her arm and started walking.
“’Ey, now! Ye can’t just take ’er. She’s ours. Ye ’ave to pay.”
The man beside her never stopped moving, but she heard Brook Derring’s voice clearly. “You want me to pay? How about I do you a favor? How about I don’t throw you in Newgate or have you transported for kidnapping?”
“Aw, come on, guv. We was just ’aving a bit o’ sport.”
“Take your sport back to the hole you crawled out of.”
A moment later, he was beside her. His arm came around her back. “I have her now.”
The other man released her, as though transferring ownership.
“Thank you,” Lila said, looking up at him.
He gave her a puzzled look and pushed her forward. “Don’t stop until I say.”
“If Beezle isn’t down, he will be soon,” the other man said.
“All the more reason for you to disappear now. I have her. Get out of here before Beezle sees you.”
“You don’t need to tell me twice.” And the other man slipped into the fog and was gone.
“Where are you taking me?” she asked as he continued to push her along.
“Stop talking.”
“I remember you being nicer,” she said as they moved around a group of men throwing a die. Several of them eyed her curiously. Without her pelisse, she wore only her lilac silk ball gown, and though it was wrinkled and stained, it was still finer than most of them had seen.
“I’m surprised you remember me at all.”
“If you despise me so, why did you rescue me?”
He glanced at her, and she knew before he even spoke the words would be cutting. His dark brown eyes glinted like hard agate.
“I like charity cases.”
Lila looked away. She knew what his words implied. She wasn’t well liked among the ton. No one would have minded too much if she were to disappear. No one would have troubled too much to come after her.
“What, no rejoinder?” Sir Brook asked, raising his arm to catch the attention of a jarvey sitting on the box of a hackney. “Where’s that silver tongue, Lady Lila?”
In the grave with my mother, she thought.
Before handing her into the hackney, he draped his greatcoat over her. It wasn’t until the warm wool, infused with the scents of bergamot and brandy, enveloped her that she realized how cold she’d been. The first gusts of a wintry wind swept the fog away and cut through her right down to the bone. The coat, still warm from Derring’s body, was like an embrace.
She shivered and lowered her nose into the collar.
After giving the jarvey the address, he handed her into the hackney—that and the coat told her he could still be chivalrous—and seated himself across from her, taking the less desirable position. Lila could only stare down at her ruined gown and shoes and wonder just how awful the rest of her looked.
Not that she cared what Sir Brook thought. Not that she cared what anyone thought.
She was away. She was free. Lila considered, for the first time in hours, that she might not die today. She should have felt elated, but all she felt was the pounding in her head and the burning in her eyes from lack of food and sleep.
“Once we reach your father’s home, you’ll undoubtedly be whisked away, so let me ask my questions now.”
Lila raised her eyes. She’d thought they would sit in silence.
“What time is it?” she asked, her tongue thick in her mouth, making her words come slowly.
“Half three,” he said. “In the afternoon. You’ve been gone for a night and a day.”
Sir Brook had removed his hat and, though the last vestiges of fog still covered the world in nebulous gray, she could make out his features now. He’d always been handsome. Not handsome in the way his brother, the earl, was. The earl was smooth and polished and had the charming good looks to match his charming personality.
Brook was more edges and ridges, his face sharper and rougher. His nose was straight as a knife, his cheeks cut high, his brows a slash of honey brown over eyes the color of mahogany. When she’d known him years ago—six years? No, closer to seven—he’d still been a youth, barely a man. His cheeks had been soft, his lips full, his eyes warm. Now his chin was covered with light brown and blond stubble, and his lips were pressed firmly together. His hair had been longer then too. He’d worn it tousled and curled like the dandies. She’d thought he looked a bit feminine with those curls, but there was nothing feminine about him now. His cropped hair was light brown with some blond mixed in. It was not styled fashionably. The severity only made him appear that much harder.
She’d liked the boy better. The man seemed impenetrable.
He met her gaze directly, not looking down or away. His eyes revealed nothing of his thoughts. She wondered if he still thought her beautiful.
Silly chit, she chided herself. What did she care? With her hair in knots and streaks of dirt and grime all over, she probably looked no better than the loose women who’d tried to sell her. She closed her eyes, so dry they stung, and tried not to feel the humiliation of it all over again.
“Dorrington said Beezle had you in the cellar of one of his flash kens.”
Flash ken. That was an interesting term for the thieves’ den. She opened her eyes, running her tongue over her dry, swollen lips. She’d never known thirst could be so agonizing.
“Do you know why Beezle took you?”
She shook her head.
“Could it have been a random attack?”
“No, it wasn’t random. Do you have any water? Something to drink?” She touched her throat, trying to clear it of what felt like sand wedged there.
Brook pounded on the roof of the hackney. The jarvey opened the hatch and peered inside.
“Stop at the next tavern and fetch the lady bread and watered wine. I’ll pay you double for your pains.”
“Yes, sir!” The jarvey dropped the hatch and the conveyance drove on.
“Thank you,” she said quietly. “My father will pay you back—”
“I don’t want his money.”
Lila wondered if that was a reference to her father’s accusation, all those years ago, that he only wanted Lila for her dowry. The hackney slowed, and she heard the jarvey dismount. Wine. She would have wine in a few moments.
“You must allow us to repay you in some manner,” she said.
His mouth curved up in a sneer. “So polite and gracious. What an actress.”
She didn’t want to argue. She was too tired to do so. And yet, she couldn’t resist murmuring a response. “I am grateful.”
“I wager that’s the first time you’ve ever said those words.”
The door opened, bringing the sharp edge of cold with it, and the jarvey handed Derring a cup of wine and a hunk of bread. “I ’ave to bring the cup back.”
Derring cut his gaze to the door. “Give us a moment.” He passed her the cup. “Drink slowly, my lady.”
Her hands shook when she wrapped them around the wooden cup and brought it to her parched lips. Her head told her to heed his advice, but her body was overeager. She gulped the wine, choked, and had to hand Derring the cup while she coughed and coughed.
The next thing she knew, he was beside her, his body larger than she remembered and so solid and warm. He waved a handkerchief under her nose, and she took it, grateful, again, for his kindness. She, who had never valued kindness, could not seem to have enough of it this day.
When the coughing passed, Derring held the cup to her lips, allowed her to sip, and withdrew it before she could drink too deeply. Her body screamed for more, but she managed to drink it all slowly and without another coughing fit.
She was still thirsty, but the need was not so great.
Derring handed her the bread, instructed her to nibb
le it slowly, then moved back to his seat. He opened the door, and Lila shivered again at the burst of cold air. The poor jarvey and his horse must have been freezing. The man took the cup and a few moments later, they were once again underway.
“As I was saying,” Derring said, snagging her attention.
She’d closed her eyes again, and this time she felt as though she were floating. The wine had been watered, but the lack of food had still caused it to go to her head. The world seemed to spin.
“I don’t want anything from you, save answers. You said the attack was not random. How do you know this?”
Lila pressed a finger to her temple. “Because…because he said my name.” She met Derring’s mahogany eyes. “He called me Lady Lillian-Anne when he pulled me from the coach.”
“Who pulled you from the coach?”
“I don’t know his name.”
“Describe him.”
The questions came fast and sure, and she tried to focus. “It was a man. He had brown hair.”
“My color?”
She looked at Derring’s hair. It was light brown with lovely blond highlights in it. Had it been a little longer, she might have thought about running her hands through it.
“No, it wasn’t as pretty as yours.”
“What?”
He sounded shocked, and Lila realized she’d spoken aloud. She closed her eyes, tried to gather her thoughts.
“It was darker, I think. He…was tall.”
“My height or taller?”
Now she looked at Derring’s body. He didn’t seem quite so tall, sitting across from her. But she remembered the feel of him beside her.
“I don’t know. He seemed impossibly tall to me, but I don’t suppose he was.”
Derring sighed, and she knew she was not giving him useful information. But the events of the night blurred in her mind. Her surroundings had been dark, and she’d been terrified.
“Is there anything else you remember? Anything that might distinguish him?”
“No, but I thought you said you knew who took me. Beetle, was it?”
“Beezle, and yes, I suspect him, but I need proof.”
“I’m sorry. Perhaps I might remember something later.” She lowered her nose into the collar of the coat again, sniffed his scent, and closed her eyes.
“I have one more question.”
She looked up.
“Pardon me for asking about such a delicate matter, but did Beezle—or whoever took you—did any of the men violate you?”
She felt her cheeks burst into flame. Of course, she’d known she might be raped. She’d feared it constantly, but to speak of such a thing…
She shook her head, looked down.
“Lady Lila, I need the truth. Whether you wish to tell your father or anyone else is your decision. I will keep silent, but I need to know.”
She looked up at him, startled by the vehemence in his voice. She couldn’t see what difference it made. The man who’d taken her would hang for kidnapping alone.
But she could see Derring would press until he had his answer.
“He did not touch me…in that way,” she said. “I was afraid he might when he caught me at the window. He was angry then, and he dragged me back to the cellar, but he left me there without hurting me.”
“There was a window in the cellar?” Derring asked.
Lila pressed her fingers to her eyes. She might have cried had she the water for tears. “No. I escaped into the building—or I suppose it might have been a house.”
“You escaped?” Derring stared at her, his expression disbelieving.
She straightened. “Yes. Did you think I would sit there, waiting for a knight to rescue me? When all was quiet, I stalked up the stairs and tried to get away. I found a window and saw the men who’d taken me, at least I think that’s who they were, in a sort of courtyard with another man. A gentleman.”
“How do you know it was a gentleman?”
Lila explained about his clothing and his speech, but when she came to the part where the leader had taken a knife to his throat, she couldn’t manage to speak it.
Derring moved beside her again, but this time his presence did not comfort her. She pushed herself into a corner and put her hands over her face.
“Say it fast, Lila. If you say it fast, it’s easier.”
She did not want to remember it. She did not.
“He had a knife, and he grabbed the gentleman by the throat. I don’t know how he did it. It happened so quickly, but he made a motion and then the man’s throat was open and blood…”
Derring took her hand in his and pressed it tightly. “That’s enough. I don’t need you to say more.”
“I just want to go home,” she whispered from behind her hand. She’d not said those words in several years, not since her father had married again. “I just want to be safe.”
“You are home.”
She realized that at some point when she’d been speaking, the carriage had stopped. A glance out the window showed the white stone facade of Lennox House.
She moved toward the door, but Derring didn’t release her hand.
“But you aren’t safe.”
Three
Lennox House had not changed, Brook thought after he’d stepped inside. As predicted, Lady Lila had been whisked away by a horde of maids. Always one for a production, she had made a show of stumbling when she walked, and one of the footmen had carried her up the staircase.
Brook had rolled his eyes.
He’d been shown into a small, masculine sitting room paneled in dark wood and opening onto a terrace. The trees in the garden shook and shivered with the cold, and the wail of the winter wind rattled at the windows. The butler had offered him refreshment—everything from tea to brandy—but Brook had declined. He could have sorely used a drink and wouldn’t have minded something to eat, but he’d meant what he’d said in the hackney.
He didn’t want anything from Lennox.
And so he sat in a dark blue armchair, tapping his fingers on the rich upholstery. He’d been waiting almost an hour, and he supposed he might wait longer still. The duke would want to see his daughter. The king would want to see his princess.
She was still a princess, for all her thank yous. Perhaps she’d learned gratitude over the past seven years, but little else had changed. She’d sat perfectly straight, even in a rumpled dress that he imagined her lady’s maid would burn. Her voice was still haughty, her nose still stuck in the air, her composure barely wavering.
It had wavered, which meant she was human after all. He’d sometimes doubted it.
He rolled his head around, stretching the tense muscles of his neck, then let his head fall back on the chair’s cushioned top rail.
She was still beautiful. He didn’t expect her to change, but why did he still have to find her attractive? Even knowing what she was, he wanted her. He couldn’t see how any man could look at her and not want her.
All that long, dark hair and those wide-set golden-brown eyes. She appeared so innocent when she looked at him with those eyes. She looked ripe to be kissed on her perfect, pink lips, just the right color of pink against her pale, perfect, and porcelain complexion. How he wished he might fault her figure, but she was neither too thin nor too round. Her breasts swelled beautifully at the bodice of her modestly cut gown. And the thought of one of those plump globes in his hand made his body throb with need.
“Why?” he moaned. “Why her?”
“Who you talking to?”
Brook snapped up at the small voice and peered around. He saw nothing and no one, but somewhere, a child was hiding.
“Who said that?” he asked, keeping his voice light and playful. He had nephews and a niece. He knew how to speak to children.
Someone giggled and the curtains near the doors to the terrace rustled. Brook couldn’t stop a smile. Children always thought if they couldn’t see you, you couldn’t see them.
“Hmm,” he said, making a show of looki
ng everywhere in the room but behind the curtain. A small head full of blond curls poked out and then back in. More giggles.
“I wonder where she could be hiding.” Brook rose. “Under the desk?” He pretended to look under the desk. “No.”
More giggles.
“I know. Under the chair.” He lifted the chair. “No, not there. Wait, I have it! Under the rug!”
Now the little girl laughed so hard she could not contain it. She tumbled out from the curtains. “You can’t hide under the rug. That’s silly!”
“You can’t?”
She shook her head, her blond curls bouncing.
“I would never have looked behind the curtain. You’re very good at this game.”
“I know. Nanny can’t find me!”
Brook glanced toward the door, which was closed. He hoped Nanny wasn’t frantic with worry. “Perhaps you should tell Nanny you’ve won.”
“I will.” The girl scampered toward the door, then looked back at him. “Who are you?”
Brook pretended to be taken aback. “I’m terribly sorry. I’ve been unforgivably rude.”
The child laughed again, her cheeks growing pink with merriment now.
He bowed. “I am Sir Brook Derring. And who might you be, young lady?”
“Ginny. That’s short for Genevieve.” She gave an awkward curtsy, just catching herself before she lost her balance.
“And how old are you, Ginny, or should I say Lady Ginny?”
“That’s right.”
He nodded. He’d thought so. The child couldn’t have been older than four, and if memory served, the duke had remarried four or five years before. This must be Lila’s sister.
“I’m four!” She held up four fingers. “How old are you?”
“Oh, I’m very old. I’m practically ancient.”
“How old?” she asked, eyes wide.
“One and thirty.”
“That’s not very old. Papa is much older than that!”
“How old is he?”
“I forgot.”
In the distance, they heard footsteps. “Ginny! Ginny, come out this instant!”
