A Heart So Innocent

by Charlene Cross

  “No,” the Duke of Westover replied, tossing the note onto the silver tray. “I’ll be out all day—possibly past midnight. Don’t bother waiting up.”

  With one last look at the note, he dismissed it as being inconsequential, then strode through the door to his awaiting carriage to collect Cynthia Danvers for their outing.

  Aunt Patti marched from the darkened doorstep into the candlelight elegance of Westover House. “Take me to my nephew,” she announced to the butler, squaring her frail shoulders as she did so.

  “He’s not in,” Pitkin replied.

  Instantly the butler blanched as his master’s deep chuckle filtered across the hallway from the small dining room, to be followed by a woman’s seductive laughter.

  “Not in?” Aunt Patti poked Pitkin with her cane. “Get out of my way.” She walked across the hall, then stopped in the open doorway to see Cynthia Danvers, her chair angled close to Justin’s, raising her mouth toward her nephew’s. The young duke seemed to hesitate; then his head lowered in response. Her eyes narrowing, the dowager marchioness whacked her cane against the door, startling the couple apart before their lips met. “Have you no scruples, sir?” she asked, her censuring gaze riveted to her nephew.

  “It’s been stated, several times, I do not,” he replied, leaning back in his chair. “In actuality, I believe you were the one who first informed me of the fact. Why are you here?” he asked, certain he would discover the reason whether he inquired or not.

  “Since you ignored the message I sent you three days ago, telling you that your wife is missing, I decided to come to London to make certain you had received it.”

  “I did.”

  “Well?”

  “I suggest you check the convents. She may have decided to take another sudden sabbatical.”

  Infuriated by her nephew’s callous words, Aunt Patti struck her cane against the dining-room table; Cynthia jumped. “You pigheaded dolt!” she accused hotly. “While you sit here wining and dining this …this used piece of goods, your wife could be suffering great danger!”

  Justin eyed his aunt at length. “Cynthia, will you please excuse us? The dowager marchioness and I have need of privacy.”

  Cynthia rose. “Since your aunt seems to have a lot on her mind, I shall see you on the morrow,” she said, then deliberately placed a kiss on Justin’s cheek. “Good night, darling.”

  As the blond swayed past the dowager marchioness, Pattina squared her shoulders anew. “Mrs. Danvers,” Lady Falvey said for their ears alone; Cynthia looked down on Justin’s aunt. “You might have better luck in seeking your fortune if you were to search out a man who is not already married. Who is to say? The fool might just propose and give you a modicum of respectability—something you now lack.”

  Affronted, Cynthia glared her discontent at Aunt Patti, then tossed her head and swept through the open door.

  Justin had noted the blond’s sudden stiffness. “Passing judgment again, are we?” he asked sarcastically.

  Aunt Patti ambled closer to her nephew. “As the saying goes, sir: ‘If the cap fits, put it on.’”

  His lips spread into a cool smile. “And I suppose you have a quaint little saying for me as well.”

  “Indeed, sir, I do. Like the dull-witted Nero, you seem content to sit and play your fiddle while all Rome burns. Your wife is missing and you do nothing to find her!”

  “And I say she’s cried wolf one too many times. Her penchant for deception is repulsive. I’ll not play her games, Aunt.”

  “Games!” Pattina shrieked. “You foolish pup! You are a jaded, cynical, coldhearted man, Justin Warfield. You’ve allowed your parents’ obsessions and jealousies to taint your views of what a real marriage and true love actually are. You speak of your wife’s deception, sir. But I propose that the real deception is your own. Look deep into your heart, nephew. I doubt very much that you can truthfully say you don’t love her. And if you persist in hiding your feelings, you shall pay for the gravity of your lies. This I promise you!” She turned on her heel. “I shall be at Warfield Manor,” she said over her shoulder. “If she still lives, I pray that you come to your senses before you’ve lost her forever.”

  Justin sat motionless, listening to his aunt’s cane make a rapid tap across the marble floor. With a loud thump, the front door closed behind her. Love her? he questioned himself. Hell, yes, he loved her! But he refused to allow himself to suffer the heartache that was associated with the emotion. Jaded, cynical, coldhearted—in truth, he was all those things. Yet there was a reason behind that sordid side of his character. And he seemed unable—or unwilling—to abolish its presence from his soul.

  Yet, if Aidan were in trouble … No! He’d not fall into that trap yet another time. She’d tricked him more than once. And he’d not allow himself to be duped again!

  Throwing his napkin onto his untouched plate, Justin rose and strode from the small dining room into the foyer. Certain his sanity was on the verge of shattering, he decided to escape the house. The place was filled with memories of his wife, and he could no longer sit within its walls, constantly thinking of her. “I’ll be out for a while, Pitkin,” he announced curtly. “Don’t wait up for me.”

  Not wanting to see Cynthia anytime soon, for the woman was beginning to wear on his nerves, he ordered Potts to take him to White’s. No doubt he’d discover yet another ribald tale about the Duke of Westover being spread by his peers. Upon hearing it, he might have a laugh or two himself.

  “I tell you, Westover, the man has gone completely mad,” Sir Percival Filbert said with a sniff.

  Justin watched as Sir Percival raised his drink to his lips, took a swallow of his brandy, then set himself to rocking back and forth on his feet; the habitual motion began to annoy Justin.

  “He had taken to mumbling to himself—acting most peculiar,” Filbert continued. “Then, about four or five, maybe six days ago, he paid off all his debts here at White’s and has presumably left town. No one has seen him since. Lord Quigley said the man told him he was leaving London permanently …said something about ‘claiming what was rightfully his,’ I believe. I suppose he was speaking of an inheritance or something of that nature.” Filbert swallowed another sip of brandy. “Anyway, I thought perhaps you should know about this. With his father off in India—although I’d thought the man was to have returned by now …oh, well—I assume your aunt would be the person responsible for him should the poor fellow have gone crackbrained on us. Most peculiar situation, indeed.” He stopped his monotonous sway. “By the by, how goes it with your wife these days?” he inquired. “Hasn’t run off on you again, has she?”

  Sir Percival looked around him to see the Duke of Westover striding out the door. “Touchy fellow,” he said to himself, then traipsed over to make conversation with another one of his peers.

  Outside White’s, Justin’s feet hit the walkway at a full run. “Potts! Get me home fast!” he ordered, vaulting into his carriage.

  Damn! Why had he ignored his aunt’s warnings? he wondered as the conveyance careened through the London streets, Justin cursing his own stupidity, along with his abominable pride. Sir Percival’s story was not the only one he’d heard this evening concerning George Edmonds’s strange behavior of late. Like all the rest, though, he’d tried to ignore the obvious.

  To claim what was rightfully his. Filbert’s words rolled through his head. George had abducted Aidan! Or had she willingly run off with him? No! He remembered how she’d tried to confess her love, and his cold denial of it, telling her he didn’t want to hear her lies, seeing the devastated look on her face when he’d done so. She’d been taken by George; he was certain of it. What had she been made to suffer because of his callousness, his refusal to believe that she was in danger? Oh, God! What a fool he was! Aidan! his heart cried, no longer able to deny his love for her. Hold on, love!

  As soon as the carriage stopped at Westover House, Justin commanded Potts to have Apollo saddled and waiting. Once he was through the doo
rway, he barked orders at Pitkin, who had not yet retired, to procure him several days’ worth of food. Then Justin bounded up the stairs to his rooms.

  Dressed in black from head to foot, Justin watched as his stallion was led into the mews. A leather bag containing food and water, plus an extra weapon, along with shot and powder, was strapped to Apollo’s saddle. With a loaded pistol tucked into his belt, Justin bounded to the steed’s back.

  “Pitkin,” he stated, trying to control the prancing horse, “send word to my aunt that I’m on my way to Moorsfield. Tell her of my suspicions. And you’d best inform the Duke of Atwood as well. Should I not succeed, someone will need to win the duchess’s safety.” He looked to his coachman. “Potts, make sure he doesn’t forget.”

  With a kick of his heels, Justin sent the horse into a restrained gallop through the London streets. But once they hit the Great North Road, he let Apollo pace himself at a hungry, mile-eating stride. Like two black souls intent on destruction, man and beast aimed themselves toward the Yorkshire moors.

  18

  Fierce gray clouds swept across the desolate moors, the evening sky growing darker and darker. Locked inside Moorsfield’s impregnable turret, dampness seeping from its cold stone walls, Aidan pressed her forehead against the dirt-smudged windowpane, watching as the volatile thunderheads ripened in intensity beyond. The menacing elements sadly reminded her of Justin’s eyes when she’d seen him last—roiling with contempt—and forlornly she wished, in that last shared moment of time, he had viewed her with gentle affection instead. But whether his silvery gaze had shone with tenderness or with anger, she was certain she’d never look upon his beloved countenance again.

  A jagged sigh escaped her as she was overcome with a sudden bout of weakness. Her head spun crazily as her stomach rumbled in vicious protest over its lack of nourishment. How long had she been here? she wondered, fighting off the blackness which threatened to overtake her. Three days? Four? Yes, four, she decided, unable to fully remember the exact count. Everything had suspended itself in a deepening haze. To Aidan, nothing seemed real anymore.

  Lightning volleyed above the darkened landscape, and Aidan blinked. Had she seen it? Or was she hallucinating again? More than once, she thought she’d espied someone on the barren wasteland, far below her, but she discovered the apparition had been nothing other than her hopeful imagination, which only added to her anguish. What sensibilities she could gather now told her it was a horseman. Both he and his steed appeared to be as black as night. Death! He was coming for her! Strangely she realized she’d welcome his arrival. Anything was better than being kept prisoner, day after day, only to be tortured by her crazed jailer, for George Edmonds had gone completely mad!

  Feeling the sting of tears behind her eyes, Aidan eased herself down from the rough-hewn stool she stood upon, taking great care not to jostle herself. Quivering hands wiped the salty spillage from her cheeks, and she breathed deeply. Dear God, if only she could end this torment, she thought, gazing at her cold, heartless prison, all hope of salvation lost to her.

  She shuddered as she viewed the depressing room, centuries of cobwebs knit high in the corners, years of dust overlying the timeworn stone floor. She noted how her footprints marked a narrow path through the powdery grime, where she continually traversed the space from window to door, then back again. Was someone else kept prisoner here? she wondered, certain she felt a ghostly presence always close by. Perhaps the poor unknown soul had died within the bounds of her cell, forever haunting it, as Aidan felt sure was to be her fate as well.

  The key scraped into the lock, and Aidan’s whole body jerked at the sound. What torment would he inflict on her this time? she wondered, wild violet eyes watching as the door slowly opened.

  George stepped inside and pocketed the key. One hand balanced a tray, a lighted candle atop it. Instantly the aroma of hot food drifted across the small space to fill Aidan’s nostrils, making her mouth water. But she knew the provender would come with a condition. As always, she’d be asked to submit to him—lie with him as though she were his wife. Then, and only then, would he feed her.

  “Get out!” she screamed, not certain she could endure his calculated torture much longer. All that had sustained her each day was water—just barely enough to drink and to lightly bathe. Suddenly the pleasant odor of what she craved most turned sickening. Nausea overtook her and she rushed to the chamber pot. Her stomach twisted painfully as she retched futilely, and Aidan cursed George, cursed his parentage, and cursed herself for not ending her life by throwing herself from the galloping horse the day he’d abducted her. Finally she straightened to wipe a shaky hand over her face and hatred filled her eyes. “Get out, I said. The answer is still no!”

  “Aidan, my darling,” he coaxed, setting the tray and candle holder onto the small wooden table, “you must eat something. You’re ruining your health.”

  “Don’t call me darling! It is you, George, who are ruining my health. I’ll not eat if the conditions are the same. There is no way I’ll willingly share your bed. Now, leave me!”

  “My darling, come sit,” he said as though he hadn’t heard her. “Your food grows cold.”

  “Get out and take it with you!”

  His brown gaze slipped over her. “There are no longer any conditions, Aidan, darling. You must eat. You grow thin and overly weak. Now, come. Eat for me.”

  Aidan stared at him and instantly noted the strange glow in his eyes. A trick, she thought, her mind urging caution. Somehow she had to escape him. But in order to do so, she needed to regain her strength. “I will eat, but you must leave the room.”

  “My lovely, Aidan, I’ll not leave, but I promise not to give you cause for alarm. I love you, Aidan. You should know I’d never hurt you. Now, come, sit …eat. I will remain away from you while you do so.”

  She watched as he moved over to the open door to lean a shoulder against its jamb. Slowly she moved toward her small cot, then wedged herself between the rough wooden table and the rickety little bed. Lowering herself to the rush-filled mattress, she lifted the linen napkin covering her fare.

  Stale bread peered up at her, along with some moldy cheese; her stomach lurched, forcefully objecting to the unappealing offerings. Then she tipped the saucer, which capped a bowl, to find some hot broth. It was the best of the three, she decided, but as the steam rose upward, she realized it was far too hot to eat.

  Through lowered lashes, she peered at George, then back to the hot broth; her heart leapt wildly in her chest. “George,” she said cautiously, her hands centering themselves around the bowl. As she lifted it, the heat seared her fingers; valiantly, she held fast. “I can’t eat this,” she said, her face twisting with aversion. “Look! There’s something most distasteful floating in my broth.”

  “That hag!” he exclaimed, referring to the old woman he’d hired as a cook. Shortly after he’d dismissed Moorsfield’s meager staff several months agOe. He moved toward the table. “She’s half-blind, my darling. Were she still here, and not on her way home, I’d strap her one.” He looked into the bowl. “I don’t see anyth—”

  Instantly the scalding broth flew into his face, and with a yell, George stumbled back and Aidan was out the door. Her head spun crazily as she ran down the spiral stone steps, blazing torches lighting her way. As she fought against her dizziness, she could hear George’s heavy footsteps following close behind. Oh, God, let met get free! she cried silently, her feet rapidly slipping down the worn stone until a heavy door blocked her path. Frantic fingers grabbed the ancient handle, and she twisted, then pulled, but it would not move. Hitting her shoulder against the door, she tried to break free. Hysteria bubbled up inside her as she realized she was trapped.

  “It’s locked, my darling,” George said, his fingers dangling the key on high; Aidan fell back against the door, her frightened eyes watching his every move. “I’m not a fool, Aidan,” he said, a strange smile settling on his mottled face, his burns showing bright red in the torchlig
ht. “I thought you might try to escape me. But your attempt has come to no avail.”

  He descended the last few steps and advanced on Aidan. “What are you going to do?” she cried, her fear rising to choke her.

  “It’s time I claim what is rightfully mine.” He pulled her away from the door; then his long pale fingers twisted in her coppery hair, holding her in place so she wouldn’t bolt. “Now, my darling,” he said, inserting the key and releasing the lock, “we shall retire to my room.”

  “No!” she cried as he dragged her through the door and into the darkened hallway. “George, I don’t belong to you. I belong to Justin.”

  “He stole you from me!” His hand tightened in her hair as his hard strides forced her toward his room. “Oh, had he only been hanged for his deceit, how very easy it would have been. I went there to watch it, you know. I’d hoped to glory in his struggles—hear his neck crack, watch his face turning black as he strangled. If you hadn’t stopped it, we could have been married, my darling. Until I’ve found a way to permanently rid ourselves of him, we’ll have to live together without the benefit of having said our vows,” he said, stopping outside his room. In the dim light from the open door to the turret, his gaze ran hungrily over Aidan’s face. “You’re mine, darling, and shall remain so. No one will ever take you from me again.”

  Wide-eyed, Aidan watched as his face lowered toward hers. Startled into action, she thrust her head aside as her fists struck at his face and chest. “No!” she cried, attacking him. “Don’t!”

  Angered by her assault, George jerked against her hair; a distressed cry escaped her lips. With his full weight, he pinned her against the closed door. “Don’t? You deny me what is mine?” His hand cupped a breast, squeezing it between his fingers, causing pain to shoot through Aidan. “This is mine …and so is this.”

  His hard hand thrust itself between her thighs to roughly paw at her, while his wet mouth pressed against her neck. The orchid silk dress and voluminous petticoats she wore obstructed his hold; he pulled back to tear at the encumbrance.