An Unexpected Passion (Unexpected Series Book 2)

by Leighann Dobbs

  Lounging against the frame, arms crossed his over his chest and his feet crossed at the ankles, he waited for his eyes to adjust to the darkness inside the tiny cell, noting with distaste its filthy disarray before he settled back to observe Phoebe's brother in silence while he waited for the man to notice his arrival.

  Sprawled haphazardly where he had fallen across a corner of his rumpled and dirty cot, it did not take Tristan St. Daine long to realize he was no longer alone. Another lord, he decided, judging by the quality and tailored fit of the gent's clothes, which he gauged through burning, squinted eyes. He opened his mouth to demand the fellow leave him at once, only to start in surprise when what was left of the shirt the guard had given him last week hit him square in the face.

  “Sit up,” his visitor growled from the doorway. “Get that on and make yourself presentable. You've got company.”

  “I don't want company. Get out or die,” Tristan finally said, his words slurred, but when the well-dressed gentleman said nothing in response to his threat, he lifted the shirt from where it had fallen about his chin and tossed it haphazardly into a corner. Tired, aching, he made no move to rise, but rather rolled his head to the side to study the man through half-lidded eyes from across the tiny space separating them.

  This one looked rough around the edges, Tristan decided, despite the tailored fit of his clothes. But there was an arrogance to his attitude, something undefined yet definitely present, which told Tristan the bloke was here to stay until whatever he had come to say or do got said...and heard...and done. Stubbornness was a commendable family trait and a worthy one, he had to admit, and often did so with a bit of pride. But this man was not family, he reminded himself. So why was he here?

  “How did you get past the guards? Since I know you are not family, you must have paid your way through. I am curious. Who did you kill to scrounge together enough coin to see me?”

  A new look suddenly entered the fellow's eyes, a feral gleam Tristan did not like, though he hadn't a clue what had put it there. His words and tone, when they came, suggested a grudge against him, but having never met the man—to his knowledge anyway—Tristan could not fathom why.

  “Oh, but I am family, St. Daine,” his visitor all but spat. “Thanks to you and your ridiculous death wish!”

  The swift flicker of fury in the man's eyes was quickly masked before he sprang away from the door, arms spread, presumably to explain his reason for intruding on Tristan's self-invoked solitude. Tristan might have flinched, were he a man of lesser strength or stubbornness. But he was a St. Daine, and that meant he would never shy away from a threat—real or imagined.

  “Your tone makes it abundantly clear you would feel justified for wringing my neck at any given moment,” Tristan said, allowing his own tone to slide into one of sardonic mockery, “but before you do, might I request the honor of at least knowing your motive?”

  The man closed the space between them to loom over Tristan in a stance of intimidation.

  “You are killing your sister, you damned martyring fool! She is the reason I am here. She is also the reason I would not hesitate to wipe every filth coated surface of this cell with your pitiable, smirking face! Do you care so little for the many tears she has shed over your foolishness? Would you like to know how many anxious days and sleepless nights Phoebe has spent in abject misery, counting down each hour until the day of your promised return home?”

  His visitor halted though he was practically nose to nose with Tristan before he recalled himself and belatedly seemed to realize he was behaving badly. He drew back, shaking his head in a piteous gesture as he moved toward the door once again while Tristan scrambled to rise before him.

  “Only once in my life have I seen such stalwart, steadfast love for another,” the man said, glaring back at him over his shoulder, “and I will be thrice damned before I sit idly by and let you carelessly break her heart again.”

  Anger, hot and undisciplined, pulsed through Tristan at the implications in his mysterious visitor's words, it's force lending him the strength his refusal to eat for the past few days would not. “Bastard! How would you know how Phoebe spends her nights? You have precisely three seconds to give a damned fine explanation of your exact acquaintance with my sister before I wipe this floor with your face.”

  The stranger's slow grin practically dripped sarcasm. “Oh, you did not know? Your darling Phoebe is my betrothed. In barely less than a month she will be my wife and we have you to thank for our union.”

  A satisfied smirk played over his lips as he finished, “If you hadn't insisted upon owning up to your bloody, questionable guilt, you and I would never have had a reason to be introduced. Aye, if not for your confession of having murdered the lovely Glenwood heiress, there would have been no cause for your brother to seek intervention on your behalf and I would never have gotten the chance to know your sister, St. Daine. Fancy that, eh? Our acquaintance is every whit your own doing.”

  His smirk changed to a gloating, self-satisfied grin. “Allow me to express my gratitude, please, because thanks to you, Phoebe and I have come to know each other very, very well.”

  There was no mistaking the meaning behind those words. Tristan shot up off the bed, ignoring the waves of pain in his skull and just how unsteady he was once he was on his feet. “I will kill you.”

  “No,” The man shook his head; the rueful half-smile on his lips bespoke an awareness, a knowing of something more of which Tristan had no hint. “No, no, no. You most certainly will not murder me because if you tried and somehow managed to succeed, or if you continue to refuse the darling woman on the other side of this door her one and only chance to see you, to know that you are alive and well and completely willing to assist in gaining your release from this place before the two of us are wed, you, sir, will hang.”

  His gaze was direct, clear, determined. “You will hang because, if Phoebe is not allowed a chance to ease her fears where you are concerned, I, in turn, will refuse to wed her. Sadly, should that occur, my grandfather will see no further need to assist your family with obtaining your safe release. Do you understand? Have I made myself clear?”

  “Are you attempting to blackmail me?” Tristan demanded. He was astounded by the man's sheer audacity but the arrogant brute's haughtily cocked brow assured him he had not come barging in here to try and accomplish anything, but rather, he fully intended to succeed.

  “I am attempting nothing,” he said, confirming the conclusion Tristan had already drawn. “What I am doing is opening this door to allow your sister inside. If nothing else, she deserves a moment to see for herself that you are still alive and well inside your sorry, worthless skin.”

  True to his word, the fellow straightened and turned to open the door. He halted and glanced back at Tristan to say, “If you know what is good for you, St. Daine, you will smile and thank her from the bottom of your cold, uncaring heart simply for loving you so much.”

  He bent to retrieve the shirt Tristan had tossed away earlier and threw it toward the bed before he snatched open the door and motioned for those who waited outside to join him.

  Tristan tried to comply with the fellow's demands, he really did—for Phoebe's sake.

  Taking a step forward, he bent to retrieve his shirt so that he might attempt to cover at least some of the damage the past several months of hell had wrought upon his body before she swept inside. But the last thing he recalled before disgracing himself yet again by falling to the floor in a fever-induced stupor, was a faded haze of light behind what must have been Phoebe stepping through the door, followed by whomever rushed forward in an attempt to catch him.

  Hours—or had it merely been minutes?—later, he heard someone breathe his name as if from a very great distance away and gentle fingers brushed coolly against his brow.

  Was it a woman? Yes, a woman, he decided, but he could neither see her nor manage to speak a single word in acknowledgment of her presence.

  His consciousness spun, eddying and
whirring inside his skull as his past and present converged despite his efforts to keep the two separated until, finally, his world dissolved, fading into darkness—but not before a name slipped from him like a benediction; a single word achingly whispered from between lips gone suddenly numb.

  “Chelsea...”

  At Edward's summons, Phoebe stepped cautiously into the tiny room, sweeping the low hood of her cloak aside as she did so. Her eyes had barely adjusted to the dim light in the small chamber when she caught sight of her brother for the first time in almost two years. For a moment, he swayed drunkenly on his feet, and then, she watched in mute horror as he crumpled slowly to the floor.

  Gasping, she rushed to kneel at his side.

  Behind her, Lucien's low growl was followed by an ear-blistering curse, one not fit for a lady's delicate ears. Ignoring it, she lifted Tristan's head, cradling it against her while, with shaking fingers, she reached forward to smooth back his overly long hair from his forehead. Her breath caught.

  His skin was practically flaming!

  Frowning now, her entire being shaking from reaction to this new, more immediate threat to Tristan's safety, she leaned close.

  “Tristan?” she whispered. “Tristan, can you hear me?”

  His lips moved and Phoebe caught the hoarse mumble of his voice, but just barely. Confused, she cast a glance askance toward Lucien. “Who is Chelsea?”

  Lucien exchanged a hurried look with Edward and then said, “Hastings. Chelsea Hastings is—”

  “Was,” she heard Edward correct from close beside her, earning himself a glower from Lucien, at which her betrothed merely arched a brow.

  “Was,” Lucien continued, his voice clipped, “the Marquess of Glenwood's granddaughter.”

  Phoebe's brow drew downward in confusion. “But...isn't that the woman he claims to have shot and killed?”

  Lucien's answering grunt was non-committal and Phoebe's eyes went wide in sudden realization. “Oh dear. He thinks she is me—or rather, that I am her.”

  Her eyes slid to her brother who was now prostrate and unconscious. “Lucien, we have to do something. He is blistering hot with fever and obviously delusional. I don't think he quite realizes what he is saying…”

  Kneeling beside her, Lucien leaned down to feel Tristan's brow, then quickly got back to his feet. “Help me get him on the cot, Claybourne, and get that quilt over him, then get her out of here,” he said, pointing a finger at Phoebe.

  “But he is ill!” she protested. “He is burning up, and—we cannot leave him!”

  Scrambling to her feet while the two men hefted Tristan up and onto the makeshift bed, she hurried to sit upon its edge, taking her brother's limp hand into her own. Without thought, she brought it to her face, cuddling her cheek against it while her eyes searched out every facet of his visage as if she were committing them to memory.

  “You can and you most certainly will,” Edward said, his voice low but brooking no argument as he tugged the quilt high beneath her brother's chin. He did not give her a chance to debate the matter. Instead, he reached for her arm, pulled her up and then toward the still open door. To Lucien, he said, “I'll send the guards here and get a hack. Phoebe and I will take it and wait for you at Rothwyn Manor. You will want the carriage, I am sure.”

  “And the other Graces,” Phoebe added, prompting a questioning look from Edward.

  “Sebastian and Anthony,” she hastened to explain, a light blush painting her cheeks at having inadvertently used Claire and Melisande's highly improper synonym for the three friends.

  Lucien cast a glance askance at Edward.

  He shrugged. “Couldn't hurt, Your Grace, considering the charges. The larger your show of having a powerful force behind you, the better your chances will be of bringing him home, I would say.”

  “Perhaps,” Lucien offered, though his tone remained neutral. “Send a footman around to Sebastian and the others the minute you arrive at Rothwyn Manor. You will want to contact the earl, Claybourne, and yes, do have Severn locate Tony, as well. He knows where to find him.”

  Lucien sat on the edge of Tristan's cot where Phoebe had been but a moment before and looked down at his brother, his visage a mirror of worry and concern Phoebe found difficult to witness. “I will not leave him here in this condition.”

  Still holding onto Phoebe's arm, Edward nodded. “We will wait for word from you.”

  Turning, he motioned for Phoebe to cover her head with the hood of her cloak once more and then led her quickly from the room.

  5

  The following afternoon, Lucien still had not returned. There had been no word from the Graces, either. Other than the brief note Lucien had sent to Claire telling her not to worry, there had been no news regarding Tristan at all, and Phoebe had begun to fret.

  In an effort to alleviate her fears, Edward tried to cajole her into visiting the earl's family seat. This matter with her younger brother lay heavily on her mind and though she did her best to hide it, especially after their visit to Newgate, he could see the fear and worry in her gaze. Today he wanted to try, if only for an afternoon, to bring back the brilliant light of happiness to her eyes.

  Given that his grandfather's estate lay a goodly distance to the east from Rothwyn, he had arrived early to collect her for their outing, but now that the moment was at hand, he was feeling anxious. What would she think of his home, the place where he had grown from a child at his father's knee into the man he had become today? Would she see the timber and stone as nothing more than an old facade or would she, too, feel the generations of hard work and care which had gone into making Vykhurst Hall one of the grandest memories he held of his life thus far?

  Stepping down from the carriage, he lifted his hand to assist Phoebe with her descent while his gaze took in the familiar surroundings of what had been his home since the day of his birth.

  The main hall was an old stone and timber structure which dated back several generations, but it was still large enough to be impressive. Rugged and scarred, his home had a particular sense of character few of the newer, more modern structures could boast, and while his grandfather preferred the comforts and proximity to the city of the townhouse, Edward knew he would never grow tired of the beauty and serenity of Vykhurst Hall.

  He swept a hand before him to encompass all that he would someday possess.

  “Welcome to the Vykhurst Ruins,” he teased, though he watched carefully for her reaction. First impressions were oft the most lasting, and for reasons beyond his ken at the moment, he wanted her to love this place which sprawled before them like a beautiful dream caught on a well-worked canvas of earth as much as he did.

  “Ruins? Fie upon thee, sir. 'Tis no folly, this, Edward Claybourne, and well you know it. It is beautiful,” she said, her wandering gaze still taking in the carefully appointed vista before her.

  A sense of pride filling him, Edward lifted his arm to draw her attention to the right. “The carriage house is there, and the stables just beyond it. An orchard lies in that direction, and then there is the pond, the gardens, and the dower cottage...”

  She started forward to the main entrance of the Hall, but he reached out, halting her. “Wait, Phoebe, I—”

  The confusion in her gaze cut off his words, but still, he held her back. This would be her first entrance into what was soon to be her new home. He wanted the moment to be special—separate and apart from whatever expectations she may harbor for their wedding day. Though he tried, he could find no words to explain the gift he wished to give to her—one that would have no meaning should he offer it after a wedding day they each had been forced to agree to. Finally, he simply bent and swept her up into his arms, startling her.

  “What are you doing? Edward, put me down this instant!”

  He merely shook his head. “In a moment, Phoebe. Now cease your wiggling about or I am like to drop you on your—”

  She grew still so suddenly he chuckled.

  There was a moment of consternati
on when he tried to open the door without the assistance of the butler, but he finally managed to get the thing open and then carry her the few remaining feet into the wide foyer in the center of the first floor.

  “There,” he said, setting her gently on her feet. “Welcome to my home, Phoebe.”

  Stepping back, he waited, letting her take in the simple beauty of the place.

  For long moments, she simply looked, her gaze wandering from one opened doorway—all brilliantly lit from inside by large banks of windows—to another. She was silent for so long, he lowered his head, a feeling akin to shame filling him though he knew full well he had naught to feel ashamed of. Vykhurst Hall was his home. Mayhap it was not as large or well-appointed as Rothwyn House, but it had served him and his family well enough through the years. Still, if she were so very disappointed, he silently vowed he would find something more suited to her tastes and perhaps closer to the city.

  Finally, he shuffled his feet and cleared his throat to gain her attention. “I know it is not as grand as what you are accustomed to, but it will suffice for the moment.”

  Her gaze flew swiftly to his, her brow furrowed. “Suffice? Oh, Edward, it is perfect!”

  Surprise sent his brows winging upward. He could feel a flush of pride sweeping him. “I would not go so far as to call it perfect, but—”

  “You love it,” she said simply, her gaze returning to meet his. “And I can see why.”

  Phoebe left him then, to roam throughout the rooms, beginning with the study. Dark woods and neutral fabrics greeted her in a chamber clearly meant for a man. There was a big, hand-carved desk in the center, holding a place of honor atop the worn but still lovely Aubusson carpet. To the left was an entire wall of bookcases, each filled with books on a wide variety of subjects from husbandry to poetry, from law and politics to housekeeping and even art. To the right sat a handsome, curved table which acted as both bar and liquor cabinet, on each side of which a matched pair of upholstered chairs had been brought close for visitors.