"To that end, little by little, I sold everything. The house, the furniture, my jewelry, and eventually even my clothing. As soon as the house sold, I moved away. The gossip and scandal surrounding David's death at the hands of his lover's husband… well, you cannot even imagine how unbearable it made my life. I settled in a small town outside Boston. David had lived in the city for several years, and according to his journal, the majority of the people he'd stolen from were from that area. Living close by enabled me to ensure that the funds safely reached those I needed to repay. As Brown is a common surname, and I did not tell anyone my husband's name had been David, everyone simply regarded me with the respect due a young widow. I earned a bit of money taking in sewing. With that independence, and the feeling of doing something useful to right the wrongs David had wrought… I eventually started to heal."
Memories flashed through her mind. Her modest rooms. Long nights that had eventually ceased to seem quite so lonely. Her self-respect slowly seeping back as, one by one, she anonymously paid back David's victims.
"I found one item among David's belongings," she continued, "that was not mentioned in his journal. It was a small rusted box containing a coat-of-arms ring. I thought it odd that there was no mention of the piece, especially given how meticulously all the other ill-gotten items were listed. Candlesticks, jewelry, snuffboxes. With the exception of perhaps a dozen items, he'd sold the wares as fast as he stole them, therefore I could only return the money he'd sold them for, rather than the actual goods." Another humorless laugh escaped her. "While I couldn't explain why there was no mention of this ring in the journal, I of course had good reason to assume it was stolen. If it was, I wanted to return it to the owner. If it actually had belonged to David, I planned to sell it, then donate the money to charity. I wanted all traces of him gone."
She stopped pacing and glanced at him. He sat on the settee, leaning forward, his forearms braced on his spread legs, his hands clasped, watching her intently. Questions lurked in his intense gaze, but he said nothing, clearly waiting for her to continue.
Clearing her throat, and pacing once more, she plunged on. "I consulted with an antiquities expert in Boston, but was only able to learn that the ring was old, of English origin, and probably belonged to a member of the peerage. Which meant, of course, that David had almost certainly stolen it, no doubt before he sailed to America. I left the ring as my final item to return, deciding to combine my search for the owner with a visit to Elizabeth. It took me three long years to locate, then repay, David's victims, but I finally succeeded. The only things I kept were my silver wedding band, which I no longer wore, and my mourning gowns, which I wore every day. I couldn't afford other clothing, and the black kept any suitors at bay. And both the wedding band and the gowns served as daily reminders of what I'd lost… and a harsh warning to never allow myself to be put in a similar situation again." She stopped in front of the fire and stared into the flames, her hands fisted at her sides. "Never again," she whispered fervently. "Never again."
"Does Elizabeth know all this?" he asked.
Turning to face him, she shook her head. “No one knows. All Elizabeth knows is what I wrote to her in my very first letter where I told her that David had been killed in a duel. Because she deserved to know she'd been right about him, I informed her about the circumstances surrounding his death. I begged for her forgiveness and I asked her if I could visit her, to apologize in person. She wrote back, readily offering her forgiveness and inviting me to come to England."
"What about your family? Did you not tell them?"
"Only about David being unfaithful, which of course everyone learned about upon his death. No one knows the rest." She raised her chin a fraction. "Except you. Nor does anyone else know of my financial situation. If I'd told my family, they would have insisted upon helping me. But paying those people back… it was something I had to do on my own." She slowly shook her head. "I do not expect you to understand…"
A shadow passed over his face. "Actually, I understand perfectly."
She sincerely doubted he could, but when their eyes met, there was no mistaking the empathy in his gaze. Curiosity nudged her, but she forced herself to push it aside and finish her own tale. "By the time I was ready to travel to London, I could barely afford the passage. But I didn't wish to delay my trip any longer and be forced to endure a winter ocean crossing. And I had to come. I had to find out more about the ring so I could put the last remaining piece of the past behind me, and I needed to see Elizabeth. To make amends to her. Through the letters we'd exchanged, I knew she generously forgave my horrible treatment of her, but I wanted, needed, to express my sorrow in person." She pressed her hands tighter against her middle. "I was hateful to her. She was my best friend, with nothing but my best interests at heart, and I pushed her away. That's the reason she came to England, you know. She'd been living with my family after her father passed away. But when she warned me about David, told me not to marry him, I told her to leave."
Her voice dropped to a whisper, and she could barely speak around the lump that settled in her throat. "I accused her of wanting David for herself. Accused her of being jealous of my happiness. I told her that I did not want her at my wedding or to be a part of my life any longer. When she left my family she had nowhere to go, so she sailed to England to visit her aunt." She closed her eyes. "She warned me… dear God, if I'd only listened to her."
She heaved a deep sigh. "Because my funds were so limited, I hired myself out as a companion to Lady Gaddlestone to pay for the voyage. But once on board the ship, the mishaps I told you about occurred. When you met me at the pier, I was terrified. I had the strongest feeling someone was watching me. I couldn't wait to get away from there." A shudder ran through her. "Yet the strange happenings followed me here, as you know. I thought it was over-the coat-of-arms ring is gone, as well as its box."
"Yet clearly it's not over," he said, his voice grim. "The fact that someone tried to break in this evening clearly indicates that whoever it is still wants something. Do you have any idea what it could be?"
She briefly considered not telling him, but decided there was no point, as he already knew all her other humiliating secrets. "There's nothing left… except this." Crossing to the settee, she opened her reticule and withdrew the folded paper. "I found this just today. Hidden in a false bottom in the ring box."
"What does it say?"
"I don't know. It's written in some foreign language. I'm afraid it might have information about David… information I wouldn't want anyone else to know, which is why I did not put it back before I gave the box over to Lord Shelbourne."
"May I take a look at it?"
She wordlessly handed him the delicate paper. Moving to the fireplace, he crouched on the stone hearth and held the note at the best angle to capture the light. After a minute he remarked, "I think this might be Gaelic."
Her stomach knotted. "I thought so as well, in which case it most likely does concern David. He was familiar with the language."
He nodded in an almost absent manner, then said, "This word… how odd." He pointed to a word. "That looks like 'Evers.' "
Crouching down beside him, she squinted at the cramped, faded letters. "Yes, it does," she agreed. Something tickled her memory, but remained just out of reach. "Does that mean something to you?"
"Only that it is my friend Michael's surname."
Recognition hit her. "The pugilist fellow who bandaged us."
"Yes." He continued to examine the letter. Nearly a minute passed where the only sound breaking the silence was the snapping of the orange-red flames in the hearth.
"Look at this word," he finally said, pointing to another faded group of letters. "I swear it looks like the name of the town in Ireland where I recall that Michael grew up." He turned to her, his eyes dark and serious in the firelight. "I'd like to show this letter to Michael."
She opened her mouth to protest, but before she could utter a word, he said, "Being from Ireland,
he might be able to translate the words. I give you my word that he is discreet."
She debated saying no, but a wave of weariness washed over her, nearly drowning her in its wake. She wanted so badly for this to be over…
"Very well," she agreed in a tired voice.
Robert watched as the strength seemed to simply seep out of her. Setting the note on the mahogany end table, he stood, then reached down to help her up. She stared at his hands for several seconds, and he thought she was going to refuse his help. But then she grasped his palms and allowed him to assist her to her feet.
No more than two feet separated them. Her hands felt small and cold clasped in his, and her eyes… they appeared enormous in her pale face, shadowed with ghosts of the past and inner weariness. She looked emotionally and physically spent.
His chest tightened, and all the anger he'd held steadfastly at bay while listening to her tale bombarded him. A violence such as he'd never before experienced rose in him, and he deeply regretted that he'd never have five minutes alone with David Brown. Now he knew where the girl in the sketch had gone. And he couldn't help but marvel at the determination and inner strength that had kept even a tiny flicker of that girl alive.
Looking at her now, however, his anger faded as quickly as it had flared, snuffed out by a swell of sympathy. Bloody hell, what this young woman had endured… and how she'd fought back. And how difficult it clearly had been for her to tell him.
She suddenly stiffened and pulled her hands from his grasp.
"Another reason I moved away," she said, "was to distance myself from my family. Not only did I not want the scandal to touch them any more than it already had but I simply couldn't stand their pity any longer. I knew they loved me, yet every time they looked at me, all they saw was 'poor Allie.' They all stared at me with that same expression that's on your face right now." She lifted her chin, her gaze steady. "I do not want your pity."
"I understand. Yet I cannot help but feel sorry for what you've suffered. If it makes you feel better, I can tell you that pity is actually only a small part of what I'm feeling right now."
She pressed her lips together, then raised her chin another notch. "I imagine you're quite disgusted."
"Indeed, it disgusts me to know that not only do people such as David Brown exist but they hurt people… kind, trusting people, like you."
"I meant disgusted with me. For being so stupid as to love such a man. For not being able to see his true nature."
"No. God, no." Reaching out, he cupped her shoulders. "You did nothing wrong. You were victimized-in the crudest of ways. I feel the deepest admiration for you, for the way you paid back his other victims. You're very brave."
A short, humorless laugh blew from between her lips. "Brave? I'm frightened all the time. Unsure of… everything."
"Yet you go on. Trying your best. Bravery isn't being without fear-it's overcoming your fears. Moving forward in spite of them. Facing them down." When she continued to look unconvinced, he continued, "I cannot tell you how much I admire your strength. How you've worked so hard to right wrongs that weren't even yours."
Confusion flickered in her eyes. "Giving back things that did not belong to me, returning money that David had stolen, that did not take strength."
"Didn't it? How many other people do you honestly think would have done it? Especially if it left them on the brink of financial ruin?" His gaze roamed her lovely, pale face, and his heart, quite simply, turned over. "I believe you're the bravest and strongest woman I've ever met. And I give you my word that whoever is behind these 'accidents' and abductions and robberies will be apprehended. I'll not allow anyone to harm you again."
A wealth of expressions flitted across her features. Surprise. Doubt. Uncertainty. Then gratitude. And all of them shadowed by an underlying vulnerability that made him want to wrap his arms around her and protect her from anyone or anything that would be foolish enough to attempt to hurt her again. Her bottom lip trembled slightly, drawing his attention to her mouth… her full, beautiful mouth.
Desire slammed into him-low, hard, and undeniable. She was so achingly beautiful. A sudden flush of color washed over her cheeks. Clearly she'd recognized the hunger he knew burned in his gaze. He remained perfectly still for several seconds, giving her the chance to move away, but she stood her ground. That beguiling blush beckoned him like a siren's call, and slowly, as if in a trance, he raised his hand to her face and gently brushed his fingertips over her cheek.
Velvet. Her skin was like cream velvet. Or was satin softer? Or silk? He didn't know, but she was most definitely whichever was the softest. A tiny, breathy sound escaped her, once again drawing his gaze to her lips. And suddenly he could not recall one reason why he shouldn't give in to the longing that had plagued him since even before he'd met her, and kiss her. She didn't mourn… Her heart was free.
Wrapping one arm around her waist, he slowly drew her to him until they touched from chest to knee. Her eyes widened slightly, but there was no mistaking the awareness glimmering in her golden-brown depths. Or the stirrings of desire. He inhaled, and her scent wrapped around him like a seductive vine. Lowering his head, he brushed his mouth over hers.
At last.
That same intense rush of feeling he'd experienced at the pier enveloped him, and for several seconds he couldn't move as the words reverberated through his mind. If it had been possible, he would have laughed at his strong reaction. Bloody hell, he'd barely touched her…
He pulled her tighter against him. No woman, ever, had felt this right. As if she'd been fashioned precisely for him and no one else. Rising up on her toes, she strained closer to him, pressing her lush curves against him, instantly evaporating any hopes he might have foolishly harbored about remaining in control. A low growl rumbled in his throat. He touched his tongue to the seam of her lips, and she opened for him with a husky sigh of want that ignited him, racing his blood through his veins.
She tasted like heated wine. Smooth and warm, delicious and intoxicating. While he explored the dark mysteries of her mouth, she explored his with equal fervor, her tongue rubbing against his with exquisite friction. Need, hot and increasingly demanding, ripped through him, and if he'd been able to think clearly, he would have been appalled at his lack of subtlety.
He tunneled impatient fingers into her soft hair, scattering pins, until a curtain of flowery-scented tresses rained over his hands. Soft. God, she was so soft. And smelled so damn good. Her thick hair rippled through his fingers like cool silk, a stunning contrast to the fire burning through him. A fire made all the more intense by her reactions. For as impatiently as his mouth claimed hers, she pressed against him. For as eagerly as his hands combed through her hair, her fingers raced through his.
A moan vibrated between them. Him? Her? God help him, he didn't know anymore. Desperate to feel more of her, his hands smoothed down her back until he cupped her rounded buttocks. Every muscle strained with wanting her closer, and he cursed the barrier of their clothing that kept their skin from touching.
He didn't know how long that frantic mating of lips and tongues continued before a semblance of sanity returned, along with a modicum of finesse. He gentled his kiss, somehow finding the strength to abandon her lips and explore the delights of her slender neck. He ran hot, open-mouthed kisses down her jaw to the rapidly quivering pulse at the base of her throat. He gently touched his tongue to the spot, savoring the long, low moan vibrating in her throat.
"That fragrance," he whispered against the shell of her ear. "What is that incredible scent you wear?" He captured her lobe between his teeth and lightly tugged.
"Honeysuckle," she breathed, the word ending on a husky groan.
Honeysuckle. The luscious aroma that had embedded itself in his mind had a name. Honeysuckle. Hell, it even sounded luscious. Sensual. Like the woman in his arms.
Slowly he raised his head and looked at her. Shiny strands of chestnut hair lay about her shoulders in wild abandon. Her eyes were closed, her
face flushed with arousal, her full lips damp and swollen from their frantic kiss. Next time he would go slower. Savor her. Take the time to memorize every exquisite nuance of her. He would certainly have been appalled at himself for all but devouring her if not for the fact that she'd been as voracious as he. Indeed, they'd fed each other's hunger. But next time he would-
Next time? He paused to consider the import of those words. Yes, next time, for he knew, without a doubt, there would be one. To consider not touching her again… unthinkable. Kissing her had felt like coming home after a long journey. Like finding shelter after being lost in a storm. He'd once doubted, indeed had scoffed at the notion that this woman made him feel that "certain something." By God, he couldn't doubt it or scoff any longer. One kiss had practically brought him to his knees. He wanted her. With an intensity that, quite literally, left him shaking.
Her lids fluttered open, and he swallowed a groan at her dreamy, languid expression. Her eyes looked like brown velvet, their depths soft with sexual want. For the first time he could recall, he was utterly speechless. No jest or joke sprang to mind, no laughing remark tripped off his tongue. He'd suspected-no, damn it all, he'd known-that kissing her wouldn't be just a simple kiss.
Allie slowly emerged from the sensual fog enveloping her, with a sigh of pure pleasure. She felt so wonderfully alive. Every nerve ending tingled, pulsing need through her. It had been so long since she'd been kissed. And she'd never been kissed quite like that… like he'd wanted to simply absorb her. Like he couldn't hold her close enough. Taste her deeply enough. And Lord help her, she hadn't wanted him to stop. The instant he'd touched her, after telling her how brave and strong he thought her, it was as if she were dry kindling and he were a match. She'd flared to life under the onslaught of a kiss that changed in a heartbeat from gentle to devouring.
Whirlwind Affair Page 17
