A Perfect Secret (Rogue Hearts)

by Hatch, Donna

  A shimmer of white caught his eye on the old bridge. Christian narrowed his gaze and blinked in disbelief. Surely he was mistaken, but it appeared as though a woman sat on the railing. He blinked again, straining his eyes. He was not mistaken.

  A woman sat with her legs dangling over the edge, the whiteness of her scant gown glowing against the weathered wood. Her head was lowered as if she contemplated the river, her abundant auburn hair concealing most of her face and upper body. He’d only seen hair that color once and its texture had put silk to shame. But that was a lifetime ago.

  As he continued trotting toward her, she shifted her legs until she sat dangerously close to the edge.

  He let out a gasp. “What the devil...?”

  The woman jumped into the water.

  Christian’s heart leaped into his throat. He spurred his horse closer to the bridge, his gaze fixed on the water’s surface. The woman vanished into the murky depths.

  He didn’t think; he simply acted. Before reaching the bridge, he leaped from his horse, threw off his frockcoat, and dove in. The freezing water hit him like a blow. His strength ebbed until he was little more than a leaf tossed on the savage current. The water tugged him down lower and lower. Summoning all his strength, he fought the weakness, pushing upward. As his head broke through the surface, he took a breath. He scanned for the woman. No sign of her.

  Christian floundered in the numbing cold as rapids overcame him, pulling him down into a world of brown-green water. Shafts of light glimmered over his head. He battled toward the surface, only to be dragged under again before he got a breath. His lungs screamed for air as mortal terror threatened to swallow him. He could die. Here. Now. He would never atone for his transgressions.

  No. He would not die. Not today. Not for a long, long time.

  With renewed determination, Christian forced stiffened muscles into smooth strokes and shot upward. As his head broke through, he drew air into starved lungs. With the roar of the river deafening him, he looked wildly around for the woman. Nothing. He refused to give up. He had to save her. The river widened and slowed, no longer lethal in its current. Still treading water, he continued searching the surface.

  There. A bit of cloth. He launched himself toward it and reached out. His fingers closed over something, but they were too numb to identify what, exactly, he’d caught. As he made a fist and pulled, a solid form sailed toward him. Towing the mass behind him, he ordered his numbed limbs to move him toward the riverbank. The moment his feet gained purchase on firm ground, he pulled harder, hauling the shapeless object toward him. His feet slipped and he fell to his knees. He glanced back. A feminine shape floated facedown and unmoving, her hair spread out around her like a dark halo.

  “Heaven help me.”

  Christian wrapped his arms around the woman’s torso and scrabbled up the slippery bank, hauling her limp body with him. He slipped in the mud and fell heavily, dropping the woman. Unwilling to yield, he put one arm around her waist and pulled her with him as he struggled upward, then collapsed on the muddy grass. The woman lay motionless beside him. He pushed on her back, hoping to force out the water in her lungs. No response. He’d heard of sailors reviving drowning victims by rolling them over a barrel. He looked around for a fallen log to serve as a substitute but found none. Again, he pushed on her back, harder. Nothing. He pulled her across his knees and pounded on her back between her shoulder blades.

  “Breathe!”

  Nothing. He pounded again. Dismay curled in his stomach. He’d failed to save her.

  Finally, she retched, coughed, and drew in a ragged breath. Very carefully, he turned her over. His heart, that long-frozen organ, gave a painful lurch that hit him like a fist to his gut. His breath rushed out of him.

  “Genevieve?” he gasped.

  She’d dramatically changed. Still, he’d know her anywhere. No one forgot the girl who broke his heart and ran off with another man.

  Horrified at the change, he stared. Still as death, Genevieve made no motion lying in perfect repose. What could have happened to her? Dark circles framed her eyes, her face had painfully thinned, and her once-lush figure had grown gaunt. Her coughing abated, but she remained unconscious. Despite the lack of modesty provided by her wet shift and stays, his male responses remained dormant. Memories battered him, the sweet as well as the bitter. He pressed his hand into his eye sockets to shut them out. A low roar like the distant rumble of thunder filled his ears.

  “Of all people, why you?” he muttered.

  Helpless anger coiled in his stomach. Pushing away the images and emotions that invaded his mind and his heart, he sucked in a breath and turned his attention to the matter at hand. What to do with her? Long-nurtured resentment voiced an ugly temptation to simply throw the wench back into the water, or at the very least, leave her here.

  But of course he couldn’t do that. His duty as a gentleman demanded that he care for her, even if she were a lying cheat. Very well, he’d take her home and see to her needs, then immediately ship her off to her precious husband.

  With a sigh, he slid his arms underneath her shoulders and knees and stood holding her petite body. He carried her along the river as he retraced his steps. His gaze strayed to her face as if he could find answers to how she’d come to be here, and why someone so full of life and zeal would attempt the horrific act of self-murder. But she was no longer his concern. She’d toyed with his heart and then left him. She deserved unhappiness for her thoughtlessness. What did he care if she tried to kill herself? He shouldn’t care. He didn’t care. He refused to care.

  Gritting his teeth, he tramped to his horse who had followed his progress down the river and now grazed nearby. “Good lad, Erebos. Take us home.”

  Steeling himself against Genevieve’s presence and her disturbing effect on him, he mounted his Friesian and urged the horse to a walk. Dark clouds blotted out the sun and cast gloom over the landscape. It matched his mood. Cold settled deep into his bones, and even deeper into his heart.

  As the full realization hit him of how close he’d come to losing his life, Christian’s hand holding the reins trembled. In his five and twenty years, he’d brushed up against death twice now. Only the fight which had left a scar on his face and ribs—courtesy of Wickburgh’s lapdogs—had been as deadly as this battle with the river.

  He took a steadying breath and looked down again at Genevieve in his arms. What could have driven her to such a state? No sane person attempted suicide. Perhaps she regretted leaving him and marrying a conniving scoundrel. With a scoff, he cast off the romantic notion. No doubt, she never gave a thought to the one whose heart she’d left in ruins a year ago.

  A pattering of rain on the leaves blanketed the world in stillness. Gray clouds closed in, weighting his spirits. Rain fell in a steady downpour. Christian’s teeth chattered and his hands were so stiff and numb that he could barely grip the reins. When Christian arrived at Tarrington Castle, he could scarcely move his body. After dismounting, he stumbled up the stairs to the front door.

  The footman who opened the door remained calm and unruffled as if the earl’s brother frequently came home dripping wet and carrying an equally dripping wet, unconscious woman. Normally Christian would find humor in the servant’s trained composure, but at the moment, he was too weary to care.

  Mrs. Hodges, the head housekeeper, entered with swishing skirts. She frowned in disapproval at Christian as if he were a disobedient lad of six. “Master Christian, what is the meaning of this?”

  He reminded himself that he was no longer the child she once scolded with the ferocity of a lioness, drew himself up, and called upon his most authoritative voice. “A guest room and the doctor, Mrs. Hodges.”

  Mrs. Hodges’s gaze settled on Genevieve’s pale, still face. Christian had the singular experience of actually witnessing the venerable woman lose her powers of speech. He couldn’t enjoy the moment as much as he should have.

  “Chris!” His brother Cole strode in, impeccable as usual
as befitting the Sixth Earl Tarrington.

  Christian didn’t bother to offer an explanation. He looked at the housekeeper. “I gave you an order; now move, woman!”

  Mrs. Hodges stared at him as if he’d bitten her.

  Cole took command with the authority of a general. “Mrs. Hodges, send for Ann and have a fire started in a guest room. Vickery, fetch Stephens and Porter.” Cole reached for the woman in Christian’s arms. “Here, Chris, let me.”

  Unexplainably annoyed at his brother’s interference, Christian glared at Cole and stepped back, holding protectively close the girl he’d once loved. But he didn’t love her. Not anymore. He felt nothing at all for her except mild annoyance that she’d reappeared into his life, stirring up all kinds of memories he thought he’d killed.

  Cole’s eyes narrowed in concern. “You’re shivering and your lips are purple. Go warm yourself. She’ll receive the care she needs.”

  Without waiting for Christian’s permission, Cole pulled Genevieve into his arms and carried her upstairs. Christian had the oddest urge to race after Cole, punch his brother’s face, and take back Genevieve. But the last time he’d fought for her, he’d been attacked and left for dead. Besides, she wasn’t worth it.

  Stephens, Cole’s friend and valet, appeared, his Romany features settled into a worried frown. “Come. Let’s get you warmed. Has someone sent for Porter?”

  Christian pushed impatiently at his dripping hair. At the moment, he couldn’t even remember who Porter was. Stephens tugged on Christian’s arm and led him up the stairs. Groggy, Christian stumbled after him to his bedroom. Porter arrived, making sounds of dismay. Oh, yes, Porter. His new valet. Too tired to speak or move, Christian stood in the middle of his bed chambers while Stephens and Porter stripped him of his wet clothing and wrapped him in a blanket. They seated him before a roaring fire and pressed a hot cup of tea in his hand. Christian burned his mouth on the tea but as he swallowed it, the icy lump in his stomach melted.

  How fared Genevieve? He hoped she recovered quickly so he could tell her he didn’t love her anymore and that he was coping just fine without her.

  Then he’d throw her back to her precious viscount of a husband before she could steal away his fractured heart and grind it into powder.

  CHAPTER 6

  Hell felt heavenly. Safe. Warm. A fire crackled nearby and faint traces of the last summer roses wafted on the air. With her eyes still closed, Genevieve lay on her back, afraid to open her eyes. She stretched cautiously. Softness met her limbs. If she didn’t know better, she would have thought she lay in a featherbed.

  But that wasn’t possible. Was it?

  Genevieve opened her eyes to a blur of white. She blinked until she focused upon a white canopy with red flowers arched overhead. Disoriented, she blinked again. Her head felt stuffed with the feathers of a dozen pillows. She flexed her toes and fingers, running her hands over the texture of fine linens, the softness of a bed. She shifted again, testing her muscles. Dull pain met her motion, as if she’d fallen and had suffered bruises all over. Which meant she still lived.

  She frowned. That was not possible. Her last memory was ....

  Oh, Heaven help her, her last memory was throwing herself into a river in numb unconcern with the intent to actually commit the horrible crime of suicide. Her parents would be horrified. She was horrified.

  A dim memory wormed into her mind of a strong pair of arms holding her close, the rocking motion of horseback, a familiar scent, fleeting voices.

  Realization dawned. Someone had rescued her. Genevieve looked beyond the canopy to the intricately carved ceiling and woodwork painted crisp white and rich blue. Late afternoon sunlight spilled through the velvet-draped windows. It all painted an incongruous setting for her plight.

  She almost groaned out loud. She lay within a bedroom of a house, probably near the river. In England. Near his northern estate. She still belonged to him.

  “Good afternoon.”

  She jumped at the sound of a voice and turned her head toward the speaker. She gaped. With golden hair, eyes as blue as forget-me-nots, and exquisitely chiseled, patrician features, none other than Christian Amesbury looked back at her.

  Her heart started a slow, painful thud. Heaven help her, but he was even more handsome now than ever. Her dormant heart awakened. The only man she ever loved—the only man she would ever love—sat within reach. She ached to return to that optimistic girl she’d been when she met Christian. The complete opposite of her husband, Christian represented safety and love and everything good in the world.

  Did he know she’d tried to drown herself? Fresh waves of shame heated her face and she wanted to pull the covers up over her head.

  Christian leaned forward, putting his face at the same level as hers. Still as broad through the shoulders and muscular as he’d been … was it only a year ago?... he dwarfed the dainty floral chair upon which he sat. How was it possible he’d grown even more handsome? The only flaw to his perfection was a small scar at the outer corner of his right eye. Vaguely, she wondered how he’d gotten that scar. It hadn’t been there before.

  She moistened her lips. “Christian. Where am I?”

  He sat back and folded his arms as his full, sensitive mouth curled into distain. “You’re in Castle Tarrington, my ancestral home.”

  “I see.” She’d known, of course, that Wickburgh had brought her within a few leagues of the Tarrington county seat, but never dreamed she’d see Christian. “How long have I been here?”

  “A few hours.”

  Hours, not days. That was good. Wasn’t it? She glanced at him, undone by his presence. And not a little disconcerted by the fearsome scowl marring his handsome face. She searched for something to say and babbled the first thing that came to her mind. “I didn’t know you lived here.”

  His restless gaze flicked her way. “No doubt. Otherwise you wouldn’t have come to the area.”

  No, but her husband never heeded her opinion so her objection would have been summarily dismissed. The hopelessness that had seized her and held her captive since she lost her baby—the same hopelessness that had spurred her to attempt to end her life—faded as she gazed upon Christian. Time had not completely erased her love for him.

  From the way Christian glared at her, whatever affection he once felt for her had died.

  She moistened her lips, searching for something to say to him. She focused on the black armband he wore. The newspaper had reported the passing of the Earl of Tarrington and of the succession of the title by Christian’s brother, Cole, several weeks earlier. “I’m sorry about your father.”

  He nodded. A new, decidedly haunted expression crept over his expression. As if catching himself in a moment of vulnerability, he straightened, pinned her with a hostile glare. “My sister-in-law had some clothes brought in for you.” He made a loose gesture toward another part of the room. “Now get up and go back to your husband.”

  She gaped at the hardness of his tone. Where was the artistic dreamer she’d known and loved?

  He continued barking orders at her. “I’ll order a carriage and have them take you back to Wickburgh’s manor.”

  Send her back! Alarm raced through her body and she shot to an upright position, ignoring the pain of her mysterious bruises, and held out her hands in supplication. “Please don’t send me back.” Her voice sounded helpless, pleading, pathetic.

  He spoke as if he hadn’t heard her. “Or I could simply return you to the river. Unless you’ve changed your mind about killing yourself?” Eyes so blue and pale that they appeared to glow fixed upon her, accusation shining clearly through. “I admit, I never really knew you—obviously—but I never would have thought you capable of suicide. That’s despicable even for you.”

  She deserved that. She really did. But his open hostility raised her hackles. He had no idea what she’d suffered. How dare he be so self-righteous and judgmental! Clearly she’d been right; if he’d learned of her father’s mutiny, he would have be
en horrified and rejected her. He probably would have marched down to the admiralty and personally reported her father.

  Fisting her hands in the counterpane covering her, she threw open the gate controlling her fury and flung at him the word his brothers taunted at him throughout his childhood. “Yes, well, it must be difficult being so perfect all the time.”

  He stiffened at her use of the word ‘perfect.’ Good. She had his attention.

  She drove in the barb deeper. “Clearly your only flaw is having to live among us flawed mortals who make mistakes.”

  With narrowed eyes, he leaned forward. “ ‘Mistakes’ is hardly the word I would use for what you did.”

  “You know nothing!” A sob tore out of her. She deserved his hatred, his judgment; she’d told the lies to earn it. Yet the full sharpness of his bitter anger stabbed her like a twisting blade. He had no idea what she had suffered, nor why she’d done it.

  He leaped to his feet like a restless tiger, turned on his heel, and strode to the door. “Go home.”

  He wrenched open the door and nearly trampled a maid carrying a tray. With a yelp, the maid staggered back, nearly upsetting the dishes. He caught her tray with one hand while steadying the girl with the other.

  The maid gulped in a breath, eyeing Christian’s hard set mouth and flushed face. “F-forgive me, sir. I-I brought yer breakfast, Miss,” she stammered, glancing at Genevieve desperately.