Angel In My Bed

by Melody Thomas

  Once mounted, David picked up her trail in the woods just off the drive. Her prints continued north toward the church. Twisting around in the saddle to look at the house, he frowned over his shoulder. She must have gone through the servants’ passageways and left from the back of the house to have escaped unnoticed.

  David nudged the horse off the drive and followed the lone set of tracks, bending low as he weaved through the trees. Something kept niggling at his thoughts.

  Remembering the other female prints he’d seen a few weeks back, he finally slid from the horse and squatted beside the path. Meg’s footprints had not been those in the clearing he’d seen after the storm—that much was patent by the length of these prints and width of her stride. Meg was taller.

  Bracing an elbow on one knee, David looked down the path at her footprints in the snow. A frown touching his brow, he realized she was heading to the cemetery.

  Her cloak spilling around her, Victoria scraped the snow from beneath the tall granite stone belonging to Sir Scott Munro, Sir Henry’s beloved son. She clawed at the frozen earth until, frustrated, she sat back on her ankles, and waited for the wound in her side to quit burning. Being here felt sacrilegious. Wrong. She had never been afraid of this place, but as she looked upon the lifeless burned-out church, she felt fear.

  Victoria picked up a rock and began chipping away at the space of hardened earth where she knelt. Tears filled her eyes. Her father would never have tried to shoot her. Not when there was something valuable he wanted—that he knew she had. Not when vengeance could be exacted in so many other ways.

  Somewhere, a horse whickered. Heart racing, she froze and listened to the night. She wiped the back of her hand across her cheek and startled.

  A fierce figure in black stood a few feet from where she sat. David. His horse was tied to the iron rail that caged the cemetery. In a night so quiet she could hear the hush of snow falling from trees, she didn’t know how had he had entered the cemetery and come upon her.

  “Go ahead, Meg. Dig.”

  She stared at him with something of her old defiance. “I had hoped to be back before you found me. This isn’t what you think.”

  “Tell me what I should bloody think. When everything between us has always been a lie.”

  Movement behind him grabbed her attention. A bear of a man ambled beneath the iron archway leading into the cemetery. She looked back at David who didn’t seem concerned. He peered into her face. “Tell me, Meg.”

  He might be an adherent of moral right, but in this, they were on the same side. Forcing away her dizziness and her uncertainty, she returned her attention to the headstone. She leaned forward and wiped the last of the wet leaves and snow from the base of the stone. The effort was stealing her strength. The morphine Sir Henry had given her might have dulled the pain, but it did not shield her from exhaustion or the frigid cold. Worse, it did not protect her from David’s furious presence.

  She slid aside the marble piece that usually held flowers. Beneath the stone lay a rusted tin she’d placed there almost a decade ago. The one that held her half of the pair of earrings that had been recovered from a London pawnbroker.

  “It’s still here,” she whispered, so sure it would be gone. She removed the tin. For a moment, all she could do was stare in disbelief. “I thought…”

  David took the metal box and withdrew the velvet pouch.

  “I buried it years ago.” She drew in a breath and winced at the pain. “I needed to know if the earring in your possession had really come from my father, and that someone hadn’t found this one. I needed to know for sure if my father was dead or alive.”

  “This proves nothing in that regard,” he said.

  With effort, Victoria looked up at him. David’s eyes held an icy chill she had not recognized before. “This is what you were after that night I found you?” He stood beside the mound tall and angry, his eyes challenging. Something else was wrong with him, she realized. Something terrible.

  He hunkered down beside her as she returned the marble to its proper place in front of the headstone. His heavy coat spilled around his boots and his eyes even with hers seemed capable of piercing her innermost secrets. “This is valuable enough to have paid more than the taxes on Rose Briar for years. Why didn’t you use it?”

  She bowed her head, realizing he thought she was saving it for a night like tonight, for a time when she needed to run. He would never understand that in her mind as long as that earring remained hidden, she remained free.

  “You were wearing my cloak,” he said. “Have you considered that whoever fired that rifle may not have been shooting at you? That maybe I was the intended target?”

  She raised her fist to her chest. “You?”

  “Why wasn’t Sir Scott’s body on the same steamer out of Bombay as you were?”

  “I stayed behind another week because his wife became ill. The captain would not allow her to board.”

  “You took a chance on capture.”

  Pressing her palms on her thighs, she started to shiver. The hood shielded her face. “We’d ridden the train together from Calcutta. She knew I was…not well, and had been kind. I couldn’t abandon her when she later became sick.”

  “But then playing lady’s maid was just another convenient role for you.”

  Knowing he was right, for that was exactly what she’d done, she met his gaze with determination. “There is no treasure hidden here. That treasure left India long before I did.”

  His heavily lashed lids narrowed slightly. “You’re bleeding, Meg,” he said abruptly, but not harshly.

  She was not frozen by his tone, but by his lack of emotion. She looked down at her side and saw blood had seeped through the bandage and stained her bodice. She could barely walk before. She knew she would not be able to stand without help now.

  David was suddenly pulling her to her feet before she felt herself lifted into his arms. If it meant she had abandoned all pride, she didn’t care. Too weak to argue, she laid her head against his shoulder and listened as he spoke to the man waiting for him at the gate.

  “Your guard?” she asked when David put her on his horse.

  He stepped into the stirrup and settled behind her. His horse breathed a cloud of steam. Reaching around her, David gathered the reins with one gloved hand and wrapped his other arm protectively around her, careful to avoid her waist. Heat from his body wrapped her in warmth. “His name is Ralph Blakely,” he said, turning the horse toward the path. “He doesn’t answer to anyone but me.”

  Clenching her jaw against Old Boy’s jerky movements, she didn’t understand David’s quiet fury. David slowed the horse to a more bearable pace. “This ride isn’t going to be comfortable no matter what,” he said.

  “I’m all right, David.”

  “Of course you are. The blood on your bodice is a prime example of your sterling health. And the brain in your head your wit. You could have waited until tomorrow to come here.”

  “Do you really think that you may have been the target?” she asked, leaning her head against his shoulder.

  “At this point, I believe anything is possible. You yourself have proven that.”

  They rode in silence to the cottage.

  “Why are you bringing me back here?”

  Without answering, David slid to the ground and helped her down. One lamp burned in the kitchen, which meant Rockwell was making his perimeter check around the property before retiring to the cot in the pantry. She stumbled and, without breaking pace, David lifted her into his arms, conveying her up the stairs with a sure and steady grace that spoke of his strength. She raised her arms to loop around his neck.

  David shouldered open the door to her room. With three long strides, he set her on her feet beside her bed and unfastened her cloak. Bright moonlight spilled through the parted curtains and washed his face in shadows.

  “Where will you be staying tonight?” she asked.

  He removed her cloak and tucked it beneath his arm. “
I assure you it won’t be here.”

  Her mind in confusion, her reserve fled. “David—?”

  “Keep the earring.” Something plopped against the comforter. He’d thrown the velvet pouch on her bed. “You’ve earned it for being the preeminent liar of my lifetime.”

  Still carrying the cloak, he strode across the room, his footsteps soundless on the red rope carpet. He’d reached the doorway before Victoria finally regained her voice.

  “What is wrong with you? I’ve done nothing wrong here.”

  He turned and found her shivering where he’d left her standing. “Sir Henry knows, Meg.”

  “He knows what?” she asked, her voice quiet in the hushed silence of the house.

  “That Nathanial is my son.”

  Her hand went to the polished iron bedstead. “Wait.”

  But he had already stepped out of her room. She stumbled to the hallway and saw David open Nathanial’s door. Her heart raced, and she suddenly felt sick.

  David knew.

  Somehow, he’d learned the truth.

  “I would have told you,” she whispered.

  His head came around. He walked back to her and, despite her desire to stand tall in the face of his accusing eyes, she could not. “You kept him from me. I will never forgive you for that. Ever. You want to chafe against caring for your own health or run away so badly, go ahead. Ye can go to hell, Meg, and I won’t lift another bloody finger to stop you.”

  “You don’t understand.” She braced a hand against the wall. “How could you after everything you did?”

  “Everything I did?” He raised his voice. “What part of your life in Calcutta do you not remember? You were a thief stealing gold and jewels as easily as you stole state secrets. A member of the Circle of Nine—”

  “We were married for three months. What did you think could happen? Yet, in your mind, I was still expendable.” Tears burned her eyes. “How dare you think you have any rights at all.”

  “How dare I?” He advanced on her, a dark menacing figure in black. “I have a son, Meg.”

  “What are you going to do?” She lifted her chin, and the seedling of rage inside took root as he walked past her.

  “I’m going after my son.”

  “You can’t…He doesn’t know who you are.”

  David turned on his heel and backtracked three furious steps until he stood toe to toe with her. “Of course he doesn’t know me. You made sure of that, didn’t you? But he has a right to know that he has a father. A real living, breathing father, not some fooking lie that you invented to save your own bloody skin—”

  “You hypocrite!” She shoved him with more strength than she thought possible and, caught by the force, he stumbled backward. Nine years ago, she had learned why he had married her. All those nights she’d spent in his arms laughing and dreaming of a future that would never be hers, believing he’d loved her. She had been nothing but a job to him.

  “Whose lie was worse? Mine because I chose to fight for my life and that of the child I carried, or yours because you surrendered your soul to queen and country, like some scheming Lothario knowing that everything you did with me was a sham. Do not preach to me about lies, when you committed the worst lie of all.” She slammed her fists against his chest, but he caught and held her hands immobile. “If there’s any forgiveness to be had between us, you should be on your knees seeking mine. You have no heart!”

  She felt the hard muscles of his body tense against hers. “Do not believe you ever knew my heart.”

  But she was finished with civility. Finished blaming herself for all the mistakes in her past. For falling in love with a bastard using some higher agenda as an excuse to bed her. “Your precious superiors condemned me to the gallows ere there was a tribunal. My father set his cronies on my trail for betraying him. I did the only thing I could. I ran. I survived. I made a life for my son and myself.”

  “You’re tearing your wound.”

  He let her go and she stumbled backward, gasping for breath. “I could have killed you that day. But I didn’t!”

  His eyes blazing, he suddenly turned his head. Victoria faltered. He was looking at Bethany standing in the hallway, her hand clutched to her wrapper, tears shining in her eyes. “Victoria?” the girl whispered, her pale hair visible in the darkness.

  “Go back to bed, Bethany.” David bent and retrieved the cloak he’d dropped. “It’s all right.”

  Tears in her eyes, Victoria turned the force of her attention back to her husband. Of course, it wasn’t all right. But Bethany obeyed, and Victoria heard the door click shut. “Don’t presume that your high-handed orders carry any authority in this house, David.”

  “I bloody own this house, Meg.”

  Rooted to the floor, Victoria watched in shock as he turned away. “Nathanial knows Mr. Shelby,” he said over his shoulder. “I will take him with me to Salehurst. So you needn’t worry that I will have to kidnap my son.”

  “Then what?” she asked in a shaky voice.

  He stopped on the stairway landing, his gloved hand resting on the banister, her pride and soul bared by his gaze. “I haven’t decided.”

  Then he was gone, and somewhere a door slammed downstairs. A deathly quiet descended over the cottage. She’d never felt more alone. Or lost. Or frightened. Her breath caught. She turned into her room and, heedless of the cold and her blood-stained clothes, dropped to her bed, anger returning to her some measure of calm. She listened to the sound of horse’s hooves riding away.

  “Victoria?” A slim arm came around her shoulders, and suddenly Bethany was holding her tightly. “It will be all right.”

  The gentleness was too much. It was as if her lungs ceased to breathe, and when she finally gasped, she could not hold back the tide of tears. They flooded down her cheeks, then became a deluge. “I’m so sorry.”

  And as Victoria turned her face into her pillow, she knew nothing would ever be all right again.

  David raised a pitcher of water over his head and poured. The icy shock jolted his whole body, but still he poured, raising his face as he rinsed the last of the soap from his hair. He stood in a hip tub, caring little that he had not ordered the water heated before he’d bathed.

  He set the pitcher on the commode and leaned his palms against the countertop. His muddy boots stood beside the tub. Buttons lay scattered over the floor where he’d torn his blood-imprinted shirt off his back and stripped away his trousers. He had not wanted to return to Rose Briar and instead came to the town house. Hell, he’d have ridden through the night straight to Salehurst if he’d thought he wouldn’t kill his horse.

  Movement in the doorway turned his head. Pamela stood next to the silk screen watching him. Her gown was a deep crimson with a full sweeping skirt and low décolletage trimmed with creamy lace. Tendrils of her blond hair curled around her shoulders.

  He felt the glide of her eyes, and if his reaction was anything less than any other male’s, she didn’t appear shocked. “Your dressing room door was open,” she said.

  David stepped out of the hip tub, sloshing water to the floor. “The door wasn’t open.”

  “It was unlocked.” Her gaze shot back to his as he walked toward her. “I had a key?” She dangled a metal object in her hand.

  “Convenient.” David snatched the key from her hand.

  “For your information I knocked,” she said, as he reached over her shoulder and yanked the robe he’d draped across the screen. “You weren’t answering the door. I was worried. Especially after everything that has happened. I wasn’t expecting you to be here.”

  David slid on his robe. “Where have you been since yesterday?”

  “Is there a rule that requires me to spend the night here?”

  “Don’t even ask me to begin to understand that answer. Ian was worried about you. I told him I would check in on you.”

  “The local magistrate is here,” she said, folding her arms. “He’s asking questions about you. I believe he is on his w
ay to London with the intent to find evidence that will declare you a fraud. Especially after he was refused admittance to Rose Briar an hour ago. Something about your orders?”

  He belted the tie around his waist. “Is that all?”

  “Do you want more?” Flashing him a smile that was part coquette and part street doxy, she nodded to the tiny bite mark on his neck. “Though I see someone has already been inside your clothes.”

  His eyes hard, he trapped her gaze. Despite everything she projected, he knew some of it was an act. He just never knew for sure which part. “Do you fancy yourself the whore, Pamela? Or are you so used to the part you play that you no longer know the difference?”

  David stepped past her into his room. She leaned a shoulder against the doorway as he passed. “Even after all of your reassurances to Ian and me, you’re still in love with her, aren’t you?”

  His hand shaking slightly, he withdrew a crystal decanter of whiskey from the sideboard, as if alcohol could burn away his thoughts. “Love has nothing to do with what is between Meg and me.”

  “Then you’re in lust. For most men, I’d say there is no difference. But not you.” She approached in a whisper of crimson silk. “Have you considered she’s not the same woman she used to be?”

  “People don’t change that much.”

  “You did.” She flicked a long scarlet nail at his robe. “You once had no qualms about killing a man in cold blood. From what I understand, yours was the shot that took out the treacherous grandson of the Prussian archduke in Munich. How many years ago? Thirteen? Fourteen? What a scandal you caused in the international community,” she prodded sweetly. “The identity of that assassin still remains a secret.”

  David didn’t question how she would know that manner of confidential information. “Obviously not.”