by Cheryl Bolen
* * *
Edward Coke sat next to Miss Sinclair in his curricle as he made his way back to her house after Jeremy Bentham's first talk of the series. It had been difficult, indeed, not to burst out laughing at the most peculiar assortment of individuals he had ever seen in his four-and-twenty years. Reminded him of the first day he had stepped foot at Uncle Robert's former townhouse and faced Mrs. Phillips' room full of man-hating bluestockings. For today he had seen many of those same faces. At least he believed he had seen many of the same women. Though if push came to shove, he would have to say he hadn't actually looked -- really looked -- at any of their ugly mugs, either that first day or today.
Then, too, today there were any number of gaunt men that he'd wager a quid were Methodists. Not a Weston coat in the whole lot of them. In fact, they dressed so somberly they could have been at a wake.
Though none of these peculiar things had Miss Ellie Sinclair seemed to notice. He slid a glance at her rather taking little face. Unfortunately, the chit was still ecstatic over the peculiar little man they had heard speak this afternoon. She kept telling him how enlightening was Mr. Bentham, how brilliant was Mr. Bentham, how this had been the happiest day of her life.
For the life of him, he could not understand the attraction in Mr. Jeremy Bentham. The man's cravat was a disgrace, and he'd wager a quarterly the Bentham fellow had never run to foxes in his life. Probably didn't even know how to fence.
Nevertheless, Edward continued to feign enchantment over the weasel for the girl's sake. He had grown rather fond of her. Not just because she was the prettiest thing he'd seen in a very long time, but there was about her a certain innocence he found delightful.
And, besides, Harry had said he was to look out for Miss Sinclair during her sister's absence, and he had always done whatever his elder cousin asked.
However, looking out after her was far easier said than actually done. He supposed it was because she was country bred, but the girl was possessed of a ridiculous notion that all men had designs on her virtue. He'd like to ring the neck of the governess -- Miss Grimm was it not? -- who filled the poor girl's head with such nonsense.
He'd had the devil of a time getting Miss Sinclair to consent to allow him to escort her to the series of lectures. He glanced behind to assure himself the Phillips' cook was riding in Harry's gig, keeping a sharp eye on his actions with Miss Sinclair. Did the fat old hog also think he had designs on Miss Sinclair's virtue?
He inwardly sighed over the realization that he had to endure three more of these horridly dull talks. The things a man does for the lovely lady.
* * *
The longer Harry sat in the fire-lit room looking at Louisa, the room's only other occupant, the more persistently he wanted her. That, he told himself, would never do. He had finally earned her trust, and he was not about to destroy it.
He looked down at the bandages on his arms. Which reminded him of the feel of carrying her over the moors. His arms had grown tired, and his breath seemed to come only at great difficulty, but he would do it all over again without a moment's hesitation.
Though Louisa had little fat, there was about her tiny body a real softness, a frailness, too, that evoked every protective instinct he had ever possessed, instincts he'd not even known he possessed. Yet they were instincts he enjoyed awakening.
He would always cherish the memory of holding her against him, of her arms secure about his neck, her sweet face resting against his chest as they made their way across the moors to the Cock and Stock Inn.
The more he looked at her face bathed in the glow of the candle, its light flickering in her hair, the more he remembered the heavenly feel of her in his arms, and the more he realized how difficult it would be to sleep with her tonight.
He took another swig of the wine. "I shall carry you upstairs now." He moved to her and gently lifted her into his arms and carried her to their chamber. "I go to the tavern now," he said simply.
Her eyes seemed melancholy when she nodded.
As Louisa dressed for bed, she heard rain beginning to pelt the window of their tiny room. By the time she had put on her woolen gown and slipped beneath the bed's chilly sheets, a full-fledged storm whistled and roared outside the inn. Then thunder boomed and lightning blazed across the night sky, and she pulled their blankets tightly around her.
Her thoughts drifted back to the day's events. She was sorry she had yet to aid Harry in his search because she wanted to repay him for all he'd done for her. Otherwise, she looked back over the day with no regrets.
She regretted that the trip must come to an end. She had never enjoyed anything so much. She remembered the fear that had robbed her breath when she had watched Harry descend the cliffside, fearing he would fall to his death any minute.
Looking back on it, her heart unaccountably swelled with pride over his actions. He had not only earned her trust today, he had earned her deep and abiding admiration.
Then she thought of the utter contentment of being swept up into his strong arms and of being held against his solid chest. Had anything ever felt so good in her life?
Despite the whooshing winds outside and the hard rain coming down on the roof over her head, she smiled.
Soon Harry would be lying beside her.
She went to sleep with the candle burning beside the bed, a smile playing at her lips.
That is how Harry found her an hour later. He was grateful she was asleep. Had she so much as said a single word to him, he would have been powerless to prevent himself from scooping her into his arms and destroying the progress he had made.
He stood for a moment looking down at her. The wine. She must have drunk nearly a bottle. No doubt it had made her very sleepy.
Which was a good thing.
Chapter 12
Fully dressed, Harry stood before their bed the following morning, offering Louisa a cup of hot tea.
She opened first one eye, then the other.
"Good morning, my dear," he said.
She rubbed her eyes. "I'm not your dear."
"I expect you have the headache from the wine you drank last night." He handed her a glass. "Here, I've made you an elixir that has served me well when I've . . .shall we say, overimbibed?"
She shot him an angry look, pulled herself up to a sitting position, and took the proffered drink.
"How's the head?" he asked.
"Quite as awful as you think it is." She drank from the glass, then made a face of disgust. "That odious concoction had better work."
"You have my word on it that it does." He continued to watch her, thankful her woolen night shift climbed up to her throat.
She swung her leg over the side of the bed, and to his surprise she began to lift the wool to reveal her knee -- with not a shred of modesty on her part.
Then he saw that her knee was bruised and swollen, and he moved to her, kneeling at her feet. He gently moved her calf down, then back up. "I don't believe it's broken," he said. "Since you did not scream with pain at movement, I'm guessing it only hurts when you put weight on it."
She nodded solemnly.
"Stay off it for a couple of days, and I believe it will mend," he said.
She frowned, then reached for the cup of tea he he'd brought and took a sip. "The chamber's far colder now than it was last night."
He got up and walked to the hearth where he picked up a poker and stirred. "The fire's died, and I asked that the maid not disturb you to lay a new one."
She nodded appreciatively. "Also, I believe it's turned colder outside."
"To be sure," he said, his back still to her. "I just came from the stables, and I can attest to that."
A moment later he sat in a wooden chair facing her and watched silently as she drank her tea.
She set down her cup and gave him a quizzing look. "Why is it you know so much of wounds and of other things a gentleman of substance is not supposed to know? What is it you did those twelve years? How did you really make your fortune?"
<
br /> Good God, did she know? Why would she be thinking on it if she had not already guessed? A concerned look sweeping across his face, Harry went to her, dropping to one knee at her bedside. "If I tell you the truth I will lose any respect I have worked hard to earn from you."
Her indigo eyes looked into his as if she could see through to the soul he had long ago lost. "You were a pirate, weren't you?"
He closed his eyes and muttered an oath, then got up and walked to the hearth. He bent low and attempted to stir the embers once again.
"I see I've hit upon the truth," she said somberly.
He merely nodded, then moved to the door. "I'll go down and order your breakfast."
* * *
Because of the injury to Louisa's knee and the wetness of the weather, walking was out of the question. Harry carried her to his coach. The rain which had continued throughout the night had left the roads soggy.
The farther south they went, the cooler the temperature became. It was as if the heavy white mist followed them inland. Louisa lifted the curtain and pressed her face into the foggy glass. Progress was slow the first hour of their journey southward as the coach rattled sluggishly along the hilly terrain. Once the hills were behind them, the somber landscape leveled out, and the carriage picked up speed.
In the midst of the barren land that now surrounded them, Louisa beheld a most peculiar natural phenomenon. At least, she assumed the towering, cylinder-like rocks were natural. Though, for all the world, they rather resembled giant candles jutting up from the soggy earth.
"Pray, Harry, what are those things?"
He scooted across the seat opposite and inched his face closer to hers. "I've never seen them before, but I believe they're tors."
Her brows drew together. "Tors? Like tornadoes?"
He sat upright and shrugged. "Don't know where the word came from."
She continued peering from the window. "I suppose these vast stretches of wasteland where no trees are growing must be the moors."
"The Bodmin Moor," he said.
She let the curtain drop, and she straightened up, her spine touching the back of the seat. "A light mist is beginning to fall. I do feel so sorry for the coachman."
"I assure you, your worries for him are greater than his own. He's well used to physical discomfort."
She frowned. "What is the name of Lord Blamey's abode in Bodmin?"
Harry answered without consulting his notes. "St. Alban's Abbey."
They rode along in Harry's coach and for mile after mile through the Bodmin Moor where villages were scarce. Harry peered through the foggy window for any sign of habitation.
Though it was early afternoon still, a charcoal blanket covered the skies, and the wind whistled alongside their vehicle. Harry knew Louisa must be cold and tired, but not once had she asked that they stop nor had she complained of hunger.
The second time he had to brave the weather and help the coachman dislodge a wheel from the muddy mire, Harry knew further progress would be impossible until the rain that had begun an hour ago let up -- most likely not until tomorrow.
He grew impatient to learn the identity of the mysterious lord who had orchestrated his father's downfall. More than anything, he wondered why someone would hate his father with such vengeance. Except for his squandering of the family fortune, his father had been an amiable, well-liked man.
Could his father's political views have made such an enemy? Harry thought back but could remember nothing that his father could have done that would have warranted such punishment. Perhaps the elder Lord Wycliff had angered a foreign power through his fierce patriotism to England during its war with France. He remembered the sacrifices his father had made in order to purchase weapons for soldiers in the Peninsula in 1808. He had not only bought the munitions with his own money, but he had spent considerable time searching for qualified men to take the supplies from Portsmouth into Portugal -- all using his own funds.
But if his father had angered a foreign power, why would Godwin Phillips' mysterious benefactor be a lord from Cornwall? Perhaps Louisa had been wrong.
He watched Louisa as she rubbed the fog from the inside of the coach window. They had barely spoken all day. He knew she would never be able to condone the manner in which he had amassed his fortune.
The woman was far too fine to be sitting with the likes of him.
While one side of him was sorry that his silence had confirmed the truth, and in so doing had lost Louisa's respect he'd only just won, the other side of him was somewhat glad that he'd told her the truth. For some inexplicable reason, what they had gone through the day before brought them as close together as two people could be. She had even let him probe on her leg without a blush hiking up her smooth cheeks.
He decided to cut through the barrier that had once again been erected between them. "Are you sure the benefactor was addressed as a lord? Could he have been a count or a marquis or one of those titles the bloody French like to use?"
She shook her head. "Oh, no, I'm certain. And that's what Williams said, too."
Harry frowned. So much for that theory. At least she had spoken to him. He dwelled for a moment on the melodious, child-like quality of her smooth voice. Was there nothing about her he did not find admirable?
Oh, yes, he told himself. She was a bloody do-gooder.
If the woman would not hold a civil conversation with him, perhaps she would at least discuss her bloody causes. Anything would be preferable to sitting across from her do-gooding self scorning him with every turn of the wheels.
"Tell me," he began, "What are your feelings about penal reform?" He crossed his arms across his chest and settled back to smugly watch her leap to life.
"If I were a violent person -- which I'm not," she said, throwing him a haughty glance, "I would be violently opposed to the practice of depriving persons of their lives for minor infractions like stealing a day's food to feed one's family. I think, perhaps, the death penalty should be reserved for only the most heinous crimes."
He sat straighter and uncrossed his arms. "Like murder."
Her eyes flashed with satisfaction. "Yes. And I am completely against transportation, too."
Her opinions exactly reflected those imparted in the essays he had read by Philip Lewis. As he said the name in his mind, something sparked. Philip Lewis. Louisa Phillips. Quicker than the flash of lightning, he knew they were one and the same.
He knew Louisa's secrets as well as she knew his. The knowledge afforded him great satisfaction. He slid into the corner of the coach, a cocky arch to his brow and a mischievous smile playing at his lips as he watched her.
A puzzled look flashed across her face. "Whatever do you find so amusing, my lord?"
"Yesterday I was Harry."
"That was before I knew that you were a thief."
"I admit I stole. I stole from ships owned by men who had profited by my father's loss."
Her lower lip worked into a pout. "It was still stealing."
"I do not deny it." He watched her sulk for a moment before renewing his banter. "Have you never done anything for which you have been ashamed?"
She thought for a long moment. "I have certainly many regrets over how my life has been lived, but I have none over actions which I controlled."
"Have you ever lied, Louisa?"
"Mrs. Phillips."
"I'm not going to call you by the despicable man's name, Louisa. Answer me, have you ever lied?"
She refused to answer.
"Perhaps it was not a lie but an omission," he said. "Something like purporting to be a man. Say a man like Philip Lewis."
She went rigid. Her lips parted, and her eyes grew round. "How did you know?" she asked.
He got up and moved to her side of the coach and drew his face close to hers. "I know you as well as you know me, Louisa. You guessed correctly about my secret as I guessed about yours."
"Will you tell?" Her voice was thin and frightened.
He stayed there in the d
arkened coach nose to nose with the most beautiful woman he had ever known. He peered into the depths of her frightened eyes and spoke gently, like a whisper of the night. "I will never hurt you, Louisa."
Then the coach came to a stop.
"What the deuce is going on?" Harry demanded, scooting to the door and opening it.
There the coachman stood, his oilskin dripping, his hat nearly covering his bearded face while all the while rain beat down on him and thunder spiked the air like the clashing of symbols. "There's no inn in this village, my lord."
"Mr. Smith," Harry mumbled, wiping the water from his face.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Smith."
Harry uttered another oath. "Well, man, go to the tavern and make inquiries. I will pay handsomely for a room for my bride and myself for the night."
The coachman nodded, his sweeping hat scattering water, and he walked off toward the town.
Harry, by now completely wet, slammed the coach door and took his usual seat across from Louisa. It had grown so dark, he could barely see her.
"Will we go on to the next town if we don't find a room here?" she asked.
"My good woman, you know little of travelling country roads if you think these passable, and you know little of a man of wealth if you don't realize there is little that cannot be bought, given that one has enough money."
She straightened her shoulders and shot him a defiant look. "I mustn't forget that your plundering has made you a most wealthy man, my lord."
"Louisa," he said, his voice soft and pleading.
They sat in silence until the inside of the coach became completely dark. The only sound was the dripping of rain on the roof and the scattered boom of thunder in the far-off skies. It grew colder, too. He was bloody miserable in these wet clothes.
A half an hour passed before John Coachman returned, hopped up on the box and drove them to a farm house a mile from the village.
Harry did not wait for the coachman to open the door. He was bloody tired of being cooped in the blasted coach and bloody tired of Louisa's refusal to speak to him.
He was not so angry, though, that he did not hold open the carriage door for her and give her his hand as she climbed down. Then he remembered her knee. Uttering yet another curse, he scooped her up and stormed up to the house, ignoring Louisa's protests.
