by Cheryl Holt
“You’ll be right beside me.”
“With you hating me for being who I am! With you kicking yourself for doing something so stupid!”
“So . . . you’re saving me from myself?”
“Absolutely.”
“Pat?”
“What?”
“I don’t wish to be saved. Haven’t you figured that out?”
He drew her into his arms, and he kissed her forever, the embrace going on and on. He was staking his claim, proving his worth, and when he ended it, her knees were weak. She’d forgotten how good he was at kissing, and she could scarcely keep from sliding to the floor in a seduced heap.
“We’re done talking,” he advised, sounding so much like Captain Westmoreland that her heart ached.
“We are?”
“And I’m not letting you tell me no. You’re being silly. There’s a proposal on the table, and I’m accepting it for you.”
Why wouldn’t he listen? “You’ll be miserable and unhappy and—”
“No, Pat,” he interrupted. “You’re wrong. I’m quite sure I’ll be perfect.”
He swept her off her feet, lifting her as if she weighed no more than a feather. When had he gotten so strong? He left the parlor and marched into the hall.
“Where are you taking me?”
“To bed.”
“Why?”
“Do I need a reason?”
“Well . . . no, you don’t.”
“We seem to get on much better there, and besides, it’s just occurred to me that I should spend some time changing your mind.”
She assessed him. His expression was so steady and true. He really did want her—for now anyway. And who could predict what might happen? She would work so hard, would try so hard. She would be the best wife ever, would love and cherish and esteem, and if she was lucky, maybe he’d never have any regrets.
She smiled. “I don’t imagine it will take very long to convince me.”
“I disagree. I am positive it will take hours. Perhaps days.”
He reached the stairs and started to climb.
25
Helen rushed down the garden path, and with the deteriorating weather she considered taking the shortcut through the trees, but she didn’t. The grave was there, the place seeming to be haunted, and she couldn’t bear to tiptoe past. Perhaps she’d never be able to, and she wondered why she hadn’t had the spot moved farther into the woods.
Not that she’d been reasoning clearly at the time. Even now, her recollection of that terrible day was scattered and incomplete. She recalled some details but had blocked others entirely, with Patricia and Robert having to fill in huge pieces of the puzzle.
A brisk wind rippled her cloak, and she hurried on. The seasons had changed, winter nearly upon them. The sky was so stormy and forbidding that it looked as if it might snow.
Up ahead, she could see the house, and she stopped to study the empty flower boxes, the naked vines. It was amazing how much could happen over a single summer and autumn, how many dramas, heartaches, and joys could play out.
She vividly remembered the bright July afternoon when Luke had ridden into the yard. The servants had been lined up to greet him, trembling and fretting over the rumors they’d heard. He’d been so dashing and gallant, so scary and determined to make his mark.
At the memory she smiled and walked on, peeking in the downstairs windows as she passed. To ward off the gloom, a few lamps had been lit, but she didn’t mind the waste of fuel. Previously, she’d have been frantic, but not anymore. With Adrian dead and Archie having disappeared, her ownership of the property was secure, and she’d never have financial difficulties again. If the maids wanted to burn some candles, or warm a room with a cheery fire, she was happy to allow it.
She hastened on, the letter that had arrived earlier clutched in her hand. She slipped in the rear door, then climbed the stairs to the master’s suite. As she entered, she halted and frowned.
“Captain Westmoreland! What are you doing out of bed?”
“Hello, Helen.”
Luke was sitting in a chair, fully dressed in clothes that Mr. Haversham had sewn for him. There was a sparkle in his eye and a rose in his cheek that had been absent for an eternity, and she was thrilled by the hints of a return to health, but at the same moment, she was unnerved.
There was a packed portmanteau at his feet, so apparently, he was intending to leave. The crazy oaf! What was he thinking?
“Well?” she challenged. “I asked you a question, and I expect an answer.”
“I’m tired of lying around like an invalid.”
“You are an invalid. You almost died on us.”
On me, she could barely keep from wailing, but she pushed away the disturbing reflection. Throughout his recovery, he’d been extremely distant, and she wouldn’t shame either of them by alluding to an affection she was positive he no longer felt.
“After such an injury,” she scolded, “most sane individuals would understand that a lengthy recuperation would be required.”
“I’ve had it with convalescing.”
“Have you?”
“Yes.”
“I know you assume you’re invincible, but even Hercules rested occasionally. You’re not supposed to be up.”
“I’m not a baby,” he snapped.
“I didn’t say you were.”
“I’m hungry, and I demand some food. Some real food—not that gruel you’ve been feeding me.”
He was tremendously irritated, and she was glad to note that he was spry enough to complain. An increase of appetite and a display of temper were signs of an improving condition. She ought to have been rejoicing, but she wasn’t. Obviously, the instant he was better, his initial act would be to abandon her again. What more proof did she need that his prior fondness had vanished?
She pulled up a chair and settled in, behaving as if naught were amiss, and she pointed to his satchel. “Are you going somewhere?”
He looked embarrassed, and he stared at a spot over her shoulder. “I have to be on my way.”
“Really?”
“I must check on my ship and my crew.”
“Robert already has. Everything is fine.”
“I have other business in London. I have lawyers to meet and . . . and . . .”
“Then what?”
“Well . . .”
There was an awkward silence, as he struggled to conjure up excuses as to why he should go, but he couldn’t conceive of any that would suffice.
“When all of your business is concluded,” she pressed, “what will you do with yourself?”
He shifted about, wincing as his scar pained him, and she yearned to shake him. The foolish man could hardly get out of bed, yet he’d dare to jump on a horse and trot off to the city. Why . . . the jostling alone would probably kill him.
Did he detest her that much?
“I have to leave, Helen,” he said quietly.
“Why?”
“It’s time.”
“According to whom?”
“To me.”
“I disagree.”
If he was determined to go, she wasn’t about to make it easy on him. With scarcely a protest, she’d let him ride off once before, and she wasn’t about to do so again. She would fight and plead, would dupe and coerce, would try every trick—whether fair or foul—to keep him, and if he still insisted on it being good-bye, at least she’d know she’d done her best to wrangle a different ending.
“Why must you go, Luke? Tell me.”
“It’s nothing, Helen. I just need to be away.”
“Yes, yes, so you’ve said. To your ship and your crew and your lawyers, but what you actually want is to be away from me. That’s why you’re so bent on going. Have the courage to say so aloud. Put me out of this misery of waiting.”
He nodded, breaking her heart. “Yes, I need to be away from you.”
When the situation called for it, he could be so brutal. “Did I mean nothing to
you then?”
He shrugged, a gesture that—given the tenor of the conversation—could have denoted a hundred responses, so she forged on.
“Why did you come back?”
“When?”
“On my wedding day. Why were you here? You never told me.”
“Aah . . .” He couldn’t answer, which she found encouraging.
“Do you want to know what I think?”
“Not particularly, but I suppose you’re about to enlighten me.”
The flip remark was so typical of the old Luke, the Luke she’d loved so desperately, and it should have been another moment for jubilation, but it ignited her temper.
“I think you came because you missed me, because you were sorry for how we separated. You came to see if you could have another chance.”
“You’re wrong.”
“Am I?”
“Yes.”
She held out the letter she’d brought, but he didn’t reach for it. “Guess who wrote to me.”
“Who?”
“Your father.”
“The Duke?”
“Have you another father of whom I’m unaware?”
“No, but why would he contact you?”
“Would you like me to read it to you?”
“No.”
“Aren’t you curious as to what it says?”
“Not especially.”
Despite his disinterest, she persisted. “He was worried.”
“About what?”
“About you.”
Luke scoffed. “Right.”
“He heard the same horrendous stories as everyone else, and he’s begged me to write and assure him that you’ll recover.”
“Will you?”
“Yes.”
He frowned. “I wonder what he really wanted.”
“He intimates that there was some trouble between the two of you, that you split on bad terms. I get the impression that he wasn’t as kind as he could have been.”
“Since kindness isn’t a trait he possesses, that’s laughable. He was just himself, as you’d warned me he’d be.”
So . . . the Duke had lived down to her low expectations. With knowing how much the meeting had meant to Luke, she garnered no satisfaction in being correct.
“He claims that you declined an introduction to the Prince of Wales.”
“I did.”
“And that you spurned any potential offer of a knighthood.”
He shrugged again, behaving as if the magnanimous, marvelous prospect had had no value to him, at all. “After I was in London for a bit, I decided I hated the folderol. I didn’t belong there, with all of them.”
“You’ve never belonged anywhere, have you?”
“No, I haven’t.”
The poignant, frank admission was unbearably sad. Perhaps that was the true reason he thought he had to leave, why he’d left before. He’d always been alone, had never had a place or a family to call his own, so he had no concept of how to stay.
His initial, incomprehensible drive to go to London now made sense and erased the anger she’d felt. It hadn’t merely been a frivolous desire to socialize with his father but a deep and fervent hope that in the Duke he would find his way home.
How awful it must have been! The lofty aristocrat was too arrogant to accept Luke as a son, although with the letter she’d received, and with the Duke’s demonstration of concern, there was certainly an opening for continued communication.
“Your father says the Prince is more eager than ever to speak with you.”
“Bully for him.”
“The Prince is a romantic at heart. Were you aware of that?”
“No, and why would I care?”
“He’s heard the stories, too, about how you were almost killed while protecting me. He believes you’re more of a hero than ever.” She stood and stared him down, her scowl fixed, her tone firm. “He’s still pondering that knighthood, so I’m writing to your father—on your behalf—to tell him we’ll come to town as soon as you’re able.”
“You are not.”
She patted his shoulder. “Don’t fret over it, Luke. I’ll go with you this time, and I won’t let anything bad happen.”
She snatched up his portmanteau, and she marched over and pitched it into the dressing room.
“What the hell are you doing?” he barked.
“I’m putting away your bag, so the footmen can unpack it.”
“I need it. I’m leaving!”
“No, you’re not.”
“I am, too!”
“Oh, my darling, Luke”—she smiled—“quit being so tough. Let me tend you for a little while longer. I enjoy it.”
“You don’t.”
“I absolutely do—although I can see that, as you heal, you’ll be a difficult patient. But I can manage!”
She sat on his lap, and she’d imagined he’d hug her, or at least relax at having her so near, but he was rigid with restraint, grappling with every muscle to keep her at bay.
She kissed his forehead, and she wrapped her arms around him and fussed with his hair. Since the calamity, she hadn’t touched him with any intent other than nursing, and it was fabulous to be caressing him again.
“While you were away,” she said, “I learned a few lessons, and they were reinforced when you were so ill.”
“What lessons?”
“Some things are worth having, and some things are worth fighting for.” She kissed him on the mouth but couldn’t generate a response. It was like kissing a block of wood. “You are worth fighting for, Luke.”
“Me?” He snorted with derision. “You’re mad.”
“No, I’m more clear than I’ve ever been.” She took his hand and rested it on her belly. “In your rush to flee, aren’t you forgetting one small detail?”
“I haven’t forgotten,” he grumbled.
“That day you saved me, you didn’t know about the babe, did you?”
“No.”
“I waited for you, until I couldn’t wait anymore. Didn’t you get my letter?”
“You wrote to me?”
“Yes. I wonder what happened to it.”
For a moment, he pondered the lost message; then he murmured, “I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“For failing you.”
“Failing me? Is that what you think?”
“It’s what I know. I was so excited to tot off to London, to put on airs and strut around with my nose stuck up my father’s ass. I deserted you, and I never stopped to consider that you might be in dire straits. I was too busy pretending I was somebody important.”
“You are somebody important, you silly man, and I need you more than ever. You have to stay.”
He shuddered. “I couldn’t bear to have the child born and to have your . . . your . . .”—since the murder, he hadn’t uttered Adrian’s name aloud—“late husband listed as the father.”
“He won’t be, and as far as anyone knows, I’ve never had a husband.”
“What do you mean?”
“The vicar and my brother were the only witnesses to the ceremony. The servants were gone, so they all assume it never occurred. With my brother having permanently disappeared, Robert argued to the vicar that I shouldn’t have to have any connection to Adrian as my legacy. He agreed, and the records were destroyed.”
Actually, Robert had terrorized the young minister, then offered a hefty bribe. The pious, fiery fellow’s vow of eternal silence had been bought for the price of a sporty new gig.
“So . . . ,” Luke tentatively ventured, “there’s no proof that you were ever married.”
“No, and I find that I’m in desperate need of a husband. Are you acquainted with anyone who might be interested in the position?”
She’d been certain he’d volunteer, but instead, he muttered, “I can’t be a father.”
“You already are!” she whispered, exasperated.
“I haven’t a clue how to raise a child. Why would you wa
nt me here?”
“Don’t you know?”
“No.”
She was so glad to finally have the opportunity to confess. “I love you, Captain Westmoreland. I’ve always loved you.”
“You couldn’t possibly.”
“I do!” He was so skeptical! She had to convince him that her feelings were genuine, and there were so many reasons as to why she cared for him that she couldn’t fathom where to begin. Didn’t he comprehend that he was her sun, her moon, her entire world?
When he’d left, she’d felt as if she couldn’t breathe, couldn’t see. When he’d nearly died, she’d suspected that she might die, too. A life without Lucas Westmoreland wasn’t any sort of life, at all.
She slid off his lap and onto the floor, and she knelt before him, happy, humbled, and so grateful that he was with her. She took his hand in her own.
“Luke, will you marry me?”
“I told you I can’t!”
“I’m having your baby. You can’t refuse.”
“I don’t understand this, Helen.”
“It’s easy, Luke. I want to be your wife, to have your child and give it your name, so that the babe and I can love you forever.” She leaned in, not letting him pull away, not letting him be separate. “You’ll never be alone again, Luke. I swear it.”
“I don’t mind being alone,” he stubbornly claimed. “Not really. You don’t have to rescue me as if I’m a stray dog.”
“Well, I hate your being alone, and it’s recently dawned on me”—she snuggled closer—“that I can’t live without you. Say yes. Say you’ll marry me.”
He studied her; then he ran a finger down her cheek. “You’re serious.”
“Of course I am. Do you presume that I’ve enjoyed humiliating myself by proposing when it’s so evident that you don’t want me?”
“I have to admit that I like having you down on your knees.”
At the unexpected sexual innuendo, she chuckled. “You are feeling better, aren’t you?”
“Yes, I am, and you’re wrong about one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“You’re wrong to assume that I don’t want you.” He tugged her back onto his lap. “I’ve always wanted you. I’ve always needed you.”
