The Hellion Bride

by Catherine Coulter

  "Ah, it pleases me to allow you to resharpen your knifely wit on my poor male head."

  She paled. It infuriated him. He leaned down, his hands on either side of her face. "Dammit, Sophie, don't think about your uncle! Lord, had I been with him, I wouldn't have stabbed him, I would have wrung his mangy throat. Now, stop it."

  "You don't understand."

  "I understand a lot more than you think I do."

  She looked up at him, wondering, but afraid to ask him what he meant. "Thank you for keeping Jeremy away." He merely nodded and left the bedchamber.

  When he returned, Sophie was eating her break­fast. No, he was wrong, she was actually pushing the soft baked yams around her plate. She didn't look quite as frightful as she had the day before or the day before that. He needed to examine her ribs, but he would wait a bit for that.

  "Eat. I won't leave you alone until you finish every­thing. Does it hurt to swallow and chew? I imagined that it still did and that's why you have the soft yams again. I had Cook put some brown sugar on them."

  "Thank you. They're quite good, really. I'm just not very hungry."

  "You're worried and I told you not to. Eat."

  "Why are you being like this?"

  He turned toward the open wooden doors that gave onto the balcony. "Like what?" She waved her fork at him, winced because the slight movement brought her pain, and continued silent.

  "Well, I really can't see myself making love to you in your current condition. No, don't throw the yams at me, you might hurt your ribs. I will tell you something. Even the bruises in all their splendid color are preferable to those cosmetics you smeared on your face."

  "My uncle demanded the cosmetics. He said they made me look more like a woman should, more sophisticated."

  "Yes, and I imagine you also had to use them to cover bruises. Am I right?"

  "I will be well enough to travel very soon now."

  "Oh? Where do you intend to travel to? A young girl with a little boy and no money?"

  He regretted his sarcasm, though she'd deserved it, and said quickly, "I will decide what will be done after you're completely well again. You're not to con­cern yourself about anything. As I told you, Jeremy is just fine and I'm keeping a close watch on him. When I'm not with him, Emile or Samuel is. All right?"

  "Why are you being so nice?"

  "Does that come as a shock to you? I suppose you're really not used to nice men."

  "No."

  "Finish your breakfast and then we'll talk. It's time, don't you think? I cannot continue to battle shadows. I must know the truth."

  "You're so smart I would have thought you would have already figured out everything. Didn't you just tell me that you understood more than I gave you credit for?"

  No, he thought, he wouldn't strip her just yet to see her ribs.

  "I don't like the way you're giving orders, Ryder. I'm sorry, you are being nice to Jeremy and me, but after I'm well again, I will see to us. We are not your responsibility and—"

  "Shut up, Sophie. You're really quite wearying."

  "Go to the devil!"

  He grinned at that. "Who was it who told me you were a regular hellion?"

  "Some miserable man, I doubt not. Hellion—what nonsense! None of you can bear the thought of a woman making decisions for herself, being respon­sible for herself. You must always rule and order things to your own satisfaction, and you dare to call it protecting her. Well, let me tell you, I won't have it, do—"

  "Shut up, Sophie. If you want to expend ire, why, then, let's redirect it. Let's talk about Uncle Theo."

  "Is Uncle Theo alive? Are you certain?"

  "Yes, I am certain. Your aim wasn't all that good."

  "It is not a good thing to stab one's uncle."

  "Nor is it a good thing to beat one's niece."

  She sighed, leaned her head back, and closed her eyes. He studied her in silence for several minutes. Her hair was loosely braided and hung lank and dull over her right shoulder.

  "Would you like to bathe? To have your hair washed?"

  Her eyes flew open and there was such hope and excitement that he laughed. "Very well, if you finish your breakfast, I will see to it."

  She ate everything on her plate and promptly fell asleep. Ryder removed the tray and sat down on the chair beside her bed. What a damnable mess. He realized fully that he was in it up to his neck, perhaps beyond. What he was going to do about it was still unknown. He looked at Sophie—yes, she did look like a Sophie, young and vulnerable and soft. She didn't look like an elegant, cold Sophia. He looked beyond the ugly bruises and saw the fine high cheekbones. Her nose was thin and straight, her eyebrows nicely arched and slanted, her lashes thick. Perhaps in another time, in another place, in different circumstances, he would have taken her as his mistress and shown her that men could really be quite useful when it came to making a woman happy. But the time was now, and the circumstances were godawful. He continued to study her. She was really quite nice-looking and that realization sur­prised him. Her chin wasn't rounded and soft, it was stubborn and solid, that chin, as was her jaw. He imagined she was a hellion even when she was a little girl. Ah, but she was loyal. She would do anything for Jeremy. Anything at all.

  And now what was there for her to do?

  He had bath water brought to the bedchamber and poured into the large copper tub. Now was as good a time as any to have a look at her ribs. Very slowly he drew the sheet down. He was unfastening the buttons on one of Samuel's borrowed nightshirts when her eyes flew open. She stared up at him, not moving, not saying a word.

  "What are you doing?"

  "I'm going to look at your ribs. The bandages must come off in any case if you're to have a bath."

  "No."

  "Sophie, I know your body very well, as well, I imagine, as you know mine. I admit the circum­stances are a bit peculiar here but I am the only one who has taken care of you. You will hold still and let me look at your ribs. If you continue being stubborn about it, I will tie you down."

  "No, damn you!"

  "You won't get your bath."

  "No."

  "How many men have seen your body besides me? Surely more than the three you entertained when I arrived. Surely you can't have an ounce of modes­ty left."

  She turned her face away. He eased her out of the nightshirt then methodically began to untie the bandages from her ribs. He paid no attention to her breasts, to her white belly. He was staring at her bruised ribs and feeling bile rise in his throat. He wanted, quite simply, to kill Uncle Theo with his bare hands.

  He gently ran his fingertips over each rib. "Tell me how bad the pain is," he said. Her breathing was shallow. His hand brushed against her left breast.

  She shuddered.

  "All right. You're better. Now, I'm going to help you into the bathtub."

  Why not, she thought. It didn't matter. He was quite right. He had seen her and taken her and probably looked his fill of her the night he'd drugged her. It made no difference. She allowed him to ease her to the side of the bed. She was naked and he was holding her, lifting her now to her feet. Her knees gave, and when she fell against him, he held her upright, pressing her against him. His breath was warm on her temple. She would have been terrified of him but she felt too weak, and the pain was rip­pling through her. He knew, of course, damn him.

  "Is the pain bad?"

  "No, I'm just weak, that's all. Ryder, I can man­age, truly. Would you leave me alone now?"

  "Be quiet, Sophie."

  He eased her into the copper tub. She sighed with pleasure and he grinned down at her. He unbraided her hair and smoothed out the ripples.

  She managed to wash most of herself and he washed her hair. It took a long time, and she was white with fatigue and trembling with weariness when they were finished. And pain, he guessed. He toweled her dry as matter-of-factly as he'd rub down a lathered horse. That thought made her smile and he saw that small smile and wondered at it as he wrapped her hair in anoth
er towel.

  He carried her to a rocking chair by the open louvered doors and sat down, holding her in his lap. "Time for a rest for both of us. You've worn me out. You've a lot of hair. Lean your head against my shoulder. That's right."

  "I'm nothing to you."

  "What does that mean?"

  "I mean that I'm naked and you have seen me and taken me and yet you don't care. I'm nothing to you."

  His arms tightened about her and he felt her wince and immediately loosened his hold.

  "Would you prefer me to slaver all over you and make you uncomfortable by staring at your breasts?"

  "No, you already did that. It was just a game to you, it meant nothing. It's just that—"

  "That what?"

  "I don't understand you."

  "Sometimes I don't understand myself," he said. He began to rock her back and forth. She was asleep within two minutes.

  No, he thought, he didn't understand and it was driving him mad.

  He carried her back to bed and laid her on her back. He decided to leave her ribs unbandaged. Very gently he removed the towel from her hair and smoothed out the tangles with his fingers, fanning her hair about her head on the pillow to dry.

  He looked at her flat belly and at the soft nest of hair below. She really was quite lovely, he thought, as he pulled a sheet over her, and she'd known men in only one context. They wanted her body, nothing more. Well, she had a very nice body, but he wasn't moved at all.

  He had no intention of ever being moved by this woman, at least any more than he already was.

  He was eating luncheon with Samuel, Emile, and Jeremy, when James came into the room and said, "Mr. Thomas is here, Mr. Sherbrooke. He wants to see you."

  Jeremy's fork fell to his plate, his face suddenly white. Ryder nodded to James, saying, "Show him into the salon, James. I shall be there presently. Now, Jeremy, pick up your fork and eat those delec­table shrimps. I asked your sister to trust me. I'm asking the same of you. If you don't get color back into your cheeks, I'll stake you out in the sun. If you think I will allow Thomas or anyone else to get near you, you are sorely mistaken. Do you understand me, young man?"

  "Yes, sir," Jeremy said, his eyes searching Ryder's face. Ryder saw the fear, the uncertainty, and he felt something move deep inside him. He buffeted the boy's shoulder as he passed his chair. "Emile plans to teach you all about rum this afternoon."

  "I already know a lot about rum."

  "Emile will show you things you've never seen before, won't you, Emile?"

  "Indeed."

  "Eat your lunch. You'll need your strength."

  Ryder heard Jeremy say to Emile as he left the dining room, "Do you whip the slaves, sir?"

  "No," Emile said matter-of-factly. "They're our workers. Without them we wouldn't produce much sugar. We depend on them. If I hurt them, why then, they couldn't work and then where would we be?"

  "Thomas beats the Camille slaves."

  "Thomas is a stupid man. Ryder will doubtless see to his education."

  Ryder smiled in anticipation. He wished he'd spoken to Sophie but he hadn't wanted to awaken her. Well, doubtless Thomas was here because Uncle Theo still wasn't well yet. Good. It seemed that she'd plunged that letter opener nice and deep.

  Sophie woke up just as the sun was lowering, splashing the sky with all shades of pinks and reds. She was alone. She rose and relieved herself, then found the man's nightshirt she'd been wearing and slipped it over her head. Her ribs ached and pulled but the awful tearing pain was now bearable.

  She walked slowly to the balcony and raised her face to the still evening air. Soon she would be well enough to leave Kimberly. Soon she would have to leave Kimberly, she and Jeremy. But where would she go?

  Ryder was right about that. She had nothing, no money, nothing except a harlot's reputation.

  She stared blankly into the pink and golden twi­light, listening to turtledoves, frogs, crickets, and the myriad other night creatures that she normally didn't hear because she was so used to them.

  Ryder paused in the doorway. He saw her stand­ing there in the ridiculous loose nightshirt, her hair thick and flowing down her back. She looked six­teen. But he knew when he saw her eyes there would be weary cynicism there.

  "Come back to bed," he said quietly, not wanting to startle her.

  She turned slowly. She was no longer weak and hurting. She was standing now, a grown woman, and she had to deal with him. She said calmly, "I'm tired of that damned bed. I wish to remain standing for a while. You said you wanted to speak to me. Let's do it."

  She was back to normal. It pleased him enormous­ly. "As you will," he said easily. "Thomas was here."

  Had he expected her to gasp? To shudder with fright? To totter toward him and beg for his pro­tection? She didn't do any of these things. Her expression was remote and remained remote. She looked calm and serene. She was really very good. He walked to her and stopped directly in front of her. He raised his fingertips and lightly touched her chin, the tip of her nose, ran his fingertips over her eyebrows. "The bruises are fading. By tomorrow you won't be such a fright."

  She didn't move. "Then I won't request a mirror until the day after tomorrow."

  "As I said, Thomas came here."

  "I assume you handled him?"

  He grinned. "No, I pleaded with him to allow you to remain here for a little while longer. He beat me into the floor but decided to let you stay. However, he said he'd come back and—"

  She jerked. It was just a small sort of shiver real­ly, but he'd discovered that during the past few days he'd become attuned to her, noticing small move­ments, small reactions, that gave her away.

  "Don't be a fool," he said. "Now, let me tell you about a very unmemorable meeting. Lord, the man's a villain and utterly without a conscience. I met him in the salon. Did you know that James, our footman, isn't fond of Thomas? Why, I do believe James's eyes got meaner than a snake's when he said the man's name."

  "Thomas is an animal. James has a brother who is owned by my uncle. Mr. Grayson tried to buy him but my uncle refused. Yes, Thomas is a swine."

  "Well, yes he is. Hush now and let me tell you of our rather boring conversation."

  Ryder had walked into the salon in high good humor, nearly rubbing his hands together in antici­pation. He stopped, smiled, and said, "I believe your name is Thomas? Fancy seeing you here at Kimberly Hall without your bow and arrows and that very charming white sheet both you and your master enjoy wearing. I particularly applauded the white hoods. Ah, but my manners. Would you care for some coffee?"

  "I have come for Mr. Burgess's niece and nephew."

  "Oh?" Ryder smiled benignly at the overseer. He was tall, exceedingly thin, save for a belly that pro­truded between his vest and his breeches. His hair was grizzled and very short and there was beard stubble on his jaw. He looked as if he hadn't slept much or bathed or changed his clothes in sever­al days. His eyes were cold, very cold, and Ryder doubted if he'd ever been filled with the milk of human kindness.

  "I do owe you for that arrow you put in my shoul­der."

  "I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about," Thomas said. "If you please, Mr. Sherbrooke, Mr. Burgess is anxious to see his niece and nephew. He is naturally concerned for their welfare."

  "Ah, doubtless that is so. How could anyone ever question his feelings? However, whatever makes him think they could be here?"

  "There is talk. Everyone knows. The gossip is that Miss Stanton-Greville is living here openly as your mistress, and in return for her favors, you also took in the boy. It distresses Mr. Burgess. Bring them down now and they won't bother you again."

  "Why don't you sit down, Thomas."

  "Damn you, Sherbrooke, you have no right—"

  "No right to what? To rescue a girl who's been beaten senseless? To take a small boy out of a locked room?"

  "Hellfire, one of her lovers beat her! I locked the boy in his room to protect him!"

  "One of her lovers beat h
er," Ryder repeated slow­ly. "Which one, I wonder? Perhaps Oliver Susson? Now, he's certainly a vicious brute, isn't he? No, I think you must be mistaken. He'd already been dis­missed, and according to my sources, he didn't seem at all upset by his dismissal. Who else? Charles Grammond, perhaps? I hear his wife's a regular tartar, perhaps she did it?"

  "Damn you, Sherbrooke! Get them!"

  Ryder smiled. "You will now listen to me, Thomas. I think you're a conscienceless bastard. I will have no more dealings with you. Your master, however, is another matter. Tell him he will hear from me shortly. Now, if you attempt to bring back some of your cronies to Kimberly Hall and cause a ruckus, I will come after you. I will kill you and I will do it very slowly. Do you understand me?"

  Thomas didn't know what to do. He'd told Mr. Bur­gess that this man wasn't like the other men here on Montego Bay. This man was hard and smart. "As I told you, Sherbrooke, one of Sophia's lovers beat her. Her uncle tried to stop it. If she's told you differently, it's because she's ashamed of her notoriety. Now, be sensible. Why would you want to be saddled with a little cripple and a whore?"

  Thomas didn't get out another word. Ryder smashed his fist into his jaw, a hard, clean blow. Then he drew back his right arm and sent his fist into the man's belly. Thomas yelled as he fell like a stone to the floor.

  "James! Ah, I'm glad you're here. Didn't go very far, did you? Well, I very much do need your assis­tance now. Please ask another strong man to take this vermin back to Camille Hall and dump him there. In the dirt. On his face."