by Lisa Bingham
His situation had not improved. If the truth were known, the last clouding traces of drugs had lifted some time ago, but he had yet to inform anyone. After his … adventure at sea, he’d decided that he needed to prepare himself with as much information as possible before revealing his true state of mind. While on Isla Santiago, he’d underestimated his foe, a fact that had led to his being taken away by force. He would not allow the same thing to happen again.
In the last forty-eight hours, he’d been able to gather a number of interesting facts. He knew he’d been brought to the British Isles—most likely Scotland, judging by the view from his window—but there were still too many pieces of the puzzle that needed to be settled into place. Vaguely, he remembered a room with a four-poster bed and a carriage ride in the darkness. Rain. Since he had faded in and out of consciousness, Sullivan had no idea how many of these images could be traced to actual events. His only true memories dated to his arrival at this house. This bedchamber.
Nevertheless, he now resided at a place called Bellemoore—a grand appellation for a stone cottage set in a tiny piece of land which had been gardened to the point of obscuring the black earth beneath. Except for a split-rock path descending to the main road, the dwelling seemed lost in a sea of flowers—flowers he had overheard had been planted by Lady Beatrice Sutherland. His grandmother.
Sullivan’s hands dropped from the draperies, and his fingers clenched. It wasn’t the view that caused such tension. It was his predicament.
The game had twisted so suddenly. He’d simply meant to confront the bloodhounds seeking Richard, throw them off-guard with his heathenish appearance, and drain them of information.
But things had gone wrong from the very start, and he’d awakened to find himself in a strange land. Thanks to the interference of his grandmother—not Nigel Sutherland, which had probably accounted for his not being killed outright.
Sullivan doubted his grandmother would prove to be a foe, but she had unwittingly thrown him into a dangerous situation nonetheless. If Nigel Sutherland were to learn of his existence—which he most certainly would—Sullivan’s life wouldn’t be worth a pinch of dust.
Time was his only ally. His meeting with Nigel was inevitable. From what Sullivan had been able to gather, the dowager had traded the last of her dowry jewels to bring him home and now expected him to be her heir, to challenge Nigel Sutherland and right three decades of wrongs.
Sullivan was more than happy to avenge his father’s good name. He wouldn’t waste the opportunity to confront the man. But Sully could never remain in this country or become a titled lord and heir—and neither could Richard. Too many things had happened for time to be erased. The Sutherland clan had a life elsewhere. They had no need of lands and family that weren’t their own.
At this late date, Sullivan realized he should have taken more precautions. But then again, he hadn’t expected to be kidnapped and brought north like a common criminal. He hadn’t expected to be secreted away to a secluded cottage in the wilds of Britain. And he certainly hadn’t expected the presence of a personal governess.
Miss Wickersham.
Though she had yet to speak to him since he pretended to sleep whenever she entered the room, he had heard the two servants consulting her opinion on everything from the evening meal to what hour to close the shutters.
Miss Wickersham … Sullivan mused again, turning from the window. He could have sworn that he’d met her before arriving at this place. For some reason, he couldn’t banish the tantalizing image of Miss Wickersham’s bare shoulders from his mind. Yet he had no grounds for such a vision. Since arriving at Bellemoore, he’d seen her dressed in an assortment of severe day gowns and conservative skirts and bodices. She’d never worn anything that could be construed as comfortable, let alone inviting.
And yet …
Once again, Sullivan was teased by a niggling memory. Damned if he knew whether it was something that he had actually experienced or if it had been a dream, but somewhere, somewhere, he was sure he’d seen a woman like her before.
But … not like her. Not exactly.
His lips pursed in concentration and disgust at his inability to place the facts half buried beneath a haze of drug-induced recollections. Even now, he could picture a female with long, flowing hair and eyes the color of a clear fresh-water stream. He remembered music—soft, lilting strains that trickled over his senses with a gentle rhythm. And he was sure, quite sure, that the woman had touched him. So vividly did he recall the tracing of feminine fingertips, he didn’t think he could have imagined such a thing. But since the rest of the memories invariably disintegrated into the stuff of fantasies, he couldn’t be sure. Perhaps he had seen Miss Wickersham upon entering this house and had invented such an unlikely set of circumstances. After all, her hair was reddish in color, her eyes blue.
Nonsense. He couldn’t imagine the woman unbending enough to untie her shoes, let alone disrobe in front of an unknown man. She was rigid, proper, and above reproach. Passionless.
Wasn’t she?
Shaking his head to rid himself of such ideas, Sullivan stretched and yawned. His situation could be worse. He had not been poorly treated upon arriving at Bellemoore. Consigned to the care of Miss Wickersham, he’d been fed like a king, washed and shaved by her servants, and put to bed amidst a wealth of woolen blankets and down pillows. But he had yet to receive any clothes.
Unfortunately, the house had a tendency to grow a little cool. Even now, gooseflesh sprinkled Sullivan’s naked skin. Except for his bedding, there was nothing in the room he could use to cover himself. Nothing but the threadbare robe his “hosts” had thrown over the footboard. Sullivan had tried it on—once—then discarded it when the shoulders had proven too narrow and the garment had refused to stay closed.
He didn’t know if the lack of appropriate apparel was an effort to keep him prisoner, or if no such supplies existed. But he had to admit he was beginning to feel the confines of the room closing in upon him. And though he had no idea what Miss Wickersham intended to do with him, he would like to be dressed when she did it.
His mouth widened in a quick grin. Save one activity, of course. If Miss Wickersham were to loosen her rigid stays enough to resemble the woman of his imaginings rather than a red-haired fire poker, he’d be more than happy to spend the afternoon in bed. As long as they didn’t use his bed.
His smile faded as he surveyed the room. He could see that preparations had been made for Richard, Lord Sutherland, long before his actual arrival. It was quite obvious his grandmother and her servants had not been expecting a man of Sullivan’s age. They had apparently been anticipating the arrival of a boy. The bed was a small trundle affair, and the shelves were laden with toys. Sullivan could only wonder who had told them to prepare in such a manner. He wondered why he had not been moved, and could only suppose that the nursery was the only room in the house with a lock on the door.
The soft creak of the stairs warned him that someone was coming to his room, and he dived under the covers. The old house groaned and complained like a cranky old crone—a fact that had dissuaded Sullivan from picking the latch and making any midnight investigations until he could learn to avoid such traps.
Turning, he sprawled facedown across the pillows and curled his legs a bit so that he would fit upon the mattress. He had learned enough in the last two days to doubt that Miss Wickersham or the two aged servants could be numbered among his enemies. Sullivan sympathized with their plight, but he refused to allow his original purpose to be swayed. His strategy might have been altered by a change in locations and players, but the objective still remained clear. Sullivan had to prove to these people that he was an unfit heir. He had to force them to send him home. He had to see to it that they would never want to contact him in the future. Otherwise, his family would never be free from the responsibilities of the Sutherland name.
A key grated in its hole from the opposite side. The latch to the door snicked so
ftly in the early-morning quiet, and he knew within seconds who had brought him his breakfast tray. Miss Wickersham’s perfume was most distinct. It held the sweet scents of spring—lilacs and roses—with the subtle underlying spice of jasmine.
When she stepped inside, he peered at her from beneath the merest slit of his lashes. Miss Wickersham had dressed like a governess. Her hair had been tamed and drawn away from her face into a heavy coil she’d fastened against the nape of her neck. She wore a severe gray day gown, and its fitted bodice and full skirt effectively proclaimed that this woman took her duties seriously. Even the metal shanked buttons marched down her chest in rigid perfection, stopping at the point where she’d wrapped a snowy apron around her skirts. Each item of clothing had been starched and ironed so intently that the fabric crackled in protest when she moved.
Sullivan saw the way she glanced in his direction, then moved to place his morning tray on the tiny table and chair ensemble that had been assembled in the corner. He opened his eyes a little more to follow her movements as she set out the fresh bread and bitter marmalade upon delicate bone china pieces.
“We are not amused by your pranks, Master Richard.”
Sullivan started when she spoke. How in bloody hell had she known he wasn’t the heathen he pretended to be?
To his surprise, she didn’t turn to confront him. She began to pour milk and tea into a child-sized cup.
“We are fully aware that you are awake,” she chided. Sullivan relaxed. She hadn’t divined his masquerade. Not yet, anyhow.
Miss Wickersham turned and caught him staring at her. Frowning in his direction, she folded her arms and shook her head in disapproval.
“It is most impolite to deceive people. We shall await your apology.”
We?
Sullivan cast his gaze about the room in a purely automatic gesture. Evidently, England had endowed its monarchs and governesses with the use of the royal pronoun.
Miss Wickersham fixed him with such stern disapproval, Sullivan fought the urge to squirm like the young boy she considered him to be. Finally, by the slightest softening of her expression, she relented. “Very well. We shall anticipate your apology when you have gained a better grasp of the king’s English. Until then, we shall simply have to teach you more of the graces and manners expected of an English earl.” Her brows arched. “After all, we don’t want people to believe you are a savage. Do we?”
But that was exactly what he intended. A grin teased the corners of Sullivan’s mouth, but he tamped it down. Suddenly, he saw the path to his goal as if it lay before him like a shimmering strand of gold. What better way to prove himself unfit to become the next earl of Lindon than to convince this woman? His governess. His staid, stem, conservative, British governess. She’d probably never been outside her own charmed circle of childish charges. Why, he’d wager she’d never even been kissed—not properly, at any rate.
As if she’d sensed a portion of his thoughts—or caught a hint of his inner amusement—she grew grim. She made a tsking noise and frowned at him in supreme disappointment.
“Master Richard. One of your first lessons is that a proper gentleman should not keep a lady waiting.” She motioned for him to join her. “Come and eat your meal while it’s hot. Otherwise, you’ll disappoint Greyson, who has prepared it especially for you.”
Sullivan waited only a moment. Long enough to study her and anticipate the way she would soon blanche in shock and maidenly surprise. Then he rose to a sitting position and swept the covers aside, exposing every inch of his naked body.
To his supreme disappointment, Miss Wickersham didn’t gasp, didn’t pale, didn’t flinch. Indeed, she appeared almost disinterested as she appraised him from head to toe, then back again.
“Quickly now, or the food will grow cold,” she urged a second time, signaling that he should move forward.
Sullivan felt a sting of disappointment. He’d expected more of a reaction—he’d expected some reaction. But Miss Wickersham observed him as if his bare backside was of no more consequence than that of a family pet.
“Richard!” Her voice became more pointed. Evidently deciding he had not understood her at all, she grasped a warm piece of bread from his plate and held it enticingly in his direction, swinging it back and forth like a tempting delicacy. “Greyson has fixed you fresh sweetbread, tea, and raspberries with cream,” she coaxed in a voice so melodious, so inviting, that Sullivan could scarcely credit it came from such a formal woman.
“Come along,” she encouraged, beckoning to him. “Come and eat.”
Deciding his empty stomach was paying far more attention to the aromas of food than Miss Wickersham was paying to his unclad body, he stood and sauntered across the room. In one last effort to shock her, he walked with a purposeful gait. One that he hoped proclaimed: I am man at his most primeval, and you are but a fragile woman.
But if Miss Wickersham had entertained a lustful thought in her entire life, she wasn’t doing so now.
“Sit, please.”
Giving in to the game—for the moment, at least—he turned his attention to the glorious sight of food spread upon the table before him. Since he’d been feigning unconsciousness, he’d eaten nothing but the scones and milk left three times a day on his bedside table. The meal spread before him seemed like manna from heaven.
He reached for the thick chunks of bread arranged on a plate but recoiled when Miss Wickersham slapped his wrist.
“Please be seated, Master Richard.” To emphasize her point, she stepped behind him and pulled out the minuscule chair.
He jerked in reflex when the fabric of her skirts tickled the backs of his legs. Knowing there was a limit to the extent he was willing to embarrass himself in order to prove he was a savage, Sullivan sank awkwardly into the little seat and grabbed one of the linen napkins, quickly settling it over his lap.
“Very good, Master Richard.”
Miss Wickersham beamed at him as if he’d laid claim to the crown jewels. Then she had the audacity, the unmitigated cheek, to reach out and pat him on the head.
She grasped her skirts and rustled from the room, and Sullivan watched her with narrowed eyes.
One day, Miss Wickersham was going to pay for that pat. In spades. Before he left, Sullivan intended to crack her calm governess-to-the-queen-of-Sheba exterior. Because surely, surely, a real woman lay somewhere beneath all that ice.
He intended to expose her.
Chelsea closed the door behind her until the latch slipped into place with a reserved click. Twisting the key in place, she demurely laced her fingers together and held them against her waist. She walked from the bedroom, down the staircase to the vestibule, and toward the front entrance.
“Miss Chelsea? Was there something you needed, mum?”
She waved to the roly-poly figure of Smee, who had wrapped himself in the former housekeeper’s frilly apron and now sat hunched over the kitchen table, where he ruthlessly polished the last place setting of silver.
“Thank you, no, Mr. Smee.” Offering him a serene smile, she stepped into the morning sunshine and closed the door behind her.
At first she moved slowly, deliberately. But as the trembling of her limbs increased and she felt the heat of a blush rising to her cheeks, she quickened her pace until she ran the last few steps to the pump hidden in the farthest corner of the garden.
Sweet Mary and all the saints, she hadn’t thought she was going to make it out of the nursery without coming completely unhinged!
Chelsea had known that Richard Sutherland would have to awaken sometime soon. She had taken every possible precaution she could think of to arm herself emotionally.
But nothing could have prepared her for the way he had flung the covers aside and stood before her as brazenly as a Whitecastle doxy. Even though she’d known he’d worn no clothing beneath the sheets, she had provided him with a robe for his use—one she’d borrowed from Greyson. Why, the man could have even used a s
heet, if he’d had a mind. But no. He had paraded before her like … like …
Like some wild thing stalking his prey.
That thought brought another burst of heat, and she grasped the pump handle. Frantically, she worked the mechanism until a gush of water tumbled free. Then she splashed the flowing stream onto her face, paying little heed to the moisture that dribbled down the flushed column of her throat.
She straightened, realizing that the cool water had offered little or no real relief. The heat that lingered radiated from within. Huffing in frustration, she hurried up the winding path that led from the garden onto the moors. Though her lungs gasped for air once she’d reached the top of the rise and her skin held an unladylike sheen of perspiration, she didn’t care.
Something had happened to her since meeting Richard Sutherland. Something she found terribly disturbing. For years, she had fought so hard to appear the ideal lady. She had patterned her speech most carefully, she had dressed to perfection, she had mastered each nuance of courtesy and gentility.
But lately, none of that mattered.
She found herself resisting the most outlandish temptations. She wanted to run barefoot through the grass at dawn. She wanted to unlace her corset and take a good deep breath.
By heaven, she wanted to want Richard Sutherland.
No!
Turning, she studied the cottage below her. The profusion of jewel-like colors of the garden should have caught her eye, but she stared at the window leading into the nursery instead.
No.
Her hands curled tightly into her skirt.
No.
Bit by bit, the thumping of her heart returned to normal. The heat faded from her body.
