by Lisa Bingham
“Biddy believed. So did your grandfather.”
“They abandoned us.”
“They spent their whole lives trying to find you. After your parents’ ship went down, they sent The Seeker to the area where your parents jumped ship at least a half-dozen times. They were desperate to locate you.”
“But we didn’t want to be found! My parents died because of this place.” He made a sweeping gesture of the room and the garden beyond. “They died for a title and a collection of moldering estates that meant nothing in the grand scheme of things. They died cursing their enemies, their homeland, and their family.”
“But Biddy loves you.”
“She doesn’t know me. She doesn’t know anything about me.”
“She wants to.”
“Does she? Or does she just want another cookie-cutter Englishman in tight breeches who spends more time on the knot of his cravat than on his own character?”
Chelsea didn’t respond. She didn’t know what to say because she didn’t know if Biddy could ever resign herself to the fact that this man, this savage, would never conform to the image she’d carried in her heart.
“So you’re going to refuse to help her.”
“I have a home of my own.”
“But what kind of home? A thatched hovel, a primitive island?”
“I want you all to leave me alone once I go.”
“Why? So that you can pretend that none of this happened, that we don’t exist, your grandmother doesn’t exist?”
“I have a life there.”
“You could have one here as well. A good one. A fulfilling one.”
“As the Earl of Lindon.”
“Yes. Yes!”
“What if I don’t want that?”
She held the sheet to her chest. “Help her, please help her,” she begged, dodging his question.
“Why? Why are you so bent on this?”
“I care for her.”
“She must have paid you dearly for such loyalty.”
“Yes.” She could barely force the words free. “Yes, she paid dearly. Not with money, but with compassion, empathy, charity. I can never forget the love she gave me.”
“She’s an old woman.”
“She’s your grandmother!”
“That fact might inspire you, but it does not bring an answering fervor to my mind.”
“Then what about me?” she asked woodenly. “Would you do it for me?”
“Why?”
She couldn’t answer. Not after all that had occurred between them.
“What do you gain from all this if I succeed?”
She fought the crushing pressure that seemed to close over her chest. “Peace.”
“From what?”
“Myself. I have old debts to settle. One, a debt of kindness.”
“To Biddy?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Her knees quaked, and the color drained from her face. “Because years ago, she walked into hell and drew me out.” When he would have pressed for more information, she opened the door and crossed the threshold. There she paused. Without turning, she said, “Dreams are fragile things, Richard. Once destroyed, they aren’t easily replaced.”
“What about the other debts? Are they for past kindnesses as well?”
She paused, wondering how much she should say and how much she would reveal. Finally, she offered, “Past cruelties.”
Chelsea, moving with the brittle care of a survivor of some overwhelming tragedy, closed the door behind her. Sullivan was left in the echoing void, alone, wondering how one simple mistake in judgment could have dominoed into such a sorry state of affairs. What worried him most was not that he had bungled things but that he’d hurt her. That alone caused him more pain than he would have ever thought imaginable.
Dreams are fragile things, Richard. Once destroyed, they aren’t easily replaced.
Her statement had rung with such stark pain. Sullivan cringed. Somehow, he knew that she wasn’t speaking of Biddy but of herself.
He couldn’t imagine what dreams she must have had that could have created such a bleak despair once they’d been lost.
Sullivan woke midmorning, having fallen into a restless slumber mere hours before.
The house remained silent and still. Lying in bed, he stared up at the cracked ceiling and waited. But no one ventured upstairs, let alone came to the nursery. Soon he realized no one would come at all.
Far below, he could hear the good-natured banter of Smee and Greyson. He heard the grate and slide of Dowager Lady Sutherland’s cane against the gravel as she walked the length of the garden.
He didn’t know if Chelsea had informed them all of his masquerade, or if the ensuing peace was a measure of respect for an old woman who should avoid any upsets to her nerves. Either way, he found he didn’t want to wait any longer. The burden of playing the savage had become unbearable. It was time he showed his true colors.
But first, first, he had to see Chelsea.
Drawing on Smee’s oversized trousers and the linen work shirt, he padded silently down the hall. Before descending the staircase, he stopped, considering, then entered his governess’s room.
He didn’t know what he had expected to find. He thought there should be some change, some proof of what they had shared. He felt different—older, more finely tuned to the little sounds, the shadings of light and shadow, the unsettling quality of the stillness of the cottage.
In Chelsea’s chamber, however, there was no evidence to confirm or deny what had occurred the previous night. No betraying peek of the sheet she’d covered herself with, no torn nightgown. In fact, the private arena was nearly sterile in its neatness. The bed had been made to military perfection. The armoire door was closed, the toiletry articles on her dresser rigidly arranged. The carpet bag which had once born witness to her efforts to escape him had been folded and neatly placed beneath the dresser.
The ordered regimentation disturbed him. Now more than ever, he knew this wasn’t the life-style Chelsea Wickersham was meant to endure. She was a woman of passion. She had so much to give a man, so much to offer. Yet she had entombed herself in a sterile, solitary existence.
Why?
The complexity of her personality never ceased to amaze him. How had she ever managed to hide the sensuality of her nature behind the prim and proper facade of a British governess? How could she remain a virgin for so long when she was so instinctively well versed in the art of bringing a man to his knees?
The mystery tormented him. He wondered what had driven her into shielding her true self. He wondered what hopes she’d once had. What dreams she’d once lost.
Withdrawing, he closed the door silently behind him, determined that one day soon he would find the answers to all of those questions. And more.
Smee and Greyson hovered near the front landing and watched Richard disappear down the back stairs.
“Do you suppose they’ve had a tiff?” Smee whispered.
“What they’ve had or haven’t had is none of our affair,” Greyson answered stiffly, striding down the hall to enter Lady Sutherland’s room and begin tidying the bed—a chore that a few years ago would have been beneath his dignity but now he bore like a badge of honor.
Smee quickly followed and fluffed the pillows. “Miss Chelsea left in a hurry this morning. You don’t suppose she’s gone to the village, do you?”
“No. I don’t.”
At Greyson’s odd response, Smee blinked in surprise.
The older man fiddled with the edge of the coverlet, then added confidentially, “I followed her—just to assure myself of her safety, mind you,” he hastened to add.
“Where did she go?”
“Onto the moors. She’s been staring down at Lindon Manor all morning.”
Smee’s eyes rounded to the size of saucers. “Poor thing. Poor thing!”
Greyson’s head dipped in emphatic con
currence.
“But we must help her!”
“No one can help her but Master Richard.”
Smee’s lips folded together at their quandary. “Then we must help him to help her.”
“Exactly.”
“What should we do?”
“First we should see about his clothes.” Greyson flicked the last edge of the counterpane into place. “Hurry, Smee. Go into town immediately and fetch the togs being made.”
“What if they aren’t finished yet?”
“Take anything Mr. Gulch has completed. Quickly! While you’re out, I’ll prepare the guest room for Master Richard. I don’t see any sense in keeping him in the nursery any longer. Miss Chelsea hasn’t locked his door in well over a week.”
Smee dipped his head in acknowledgment, hiked his pants more securely about his rotund middle, and toddled from the room, rushing down the stairs and out to the stables. Like Sir Galahad of old, he mounted his trusty steed and galloped into town, ready to brave hell itself in order to defend his lady.
Sullivan’s search for his governess proved futile. He found the kitchen empty, as well as the garden. The servants, Smee and Greyson, had disappeared for a time, leaving him no clue to where Chelsea could be found. Returning to the house, he wandered from room to room until reaching the studio.
Weak sunlight spilled from the narrow windows, painting the tiles with splashes of buttery yellow. A wind gusted from the west, proclaiming that the intermittent sunshine was but a passing fancy and another storm would be blowing in come eveningtide.
The weather seemed an echo to his senses, full of hope one minute, somber disquiet the next. Sullivan couldn’t help feeling that things were changing, rushing out of control before he had the time to recognize their passing. Where he had once been so clear-cut and decisive, he now found himself doubting his actions, his objectives, his goals. A hunger burgeoned within him. But he didn’t know what he needed, what he wanted. He only knew that something was missing. Something that would fill the hollowness that lingered deep in his heart where a burning anger had been mere days before.
His hand closed over the doorknob, and he stepped into the studio.
He would remember this room for the rest of his days. When he thought of it, he would recall the musky scents of roses and petunias, the bright splashes of color from the portraits arranged on the walls. Most of all, he would remember his grandmother. The frail, elderly woman looked up, her eyes suddenly sparking with an unspeakable joy.
“Well,” she sighed, her lips pursing into a quick smile. “So you’ve awakened at last.”
He didn’t answer. He couldn’t bring himself to admit that he had committed a lie of omission. He had played the savage and taken her for a fool.
Far from abashed by his silence, his grandmother gestured for him to approach. “Come in, Richard. Come in. I won’t bite, I promise. Sit with me if you’d like.”
He walked toward her with some reluctance, seeing that Greyson or Smee had unearthed a rocker for her comfort. She sat in a far corner, the dog on the floor beside her, a pile of worsted in her lap.
His bare feet made no sound, and Sullivan was immediately conscious of his unconventional appearance. Why this woman did not run screaming, he’d never know. His hair was loose and flowing, his shirt unbuttoned. The ill-fitting pants revealed a healthy measure of his calves.
“Bring a chair up, and help me with this mess,” she grumbled, plucking at the yarn.
Sullivan was still unsure whether Chelsea had revealed his deception or not, but he ultimately decided that either way, there was no sense in continuing with the charade, so he placed the chair nearby.
“Hold this, please.” She wound the worsted over his wrists, then proceeded to roll it into a tidy ball. “It was naughty of you to pretend you didn’t speak the king’s English.”
“Chelsea told you.” After remaining silent for so long, his voice sounded rusty and gravel-toned even to his own ears.
“No. Actually, she didn’t.”
“Then how—”
“No son of mine would allow his boy to be raised without education. I realized that last night. Still, I must applaud you on your ingenuity. You must have learned quite a bit about us that way.”
Sullivan refused to reply, and she chuckled. A delighted sound that was more like that of a young girl than an elderly lady. Then, sighing to herself in pleasure, she continued rolling her yarn. Her gnarled fingers struggled to perform the simple task, but she didn’t complain.
Silence bathed them in twisted motes of summer. The dog snored softly and occasionally paddling its legs in the air as if chasing hedgehogs in its dreams.
“You’ll be leaving us, I suppose,” Biddy said after some time.
“Why would you believe such a thing?”
“You have the appearance of a tiger who’s been kept in his cage too long,” she confided. “It was selfish of me to think that it would be enough.”
“It?”
“The title. England.” After a beat, she added, “Me.” Around and around the yarn went. “Forgive an old busy-body for her selfish fantasies.” She studied him then, without blame, without recrimination. “You wish to go home.”
He couldn’t lie. Not while she watched him so intently. “Yes.”
Her head dipped in a nod.
“I belong there,” he insisted, wondering why the words did not comfort him as they should.
“I can see that.” When he shifted uncomfortably in his chair, damning the gape of his shirt and the baggy pants, she hastened to reassure him. “I don’t mean your … avant-garde attire or that delightfully long, flowing hairstyle—just as my husband wore it at one time, it is.” She shook her head. “No, it’s more of a bearing. An attitude.”
He lifted a brow in silent query.
“When I look at you, I see strength. Pride. Plus a healthy measure of arrogance.” Her voice grew husky. “For years, I have lived with the horror of your father’s fate—and yours, when that sailor told me of your existence. I worried you would be emotionally beaten, your spirit broken. But now I see that wasn’t the case. I hope that my son—your father—enjoyed much the same fruits of success. That his bearing remained as impressive as yours?” Her words lilted to a hopeful question.
Sullivan envisioned the broken, slump-shouldered man of his childhood. “Yes.”
Biddy considered her wool for the longest time. “I’ll see to the arrangements of sending you back to Isla Santiago. I won’t trouble you now that I know you’re happy.” She pressed her lips together, her fingers stumbling. “If you would be so kind as to send me a note now or then. Just so I know how you’re doing.”
He nodded, and she added the last bit of yarn onto the ball. “There now. Thank you for your help.”
Sullivan stood, sensing Beatrice wished to be alone with her memories. He was about to step into the foyer when she called, “Richard?”
“Yes?”
“How did he die?”
Sullivan studied her for some time, seeing the age-riddled features, the pain, the kindness, the love.
“In his sleep,” he lied huskily.
“Did he … did he say anything … before?”
A tense quiet beaded the air. “He whispered your name,” Sullivan said, unable to tell this kind old woman the truth. That her son, Richard Albert Sutherland III, had not died blessing those he loved …
But cursing his enemies.
Gregory Cane tapped the flanks of his mount, easing it more firmly into the shadows of the trees surrounding Lindon Manor. This was not the first time he had returned to watch the house. He tried to tell himself that he was merely waiting for some sign of his brother. But it was difficult believing such a lie.
Day after day, hour after hour, he’d studied those pink marble walls, the grand columns, the graceful arcs and pillars and windows. He should have grown immune to the sight. But his stomach continued to knot, his hands to
clench. It was for this his parents had been killed. His wife. Lydia.
An unseen hand clamped around his throat, and he fought to swallow, but the action only seemed to force the tightness deep into his chest. When Nigel Sutherland emerged and mounted the horse waiting at the block, Gregory’s eyes grew bleak and stormy.
You will pay, old man, he promised himself and whatever spirits might be near enough to hear his whispered curse.
A hot, muggy wind gusted over the bleak promontory, tugging at Chelsea’s skirts, seeming to beckon her closer and closer to the jagged outcropping and the bird’s-eye view of Lindon Manor. The keening sigh of the breeze had an almost human quality. Sighing, gasping, pleading. Whispered voices seemed to echo in her ears, beckoning her to abandon her tenuous facade of control and surrender to the forces of the past.
She resisted the invisible entreaty, enduring it stoically, much as she had endured the interminable stretch of years spent in a job she had always hated in order to escape a monster she had grown to fear.
Nigel Sutherland.
No man should have the power to change a life so quickly. No man should have the power to take an innocent young girl, mold her for his own pleasure, then teach her the true meaning of horror.
Their relationship had begun innocently enough—at least, it had seemed so to Chelsea at the time. If she were to close her eyes, she could see everything that had happened the first day she’d met the seventh Earl of Lindon. Each second had become emblazoned upon her memory, engraved so clearly she would never forget. She saw the barren ocher-covered grass, the ebony earth, the jagged tumble of boulders. Far in the distance, she could hear the lash of the surf and, nearer, the drone of the vicar. She’d shed no tears as they’d laid her father in the cold, unforgiven ground, but she’d ached. Ached for the man he might have been, the life they might have had.
Paddy O’Rourke had been a cruel taskmaster. Hard as flint and crusty as an old seaman, he’d had little time for a gawky young girl filled with more energy than her growing body could contain. From the first, he’d thought she’d been possessed of the devil—or, worse yet, had inherited her dearly departed mother’s tendencies to dream.
