by Lisa Bingham
No. Not alone.
“Who is it?” His eyes clung to the lean masculine frame and powerful physique. Estella’s petite stature only served to emphasize his height, the width of his chest, the slender hips and powerful legs. Such an impressive figure would have seemed quite at home in blacksmith leathers or farmer homespun, but his form was sheathed to perfection in the well-tailored habit of a gentleman. Shiny black boots coated muscular calves. A set of faun-colored riding breeches clung to powerful thighs. His shirt had been fashioned of the finest lawn, the cravat tied in a simple yet elegant three-corner knot and his shoulders covered in a dun-colored jacket.
“I don’t believe he’s one of your guests.”
Nigel had always been a jealous man, a possessive man. Even though Estella and the stranger were separated by a good three feet, he felt a pang of fury. Spinning on his heel, he marched back into the hall, intent upon confronting his wife before the brigand could get away.
“Hello, Estella.”
Estella Sutherland started at the low, whiskey-toned voice. She had come to the garden for privacy. She’d always hated entertaining on such an extravagant level. She detested the noise, the pressures, the constant upheaval. But Nigel insisted they cling to tradition, even when she begged him to allow them to have one summer free from such lavish ceremonies. Just one summer.
Now yet another guest had interrupted her solitude. Since her infrequent minutes alone were the only pleasures allowed Estella these days, she was highly irritated. But she was also a hostess, a genteel Englishwoman, Nigel’s wife. Subduing her automatic frown, she summoned a hollow smile and turned.
The words she’d been about to say were trapped in her throat, unuttered. A choked cry escaped. That face. That form. The book she held in nerveless fingers slid from her lap onto the ground. The years rushed away, and she was immature, greedy, and so very, very foolish.
“Richard Albert?” she said, knowing even as she used the name that it couldn’t be. Richard Albert was dead. Had died years ago. If he had survived through some miracle of heaven, he wouldn’t be so young, so vital. So changed.
Clearing her throat, she snapped her head away, damning the flood of heat washing into her cheeks. With a single utterance, she’d betrayed herself. After nearly thirty years of guarding her secret, she had unwittingly revealed all.
“You look the same as he described you.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“I only heard a few scattered stories about you—just before he died.”
His last word wrenched her attention back again. “Died? When did he …”
“Three years ago.”
“Then he survived. When the ship went down, he survived.”
“Yes.”
“And … Julie?”
“They lived together for nearly a decade before she passed away during childbirth.”
Estella’s already pale skin blanched even further. “I see.”
“No. I don’t think you do.”
Her shoulders stiffened as if anticipating a blow.
“He never blamed you, Estella.”
“I don’t know what you’re—”
“He knew everything—your subterfuge, your promises to Nigel, your knowledge of the conspiracy.”
Estella burst from her seat and ran to the opposite side of the arbor.
“He also knew about Cecil.”
She whirled to regard him with wide eyes. “What do you want from me?”
“Your help.”
“My help? My help with what?”
“Justice.”
Nigel rushed from the house, but as soon as he stepped outside, he saw that the arbor was empty. His wife stood in the rose garden supervising the clipping of flowers for the evening’s centerpieces.
“Estella.”
She turned, offering the same dazzling smile she’d given him for thirty years. One that proclaimed that he was her sun and her whole world revolved around him. “Yes, my love.”
“Who was that you spoke to in the pergola just now?”
She turned back to her roses with a woman’s infinite unconcern. “A business acquaintance of Lord and Lady Wilmonton, I believe. Mr. Sullivan was his name—yes, I believe he said it was Sullivan. Although he did not extend the discourtesy of forcing his company upon our guests, I do think he meant to angle an invitation to our masquerade.”
“Oh.” Nigel squinted and peered down the lane. “He’s staying in Addlebury, I suppose.”
“Yes, dear.”
“What kind of business did he say he was in?” Nigel asked, remembering that the man’s form and the cut of his cloth were worthy of his interest. The stranger’s bearing transmitted an aura of power. Power, wealth, and strength. An attractive combination for a man such as Nigel, who was always searching for an ally.
“I believe he said he was in some sort of foreign trade.”
“Foreign trade. Hmmm. Perhaps he’s an associate of the gentleman Reginald entertained.” Nigel tucked his thumbs into his vest pockets. “Send a footman and extend an invitation to the masquerade ball, Estella. After all, we wouldn’t want to slight the man unintentionally.”
“Yes, dear. If that’s what you wish.”
Nigel returned to the house, leaving the gusting wind and the squabbling of sparrows fighting over a few stray bread crumbs near the kitchen as Estella’s only distraction. Watching the door close behind her husband, Estella took one breath, then another, quicker still, trying to calm the acrid emotions burbling inside her.
She’d tried so hard to forget during the past thirty years. All the things she’d done. The secrets she’d kept. But her sins had come full circle.
What was she going to do? She took a step, as if seeking an avenue of escape. Then halted, feeling trapped. She had fenced herself into an untenable situation. She had bargained with the devil and lost. Today, she was being offered a chance to redeem herself.
But she didn’t think she had the courage to do it.
She had betrayed so many people.
Most of all, herself.
The wind gusted about her, carrying the musky odors of roses and rain. Droplets began to spatter the flagstones about her. The servants darted into the house to finish the centerpieces.
Estella paid no heed. She felt no discomfort. It wasn’t until her hands grew moist and sticky that she realized she’d clutched the stems so fiercely, the thorns had pierced her skin and caused her to bleed.
Greyson was waiting in the trees when Sullivan returned. Sullivan couldn’t have said why, but he found himself strangely comforted by the sight of the grave-faced butler.
“Have you finished your business, sir?”
“I’ve made a start.”
“Any problems?”
Greyson was so patently nervous, yet trying so hard to disguise the fact, that Sullivan smiled. “If you mean in the form of Nigel Sutherland, I didn’t see the man.”
“Very good, sir.”
Sullivan laughed, and the unexpected sound caused Greyson’s mouth to twitch.
“Shall we adjourn to Bellemoore, Greyson?”
“Yes, my lord.”
The two men trotted down the dappled lane, following the roots of the rolling emerald hills. A sprinkling of rain began, intensifying the smells of summer: grass and dust, storm clouds, and hot earth. Around them, the countryside basked in sleepy silence. The setting should have eased Sullivan’s nerves. It had the necessary atmosphere for a holiday retreat.
But rather than feeling an ease of his tensions, Sullivan’s muscles coiled as if in readiness for … what? Battle? Yes, surely. Self-protection? To some degree. Survival? Most definitely. It was more than that. He discovered that he was no longer so bent upon his own concerns. Yes, he would continue to protect his brothers—but his feelings had become even more concentrated, fierce, extending to others as well. Biddy, Chelsea, even Greyson and Smee. For the first time, he felt he
knew the true emotional bonding to be found in the term family. Having grown up in a male-dominated world, Sullivan had learned about caring and protectiveness, to be sure. But now, those emotions were sharper, keener, perhaps even more powerful.
“My lord?”
The softly veiled warning came to him in a bare puff of sound.
Immediately on his guard, Sullivan glanced at Greyson first, then followed the man’s attention to the top of the hill. A figure on horseback watched them. Juxtaposed against a stand of trees, he was a giant with huge shoulders and powerful legs. Even from a distance, it was evident that he was well armed: a pistol tucked into his waist, a knife sheathed at his side.
Sullivan shouted and prodded his horse into a gallop. Racing up the hill full-steam, he barely noted Greyson’s cries of warning. “My lord! My lord, no! We can make a run for Bellemoore!”
Pulling on the reins, Sullivan brought his mount to a skidding halt. He leapt from the saddle, charging at the figure who had done likewise.
From his vantage below, Greyson saw little more than two men, grappling together as if about to come to blows. Urging his gelding up the hill at a bone-jarring trot, he lifted his quirt, prepared to save his master. But it soon became apparent that Richard was far from inconvenienced. Indeed, he seemed joyful as he embraced the man and slapped him on the back.
Becoming aware of the servant’s presence, Sullivan released his brother Rupert. As he met the butler’s astounded countenance, he realized he probably should have been more subtle. Greyson was no fool. Without an explanation, he would eventually piece things together. Sullivan preferred to explain, but by doing so he would have to take a leap of faith. He would have to trust.
There were few people he’d known to whom he had extended the honor. Fewer still who had deserved it. But after all that had occurred, Sullivan experienced no qualms in what he was about to do.
“Greyson, you must swear that what you have seen today and what you are about to hear will go no farther.”
“My lord?”
“Swear.”
Greyson appraised the two men, dissimilar in build but sharing the same strong features and piercing integrity.
“Do you swear?”
Brothers. Without being told, Greyson knew what Master Richard would say. A secret glee tickled his insides, but the old man drew himself into a proud, impressive stance.
“Aye, my lord. Upon my honor and my own good name, I swear.” When the gentle giant stepped forward for the introduction, Greyson’s only thought was: Won’t Biddy be pleased?
A drizzling storm began late in the afternoon. Alarmed, Chelsea paced the narrow width of the cottage’s vestibule. Six steps north, six steps south. The slightest sound sent her rushing to the window in the hope that Richard had returned.
He never did. Greyson came back soon before teatime but offered no explanations of Richard’s whereabouts. The light rain deepened into a downpour, eased, then stopped altogether, leaving a brilliant sunset, the smell of fresh-washed foliage, and the restless patter of stray raindrops falling from the rosebushes onto the ground below.
Of them all, only Biddy seemed unconcerned by her grandson’s disappearance. She’d offered her a beaming smile. “Don’t fret, child. He’s a grown man. He can take care of himself.”
As Smee and Greyson had escorted the old woman up to bed, Chelsea hadn’t been able to summon a retort. Richard was grown, yes, but completely unprepared for the likes of Nigel. She doubted that he had ever encountered such chilling charm, such cloaked cruelty.
Chelsea’s only comfort through the entire afternoon came when Biddy had informed her that Richard intended to leave for home as soon as possible. A relief so tangible she could taste it had flooded Chelsea the instant she heard the words. As soon as he returned, she wouldn’t waste her time with inanities or demanding where he’d been. She’d simply bundle him into the coach, ride pell-mell for the coast, and put him on the first ship leaving the country. The plan was simple and therefore most likely to succeed.
So where had he gone? If he’d stumbled upon Nigel Sutherland, Chelsea was quite sure she would have heard about it by now. Nigel wouldn’t have been able to resist tormenting her with his prize. She could only hope the ensuing silence meant Richard was safe.
But why didn’t he return? What was so important to him that he’d spent the entire day away from the cottage? Was he merely surveying the lay of the land? Or had he found more latent entertainments? Was he holed up in some tavern imbibing a pint of grog and the ample charms of a willing woman? The thought sent a pang of jealousy through her heart, so surprising an emotion simply because she had never experienced it before. Not even with Jaime MacDonough.
The clatter of hooves caused her to rush outside. In the last yellow glow of sunset, she saw the shape of a horse and rider on the lane. Her heart pounded, her mouth went dry. She couldn’t tell yet if Richard approached the house, or possibly Nigel.
Damning the consequences, she ran outside. The soles of her shoes scrabbled against the pea gravel. The hems of her skirts grew quickly damp, but she didn’t give a thought to appearance or propriety.
She had reached the end of the path leading to the stables when the form turned into the drive. She stopped, stunned.
The man who rode toward her was a stranger, yet more familiar to her in many ways than her own reflection. He sat tall in the saddle, his spine straight, gripping the reins with a lax familiarity.
His hair had been combed back from his head and secured against the nape of his neck with a leather thong. Broad shoulders appeared wider still because of the expert tailoring of his jacket. The strength of his jaw was underscored by his snowy-white cravat. His thighs were covered in a kid-soft fabric that clung to each swell of muscle in an incredibly enticing manner.
Chelsea’s heart slowed to a heavy, determined beat. Her skin tingled as if feather-stroked. How she loved this man.
The thought struck her like a thunderbolt, but she couldn’t deny it. That was why her fear for him was so overwhelming. Why she found herself willing to do anything, anything, to see him safe.
He stopped his mount a few yards away. Neither of them moved in the gloaming, a brittle quiet stretching between them. An expectancy. A sweet, silvered longing that spoke most eloquently in its very silence.
Chelsea tried to deny the passion storming through her. She tried to dampen the burst of excitement, the over-whelming relief, the stunned amazement. How could she have ever mistaken this man for a helpless savage? He wore the clothes of a gentleman with such ease, such strength, that had she seen him wearing them before, she never would have believed his ruse.
The memory of the way he’d played her false stung, like the quick prick of a bee. He’d lied to her. He’d led her on. He’d trifled with her emotions and belittled her feelings for him. But like the bee sting, the anger quickly died. Nigel had seen to that. By threatening Richard’s safety, he had unknowingly shuffled Chelsea’s emotions into perspective. Her pique melted under a more powerful dose of protectiveness.
Looking at Richard now, it was hard to summon any anger. It was hard to summon anything but the need to close him in her arms to know for sure that he was safe. Her need became a powerful force, causing her to tremble. But she would have to be careful. She could not forget that her prime objective in the next few minutes would be to push him away. As much as she longed to be held, caressed, she could not allow the pleasures of the moment to endanger him for all time. She had the tools necessary in her arsenal to do such a thing: anger, cool disdain, an affected formality. She could only pray she had the strength to use them.
But as she stood there in the darkness, she didn’t know what to say, what to do to force him to her will. She couldn’t treat a person such as this as if he were a child. But she had been a governess so long, she had forgotten how to approach a man as an equal.
“Good evening, Lord Sutherland.”
At her stilted gr
eeting, he prodded his horse into a walk and closed the last few feet. Despite the weak light of the evening, Chelsea absorbed the sharp planes and hollows of his face, the sheen of his hair. His frame was so impressively arrayed that even though Chelsea had seen him in less—far less—there was something about having him clothed, so completely and utterly clothed, that caused a warming deep in her belly. She’d been loved by the heathen. Would it be so very different to be loved by the gentleman? To watch him disrobe, piece by piece?
Richard swung from the saddle and stood beside her. He studied her from head to toe. Yet, unlike Nigel’s scrutiny, which had left her weak and unsure of herself, Richard’s gaze left a trail of fire.
With each second that passed, she was reminded of how wildly she’d behaved in his arms the night before. She’d held nothing back. She’d kissed him, caressed him, spoken to him …
Spoken to him. A ruddy heat flooded her cheeks. She’d said things to this man that she never would have said had she known he could understand her. She’d uttered secret desires and wishes, private thoughts and fantasies.
Her courage fled as quickly as it had come. After what she’d done, said, how could she hope to think she could make him believe she no longer cared? No longer responded?
He must have seen her hesitate, because he caught her elbow, saying, “I think we should talk.”
His voice was so low, so knowing, she cringed. She had never bared herself so completely in front of a man. Not just her body, but her heart and her soul.
“I don’t have anything to say,” she responded. He would never know how much her crisp tone cost her.
“Chelsea, don’t. Don’t deny what happened between us. Don’t demean it. You want to yell at me, so yell. Call me names. Slap me again—whatever makes you feel better. But don’t cut me off this way.” He grew sober, his voice low and sincere. “I love you.”
His words struck her to the core. Love. That reciprocal emotion she’d craved for so long. He was offering it to her on a silver platter. Her heart softened, then clenched in pain. He couldn’t love her. To do so would spell his doom.
