by Lisa Bingham
The blinding pain in her head intensified, shuddering through her body, causing her to tremble. No. No! She didn’t want to remember any more. Not if the memory of something as harmless as a birthday party brought with it such pain.
“Aloise?”
The cry was distant, distorted by the rustling of the privet hedge. Huddling in a tight ball, Aloise tried to deny what she’d thought she’d heard. Not Slater, but a woman. A woman had called to her.
“Aloise, come. We’ve got to hide.”
She whimpered as dank thoughts and a swirl of macabre images swam about her. Nightmarish visions of a storm, rocky bluffs, and blood … so much blood. Her stomach lurched. Her eyes sprang open.
“Aloise!”
This time, she looked up, looked up to see Slater standing above her. The rain had plastered his hair against his head and dampened the fabric of his shirt. In the guttering light of a torch, he appeared somehow even more large, more intense, more frightening than he ever had before.
She sprang to her feet and tried to dodge past him, but he caught her, held her, his arm like a steel band about her waist. Then it seemed to her that it was not he who held her, but another man, a gruffer, craggy-faced servant who muttered a host of epithets in her ears.
“Aloise!” Slater shook her and the image shattered as quickly as it had come.
“You’ve found her?” Curry darted toward the light, then stopped when he caught sight of Aloise.
She knew they were staring at her in great concern. She knew that her dress was mud-stained and ruined … her beautiful dress. She must look a sight with her hair straggling about her face. But she found she didn’t have the energy to explain or protest. Her legs were suddenly trembling, her body growing numb.
Dear heaven, what was happening? She was shattering inside, piece by piece. Any minute, she feared that she would dissolve into dust.
Slater growled something to his companion, handing him his torch, then scooped her against his body just as she would have fainted.
Clutching his shoulders, she buried her face in his neck, shivering uncontrollably, and knowing that she should be stronger, less needy. But at that moment, she realized that Slater had been right. Destiny had brought them to this point. Her memories were still too vague, too horrible to acknowledge, but she knew there would be no escaping. Some force had brought her to this place, to this point in time. The moment had come to face her demons …
As well as her past.
From the top of the hill, a single man took note of the figures limned in torchlight. Grinning at the thought of being allowed to abandon his post in favor of dry clothes and a crackling fire, he made his way to Briarwood.
Chapter 13
“Miss Nibbs, send a hot bath up to the Rose Room.”
Miss Nibbs took one look at Slater, then at the woman he held in his arms. “Oh, my. Whatever—”
“Just do it!”
“Yes, sir.” She scrambled to do as she was told.
“Curry, have Marco and Louis board up the broken window. Then I want a guard placed there until we can get it repaired. Crawford’s had a man snooping about the last few days, I don’t want him investigating the accident any more than he should.”
Curry saluted, rushing to do as he’d been told, leaving Slater alone with Aloise. As he hurried up the stairs to her room, she trembled in his arms. Her skin had grown positively pasty.
“Why, Aloise?” he whispered under his breath. To his infinite surprise, she answered him.
“I had to get away.” Her eyes flickered, stabbing him with their velvety darkness. “But you have made that impossible, haven’t you?”
Slater felt a stab of conscience. He supposed this situation was his fault. Had he known about Aloise’s lack of memory ahead of time, he would have altered his plans substantially. But events had been set into motion. Events that now spilled in front of him like a runaway ball that gained speed with each passing minute. Much as he might like to shield Aloise from future unpleasantness, the time had long since passed to demand retribution of her father.
Shouldering open the door to her room, he set her on the floor. Despite her hushed protests, he snapped open the buttons to her bodice, then proceeded to help her with the rest of her fastenings. When he would have stripped her to the skin, she stopped him, moving behind the privacy screen to finish undressing. Moments later, she appeared in the night rail and robe.
Her hands nervously pleated her skirt, but she dropped them as if she were afraid of how much of her nervousness she’d revealed. Finally, her chin tilted and she demanded, “What do you intend to do with me?”
Such courage. Such fire. The fact caused Slater to soften his stance. He was not usually a man of diplomacy, but tonight he would try his level best.
“What have you remembered?”
Her brow creased. “Just the party. My mother was there. She sang.”
“What else do you recall?”
“A storm. Panic.”
Slater felt a tightening of his own body at her words. He had not been blessed with forgetfulness as she had. He’d lived with the events of that night for years.
“That was later. In the spring.” He damned the huskiness he couldn’t control.
“My mother was there. Two men. She fought with them.”
Shaking her head, she refused to say any more, but Slater pressed on. “Do you remember anything else? Anyone else?”
“No.”
“What about your father?”
“My father? What has he to do with this?”
“Do you remember his being there, Aloise?”
“No, I—”
Her eyes suddenly widened and she stared at him in dismay. “Who are you? Why are you doing this to me?” Her hands balled into fists. “Is this some sort of grand game? To torture me with things I can’t remember? Or—”
The blood suddenly drained from her face. “He sent you. Didn’t he? Didn’t he? I should have known. You’re nothing but his pawn.” Marching toward him, she began to pound him on the chest. “How much is he paying you? What has my father promised to give you for your efforts? Me? Me? Damnit, are you my next matrimonial prospect?”
Aloise saw the fury darken his mien at her accusations, but she didn’t care. A betrayal such as she’d never known spilled into her veins. This man had used her. Used her.
“Damn you!” She began to pummel him with blows.
The door opened and Miss Nibbs peered inside. “I have her bathwater.”
“Not now, Miss Nibbs,” Slater growled.
“But—”
“Get out!”
The door slammed closed, and Slater lifted her, then dropped her on the bed, pinning her there with his body, her arms stretched above her head.
She wriggled and fought, trying to gain some kind of advantage, but he held her easily, causing her merely to exhaust herself with her struggles.
“Stop it. Stop!” He shook her slightly and she grew still. “I’m not in league with your father.”
The fury she felt launched anew. “You lied to me! You tricked me! You knew the whole time who I was. Didn’t you?”
“Yes.”
She groaned in anger. “I believed you. All the while you spouted that nonsense about taking me to the authorities and accusing me of being a thief, you meant to keep me here all along.”
“Yes.”
She bucked at him, trying to throw him off, but he remained full-length on her, his body pressing her into the feather bed. His hips ground intimately against her own, their thighs tangled together. Startled, Aloise grew quiet when she realized her struggles were beginning to have an effect on Slater.
“Why?” she demanded. “Why have you done this to me?”
He regarded her speculatively for such a long time, she grew uncomfortable. He knew something, something awful that he debated telling her.
Very slowly, he rose from the bed. “You�
��ve been away from home a long time, Aloise.”
She rose to a sitting position, hugging the dressing gown to her body.
“Away?” The word burst free with an overt shade of bitterness. “How can one be away from something that never existed? I have no home in England. I have no home.”
“Do you regret that fact?”
She shrugged, watching the man who watched her, and wondering what information he sought.
“How can one regret something that has never been experienced?”
“I’m not asking a hypothetical question, Aloise. Did you regret the absence of a home?”
She warily inched toward the edge of the bed. When he made no move to stop her, she rose and took a few steps away, needing a bit more space.
“I suppose.”
“Did you regret the nature of your childhood?”
Aloise briefly envisioned Madame Giradoux, her guardian-instructor at Sacre Coeur, a stern, pious, cheerless woman who felt that life revolved around the proper conjugation of irregular French verbs. Living so close to the country, Aloise had longed to explore the neighboring fields. Horrified by such an idea, Madame Giradoux had been the first to begin locking Aloise in her room. Still, Aloise hesitated in giving Slater McKendrick the entire truth.
“In some ways.”
“What about the school you spoke of? Did you enjoy yourself there?”
He already knew so much, too much. Must she tell him more?
“What do you want from me?” she whispered. But he did not hear her—or if he did, he chose to ignore her query.
He took a step and the room quivered in anticipation, as if he were about to reveal some secret of the universe.
“Your mother? Did you miss her?”
“My mother?”
“Did you miss her softening influence? The way she would have sung to you at night? The stories she would have told?”
His expression grew nearly frightening. He reached to take her arms and she dodged away.
“What right have you to speak of my mother in such a fashion?”
“I knew her. She was my friend. That is why I was invited to attend the festivities surrounding your fifth birthday.”
She was stunned. Other than Mr. Humphreys— who would not betray her father’s wishes—no one had been able to tell her anything about Jeanne Crawford.
“You could not have known her. She died—”
“Fifteen years ago, last April.”
“How do you—”
“What did he tell you, Aloise? How did your father explain her sudden death?”
“She died in an accident.”
“Hardly.”
Her brow creased. “I don’t understand.”
The room grew silent. Still.
“She was murdered, Aloise.”
“Murdered?” she could barely say the word. Shaking her head, she tried to back away, but he snagged her elbow, pulling her irretrievably closer.
“You’re mistaken. She died at Briarwood. A fall.”
“She was killed, Aloise. Not five miles from where you stand now.”
“No. My father would have told me such a thing.”
“Your father? Your father hired the man who murdered her.”
She began to tremble, not because of the horrible things he said, but because they might, just might, be true.
“No. You’re trying to trick me again. You’re telling me lies because you want me to do something I shouldn’t.”
“Think, Aloise. How long after your father’s death did he remarry?”
“A few …”
“Months? Her name was Mary. Mary Little. Did you meet her, Aloise?”
She nodded. “I was sick at the time. So very sick. I remember because my father forced the women at Sacre Coeur to dose me with a horrible tonic. Even so, I was summoned from France to attend the wedding in London.”
“What about later? On the birth of their children?”
“There were no children. They were married for five years, but there were no children.”
“What happened to Mary?”
“She died.”
“How?”
“Of the fever.”
“When was the next time you were allowed home to England?”
“Upon my father’s third marriage.”
“You were what—twelve?”
“Thirteen.”
“What was her name?”
“Lilith. Lilith Clark.”
“How long were they married?”
“Three years. Lilith died.” Her eyes grew wide and haunted. “Of consumption.”
“How many more women came after that?”
“Two.” She was shaking now, quite visibly. “They also died.”
“Of other more mysterious ailments.” He inched closer. “Did you know you had a sister?”
Her brow creased in confusion. “I have no sister.”
“She died at birth. The same month your mother was killed.”
“No.”
“Did you know that soon after her conception, there were rumors that your father became ill. Very, very ill. His body grew so hot it had to be wrapped in wet sheets. Do you know what that does to a man, Aloise?”
She shook her head, trying to deny his intent.
“It kills something inside him, Aloise. It kills his seed.”
“No!” She slapped her palms over her ears. “I don’t want to hear any more!”
He took her wrists, forcing her to hear what he had to say. “Did your father love you? Did he care for you? Did he bounce you on his knee?”
Aloise choked on a sob she refused to utter, feeling a keen stab of pain. McKendrick was being purposely cruel now. If he knew so much about her, he must surely know the rest.
“Or did he willfully keep you as far away from him as humanly possible, hoping that one day his fears would prove wrong and he would sire a son?”
Her face flamed. This man had seen straight to the core of the matter. He had dissected her heart and found that black kernel of yearning deep inside. She’d wanted her father’s love, she’d craved it with all her might. When it had been denied, she had tried not to hate him. She’d tried to honor him as the Bible commanded, but she’d known all along he’d wanted a boy. A boy.
“When he finally admitted such a thing would never happen, did he bring you home?”
“No.” The word pushed from her throat unbidden.
“What did he do, Aloise?”
She closed her lashes.
“He would never have a son to inherit his dynasty, but he became obsessed with the need for an heir. A male heir.”
“A grandson.”
“How many men did he bring to you to wed?”
She turned away, unable to bear more. But still, she answered, “Two. Sir Greenby—”
“Cavalry officer, retired, and confidante of the king.”
“—Lord Kuthright—”
“Of the Kensington shipping Kuthrights, first cousin to His Majesty.”
“No.” Despite her denial, she could not block out the sound of his coming forward, wrapping his arms around her waist.
“Each man would have brought him power, a title, and a grandson, then could just as easily have been eliminated so that Oliver Crawford could mold his heir. Greenby had a history of heart trouble. He could have died in his sleep without comment. Kuthright’s exploits with married women were notorious enough to arrange a duel if need be. Your father must have been displeased when his plans did not come to fruition and the men were disposed of long before they’d served their purposes.”
She whimpered softly, feeling the cold settle to her very bones.
“There was one other, Aloise. A man to whom you were betrothed when you were but a child.”
She remained mute, shaken.
“How did your father explain the severing of such an alliance?”
“Matthew d
ied.” A sob lodged in her throat.
The man who held her relaxed, bending to brush her ear with his lips.
“He is not dead.”
She wrenched free, rushing to the door. It was locked. “No. No!” Dashing a hand at the damning moisture gathering at her eyes, she whirled to confront him. “Why do you insist on tormenting me with such lies? Do you want to grind more salt into my wounds? Do you want to pummel me with the fact that my father never loved me? That he rejected me?”
Her fist shook at him. “You know so much, but tell me, do you know the rest? That since the day of my birth I have been punished? Not for who I am, but what. A girl. A worthless female.” She stalked toward him. “Even my name was a punishment. My father so wanted a boy that he wouldn’t even consider choosing a girl’s name. On my birth, he didn’t bother to find another more appropriate. So, on the records of the church, I am Aloitious. Aloitious Pedegrew Crawford. Aloitious!”
She swiped at the tears that fell down her cheeks.
“Why are you doing this to me?”
He didn’t immediately answer, apparently measuring her emotions against his own indecipherable intent.
“Tell me, Aloise, how much do you love your father?”
She couldn’t answer. The truth was much too horrible. She had avoided it far too long to want to face it now.
“Do you adore him?”
When she didn’t answer, he approached, cautiously, warily. “Do you respect him?”
Aloise lifted a hand, forcibly damming the words that threatened to spill through.
“Do you even know him?”
When she would have backed away, Slater caught her, holding her still.
“Did he ever do aught of kindness for you? Did he ever tell you he loved you?”
“No. No!”
“Tell me, Aloise.” His grip was warm and kind and gentle. “Tell me. You were sent to Sacre Coeur at such a young age. Were you happy?”
She shook her head.
