by Lisa Bingham
Aloise smiled in genuine delight when he placed her things in front of her.
“Oh, Slater, I thought you’d thrown it all away.”
“No.” He settled on the feather bed as she opened the fabric and sifted through the contents. Her actions held a distinct wonder and nostalgia—as if she and the paltry collection of items were old friends long kept apart.
When she paused over the woolen gown, he offered, “You will not need the clothing again.”
She smiled shyly. “Of that I thank you. I have never been fond of black wool.” She tossed it to the floor.
“These as well,” he muttered, discarding the awful undergarments.
“You must accept another heartfelt thanks for that.”
Slater sought each flicker of emotion, each germ of thought he might find flitting across her face. “What of the coins? What will you buy with them?”
Aloise weighed the bag in her hand. “There’s but twenty pounds here.”
“Twenty pounds?”
“It was all I could manage to … liberate from Sacre Coeur. I was supposed to receive five pounds a month allowance from my father. But the headmistress had a penchant for drinking. Since I was not permitted outside the school’s walls, she thought I would have no need of money.”
She dropped the bag back into the shawl and continued her search. “My books are ruined, I’m afraid.”
“I’ve a whole library downstairs. Next to the ballroom.”
Her eyes sparked with interest. “Really?”
“You may help yourself at any time.”
Her excitement was unmistakable. “Thank you.” She poked at the sack of jewels that had served to imprison her in this man’s home. “These are mine, you know?”
“Your father gave them to you?”
She snorted at that unlikely idea. “I took them. I was to wear them when my father retrieved me at Tippington.”
“And this?” Slater touched the locket.
“That is the only portrait I have of my mother.” She opened the delicate piece. “She was very beautiful, wasn’t she?”
“Very.”
His hand closed around the medallion suspended around his own neck and he opened the catch. Aloise gasped when she saw the same small portrait nestled inside. “But how—”
“Your mother gave them to us both the Christmas before she was killed.”
Aloise reverently touched the cold metal of his locket then that of her own. In that instant, Slater felt an emotional connection with this woman, a subtle bond.
“Come with me.”
Taking her hand, he helped her to dress in her robe then drew her behind him, ushering her into his office. Papers and charts littered a huge battered desk. Empty glasses testified that he’d met with his men here some time in the none-too-distant past. Leading her farther inside, Slater released her, then drew back a set of heavy brocade curtains to reveal a life-size portrait.
“This was your mother, Aloise. This was Jeanne Alexander Crawford.”
He watched as she slowly approached, reaching out to touch the canvas as if she would encounter flesh and blood.
“I remember how she doted on you. Never have I seen a mother more loving of her own child.”
“She looks a little …”
“Like you.”
She eyed him in disbelief. “Where did you get such a painting?”
“It was made years ago, to remind me of things I had tried to forget. Things I should have remembered.” His hands closed over her shoulders. The time had come to tell her the truth, to expose his true identity, to risk her anger at his betrayal. “Aloise, there are things you don’t know about me. Things I need to tell you.”
But she wasn’t listening. Her gaze was caught and held by those of her mother. Memories seemed to stir in the depths of her eyes.
“Aloise?” She didn’t seem to hear him. “Aloise!”
She roused with some effort, staring unseeingly in his direction. Her skin grew pale, her breathing increasing to such an alarming rate that Slater eyed her in concern.
The memories had knocked at the door of her consciousness and with them, they’d brought the pain. Swearing, Slater realized that now wasn’t the time for confessions. Seeing her mother’s portrait had done something to her, perhaps jogged some image.
“Aloise!”
She touched a hand to her brow, slowly meeting his gaze. “Wh-what were you … saying?”
Her voice emerged so lost, so forlorn, he drew her close to his chest. “Nothing.” A rock’s weight settled in his chest as the truth lay dammed there once again. “We will speak of such matters at another time.”
When he would have led her from the office, Aloise peered over her shoulder. “She should not have died.”
Slater grew still. “No.”
“My father would have been kinder if she’d lived.”
Her words struck him to the very heart, but not as much as her following statement.
“He would not have beaten me.”
Beaten. The word lodged in his brain. A horror such as he had never known rose to choke him. Unable to bear her anguish or his own, he wrapped Aloise in his arms and drew her against him. Her shoulders shook. Hot tears dripped to his chest.
“I never cry,” she insisted, sobbing.
“Sometimes it is good to cry,” he reassured her, tracing the welts on her back and wishing he could take her pain as his own.
She hiccuped and rubbed at her cheeks, lifting her face to confront him, the evidence of her grief gleaming on her velvety skin. “Have you ever cried, Slater?”
Aloise had a way of cutting bluntly to the heart of things. Of opening his soul and peering inside.
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Upon the news that my father had died. When I was forced to leave my home.” His thumb swiped at the moisture that still dripped from her lashes. Looking at her, he also realized that his emotions had never been so true, so fine-edged as they were now, when she stood in his arms.
She rested against him again, holding him closely, imparting her own brand of comfort. As the seconds piled into minutes, Slater could not suppress his own pointed question. “Tell me, Aloise, do you regret what has happened between us? Do you regret having married me? In any way?”
She became quiet. Unmoving.
“Do you regret it, Slater?”
He shook his head. “Not for an instant.”
“My answer… would be much the same,” she hesitantly admitted.
Her reply should not have touched him so deeply. But it did.
Bending his head, he kissed her, gently, then passionately. When her body yielded, when his control had run out, he carried her back to the bedroom. There they consummated their union again. But this time, Slater could not deny that—for him—their lovemaking held something special, something unique. Something wonderful that soothed his battered soul.
He could only pray that one day he could inspire a similar emotion in Aloise. Otherwise, she may never forgive him for the man he was …
As well as the man he had once been.
Something awakened her. A subtle sound that infringed on her dreams. The whispering of her name.
Blinking, Aloise yawned and stretched, rolling toward the heat easing into her back. Slater slept like the dead, his face free from its accustomed tension. A slight smile lifting his lips.
She was responsible for that smile, Aloise realized with pleasure. Just as she was partly responsible for his heavy slumber. Their lovemaking had filled most of the night, fiercely passionate, then tender, interspersed with gentle nonsense talk when their energy flagged and they rested half in sleep, half out, until the next burst of desire persuaded them to rouse.
Aloise smoothed a lock of black hair from Slater’s cheek, amazed at the rush of tenderness she felt. A deep, soul-touching warmth. He was a wonderful man. Oh, he might prove gruff and blustery, he
might brood and pierce her with one of those dark stares now and again. But deep down in her heart of hearts, where such feelings mattered, she knew he would be good to her. She knew they would be happy.
Suddenly, she found herself contemplating dreams that she had never allowed herself to entertain. She imagined long winter evenings in a man’s embrace. A home filled with laughter. Children.
The thought brought a sharp yearning that startled her in its intensity. She had never really thought herself the type to wish for domestic scenes. Yet, curiously, she wanted to see Slater’s features stamped on a younger version of himself. She wanted to hold the infant in her arms, cuddle it, nurture it.
How grand a future could appear when one had hope. How filled with infinite possibilities. Especially when one knew they would not be spending such years alone.
Softly, so she would not awaken him, she teased his shoulder, the indentation of his sternum, the medallion she had once mistaken for a friar’s crucifix. A tender smile curved her lips. This man had claimed to be her mother’s special friend and she believed him. Come morning, she would demand that he satisfy her curiosity concerning Jeanne Crawford.
The odd whispering came again, softly, barely disturbing the quiet. Sighing, Aloise supposed she would have to investigate. Slater had dismissed Miss Nibbs and most of his men for the evening, wanting the house to be theirs alone. The low tone sounded suspiciously like William Curry. He must have forgotten something in his move to the inn for the night, and not wanting to embarrass her, now called to see if she were awake.
Tracing the scar on her husband’s cheekbone, Aloise yawned again in complete satisfaction, then slipped from the bed, donning Slater’s shirt and her own moire dressing gown. Taking the gutted candle from the bedside, she crept to the door.
It had not been locked, just as Slater had promised. The thought caused a rush of pleasure. He had trusted her. He had known she would keep her word as well as the vows she’d repeated in the church. Such trust was more valuable to her than gold.
Aloise crept into the hall. Touching the wick of the candle to one of those left burning in the corridor, she hummed softly to herself, holding her hems safely away from her feet as she tiptoed down the front staircase.
She felt no fear in wandering through such a gloomy house at this hour. Indeed, there was something about Ashenleigh that had begun to make her feel inordinately safe. As if nothing could harm her here.
“Aloise.”
“I’m coming,” she whispered in return, hoping that her husband had not been disturbed.
Clutching the robe more tightly to her neck, she made her way along the hall, following the faint sound of her name. The cool night still clung to the house in ebony pools and the feeble light of her candle proved welcome as she made her way through the house.
“A-lo-ise.” The cry came from the west wing. The library?
Exchanging the nub of her candle for one of the fresh tapers in the wall sconce, she eagerly made her way down the hall with its wealth of objects d’art. Reclining nudes, painted sylphs, and carved masks watched her progress.
Passing the open door of the game room, she sniffed at the faint smell of liquor, smiling at the mess Slater’s men had left behind after their own nuptial celebration. She would have to speak to them about that, she decided as she saw the gleaming tables scattered with crumbs and spilt snuff. Miss Nibbs had quite enough to do. These men really must learn to pick up after themselves.
“Aloise.”
“I’m coming as fast as I can!” Impatient now, she moved to the door at the far wall. The panel swung wide on well-oiled hinges. The light of her candle eased in, illuminating a desk, a couch. Bookcases.
“Curry?”
No one answered and she stepped more fully inside. The sight that met her eyes caused her to gasp in delight. Aloise placed the taper on one of the small tables. Her fingertips skimmed the spines of the books—so many books! There were novels and diaries, volumes of poems and philosophical essays, tomes of history and copies of historical manuscripts. Sweet heaven, she’d stumbled into paradise. By marrying Slater McKendrick, she had indeed found her own little piece of heaven.
“Curry, I’m in the library. Since I can’t find you in this dark house, you must come to me.”
While she waited, she tugged one of the volumes free, opening the pages, reading a snatch of Shakespeare’s Macbeth. Putting it back on the shelf, she scanned another, and another, reaching for each new selection with an addict’s greed. How marvelous! How bloody marvelous to have such a variety of literature free for her perusal. She had only to close her eyes and reach out in order to select another tasty morsel, verse or prose.
She had married wisely, of that she was sure. The man she’d chosen loved adventure and travel, chocolate and books. How could the next few years prove to be anything but happy?
Footsteps thumped on the marble floors behind her, reminding her that Curry had been trying to find her. Selecting a thin volume of Pope, she turned. “Curry, how in the world did Slater manage to collect so … many …”
The question withered on her lips as the man who had followed her entered the library and stepped into the light.
Oliver Crawford glowered in barely restrained rage. His walking stick pounded against the marble floor. “So, Daughter. I have found you at last.”
Chapter 18
Aloise huddled into the corner of the coach and shivered. She was quite certain that she had never been so miserable or so cold. The dressing gown she wore had been fashioned more for beauty than for warmth. Its minimum of coverage, combined with the less than adequate layer of Slater’s shirt, provided no barrier to the cool morning air that rushed through the open window of the phaeton.
She knew that Oliver Crawford must have seen the way she wrapped her arms about her body and chafed her bared skin. But her father remained remote, unmoved. Although he sat on a woolen rug, he didn’t bother to extend it in her direction. Instead, he remained firmly entrenched on the bulk of the blanket in order to keep it from her grasp. It was a subtle form of punishment. One that did not necessarily surprise her.
They had been traveling now for the better part of ten minutes, but Crawford refused to speak. His disapproval hovered like a palpable shroud, smothering her, but Aloise had grown accustomed to that emotion long ago. What disturbed her now was the added essence of distaste. It hadn’t been enough that he’d isolated her, imprisoned her, and beaten her. It hadn’t been enough for him to refuse to answer her letters or heed her pleas to be released. No, her father had wanted to subdue her, break her, make her as biddable and meek as a doormouse.
In that respect, Aloise had disappointed him yet again.
Her jaw lifted ever so slightly and a subtle strength began to infuse her limbs. She refused to let him intimidate her. She refused to let him wound her. Years of neglect had tempered her self-will and made her into a woman who knew what she wanted and how to get it. To her utter amazement, she discovered that her values had shifted. Staring at her father, she realized that somewhere in the last few weeks, he had lost his power to threaten her. Aloise had changed. She didn’t need this man’s approval to enhance her feelings of worth. She was no longer quite so naive. She knew things about this man—things he had kept secret for decades. Knowledge, she had learned in the past, was a powerful thing.
“You look well, Papa.” Risking his wrath she added, “I’m pleased you have not succumbed to the fevers and accidents which seem prone to this climate.”
Crawford’s eyes narrowed in suspicion; his jowls trembled in barely concealed fury. His hands curled around the silver tip of his walking stick with such force, Aloise was quite sure he wished it were her neck he throttled. But even though he might beat her, he could not break her.
“I assume you are about to deliver me to my next matrimonial prospect—or should I say prospects. That appears to be the only time we see each other.” The fact that she was already
married, already protected by Slater’s name gave her an added bravado. “Tell me, who have you decided should serve as my groom this time?” She continued before he could speak, “An escapee from a debtor’s prison? A—”
“Enough!” Oliver Crawford’s voice grew garbled with the effort he exerted to control his emotions. “You have shamed me, Daughter. Shamed me!”
Daughter. Until tonight, when he had lured her through the depths of Slater’s house, he had never used her name. He referred to her as Daughter. More often than not, the tone he used for that single word of address emerged more like a curse than an endearment.
“I’d thought that the expensive school you attended would have beaten the insolence from you, but I can see now that I was sadly mistaken.” Lifting his cane, he whacked the seat next to her thigh.
Aloise jumped, but did not cry out.
“You allowed a man—a stranger—to abduct you, to imprison you, to sully your reputation, to attempt to force me to accept his offer for your hand, but you have yet to apologize for your behavior. Even though it is obvious that your virtue is no longer an issue.”
Her cheeks flamed but she managed to utter, “Apologize? To you? For what? When have you ever cared what happened to me?”
“Don’t get impertinent with me. I am still your—”
“Father? I do believe this is the first time you’ve claimed the relationship.”
She’d gone a step too far. Aloise knew that instantly. Her father’s face grew red with fury. He lunged forward, viciously slapping her cheek. Pointing a finger at her, he whispered, “I gave you life. For that you will show me the respect I deserve.”
Aloise didn’t speak. She couldn’t. A rage was bubbling inside of her. An anger like she had never known. One that had been building for years, that she had tucked away but never forgotten until it had condensed and now enveloped her entire being.
This man might have given her life. But he had tried to squelch all semblance of happiness and peace. He had thrived on her unhappiness. He had attempted to mold her into a vacuous, simpering fool, and after failing that objective, had been bent upon thrashing her into submission. He deserved none of her honor, none of her loyalty.
