Dangerous to Kiss (14 page)

At Belvidere, where she had been born and raised, the landscape owed nothing to nature though it gave the appearance of great natural beauty. It was all created by man—the lake, the streams, the gentle rises and dips, the copses, the plantations of oaks and elms. The house itself was far more a private palace than a home. She remembered mile upon mile of cold white marble, and Greek columns, and state rooms adorned with priceless paintings and antiquities, and other valuable collectors’ items.

It had taken a great deal of money to maintain that
magnificent house and estate.
Money.
That was all she had ever meant to her father. Shivering, she rested her head against the boarded window, and closed her eyes, willing the memories to recede, but it was hopeless. Resigned, she let them flow into her.

As a child, she had not known that her father had married her mother only for her fortune, had not known of his hatred for a wife he regarded as so far beneath him. Her mother’s people had been of the merchant class, and her father regarded his wife as the daughter of a “tradesman.” There was no lower word in the earl’s vocabulary.

Deborah and her brother, Stephen, had known of his vicious temper, and went in fear of him, but they never suspected that it was their mother who bore the brunt of it. They saw very little of him, and were glad of his indifference, and though they spent a good part of each day in the schoolroom, the rest of the time was spent with their mother, and it was glorious. Together, the three of them roamed the woods and pastures on horseback; they collected wildflowers and pressed them between the pages of books; they made friends with gypsies and the local people. Their mother was the center of their small world and they adored her.

All this changed the day she bundled them into a coach and told them they were going on a long holiday. They knew that something was very wrong because she was tearful and anxious for the coachman to drive faster. They did not get far before their father caught up with them. They were ordered out of the carriage, and their mother was sent on her way alone. It was the last they ever saw of her.

Years were to pass, long painful years, before she and Stephen were able to make sense of what had happened to them. From servants’ gossip and other sources, they pieced the story together. Their mother had been terrified of her husband’s ungovernable rages, and after one harrowing experience, when she feared he would kill her, she had taken her children and fled. There was to be no rescue for her. After the aborted escape attempt, the earl banished his wife to an isolated cottage
on the estate while the children were kept at Belvidere. The law gave him that right.

The law gave him other rights. Not one penny of her mother’s fortune was ever returned to her. She was destitute, and even if she were free, she could not have supported herself let alone two young children. But she hadn’t given up hope. She’d written secretly to her lawyer in an attempt to prove that her husband was unfit to have custody of her children. Magistrates had come to the house and they’d questioned the children, and they, in turn, had ingenuously supported their mother’s claims. There was never any doubt, however, whose word the magistrates would accept. Their father was charming, reasonable, and so obviously a man of breeding. By the time the earl had finished with the magistrates, it was his wife’s sanity that was called into question, a wife who very evidently had poisoned her children’s minds against their father.

Then the earl took his revenge. It was not long before he had committed his wife to an asylum. Within the year, she was dead. And for the children who, in his warped mind, had aided and abetted her by telling the magistrates tales out of school, he reserved his most virulent hatred.

Deborah’s eyes pooled with grief as other memories rushed through her mind in quick succession. Stephen being sent away to school only days after her father had presented them to his new wife. Their stepmother, whose bloodlines, their father never let them forget, were as pure and exalted as his own. The birth of her half sister, Elizabeth, and her joy turning to horror as her stepmother screamed not to touch the child in case she would harm her. London, and her first season that turned out to be a nightmare. Her father’s house in the Strand, and her sixteenth birthday, when she was introduced to her betrothed, Albert Hollander. Albert, who tried to rape her, and the look on his face when the rail at the top of the circular staircase gave way and he fell to his death three floors below.

She rested her head against the hard board at the window, and fought to control her breathing. Albert
hadn’t deserved to die. She hadn’t meant to kill him. But hers
were
the hands that had pushed him in her desperation to be free. She’d been cornered, and she’d fought like a wildcat.

The memories that followed were almost as bad. Her father telling her what would happen to her if she proved as rebellious as her mother; Windsor, and Stephen who had betrayed her to the authorities when she arranged to meet him there.

Stephen’s betrayal was the greatest hurt of all, for they had been united in the loss of their mother and in their contempt for their father. Had he suffered the pangs of a guilty conscience for what he had tried to do to her? She thought he must have, for she’d heard that afterward he had run away from school and enlisted. Last she had heard, he was still in India with the British army.

If it had not been for Miss Hare, she did not know what would have become of her. When her father had announced her betrothal, Miss Hare had been dismissed. But Deborah had known where her governess was to be found, and after her narrow escape at Windsor, she had taken refuge with her.

Her father would be at Belvidere now for the hunting season. Her half sister, Elizabeth, must be old enough for her first season. That would take money, a lot of money. She, Deborah, might not be able to touch her fortune, but neither could her father, not now that she had reached her majority. That could only happen if she fell into his clutches again. She had no doubt of the outcome if that happened. He would force her to marry someone like Albert, or he would commit her to an insane asylum.

A sudden intuition warned her that she was not alone, and she spun to face the door. Gray’s smile faded the moment he saw Deborah’s expression.

He spoke to her curtly. “There’s no need for so much anguish. Tell me what I wish to know and I shall let you go.”

She pressed a hand to her temples. “What? Oh, it’s you.”

“Who did you think it was?” He advanced toward her.

Her smile was bitter. “Someone very like you.” “Who?”

She shook her head. “Even a prisoner is entitled to her own thoughts.”

It surprised him how much he wanted her to confide in him, how much he wanted to comfort her. He sensed that whatever had upset her went beyond their present differences. Her past was shrouded in mystery. It gnawed at him, or perhaps it was just the woman, herself, who gnawed at him. He was baffled by the contradictions in her character. She feared him, yet she was reckless in her defiance. She was fragile, yet she was as hard as nails. Looking at her now, he could see nothing of the timid, vulnerable creature who had been wary of the bloodless Mr. Gray. With her head thrown back and her eyes fearlessly trained on his, she had the look of some mythical warrior queen. It was bravado, of course. Every instinct told him she was close to collapse.

Gentling his tone, he said, “Deborah, I want to help you. If there is someone or something you fear, I can protect you, but first you have to tell me where Quentin is.”

For a moment, he saw her resolve waver, then her eyes flashed her scorn. “I’ve had a taste of your protection, thank you, and quite candidly, it does not impress me. In plainer terms, I’d sooner trust myself to a den of vipers than trust a man like you.” Conscious that her control was fast slipping away, she turned aside to fold the towels on the washstand, taking these few moments to compose herself.

His disappointment was as keen as his anger. She was forcing him to go on with the game. He didn’t want to go on playing the part of a tyrant, didn’t want to frighten her or hurt her. He wanted her to give in before he was forced to utterly crush her.

He pulled himself up short, recognizing that he was falling into the same trap again. He didn’t know the first thing about her, he reminded himself. She must be guilty of something. An innocent woman did not abduct a
helpless boy and flee as if the hounds of hell were after her.

He didn’t know what was the matter with him. No woman had ever moved him the way this woman moved him, and of all women, she was the one he should trust least. He would do well to remember it.

“Your breakfast is ready,” he said, and held the door for her.

In the kitchen, Nick and Hart were seated at the table. They both rose at Deborah’s entrance.

“No need to stand on ceremony with Miss Weyman,” said Gray, motioning them to take their seats.

Nick sank back in his place, but Hart moved to the fireplace. Because the windows were boarded up, the lamps were lit, and Deborah’s gaze flitted to each gentleman in turn.

“Sit down, Deborah,” said Gray.

She looked at him carefully. He was immaculately turned out in a fresh set of clothes. There wasn’t a stain on his white shirt, not a drop of the wine she had flung at him the night before. Nick and Hart were also as fresh as new-minted pennies.

Righteous anger began to simmer. While she was beginning to look and smell like a tinker, they were decked out as though they were about to begin on a day’s round of pleasure. “Where is my portmanteau?” she demanded. Her attention was distracted as Hart put a plate of congealed fried eggs and bacon in front of her, then a mug of steaming hot liquid. “Thank you,” she said, noting absently that this time around she was to be trusted with a fork.

“Oh,” said Nick, “it’s in the—” He halted when Gray silenced him with an abrupt motion of one hand.

“Where did you leave it?” asked Gray.

“In your carriage, as you know very well.” Just looking at those congealed eggs turned her stomach. She picked up the mug and took a small sip. Coffee? Tea? It might have been either, or a combination of both. She couldn’t tell by looking at it. It was as dark and thick as molasses. She set down the mug.

“I left my carriage in Wells,” said Gray.

“With my portmanteau in it?” He inclined his head.

“And your own portmanteau and Hart’s and Nick’s?”

His amusement made her straighten her shoulders.

“Oh, we had the foresight to bring those with us.”

And his grin made her want to rake his handsome face with her nails. Stabbing a piece of bacon with her fork, she brought it to her lips. Crisp was scarcely the word for it. It was so hard, she felt as though she were chewing on a mouthful of nails. To prevent herself choking, she was forced to swallow some of the vile-tasting brew Hart had set down for her.

Conscious that she was the only one eating, she said, addressing Nick, “Aren’t you going to eat breakfast?”

He looked abashed. “Well …” he began.

Gray answered for him. “Nick and I are going into Wells this morning. We shall break our fast at the King’s Arms. They do a very good breakfast, I understand.”

There was only so much a girl could stand. In one abrupt movement, she scraped back her chair and rose to her feet.

“Where do you think you are going?”

“This is no better than a pigsty,” she cried out. “If you mean to poison me, why don’t you simply hand me a cup of hemlock? It would be preferable to this pig’s swill you call breakfast.”

Gray turned with a chuckle to Hart. “I don’t think Deborah appreciates your culinary talents any more than Nick and I do.” Then turning to Deborah, “Tell me what I wish to know, and I’ll buy you breakfast at the King’s Arms. What’s your fancy? Ham? Kippers? Or some tender braised kidney? Nick and I—”

Those twinkling eyes were the last straw. With one swipe of her hand, she sent plate and contents to the floor then took a quick step toward the door.

“Take one more step, Deborah, and I’ll make you regret it.”

The atmosphere in that small room was charged. Deep inside, Deborah began to tremble. Very slowly, she turned to face her captor.

Nick, too, had risen from the table. His eyes took in the pallor of Deborah’s complexion and the stark fear in her eyes. “I say, Gray, is this really necessary?”

“Saddle the horses, Nick.”

“But—”

“Do as I say.” Gray’s voice was deathly soft.

With a troubled look at Deborah, Nick went to do Gray’s bidding.

“Hart, go with him.”

When the door closed upon Hart, Gray said, “Come here, Deborah.” When she hesitated, he bit out, “At once.”

She had to will her feet to take the steps toward him. He was a killer. What was wrong with her that she kept forgetting it? How could she have been so stupid as to goad him to violence? She flinched when he grasped her chin and turned her face toward the light.

His eyes scanned her face. “Yes,” he said, “you are wise to fear me. Now listen carefully to what I have to say. You should think yourself fortunate, Deborah. You are to be given a short reprieve. Nick and I are going to pay a call on Lady Becket, just to make sure she doesn’t suspect anything. We should return by nightfall. That should give you time to reflect on what is in store for you if you refuse to tell me what I wish to know.” He nodded, satisfied with the look that came into her eyes. “Yes, Deborah, we shall begin where we left off this morning.

“As for this place—” His gaze traveled the disordered room and finally came to rest on the debris of her breakfast. “You are right. It is a pigsty. I shall expect you to make it habitable. In other words, I want it so spotless by the time I return that we could eat off the floor. Do you understand?”

Wordlessly, she nodded, but her thoughts were racing in every direction. She shouldn’t be defying him. She should be thanking her lucky stars that he and Nick were leaving. Then, there would be only one person to guard her. Wells could not be far away. She was in no condition to walk the distance, but if she could get to Hart’s horse, there was a chance she could escape.