Dangerous to Love (18 page)

“No,” answered Julian and his expression did not invite further comment.

As soon as the front door had closed upon the doctor, Julian returned to his wife’s bedside.

“I’ll take over now, Mrs. Forrest,” he told his housekeeper. “Oh, and perhaps you’ll make up a bed for me in the little dressing room? I want to be close by in the event that my wife wakes during the night.”

As the housekeeper went to do his bidding, Julian pulled a chair close to the bed. When Serena moaned, he was instantly on his feet, bending over her, murmuring indistinctly as he smoothed back her halo of gold hair. One side of her face was badly bruised, and there was a lump the size of a goose egg on her right temple. There were other bruises and scratches marring her beautiful skin, but those were on her body, and were, according to the doctor, only superficial.

By and large, he accepted Dr. Ames’s diagnosis. He’d seen many a soldier who had taken a far more severe blow to the head than Serena, and who had come out of it unscathed. Serena was disoriented, but she was reasonably lucid. She had recognized him. That was something, he
supposed. As for giving her name as Victoria Noble, he wasn’t quite sure what to make of that. More strange by far, however, was her manner toward him. That had undergone a complete reversal. It was too bad it wouldn’t last.

He was responsible for this, he thought savagely, and flung himself down on a chair. He had brought her to this pass! Had anyone ever told him that he was capable of such bestial conduct, he would have challenged that person to a duel. He couldn’t understand why this girl could provoke him to such lengths. Looking at her now, his throat tightened. She didn’t look like the spitfire who opposed him at every turn. She looked like a defenseless child who had taken a beating from a callous and uncaring monster.

He had meant it all for the best. He didn’t want to hurt her. He wanted to protect her. A man of honor did not simply take an innocent young woman and discard her like so much refuse. She was the marrying kind of girl. He had ruined her, albeit unwittingly. If he did not do the right thing by her, his conscience would forever hold it against him. Whether he wanted to or not, he felt responsible for her.

There was another, equally compelling reason for making her his wife. Serena’s fate was tied to her father’s fate. He had racked his brains for a way of keeping her out of it. He owed her that much at least. Only one solution presented itself, the same solution. If she were his wife, he would have some say in the ordering of her life. He could provide for her, and at the same time make sure that not a penny of his money went to support her father. The problem was, Serena would never willingly become his wife.

When Flynn, understanding his dilemma though not all the reasons behind it, had approached him, he had been more than willing to give him a hearing. By this
time, his own thoughts were becoming more fanciful, on the lines of abducting her and incarcerating her in his hunting box in Scotland, with or without benefit of marriage. With Flynn’s connivance, he had tried to court her, and when that had failed, they had concocted their elaborate plot. Serena, Flynn had suggested, could be tricked into doing something when no power on earth could force her into it. It seemed incredible now, with everything that had happened, that he had entered into the thing in an almost humorous frame of mind. Stealing a march on Serena was something he could not resist.

It was then that Flynn had staggered him by revealing that Serena was the mastermind behind a Jacobite escape route. After that, there was no holding him back. If ever a woman was in need of a husband’s guiding hand, that woman was Serena. For her to run such risks! For her to gallivant through sewers and underground passages, the known haunt of London’s criminal element! Anything could happen to her.

Something had happened to her. She had fallen in his way, and he had taken advantage of her. Now, more than ever, he was determined to protect her. And so, with the help of his good friends, Loukas and young Harry, they had concocted their scheme.

Everything had worked in their favor—Catherine Ward’s removal to the country, Lord Alistair’s arrival on the scene, Serena’s determination to participate in his escape, and the absence of Jeremy and Clive Ward at the crucial time. And he did not expect any insurmountable difficulties when the marriage was made public.

Very soon now, he would finally come face-to-face with the man who had been his family’s nemesis. Flynn was to send word to him the moment Sir Robert arrived in London. He had warned Flynn to say nothing of his marriage to Serena. As far as anyone knew, Serena was now at Riverview
with her young nephews and Catherine. Besides, it would be his duty, his pleasure to tell Sir Robert of their marriage in person. Serena had a husband now, and though Sir Robert might not approve of him, he would accept the connection with dignity rather than stir up a monumental scandal. He would not want to lose face. He, Julian, had a fair idea of what to expect from the man.

From various sources, he had pieced together a sketch of the man’s character—proud, haughty, highly conscious of his own worth, and fanatical in both his loyalties and his hatreds. Few people looked forward to his return. Whatever the terms of the pardon, Sir Robert was not the sort to change course once he had embarked on it. He, Julian, could vouch for that.

Fragments of memories drifted in and out of his mind. A cold gray barracks of a building, gaunt-faced women, hungry hollowed-eyed children, corpses in shrouds, and above all, a despair so deep, so choking that even death might be preferable.

He brushed a hand across his eyes, as if to brush away the harsh memories. When that failed, he rose and moved to the window, staring out at the great stretch of lawns that swept down toward the Thames. He did not know how long he had been standing there when a sound from the bed drew him back to the present.

He covered the distance to Serena in a few strides, leaned over, and touched a palm to her cheek. Satisfied that she was not feverish, he tucked the covers that she had dislodged more securely about her. At the brush of his hands, she sighed, and whispered his name. Julian stilled, looking down at her with an arrested expression.

Shaking his head, he returned to the chair by the bed to resume his vigil. “Serena,” he said softly, “now what am I going to do with you?”

His negligence had cost him dearly, had cost them
both dearly, for if she had not discovered his duplicity, he was sure he could have persuaded her to spend a night or two in his house if only to allay the suspicions of Constable Loukas. And once he had her here, there would have been no going back. It had seemed to him, then, that when she was under his roof, everything would fall naturally into place between them, especially with Serena in a receptive frame of mind. She looked upon him as her savior. That had been borne out by the pretty speech she had made him, thanking him for all that he had done for her. He was not above using these softer feelings she had betrayed for his own purposes. He was no callow youth when it came to women. There were few who could long withstand his considerable power to charm. One green girl had not seemed so formidable a challenge. And a real marriage would simplify everything between them.

Whether due to the glass of brandy he had ingested earlier, or to his numbing anxiety for her, other thoughts rushed in to taunt him.
Conscience?
Was that really what was behind the elaborate plot to get her in his power? A prolonged attack of conscience? Or were there other reasons that he would not admit to, not even to himself?

He leaned his neck against the chair back and closed his eyes, laughing silently and without mirth. He could not come near her, think of her, without damning to hell the fashion for tight-fitting men’s breeches. Oh yes, a real marriage would certainly simplify everything, he mocked himself. Not only would his conscience be clear, but he would also have access to that beautiful, supple body. Lately, it was all he could think about.

When she came to herself, she would be a flaming, fire-breathing dragon. His considerable power to charm would never come into it. Once again, he would be forced to act the tyrant. It was in Serena’s nature to contend with a man until she had mastered him, or until the poor devil
(Flynn’s words) had retired from the field in ignominy. It was not in his nature to be mastered or to retire from the field.

He closed his eyes on a smile. When he opened them the curtains were drawn and the candles were lit. Serena was moving restlessly, crying out in her sleep. Stretching his cramped muscles, he rose and moved to her side. When he brushed the back of his fingers to the bruise on her cheek, she fought him off and came awake with a cry.

She gazed up at him with huge, frightened eyes. He had never seen her wear this face before—confused, vulnerable, and so very pale and shaken. His arms went around her, pulling her into the shelter of his body.

“Julian?” she whispered tearfully, and pressed closer, tucking her head beneath his chin. “I thought .  .  .” Her voice shuddered to a halt.

“What did you think?”

“I thought you hated me. In my dream, you hated me.”

He cupped her chin, tipping her head back. Her lips were slightly parted and trembled with the effort to catch back her sobs. Against the wall of his chest, he could feel the strong beat of her heart as it gradually slowed. His head dipped, and he pressed a chaste kiss to those softly parted lips. Then another. And another.

“I could never hate you,” he said.

She relaxed against him. “Don’t leave me,” she whispered. “Lie with me, Julian. Lie with me.”

When he stretched out beside her, she turned into him, nestling against him like a trusting child. By degrees, her breathing evened and he knew that she slept.

   She awakened to the swish of drapes and the sudden, blinding glow of an afternoon sun. She lay there between wakefulness and sleep, trying to get her bearings. There was nothing to guide her, nothing solid to hold on to in
the mists that were locked inside her head. As the panic rose in her throat, one name came to her.
Julian.

“Mrs. Raynor? I’ve brought ye a bite o’ breakfast.”

The soft, west-country accent only added to Serena’s sense of panic. Gritting her teeth against the pain in her head, she pulled herself up. The smiling lady in the brown spotted muslin with its high lace collar had the look of a plump mother hen watching over her new-hatched chick.

“I’m Mrs. Forrest, m’dear, the housekeeper,” she said.

Serena’s only thought was that Julian was not there. “Julian!” she cried out, and pushing back the covers she made a halfhearted attempt to rise.

Mrs. Forrest set down the tray she was carrying. Clicking her tongue, she went to help Serena. “Now lass, if ye must know, the major is with the doctor. They’ll be coming in to examine ye in a minute or two. Ye’ll want to pretty yerself up afore they get here.”

When Serena rose to her feet, the walls of the room seemed to recede and spin away from her. Her legs buckled beneath her. “There’s something wrong with me,” she gasped.

“It’s the concussion, from the accident. I heard Dr. Ames tell the master. There’s nothing to fear, lass. Ye had a nasty fall, ’tis all.”

Concussion. Accident.
These words were vastly reassuring. She’d suffered a head injury. That would explain the confusion and the dizziness and nausea. She rubbed her fingers against the frown on her brow. “I want my husband,” she said, sounding like a fractious child.

At these words, the housekeeper smiled. “And ye shall have him, just as soon as ye are ready to greet him.”

The bribe was irresistible. More at ease now, Serena allowed the housekeeper to assist her with her toilette.

When Julian entered with the doctor, she was sitting
up in bed, drinking a glass of chocolate. At sight of Julian, the feeling of being utterly alone and lost receded a little. She set down the glass and put out a hand to him. He crossed to her at once, clasping it as he seated himself in a chair next to the bed.

She tried for a smile. “Julian,” she said, “I can’t seem to remember things.”

He squeezed her hand encouragingly. “Don’t worry about it, pet. Dr. Ames says that it’s only a temporary loss of memory.”

She looked at the doctor, but when Julian made to move away from her, her hand tightened, keeping him by her.

Dr. Ames smiled encouragingly. “It’s not uncommon in such accidents.”

“What accident?” she asked. “I don’t remember, you see.”

The doctor looked a question at Julian.

Julian cleared his throat and said carefully, “It was a carriage accident. You were thrown and you caught your head against the edge of the door.”

She put a hand to her head, and said ruefully, “What a way to begin our honeymoon!”

Dr. Ames was not slow to follow up on this. “You see?” he said. “Already things are coming back to you. You knew that this was to be your honeymoon. We don’t want to force it, but it would be helpful if you could tell us how much you do remember. For example, what is your name?”

She smiled at this. “What I do remember is your asking me that selfsame question over and over, till I wanted to scream in vexation.”

The doctor beamed at her. Julian said quietly, “Answer the question, my love.”

“My name is Victoria.” She was very sure of this. She
had a clear recollection of Julian saying her name, not once, but many times. “Victoria,” and she smiled shyly at Julian. “Victoria Raynor, now.”

The doctor rubbed his hands together in evident glee. “And what about your family?”

“I’m an orphan.” The words came to her lips automatically.
I’m an orphan.
She’d said those words before. “And I am or was an actress.” She looked to Julian for confirmation, but he was staring intently at their clasped hands.

“An actress?” said the doctor, faltering a little. A quick look at Julian’s forbidding expression soon restored his composure. “What more do you remember?”

“I don’t remember anything else.”

“Yet, you knew that you were coming to your husband’s house. No, no. Don’t look to your husband for help. Look at me, Mrs. Raynor, and tell me what you remember.”