Dreaming (30 page)

“I also see the small beauty mark here.” He touched the dark dot near her temple. “I see the beginnings of a laugh line here.”

He ran his thumb over the tiny crease in her other cheek. He cupped her face in his hands and lifted it slightly, studying her. “I say, I do believe that . . . ” He frowned. “Yes, I believe that one ear . . . this one . . . ” He lightly flicked a finger over her left ear and felt her shiver. “Yes, it is.” Then he paused purposefully.

“What?”

“It’s slightly larger and higher than the other one.”

Her eyes narrowed in suspicion.

He studied her face for a reaction. She didn’t react, so he said with quiet reserve, “I noticed your other problem.”

She looked at him long and hard. “What problem?”

“Your neck.”

Her hand when to her neck and she frowned. “My neck?”

“Yes,” he said seriously. “I noticed this afternoon . . . during tea.”

Her mouth fell open.

“Perhaps stretching the muscles will help strengthen it.”

She clamped her mouth shut. “There is nothing wrong with my neck.” There was a distinct thread of indignation in her tone.

He tried not to smile. “Surely there must be.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“I’d say it was weak neck muscles that keep your head down.” He stared at her bent head. “That, or perhaps you like to stare at your toes.”

Her head shot up. It only took a minute for the tightness around her mouth to slacken and the defensive tension in her stance to slowly drain away.

She gave him a small smile. “I suppose I asked for that, didn’t I?”

“No. But I would prefer the luxury of looking at your face, rather than the top of your head. Not that it’s not a perfectly lovely head. Although your part is crooked.”

She laughed again, true and real, and he felt as if he’d won the first battle.

“So, my lord, you are a
viscount
.”

It was his turn to laugh then. “Yes, are you duly impressed?”

“Certainly, my lord.” She gave a small curtsy.

“Indeed. Better than a baron, but less than a earl. However, I’m still considered quite the catch.”

She laughed again and shook her head.

“Care to set your cap for being a
viscountess
?”

Her smile suddenly died. She looked at him with hurt-filled eyes, eyes that quickly turned cold. Her shoulders went straight, her chin a notch higher, and she started to turn away.

He grabbed her arm. “I’m not playing you false,
Giana
.” He gripped her other arm and turned her back around.

She stared at the ground.

“Look at me.”

She slowly raised her stricken face to his. The depth of her pain was unmistakable. He sensed what she had suffered with almost a lifetime of shame, scars that ran deeper than marks on the skin.

In her eyes there were no promises, no expectations, no hope.

He never wanted to see that look on her face again.

She didn’t believe him. It was there on her face, as plain to see as her nose.

A hundred trite phrases ran through his panicked mind, none of which were the right things to say, so he went with his gut: He kissed her, softly.

He felt her breath catch in surprise. She stiffened, and he could feel her fists tighten against his chest. He could feel them shake. He hoped she didn’t shake with anger or with fear.

He didn’t want to frighten her. But she needed something.

The aura around her pleaded for help from someone. He was that person. And he hoped this was the answer.

She stood there stiffly.

His mouth whispered over her lips, to kiss her cheek and trace the scar with his mouth, gently, reverently.

She was like stone.

His lips moved on to her eyelids, her brow, back down her cheek. He worshiped her face.

He felt small shudders travel through her.
Don’t be frightened. Please. Understand. I care
.

“No . . . please. Don’t.” Her voice was half whisper, half whimper. She pulled back.

He slid his arms around her and locked his hands, resting them loosely in the small of her back. She could have broken from his hold with almost no effort.

He gave her that freedom. The freedom to run away and hide. The freedom to say no without speaking the words.

She didn’t move.

He rested his forehead against the top of her head and just held her. They stood there in the damp fog, listening to the drip of water from the eaves, listening to their breathing slow, wondering if a heartbeat could be that loud.

He said it softly. “
Giana
.”

“You have no right to do this. You cannot.”

He cupped her face, that exquisite face in his hands. “I’ve spoken with your father.”

“You have?”

“Yes.”

“But you barely know me.”

“I’ve known you forever. I knew it the first moment I saw you.”

She took a deep breath and searched his face. She was looking for lies.

He gave her a direct look. “You know it too. Don’t deny it.”

“You spoke to Papa,” she whispered, as if she needed to say it aloud to believe it.

“Yes.”

He wouldn’t have thought it possible, but she was more strikingly beautiful at that moment than when he’d first seen her in the garden. Her face was dazed and off guard, not a little wonderstruck.

The dark shadows of loneliness seemed to fade away. The look she gave him held a small bit of hope. The small ray of brightness said with more than mere words what he’d given her.

A grounding thought. One that gave him something he’d never had before: a purpose.

Perhaps he could make all of her darkness fade.

“I cannot believe that I’m standing here letting you hold me and kiss me.” She looked up at him. “I don’t even know your Christian name.”

“Neil.”

“Just Neil?”

“Neil Charles Buford Herndon, Eighth Viscount Seymour.”

“Neil Charles Buford Herndon.” A small smile teased the corners of her mouth. “A
viscount
.”

He laughed, a hardy laugh, one that was filled as much with relief as happiness. He wanted to shout. He wanted to carry her off. He wanted to know this joy for the rest of his life. He wanted the world to share the moment.

Lifting her off the ground, he kissed her again, swirling her around and listening to the wondrous ring of her laughter. He slowed and set her gently on her feet. He took a step back, but he still held, her hands.

They stood there a little awkwardly, both of them so filled with the bliss of each other that they didn’t see Sir Hunt standing at the far window.

They didn’t see the pride in his face as he looked at his daughter.

They didn’t see the deep breath he took.

They didn’t see his shoulders begin to shake.

They didn’t see him cry.

He was her hero.

Oh, he didn’t like to admit it, and he fought doing the honorable thing with almost every breath. But in the end, it hadn’t taken
Letty
long to persuade Richard to act the hero again. It had just taken a little while.

She and the men had pointedly discussed every option from tinkering to highway robbery—the latter a suggestion by Simon and
Schoostor
.

It had been that final desperate offer of her mother’s pearls that had broken Richard’s resistance.

“Hell and blast!” The Earl of
Downe
would provide “bloody” positions for them, “dammit.” He had groused that it was easier than having to testify at their trials.

She gave him her most thankful smile. He only stared at her lips for the longest time, as if there were something wrong with them.

After an uncomfortable few minutes, she began to wonder if she had bread and cheese crumbs on her mouth and ran her fingertips over them. His face took on the decidedly sick look of a man who had just been punched in the belly.

“Are you unwell?”

He didn’t answer, just gave her that same foreign stare. He then seemed to realize what she’d asked and laughed that sardonic laugh of his. “Yes. I do believe I’m a sick man.”

She had walked over to stand above him. He said nothing.

“Thank you.”

He made some odd noise, then schooled his expression. “What changed my mind, hellion, was the mere thought of what could happen if the group of you put your heads together. Don’t read any heroics into it.”

But try as he might to deny it, she knew differently. “Well . . . thank you anyway.”

He grunted some response.

“Don’t you suppose someone should untie Harry?”

“Not concerned for your safety?”

She glanced at the sailor. “Perhaps if I apologize . . . ”

Richard shook his head. “I’ll take care of it.”

She smiled and started to speak.

He held up a hand. “Good God. Don’t thank me again. I’m not certain the unscrupulous side of my ego can take that much boundless gratitude in one hour.”

He went over and squatted down next to Harry.

She turned back smiling, trying so very hard not to laugh aloud with glee. She had seen emotion in his eyes.

Yes, she had. And with every part of her being she hoped, she prayed, that deep down inside, Richard cared.

Chapter 18

There was a full moon that Saturday night. But no one could see it. The fog was still too thick, and it seemed even more dense at the site of the old chapel ruins.

Figures moved with stealth along the rise where the medieval chapel had once stood. The nearby sea was strangely quiet. No wind. No chattering calls of the puffins that roosted in the cliffs. No thundering crash of stormier waves.

Just the muted crunch of
bootheels
on rock and dirt, the steps of Viscount Seymour, Sir Hunt, and five of his armed servants.

One lone lantern served as
Seymour
’s only means of light. It swung like a pendulum from his hand and cast an eerie, wavering amber glow on the rocky ground and
moorstones
.

Seymour
stopped to adjust the dueling pistol he’d stuck in the waistband of his breeches. He eyed the area. The rise grew steeper a few feet ahead, but a few feet ahead was all he could see.

It seemed they’d been climbing the rise forever, so slow was their progress. But he knew part of it was nerves. He had no idea what awaited them.

He only knew the instructions on the ransom note. He intended to follow them precisely for the well-being of
Downe
and the girl.