Lord of Ice (18 page)

She withdrew her hand and slipped it under her pillow, her eyes shining as she held his gaze for a moment. “Good night, Damien. God bless you.”

His smile softened in the darkness; then he turned away again and very quickly went to sleep. Soon, his breathing had slowed and deepened. The sound lulled her. His shoulders rose and fell in a gentle rhythm. Some lazy, instinctual part of her only wanted to snuggle up close to him for warmth and sleep away the cold winter’s night in his arms, sharing their body heat.

Drifting off, she did not know how much time had passed when he woke her with his muttering. She could not make out the words.

She squinted wearily and looked over as he jerked with agitation, as though in the grip of some fitful dream. She held perfectly still, trying to discern his unconscious movement in the darkness. Was he shaking? Twitching? Perhaps he was fighting some long-past battle in his slumber. Careful to avoid his bandaged wound, she reached out to try to quiet him, touching his shoulder.

“Damien,” she started in a whisper.

But in the next instant, she did not know what hit her. He was upon her, slamming her back onto the mattress with a snarl, crushing her beneath his muscled weight. He pinned her wrists above her head and reached for her throat, choking her.

“Damien!” she shrieked in terror, struggling for air.

She had never seen anything more terrifying than his face in that split second before he came back to his senses.

Immediately he released his choke hold on her throat. “Jesus Christ.” He lifted himself off of her at once and swept out of the bed, stalking across the moonlit room.

Miranda scrambled to a seated position, one hand on her throat.

He paced back to her, a cold sweat gleaming on his face, his eyes wild, luminous in the moonlight. “Are you all right?” he demanded in an agonized whisper. “Did I hurt you? Tell me you’re all right.”

“I’m . . . fine. You j-just scared me.”

His chest heaving, he dropped his head. “What the hell were you doing? Why did you touch me? I could have killed you.”

Tears of confusion rushed into her eyes at his harsh tone. “I was only trying to help. You were having a bad dream.”

He just stared at her coldly for a moment, offered nothing—no reassurance, no explanation. Pivoting, he grabbed his greatcoat from off the chair and picked up his haversack, slinging it over his shoulder on his way to the door.

“I’m going to sleep in the barn.”

“Damien!” She started to scramble out of bed to try to stop him. “Don’t leave. Tell me what’s wrong. I want to help.”

“You can’t. Nobody can. Just stay the hell away from me.” He stalked out, slamming the door behind him with a resolute bang that echoed through the dark.

CHAPTER
SEVEN

London’s sprawling outline came into sight upon the hazy blue horizon, but as Miranda stared out the coach window the next afternoon, most of the joy and excitement she had felt yesterday about starting her new life in the great city had eroded away in dread over Damien’s welfare.

She sat, pale and brooding, while the other passengers exclaimed in admiration, craning their necks to look out the windows at it. Endless miles of buildings crowded around the gleaming dome of St. Paul's. Countless church spires and ships’ masts bristled against the stone-white sky. There were glistening palaces, bold towers, too many streets to name. But she scarcely took note, for she knew now that her guardian, her rock amid the chaos, was battling demons of terrible power. She had seen them glaring out at her through his eyes last night when he had nearly choked the life out of her; she had seen them flex their might on Bordesley Green. And she was afraid, both
for
Damien, and
of
him.

She had gathered her courage to try to speak with him at each stop along the road today, but he was remote, utterly withdrawn, as though he had turned all his fury inward upon himself. He would barely make eye contact with her and had nothing to say but the usual perfunctory courtesies, along with a few details on practical matters regarding their arrival in London. Her attempts to broach the subject of what had happened last night met with icy silence. If she pressed him, he lashed out verbally to drive her off. No matter how she tried, she could not reach him.

She had never felt more alone.

Tranquil fields soon gave way to more densely populated villages as the stagecoach bore them southward over miles of undulating countryside, ever closer to the ancient capital. Very swiftly, they were in the heart of the noisy, dirty, clamoring city. A river of traffic and humanity moved in a rapid current up and down the street in each direction; shop signs swung on the cold breeze while flocks of pigeons swirled over the roofs.

The air rang with the clatter of many carriages and the cries of street vendors with their carts and baskets, selling everything imaginable. Sooty snow clumped in little mounds along the pavement, and ladies propped up on metal pattens went tripping by hither and thither. She could smell the river and the coal fires from untold thousands of chimneys. The stagecoach clattered down High Holborn to the raucous intersection with Fleet Market and passed the endless row of drab, rather dilapidated pavilions where meat and vegetables were sold. She glanced up dubiously at the severe facade of the formidable Fleet Prison as they rode by it.

“There’s the river!” one of the passengers exclaimed a moment later.

She turned just in time to catch a glimpse of the gray Thames out the other window as they turned right into Ludgate Hill and made another hasty right into a passage between two narrow shops. She shuddered with relief that they had not been forced to cross one of the bridges over that vast body of deep, treacherous water; then the dark passage quickly deposited them in the immense, raucous inn yard of the Belle Sauvage, the terminus of their journey.

At last, the stagecoach rolled to a weary halt. A moment later, Miranda stepped down from the vehicle, looking around her, completely overwhelmed.

“Miss FitzHubert!” her guardian’s deep voice called sharply. “Over here!”

She looked for him through the crowded inn yard, breathing a sigh of relief when she spotted him. He had already dismounted and was waiting for her, holding Zeus’s reins. Since her passage had been paid for at the start, she collected her satchel and hurried across the chilly yard to him. She saw he had already secured a hackney coach for her. He avoided her gaze as he took her satchel from her.

Assisting her into the next carriage, he put the satchel in by her feet, then firmly closed the door and looked up at the driver, squinting against the overcast glare of the fading afternoon.

“Knight House on Green Park,” he ordered.

“Aye, my lord,” the driver said. With a flip of his whip, the carriage rolled into motion.

This journey was never going to end, Miranda thought wearily. He swung back up into the saddle and trotted Zeus ahead of the hackney coach, leading the way, as ever. The stallion twitched his tail angrily, flexing his white neck in kingly irritation. Poor Zeus did not appear to like the hustle and bustle of the city any more than his stone-faced master did.

As they traveled west through Town, her surroundings became noticeably calmer, quieter, more refined, until at last the hackney coach turned onto the fabled St. James’s Street, which even she knew was at the heart of London’s most prestigious and aristocratic neighborhood. Mayfair was perhaps more fashionable, but St. James’s meant old money and even older titles.

Good Lord,
she thought, beginning to worry,
who are these people he is taking me to
? She knew from her uncle’s letters that the illustrious Knight twins were younger sons of a duke, but the ramifications of that fact had not quite sunk in till now. How could she hope for such lofty personages ever to accept her? Then her jaw dropped as the hackney coach stopped in front of a mansion behind black wrought-iron gates.

A servant in dark blue livery came rushing out in answer to Damien’s call, unlocked the heavy metal gates, and pulled them open, bowing to her guardian as he rode in. Her humble hackney coach rolled through the imposing entrance and up the short drive, past immaculate grounds, rolling to a halt in front of the massive baroque palace that towered before her in Palladian magnificence. Proudly overlooking Green Park, the mansion had a round, columned portico with a heavy iron chandelier.

Miranda stared dazedly at it. The instant the carriage stopped, the door opened and a white-wigged groom appeared, efficiently let down the step, and bowed to her.

“May I assist you, ma'am?” he offered, extending one white-gloved hand.

Miranda stared at the servant, wondering if she was dreaming. Warily accepting the servant’s help, she climbed down from the hackney coach while Damien paid the driver.

“May I take your parcel, ma'am?” the servant offered, bowing his head.

“No—thank you.” She clutched her battered leather satchel tightly to her chest as she stared up at Knight House in wide-eyed awe. The huge, curved windows on the first floor reflected the sky and the wintry park beyond. Life-sized classical statues posed nobly at regular intervals along the edge of the roof. Meanwhile, behind her, Damien entrusted Zeus to one of the grooms.

He walked past her as though it were the most natural thing in the world to stroll casually into that regal home. Pausing on the few, broad steps up to the portico, he turned back to her. “Are you coming?”

Miranda realized abruptly that she was staring like the most provincial country bumpkin. She shook herself out of her daze and ran after him.

Even the butler who answered the door and greeted them seemed worlds above her station. He was tall and rather gaunt, with knife-hilt cheekbones and dignified gray sideburns. She gazed at him in abject terror, yet the minute she stepped into the entrance hall, she heard the most beautiful piano music pouring through the house.

Musical creature that she was, it eased her nerves by a few degrees. Someone was playing a charming Haydn sonata with a masterful hand. Unconsciously sidling up to her guardian, she stared in wonder at the soaring space of the white, marble entrance hall. The most sumptuous chandelier she had ever seen glittered overhead, heavy with its cloud of polished crystals. A curved staircase seemed to float up weightlessly to the next floor. To the right of the door stood an ancient, gleaming suit of armor, inlaid with jewels so bright they looked like candy.

“Good day, Mr. Walsh,” Damien was saying to the butler. “I take it my brother is at home.”

“Indeed, my lord. His grace is at his piano.”

“And the duchess?” he asked, handing off his greatcoat.

“In the yellow drawing room, having tea with Lady Lucien. Shall I announce you?”

“Not necessary.”

“Very good, sir. Your room has been made ready, as well. I trust you shall find everything in order.”

“Thank you. See that a chamber is prepared for Miss FitzHubert, would you? She is my ward, lately come down from school. Miranda—”

Only half listening, she was gazing all around in wonder. Damien startled her out of her daze by prying her satchel out of her hands. He gave it to the butler, slanting her a scowl that ordered her to pay attention.

“Miranda, this is Mr. Walsh. He is the man to see if you need anything while you’re here.”

The butler bowed to her. “Miss. May I take your wrap?”

“Yes, thank you.” Meekly, she handed over her rough woolen mantle, then cringed as she caught sight of herself in the pier glass by the wall. In her ill-fitting, beige Sunday uniform, rumpled from two days’ travel, she looked pitifully low and out of place in these opulent surroundings. Her usual buoyant confidence dissolved in shame at her poverty. The refined creatures who dwelled in this earthly paradise would no doubt be horrified by her. She dreaded meeting them.

“Come along, my dear,” Damien said briskly. “It is time to meet your fairy godmothers.” He grasped her wrist and tugged her up the floating, curved staircase to the main floor.

It was all she could do to keep up as he led her down the corridor past tall white double doors and marble busts on pedestals. The exquisite cascade of rapid notes grew to a crescendo and faded as they passed the closed door to what must have been the music room.

“Who is that playing?” she whispered reverently.

“My eldest brother, Robert, the duke of Hawkscliffe,” he replied, staring straight ahead as he marched down the hallway, pulling her by her hand. “The Tories must have roused his ire again. He always plays like that when he’s fed up with politics.

And this is his house?”

“It is. And now you are about to meet his wife.” With that, he swerved to the right, opened the next door they came to, and poked his head cautiously into the room. “Bel?”

“Winterley!”

“At last! Come in, come in, my dear, long-lost brother-in-law.
Now
the holidays can start.”

Standing behind him in the hallway, quite on pins and needles, at first Miranda could only hear the two women who greeted him.

“Alice, it’s good to see you,” he said cordially as he opened the door wider. “I’ve brought someone to meet you both. Come along, Miranda.”

Holding her chin high, her hands balled by her sides, she stepped stiffly into the doorway. Two ladies not much older than she sat on the sofa in the middle of the salon with a tea service and cakes spread out on the low table before them. They stared at her in curious surprise.

“Come closer,” Damien prodded her.

Intimidated, she obeyed, taking a few steps into the room.

“Bel, Alice, allow me to present my ward, Major Sherbrooke’s niece, Miss Miranda FitzHubert. Miranda, this is the duchess of Hawkscliffe and Lady Lucien Knight.”

Miranda curtseyed to his kinswomen and lowered her gaze, struck shy. They were such lovely, elegant creatures. She so wanted them to accept her, but really had little hope of it.

“This is your ward?” the duchess exclaimed. She was about twenty-five years old and in the early stages of pregnancy; her high-waisted gown of powder-blue silk draped over the slight fullness of her belly. She was fair and lithe, with milky skin and wheat-blond hair swept up in a loose chignon.

Miranda cast a desperate glance at her guardian.

“Forgive me, Miss FitzHubert,” the duchess amended blithely. “We were under the impression that Damien’s ward was a mere child.”

“As you can see, we were mistaken. I need help,” he said flatly. “I don’t even know where to begin with the girl. Chaperonage, wardrobe, introductions. Bel, Alice.” He gave them a boyish, pleading glance.

They burst out laughing.

“What a pitiful sight you are, Winterley. Both of you, sit down and have some tea,” the duchess commanded with a smile. “Let us see what can be done.”

Miranda glanced uncertainly at Damien. He gestured toward the wing chair across from the women. She inched down onto it, moving with caution.

“I was so sorry to hear about your uncle, Miss FitzHubert,” Lady Lucien said kindly, turning over an unused teacup and pouring out for her. “I knew Major Sherbrooke, though not very well. He was a friend of my brother's.”

“Thank you, my lady,” she said haltingly. Obviously, the second woman’s title signaled that she was married to Damien’s twin brother, Lucien, she thought. The duchess was ravishingly beautiful—a cool, pale goddess. But Lucien’s wife was more delicate—a petite, ethereal, fey creature with hair the reddish gold of sunset and the most vivid blue eyes Miranda had ever seen.