Love's Guardian (20 page)

Crack. The loudest burst of thunder he’d heard caused the windows to vibrate. He stood, amazed to find he was still steady after the amount of alcohol he’d consumed.

He found his way over to the lamp, adjusted the wick, and lit it with a stick from the fire. Then he withdrew a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket. Alex’s list. He knew every name, and her assessment was correct. They’d marry her quickly when they discovered her holdings.

Lord Holford was too old. Alex knew nothing about procreation, and he had to assume she didn’t know older men were rarely prolific when it came to fathering children. He’d point out her intended could die first, then she’d be right back where she had started.

It might be a little more difficult to come up with something for Lord Avery and Lord Brighton. They were ideal. At least in Alex’s eyes. They’d leave her alone, provided she supplied much needed capital. Then again, he’d heard rumors that Brighton preferred boys, but that wouldn’t change much for Alex. The man still needed an heir.

Lord Duprey appeared last. He didn’t trust him. Alex didn’t need a ladies man with a reputation of flitting from one affair to the next. He doubted she would tolerate a parade of woman constantly connected to Duprey’s name. He’d end up with her knife hilt sticking from his chest.

Of course, she’d have to love him to care. From what she’d said, she didn’t love any of these men. Not that it should matter to him. Whom she loved was her own business.

He found some solace in knowing she was safe in her bed upstairs. He’d been lucky. The whole affair might have had a different ending. Perhaps he should check on her? He picked up the lamp and left the library. As he crossed the hallway, the light caught the amber eyes of the winged lion at the foot of the stairs, causing them to glow.

Some people were startled by the piece, but he’d always liked it. For him, the large cat’s fierceness represented strength and the ability to take on the world alone. Those were qualities he admired. It was dangerous to depend on someone else.

When he reached the top of the stairs, he thought he heard moans. It wasn’t the wind. These sounds were gaining in intensity and seemed to be coming from Alex’s room. A large clap of thunder rumbled through the house, then he heard a cry. Without knocking, he opened Alex’s door.

She was naked to the waist. That in itself was enough to cause him to go hard instantly, even in his somewhat inebriated condition. But the look on her face overrode any feelings of lust. She was in anguish. Her unfocused eyes were wide open, and tears streamed down her face.

She shook her head back and forth. “Mother, I’m here. Can’t you see me? Don’t die, Mother. What will we do without you?” She started to tremble and reached her arms out to her imaginary mother. “You’re burning up. Father says I should keep you cool. Please don’t go. I’ll be good. I’m afraid, Mother, the storm ...”

Declan put his lamp on the table by the bed, then took her by the shoulders and gave her a slight shake. When she didn’t respond, he tried harder. “Lady Lochsdale, Alex, wake up. You’re dreaming.” She started to cry in earnest now, and he cradled her head to his shoulder.

“Shh, it’s all right. You’re safe.” He patted her back, rocking her like a child. After a time, the sobbing stopped. He could tell the moment she knew he was there. She jerked backward, only to grab the blankets and lift them to her chin.

He regretted the short view he’d received of her magnificent breasts. They were just as he remembered them, shell colored nipples against pale smooth skin.

“What are you doing in my room?”

“You were having a nightmare. I heard your cries and came in.” He smiled at her. “You really should lock your door if you persist in sleeping nude.”

“How I sleep is my own affair.” Alex wrapped the covers tighter around her body.

“Do you have these nightmares often?” He wasn’t going to argue with her. She’d been under a great deal of strain. He’d heard that could often cause sleep disturbances.

“Not since the early days with my grandfather.” She fluffed up the pillows behind her, still retaining her death grip on her blankets, and laid back. Her hair billowed over the pillows, making her look like some sort of sad fairy that had lost her wings.

“What do you dream about?” He was curious what could reduce a woman as strong as Alex to tears. From her comments, she had dreamed about her mother’s death, but that had occurred years ago.

She turned away and stayed still for so long he didn’t think she would answer. “I dreamt about my mother. We’re on
The Merry Elizabeth
, in the middle of a hurricane.” As if to give her tale life, thunder rent the silence, battering more rain on the windowpanes. “She’s so sick. I’m trying to help her, but I can barely stand with the sway of the ship. I’m helpless. One moment she’s clasping my hand and then ...” She turned her tear-streaked face to him. “There wasn’t anything I could do.”

He reached down and gathered her against him. “It wasn’t your fault. She was sick. Nothing could have been done.” He kissed the top of her head. “Be happy for the years you had together.” She leaned back, and he gazed down into her face, then used his thumb to wipe away a lone tear that was about to enter her mouth.

“I’m sorry.” She appeared calmer. Only her haunted eyes told him the memory lingered. “I shouldn’t go on so. You never even knew your mother.”

He laid her back against the pillows, then maneuvered to the edge of the bed, facing the lamp. The flame danced on its wick, as he tried to ignore the portrait of his mother that flickered in his memory. “Who told you I never knew my mother?”

“Your aunt.” Alex reached out a hand and placed it on his arm. “If it helps, from what little I’ve discovered, she sounded like a wonderful woman.”

“I wouldn’t know. My father never talked about her. At least to me.”

“You weren’t close?”

“Hardly.” He thought back to those years of loneliness and isolation. His father had chosen his employees well; not one dared show any concern for their employer’s son. “My father spent his days in the drawing room, pondering the painting of his beloved through a stupor of alcohol.”

“I don’t recall a painting of your mother in there.”

“I had it taken down after he died. It’s in the attic.” He turned toward her. Perhaps now she’d understand why it was impossible for him to love her. He would never be like his father. His son would not have to endure bitterness and hate.

Alex studied him intently, golden specks swirling in her green eyes. “If you gave your aunt a chance, I think she’d relish talking about her sister. Lady Bradford loved her, just as she loves you.”

“Does she?” As a child, he’d had hopes his mother’s family would rescue him from his father. He remembered the despair he’d felt the day he realized they’d deserted him. “Is that why she didn’t come to see me all those years?”

“She didn’t come to see you because she was threatened with physical force if she refused to keep away.” Alex reached out, her palm warming his cheek. “Not everyone is brave. She did what she could, and she has regrets. Lord Worthington, you keep yourself apart from everyone and everything. If you live your life without learning to forgive, you’ll never know real joy.”

“You’d have me forget?”

Alex dropped her hand. The storm outside couldn’t begin to compare with the look on her face. He stood, then crossed to the end of the bed and turned. He couldn’t forgive, but if it would make Alex happy. “All right, all right, I’ll speak with her.”

She relaxed back against her pillow. “Good. I’m sure she’ll enjoy sharing wonderful memories about your mother. From what she tells me, you look like her.”

“Growing up, I didn’t consider that a benefit. My father would take one look at my face and burst into a rage, but now ...” He’d been a fool to blame his mother for what had happened. All these years, and he knew so little about her.

“Did my aunt mention that my mother named me Declan before she died?” He supposed he was fortunate his father had let the name stand.

“No, but I’ve always liked your name.”

Even with her tear-streaked face, Alex tugged at his soul. “Then why don’t I ever hear it cross your lips?”

She adjusted her blankets, as if they were the finest ball-gown. “I don’t think it’s proper for me to call you by your Christian name.”

He leaned against the bedpost, his arms crossed. “Why not? I’ve used yours often enough.”

Alex grinned at him. “Only in anger.”

“Then I think I should rectify that situation.” He straightened and faced her, then crooked his finger. “Come here, Alexandra.” He was afraid she wouldn’t come, but she awkwardly maneuvered herself up on her knees and crossed the short distance, still clutching the blanket.

She stopped in front of him. “Yes?”

He swallowed. “I want you to call me Declan. Let me hear you say it.”

“Declan.”

“Again.”

“Declan.” She touched his forehead. “Declan.” She touched his nose. “Declan.” She left her finger in the dimple on his chin. “There, is that enough?”

“It’ll never be enough.” He took her hand and kissed the center of her palm. When she didn’t draw away, he lightly nibbled at the inside of her wrist, feeling her quiver under his lips. God, he’d never wanted a woman so much before.

He trailed small kisses up her arm, until he got to her face. Tasting the saltiness of her tears, he kissed her everywhere except the mouth, until finally her lips sought his. Even then, he didn’t linger. His mouth trailed down her neck, making the unconscious journey to her breasts.

When he lowered the blanket down to capture a taut little peak, he thought he would die from the joy of it. She was his.
No, she wasn’t.
The thought was like receiving a gift, only to be told you would never be allowed to open it. He leaned back. Alex’s hurt and confused expression didn’t help.

He let go of her. “Alex, I can’t. It wouldn’t be right. You’re going to belong to someone else in a short period of time.” He straightened his attire, refusing to look at her.

“I’d forgotten.” Alex’s bitter voice drew his attention. “How silly of me. You’re right, of course.” She brought the blankets up over her drooping shoulders and looked away.

“Alex, Lady Lochsdale, I’m sorry.”

“So am I. I think you’d better leave.”

He picked up the lamp, then hesitated. “Are you sure you’ll be all right? The storm seems to have abated.”

“I’ll survive.” She waited till he got to the door before adding, “I’m going to make my choice on Saturday, after the masquerade. You’ll soon be rid of me.”

He exited, shut the door softly, then leaned back against it. He honestly couldn’t remember what filled his days before Alex came into his life, but he’d damned well better find out.