Myriah Fire (15 page)

He felt ice rush through his veins and then melt by the volcanic lava that followed. He felt his mind burn away all logic and purpose. He was there … just
there
? He took her shoulders and shook her. “You know it was more than that!”

“Do I? How would I know such a thing?”

“Enough!” he shouted as he set her away.

“I was there … you were there … it was nothing more. I expect nothing …”

* * *

Myriah’s intentions just broke into a zillion pieces. All her well-laid plans to bewitch him got lost somewhere in the black recesses of her dying hopes.

His disrespect, his mistrust, and even his disgust were too apparent to be ignored, and this angered her beyond belief. She was in a rage, furious and bitter, and she wanted to lash out even more than she wanted to win him over.

He stepped away as though she were the devil incarnate, and his voice was cold. “Very well … we understand one another. I wonder at your persistence in wishing to remain under my roof, Miss White!”

“Do you? And I wonder how such a man as William Wimborne can be brother to someone like …
you!
”

He laughed without mirth. “You are out there, sweetings, if that is who you really want. He
don’t find your beauty … to his particular taste!”

Myriah’s eyes snapped. “Do you think not, my lord? And I think that if I
wanted him, make no mistake …
he would be mine!
As it happens, I don’t wish to be a part of
your
family!”

“Tart!” growled his lordship, enraged beyond reason. “How dare you speak so to me? Who the devil do you think you are?”

The word
tart
slapped her like ice water in the face. Myriah fought the tears starting in her eyes. She fought the urge to advise him just
who
she really was. She controlled her trembling hands, but her eyes reproached.

However, she chose that moment to tell him, “I could tell you how contemptible your behavior is, but I shall not. You are not
worth
the effort! However, you have referred to me with a term normally reserved for women more deserving it. I did no more than yourself, and were I a man … I would meet you for the insult!”

She hesitated and then added, “Did you know that in spite of your boorish manners, your cavalier treatment, your inhospitality … somehow I found something in
you to like …” And on a sudden sob Myriah rushed past him and up the stairs as she headed for her room.

* * *

Kit Wimborne watched her go and felt as though he were being eaten alive by
parasitic insects. He was everything she said he was—a cad, a boor, inhospitable …

For the first time in his life, he was not behaving rationally … and he felt himself the lowest of fiends. She was right; he had made love to her with wild abandonment … and she had received him wantonly but oh so sweetly.

His anger had been fueled by her remarks, by her coldness, and by her off-handed behavior, but he had to admit to himself she had behaved only as rudely as he had. His heart berated his mind, and his mind tried to make excuses—but those excuses didn’t feel right.

He left the house and started for the stables—a ride was what he needed to clear his head!

~ Seven ~

SIR ROLAND HAD AGREED with Lord Whitney that under the circumstances no announcement of his engagement to Myriah could be made at the ball, since she was not to be found.

In deep thought he had returned to his own lodgings, determined to make the marriage come about and wondering where the deuce she had loped off to. He had been ecstatic when he had been caught kissing Myriah and her father declared them engaged. It was what he needed to stave off the collectors.

Her father had set out the next morning for Guildford, answering his inquiry with only a short missive saying he was certain she had gone to her grandfather.

However, a recent inquiry he had discreetly made elicited the information that Myriah was not at Guildford. This was more than troubling, and he made up his mind to visit Lord Whitney at Guildford to discover where the wayward Myriah had gone. He sneered and said softly to himself, “You will have a shorter leash when you are mine, Myriah.”

As Sir Roland approached the Guildford grounds, he saw someone deep in conversation with the gatekeeper. There was an envelope in his hands. Roland’s sharp eyes flickered, for he recognized Myriah’s groom, and a sixth sense urged him to halt his horse and watch from an obscure position, unseen by the groom.

Moments after Tabson had turned his horse around, Sir Roland inquired after Lady Myriah and was told by the gatekeeper that she had not yet arrived.

It didn’t take him long to hurry after Tabson. He kept the curves of the road between him and his quarry, certain the groom would lead him to Myriah. However, it appeared Tabson’s horse grew edgy having someone at its back, for suddenly Tabby took to the woods, making it impossible for Roland to follow. “
Rye—why on earth would you go to Rye?” Sir Roland asked the fingerpost at the fork in the road, wondering what lay down the other road.

* * *

Myriah sobbed into the bedcovers and stopped on a sniff as she heard the front doors crash. This served
to
renew her anguish, and it would have lasted a considerable time had not Billy laid a hand upon
her
shoulder.

She jumped, startled by the touch, by the fact that he was in her room, and ashamed to be caught in such a state.

She stared at him a moment as he stood over her, looking so grave and unhappy in his brocade robe, his arm still in the sling she had fashioned for him earlier.

His hair was a mass of gold waves and in much disarray around his adorable face.
“Myriah …”

“Oh, Billy …” She wiped the tears away with her hand, searching for her handkerchief, which
he
found in his pocket and gave to her. “You … you should not be up.”

“Never mind me, Myriah. Look, you and Kit had a row—I know because although I couldn’t hear all of it, I heard enough. He … well … he shouldn’t have said what he did, Myriah! I don’t
know
what has gotten into him … or why he would call
you … a … what he called you
.”
Billy shook his head. “But … he didn’t mean it.”

“He meant it, and it doesn’t matter.” Myriah sniffed, feeling the pout form on her lips and biting them to stop it.

Billy sat beside her on the bed. “You don’t understand—it has to be all the havey-cavey business he has to deal with.” He sighed heavily. “He has all this … business to deal with at Wimborne and—”

“I am not dim-witted. I know you didn’t get a bullet playing with dolls, Billy. Everyone knows the Romney Marsh area is buzzing with smugglers. I expect you were out on a lark.”

“’Twas no lark. Look, maybe I’m wrong to trust you like this, but I mustn’t let you go on thinking of m’brother as you do. He has reason to worry over what may seem naught to you.”

“Billy—don’t make excuses for—”

“No.” He cut her off. “Not excuses. He just can’t take any chances. Too many people depend on his meeting with success. You pose a threat because you are an unknown … and he don’t quite swallow your story. Don’t know why … but there it is.” He smiled as he paused and then sighed. “Kit is really suspicious of you. Odd, but there it is. He had no cause to call you …” He coughed into his fist. “But, Myriah … you must have said something devilishly biting for him to have uttered such a thing. Never mind all that now. He’ll come round … see if he don’t.”

However, Myriah noted that Billy’s breath was coming out in short, hard gasps. She frowned at him. His color had gone from pink to white, and beads of perspiration shimmered under the gold fringe of hair covering his forehead.

She put her hand out and touched his cheek. Kit Wimborne was for the moment forgotten in her concern for Billy. “Forget it, pup. As you say, we will make it up. What does matter is that your head feels frightfully hot.” And then a glance at his arm drew an involuntary cry. “Oh, Billy … you have bled again. Come on, we must get you back to your bed.”

She led him protesting to his room, saw him settled against his pillows, but had a very difficult time getting him to lie down and sleep.

She wagged a finger at him as she hurried off to the kitchen, saying she would return with broth.

“Oh God!” exclaimed the patient to her retreating form. “Why must you ply me with every disgusting liquid known to man?”

True to her word, she brought and plied him with the wholesome brew before bidding him sleep. He did in fact, lay back contentedly and close his eyes, saying as she left his room, “She-devil …”

Myriah went to her room and made her way to her balcony. She stood leaning into the iron railing. She wanted to mount her horse, Silkie, and ride, but Sir Roland was lurking about somewhere—Tabson had thought he was in Rye. She couldn’t take any chances.

Where was she in her life? In love with a penniless aristocrat who was no doubt
a smuggler
! And if that wasn’t enough—he didn’t love her back.

And what was worse, Christopher Wimborne thought her a
tart!
And she was, for him, no more than a tart—and wanting to be again …

Romney Marsh conjured up all sorts of pictures in her mind. It was where French brandy and silks were smuggled into the country free of duty charges. No doubt, Kit saw himself as a Robin Hood, helping the locals earn a living. Ha!

Smuggling had for centuries flourished in both Kent and Sussex, but now with the Napoleonic Wars, new efforts had been instituted to deter and eliminate the wide-scale smuggling along the English coast. No easy task, for an official coastguard had not yet been set up, and villagers were closed-mouthed when the excisemen came to call.

Land smugglers were allowed to pass with their cargo, taking their wares to taverns where not only their goods were housed but also many of the ‘gentlemen’, as the smugglers were called. Farmers allowed them passage and in return received a length of silk for their ladies and a bottle of brandy for themselves.

However, with the war in progress, the aristocracy no longer winked at the activity since the French were the enemy of the Crown and these goods were being bought from the French with English guineas. Napoleon, on the other hand, was hungry for British gold and looked the other way when an English smuggler came across the Channel, and so the ‘gentlemen’ continued their dangerous activities.

Myriah thought about all this and worried out loud, “Oh, faith … whatever will happen?”

* * *

The sun was on its way down when Myriah awoke in her chair from a short doze. Her lids fluttered open over her eyes, and she stood and stretched. Time to look in on Billy!

She crossed the hall and eyed him from the doorway as she went in. Something was wrong …

“Billy?”

He didn’t answer. She went to him and saw that he was in a fitful sleep and that his face was moist with perspiration.

“Good God … what has happened? Oh no!” Myriah cried, much upset. She rushed about the room, tipped some water into a washbasin, mixed rosewater with it, and brought it to the bed, where she began wiping down his face and chest, clucking all the while.

Billy opened his eyes and made a feeble attempt to smile. “Ah, the she-devil is back …”

“Yes, and though I am leaving for just a moment, I will be back presently with yet another horrid thing for you to drink.”

He pulled a face but didn’t answer, and that worried Myriah even more as she hurried to the kitchen and prepared a tisane.

Another few moments and she had it to his lips. “Come on pup, drink this …”

“Perhaps he should just rest,” suggested a deep, authoritative voice from the doorway.

Myriah turned and grimaced. “Don’t worry, my lord—’tis not poison.”

He moved in on her and gave her a dark look as he touched her arm. “Don’t be a fool. That is not what I meant.”