Patricia Rice (43 page)

"Lady Alexandra drowned with her mother a long time ago. She's dead, Pace. She has been for years. No one mourned her, no one cared. Tell them to go in peace, Pace, and leave us the same."

Hot tears burned his eyes. Pace wanted to weep for the child he remembered, the beautiful sprite who sang and cradled her doll and talked of angels and left brilliant blue feathers in the hands of a miserably abused boy. If anybody deserved love, an angelic child like that deserved it, with the complete worship and adoration of every human being who ever met her. The blunt statement that no one cared crippled him with anguish.

She was his heart, the only reason he still lived, and she sat here now, telling him nobody loved her. He didn't care how she phrased the words, the meaning was the same. Lady Alexandra or Dora Smythe, she had left England unloved and unmourned. He held those arrogant men below responsible for that. Fury welled inside him, but it was a strangely cold fury.

Pace crossed the room and kissed Dora's forehead. He carried the smile she gave him all the way down the stairs with him. A man would fight and die for a smile like that. He was ready to fight when he walked into that parlor.

"My wife informs me that Lady Alexandra drowned with her mother, gentlemen. I don't know about you, but I'll not question the lady's words. I'm sorry for your loss, but it appears to me that anyone who takes fourteen years to come looking for a missing child can't have any particular concern for her welfare. Now, if you will excuse me, I am a busy man."

With a sense of satisfaction at the fury in his visitors' faces, Pace turned and walked away, leaving them to find their own way out.

He shook with fury and some other emotion he didn't care to name by the time he reached the stable yard. He felt as if he'd just walked through the lion's den unscathed. He wanted to rage and weep and then run upstairs to take Dora in his arms and never let her go. He was clearly losing control, and he couldn’t let Dora see him like this.

Pace waited until he saw the carriage leave, then returned to his field chores. He needed the physical labor to work off his raging emotions. He'd discovered that much in working these fields: the work made him too tired for indulging in tantrums. By the time they had the crop planted, he hadn't any fight left in him. He just wanted to go home to Dora, a hot bath, and a few explanations.

Josie was the one who greeted him, however. She halted him before he reached the hall. "Who were those men?" she demanded. "What did they want? Dora won't tell me anything. She's acting like they never existed."

Sweat dripped down his forehead and probably streaked through the dirt encrusting his face. Pace rubbed a weary hand across his brow and considered shoving her out of the way. But despite popular opinion, he'd been raised a gentleman. "If Dora prefers not to mention their existence, then it behooves us to do the same. Get out of my way, Josie. I need a bath."

She stamped her foot but wisely moved aside when he reached a filthy hand out to catch her arm. "The first interesting men in this county in a coon's age, and you won't even tell me who they are! That's extremely unfair of you, Pace Nicholls!" she called after him.

Pace ignored her and continued up the stairs.

Dora had a bath waiting for him. She poured the last pail of hot water into the tub when he walked in. The rapport between them was so complete for this one brief moment, that Pace felt as if he didn't need to say a word. He unfastened his shirt with weary gratitude.

She didn't stay to help him, but then, he hadn't expected her to. He would have liked it, but he'd not yet introduced her to the pleasures of sensuality. She was still his modest little Quaker. He found it too incredible to believe that she might be a Lady Alexandra. Earl's daughters didn't fix baths for filthy bankrupt farmer husbands.

But he knew Sir What's-his-face and the bloody viscount would return. They didn't look like the kind of men who gave up easily. They also didn't look like the kind of men who would come traipsing all the way to the wilds of Kentucky looking for a long-lost female member of the family either. They wanted something, and that something had to be mighty important for them to come after it personally.

Josie sulked through supper, but Dora chattered on inconsequential matters throughout the evening. Pace waited until both women had plenty of time to settle the children in their beds before going upstairs himself. He didn't know where Josie was, but he found Dora sitting beside Frances's cradle, stroking a hand-colored illustration of angels in her Bible.

He checked to see that the infant slept, then he took the Bible from her hands and set it aside. Lifting her from the chair, he carried her to the bed, where he settled her on his lap and in his arms as he leaned against the headboard.

"They'll come back, Dora," he informed her.

She sat stiffly for a moment, then gave up and leaned against his shoulder. "She really is dead, Pace. What can they do about it?"

He hugged her close, enjoying the subtle lavender scent of the sachet she kept with her gowns. Her silken curls brushed against his jaw, and he leaned his cheek against them. "I don't know until you tell me the story, angel. I should imagine earls have a lot of power in their own country, but it's a different story over here. That's why your brother brought along his fancified lawyer."

"He's not my brother," she said with the first trace of hostility she had shown. "He's my half brother. I would be happy to never see his face again."

Pace felt as if he trod on broken glass. He couldn’t be too cautious. "I can't say that I was enamored of his looks either. Why do you think he's looking for you after all these years?"

He didn't ask why she hadn't told him she was an earl's daughter. He didn't ask any of a half-dozen questions clamoring in his mind. He let her lead the way.

"Because he wants something," she answered without hesitation. "I doubt the years have changed him for the better."

That so closely concurred with his own conclusions that Pace couldn't argue. Carefully, he prodded, "How much do you remember? You were only a little girl when you left England."

Her fingers curled into his shirt beneath his open waistcoat. "I had nightmares for years. I remember the nightmares." She hesitated, then buried her face deeper into his shoulder, hHer words. "It's like remembering the scenes from a book you read long ago. I remember. I just don't know if I remember them right. I can feel them better than think them. They don't feel good, Pace."

He rubbed his hand up and down her spine, massaging her shoulders. She was so slightly made. He could wrap his arm completely around her and still have room to brush her breast. She didn't flinch, and he stroked her gently, not pressing for more. He knew he wouldn't do anything about his arousal tonight.

"Children are often unhappy, Dora. Could you have just been lonely?"

She shook her head vigorously. "Oh, no. I remember much more than that. He killed Mama. He beat her and beat her until she ran away, and then he killed her. And I think he killed the man too. They didn't come back for me. No one came for me, except Papa John."

She seemed to have retreated to her childhood, to that terrible day she must be remembering. Her words were like needles in Pace’s heart. He didn't want to understand, but he was afraid he understood all too well. He also thought he saw why Dora flinched every time he raised his hand near her.

"Who killed her? Gareth?"

"The earl," she stated flatly. "My father. I won't go back there, Pace. I'll die before I'll ever go back there. Alexandra
is
dead. Just tell them that."

"I did, and I will, but if there's murder involved, the authorities need to know about it. They may want you as a witness. You may be a danger to them. I think you'd better stick close to the house until they're gone."

She nodded and relaxed in his arms.

A moment later she arched against his hand and leaned back so she could see his eyes. The blue of hers had darkened to the purple of passion, and Pace felt as if he'd forgotten how to breathe when she whispered, "Will you make love to me tonight, Pace?"

Chapter 33

O lyric Love, half-angel and half-bird

And all a wonder and a wild desire.

~ Robert Browning,
The Ring and the Book

The thickness in Pace's groin hardened. Dora sat sideways in his lap, and her thigh rubbed against him, taunting him. She had her head tilted back so he could lean over and ravish her slender throat at will. The position pushed her breasts temptingly against the faded cotton of her gown. She hadn't covered herself completely after feeding Frances, and he could see the valley shadowed between her breasts. She was like a willow wand in his embrace, light and bendable at his choosing. A touch there—Pace's hand hovered near her breast—a kiss, here—his lips lowered to the corner of her mouth...

Oh, God, he wanted it so badly. He could taste her. He did taste her. He allowed himself the one brief sweet sample of her lips. Then he jerked away, closing his eyes and holding himself stiff against temptation. It wasn't just his staff throbbing. Every inch of his skin was on fire to touch her. He ached inside his teeth—no doubt because he clenched them so hard. He dug his fingers into the thickness of her skirt and petticoat and held on tight until he had some measure of control.

Then he opened his eyes and found her staring up at him in confusion and embarrassment, and he wanted to crawl under a rock and burrow his head into the dirt. "No," he said, succinctly, because it was the only word he could get out just yet.

Dora tried to pull away, but Pace wouldn't let her go.

He wondered how much control it would take to keep his hands off her if he undressed her. He wanted to at least see her, to admire the ripe swells of her breasts, the luxurious curve of her waist. More control than he possessed, he realized when he couldn't take his fascinated gaze from the shadowed valley behind her bodice.

"What's wrong with me?" she whispered painfully.

"Nothing. You're perfect." He ground that much out from between clenched teeth. He didn't think he could do much more. He wasn't even sure he could concentrate long enough to voice explanation. He was in agony. But he didn't want to let her go.

Perfect little eyebrows arched. "And you're not? Are you telling me you've been lying with loose women and have caught—"

Pace choked on a laugh and covered her mouth with his hand. "Don't, Dora. I'll rupture myself if I laugh right now." He moved her to the bed's edge, not so far that he couldn't reach her, but away from the center of his desire. He didn't think she was experienced enough yet to notice the extent of his arousal, but Dora was a quick student. It wouldn't take long.

"Then, why?"

She wouldn't let it go. Pace sighed and released her long enough to shove his hair back out of his face. "I don't think we should take any chances on making babies right now," he finally found the words to admit.

She digested that piece of information. Her lashes were a light brown and her skin was so white that it held him in fascination, but a flush of pink still colored her cheeks. Pace didn't know if it was from embarrassment or the same desire that had him hot and panting. He just knew she was beautiful and that she didn't buy his story for an instant.

"You didn't worry about making babies when you should have," she spoke her thoughts out loud. "I've told you it's not easy to make one now. You wanted to a few weeks ago. Something's changed." She shot him a direct look. "Gareth changed it."

He ground his fingers through his hair. "Look at him, Dora! He was wearing more wealth on his back than I'll make in this next year. You're a lady, dammit! How can I keep asking you to do the drudgery of this house, drudgery my own mother won't do, and then compound the insult by filling you with babies we can't afford year after year? I'll not do that to you, Dora."

"I see." She slipped away from his side, crossing the room to blow out the lamp.

He could see her undressing in the moonlight from the window. She didn't wear corsets under her gray gowns. Once she hung up the gown and petticoat, she wore only a short chemise, drawers, and stockings. He wanted them to be silk for her. Someone like Dora deserved only silk against her skin.

Pace sighed with gratification as she stripped off her remaining garments, and he could watch her silhouette move unfettered to the drawer where she kept her night shifts. She was rounder than he remembered, more womanly and less like a slender reed of a girl. He wondered if it were possible to die of want.

She climbed in beside him and asked, "Aren't you going to take your clothes off?"

"I don't think so," he decided, staring at the opposite wall through glazed eyes. "Nobility doesn't come easily to me."

She lay silent for a minute before replying, "Gareth was born to it, but you have more nobility in your little finger than he'll ever know in his entire life."

Pace swung his legs over the side of the bed and stripped off the sadly rumpled coat he'd worn to dinner. "Don't make a hero of me, Dora. I'll fall flat on my face if you try."