Taming the Barbarian (11 page)

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Fleur scoffed, surprised at the maid’s unfounded fears. “You’re the wife I’ve never had.”

Tessa chuckled, relaxing visibly. She was plump and comely, with a ready laugh and a kind soul. “Well,” she said, setting the shoes on the floor in the wardrobe before straightening. “Better you than some man what beats me morning and—” She stopped, gasping suddenly. “My lady! Your frock!”

“Oh.” Fleurette felt immediately embarrassed, remembering the scene she’d made over the stallion. “I had a bit of a mishap is all. I imagine the garment is beyond repair. ‘Tis good it was just my work—”

“No,” Tessa breathed. “Not that gown. This one.

Fleurette turned rapidly toward her, premonition tightening her throat.

And when Tessa drew out the delicate garment, she saw that it had been slashed from the bodice to the hem. A hole began just where it would have rested on her left breast and continued down in a shuddering line toward the floor.

“However did this happen?” Tessa asked, but Fleur could not talk. She was frozen in time and place, shuddering on the ragged edge of terror.

“My lady?” Tessa said, her voice shaky. “Are you well?”

“Oh. Yes. Of course.” Fleur forced herself to speak, to breathe, to act as if all were well, for she’d learned that trick long ago. “I’m fine. ‘Tis just a garment, after all.”

“But who would have done such a thing to your lovely frock? And why?”

Who? The answer slipped into Fleur’s mind like a dark dream, but she dare not loose the name. “I’m sure ‘twas not apurpose,” she said instead.

“But—”

“It must have happened during laundering.”

“But it has not been washed since last you used it, my lady. Remember? It has been some years now. You wore it to Lady Gravier’s soirée though Lord Glendowne did not much care for—”

“Yes, I remember,” Fleur interrupted. Her voice sounded harsh, but she could not quite seem to soothe it. She should have thrown the gown out long ago. Should have burned it with a host of old memories. “It has been a long day, Tessa. Be rid of the gown, please. Both of them, in fact.”

“But—”

“Tessa!” Her voice shuddered with sudden exhaustion. She forced a wavering smile. “Please.”

“Yes, my lady. My apologies. I shall hurry them down to the cook fire and come back straightaway to help you with your hair.”

Fleurette pulled on her night rail and carefully kept her hands from shaking. “You needn’t return this night. I can see to my hair myself.”

“Are you certain?” The maid’s pretty face wrinkled with worry. “Would you—”

“Leave me,” Fleur insisted, then shut her eyes, feeling immediately guilty. “My apologies,” she said. “Please forgive me. I simply need to sleep this night.”

“Yes, my lady,” said the maid, who gathered both gowns to her plump chest and hustled from the room.

The night was long and dark. Even in the sanctuary of Fleur’s private chambers, it seemed as though she were not alone. As if there was another there, watching her, reading her very thoughts, spying on her.

A noise rustled in the darkness. Jerking upright, Fleurette held her breath, listening, but all was quiet. Still, someone had breached the security of her chambers. Someone had crept into her wardrobe and ripped her gown. Why? The questions plagued her, keeping her awake and restless. Thus, long past midnight, she gathered her childhood coverlet and crept down the stairs to the quiet solace of her gardens. Peace lay quiet there, and the Celt, ever diligent, watched over her as she drifted into dreams.

It was sometime before dawn when she awoke. Feeling strangely limber and rested, she allowed herself a brief glance at the Celt before she threw herself into her work.

It rained for the next two days, keeping Fleur irritably confined and drawing down her mood. She was accustomed to riding astride, to strolling through her gardens and feeling the peace of fresh air against her face.

By the time she left Eddings Carriages that Wednesday, her head felt tight. There was an ache in her lower back, and her eyes were gritty.

The street outside was dark and drear. Murky puddles dotted the dirt and splashed onto her skirts. Cursing silently, Fleur edged the worst of the mud and headed for her waiting carriage.

“My lady.”

She nearly screamed as she swung toward the sound of the voice.

Kendrick stood watching her. She swallowed and raised her chin, careful to show no fear. Had he been the one to creep into her bedchamber? And if so why? What did he want from her?

“Forgive me. I did not mean to frighten you,” he said, but her heart was already racing. The street was empty but for her own carriage. “I fear I may have given you the wrong impression when last we met.”

“What do you want?” she asked, and was pleased to find that despite her foolish fear, her voice was steady. The rain was spitting from the north, and her nerves were rattling, but she stood her ground.

“I only want the truth,” he said, and spread his hands with placatory earnestness between them as he took a step toward her.

“Oh?” She glanced toward her carriage. Horace was most likely huddled inside as she had told him to do when the weather was inclement. She would not be so foolish as to make that suggestion again. “And is that why you invaded the privacy of my home, Mr. Kendrick?” It was a desperate guess. But she felt desperate. Desperate and alone and afraid. “To learn the truth?”

“I did not say that I wished to
learn
the truth, my lady. Oh no. I know the truth,” he said, and took a step toward her. “I merely wish to hear it from your pretty lips.”

She watched him approach and felt her breath come faster. “Then why were you in my bedchamber?”

“Your bedchamber,” he said, and laughed. “My dear lady, do you suppose that someone else knows the truth? That someone else longs to hear you repent?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. What do you want?” She tried to keep her tone businesslike, but her heart was hammering against her ribs, and her throat felt tight with terror.

“I’d hear the facts about my dear cousin’s death,” he said, and took another step toward her.

It took all her floundering courage to remain as she was.

“How do I even know he was your cousin? He never mentioned you.”

“Strange. He never mentioned you either,” he said, and laughed. “But then we were distant relatives, in terms of geography as well as lineage. Surely you know how it can be, my lady; you wish to be close to someone, to form a relationship filled with respect and caring, but you cannot seem to make it so, no matter how hard you try.”

How much did he know? And how much did he guess? Her hands felt shaky, but she clasped them together, careful not to let him see. Fear had never done her a whit of good. Not in all her life. “Fascinating as this topic is, Mr. Kendrick, it is quite late, and I must be returning home.”

He smiled. The expression looked grim in the settling darkness. “You are a strong woman aren’t you, Lady Glendowne?”

Her knees felt wooden, her muscles frozen. “If you’ll excuse me,” she said, and turned away.

“It’s said you’ve made yourself quite a fortune since your husband’s death.”

She turned stiffly back. Her heart was still thumping nervously, but anger was beginning to brew slow and steady in her tightly wound system. “I’ve been fortunate,” she said.

“I think you are being modest, my lady. I hear it is your own clever managing that has made your businesses such a smashing success.”

“I am flattered. But I fear I cannot take credit for my good fortune. God and London have been good to me, as I am certain you know. Now I really must be leaving,” she said, and turned away, but he grabbed her arm.

“I know what you are,” he rasped.

“Leave me be.”

“Some think it improper for a lady to spend her days in the company of men.”

She tried to jerk her arm away, but he tightened his grip.

“What do you do with all those clever carriage blokes?” he gritted.

“Release me.”

“Not until—”

“Who goes there?”

“Horace,” Fleur yelled, but her voice was no longer steady.

“My lady!” Her driver’s footsteps rushed through the darkness.

Kendrick released her arm. Backing cautiously away, he gave her a blistering smile. “Some other time then, my lady,” he said, and disappeared into the night.

“My apologies,” Horace rasped, breathless from worry or haste. “God’s truth, I should be horsewhipped. I was blanketing Lily and didn’t see you come out. What happened? Are you well?” He turned his head to scowl into the swirling raindrops, fists tightening belligerently. “Shall I go after him?”

“No!” she said, then, realizing the panic in her tone, closed her eyes and soothed herself. “No. Let him go. I am unhurt.”

He glared into the distance, his brows beetled beneath his top hat. “Who—”

” ‘Tis nothing to trouble yourself about,” she said. “Please, I just want to return to Briarburn.”

“Of course, my lady,” he said, and hustling to the carriage, lifted down the step, and handed her in.

Fleurette drew the blanket over her lap and gave him a smile as she tucked it under her legs, but as soon as the door closed, she dropped her head against the upholstered cushion behind her and drew a shuddering breath.

God almighty! What did Kendrick want with her? Where had he come from? She had been led to believe that Thomas had no living relatives. But a distant cousin or two would hardly have been his greatest secret. She closed her eyes to the thought. She had always believed she would have a marriage such as her parents’. Indeed, she had been determined to make that happen. Kendrick was right; she knew what it was like to try to form a good relationship and be stymied at every turn.

Despite Thomas’s fine attributes, he had often seemed more fond of his clubs than of her. At least that was certainly the case after the courtship ended and the marriage began. Before that, during the lovely evenings of dancing and dining, he had found no fault with her. He was unconcerned that she was not as curvaceous as some. Indeed, he had often said she was the very picture of perfection.

Fleurette swallowed the lump in her throat and attempted to turn her mind aside, but it was not to be. Her thoughts were on a runaway course, spurred on by Kendrick’s terrifying appearances and her own sleepless imaginings.

Things had seemed so right for some time. Indeed, she had believed she would be happy with Thomas. Lonely no more. They would have a family. Children’s laughter would echo in their home. But children never came. And perhaps that had been the crux of their problems. Perhaps that was why he had found fault with her. Every man wanted sons.

Age-worn thoughts tormented her. Outside her phaeton’s bevel-paned windows, London rolled past, dark and dank.

There were times when she considered buying a house in the city, but she was glad now to leave that place behind and return to her own bucolic estate. The carriage bumped to a halt. The garden called to her, but the rain had begun in earnest again. Mr. Smith appeared with a lantern and an umbrella. Stepping beneath the shelter he offered, she entered her house, wished him good night, then hurried up to her private chambers, where she changed quickly.

Climbing into bed, she turned her back to her looming wardrobe, refusing to imagine someone pawing through her dresses, touching her things. Closing her eyes, she willed herself to sleep. Henri pressed close to her side, but dark dreams still haunted her.

She was riding alone in the meadow. The sky was clear and crystalline blue. From a verdant hillside, an orchestra played a haunting waltz. The musicians wore knee breeches and sparkling white stockings. Their full, formal wigs were just as pristine.

Smiling, she pressed
Fille
nearer, but when the exuberant maestro turned toward her, she saw that he had no face.

He stared at her from empty eye sockets.

She jerked her mount away. The mare stumbled and fell, screaming as they tumbled downward. And suddenly bony hands were reaching for them, snatching them down into the fetid depths of the earth.

Fleur awoke with a start, her heart pounding.

Beside her, Henri whimpered and leapt to the floor.

The night was silent, the room dark and close. She couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. Rolling hastily out of bed, she stumbled to the window. It opened grudgingly beneath her sweaty hands.

Fleur steadied herself on the sill, closed her eyes, and drew a deep breath.

It was then that she smelled the smoke. She snapped to full consciousness, sweeping the darkness with her gaze. A horse shrieked from the stable.

She was bolting for the door even as she screamed for help. She stumbled on the steps, nearly fell, then caught the railing and lurched downstairs.

“My lady! What is it?” Smith rasped from the darkness.

“Fire!” she breathed.

“Nay!” Someone hissed, but she was already outside, already racing toward the barn.

The latch stuck beneath her fumbling fingers, then swung open. Flames licked a pile of fodder near the door and was reaching hungry fingers up a supporting beam.

Fleur leapt toward the nearest stall. Swinging the door wide, she jolted toward the next. Across the aisle, Horace was freeing the others. Someone yelled from outside. At the end of the stable,
Fille
circled her stall in a panic. Fleur jumped toward her. “Get the others! The others!” she screamed, and threw open
Fille’s
door.

The mare reared, thrashing the air with frantic hooves. Fleur flattened herself against the wall, then scooted around the side. “Out! Get out!” she yelled, waving wildly. But the mare wheeled back toward her, knocking her aside. She crashed against the wall.

In the aisle, a yearling skittered wildly from its stall, lost its footing, and skidded on its side for several yards before scrambling to its feet and lurching into the mob at the far end of the barn. The horses milled frantically there, loose and crazed as they stared at the crackling flames.

Fleur screamed at them, her voice melding with the sound of thrashing hooves and her servants’ harsh cries.