The Wild One (6 page)

To think that Charles had grown up here ...
had touched these same stones and strode beneath these very
windows, had stood, perhaps hundreds of times, in this exact
spot....

A feeling of awe gripped her, building and
building until everything she'd experienced these past twelve
months — indeed, these past few hours — was swallowed up by the
sudden, giddy relief that she and Charlotte were finally here, safe
at last, in this home that had been Charles's. Here, in this
strange castle, in this strange land, Juliet had found familiarity.
A little bit of Charles. She could almost picture his spirit
looking down on them from somewhere above, smiling and finally at
peace, content that his new family would never again want for
anything. The image alone pulled at her heartstrings, made her eyes
shimmer with unshed tears. Not since his death had Charles felt so
very close....

Her lower lip was threatening to tremble
again. Catching it between her teeth, Juliet peeled back
Charlotte's blankets and lifted the baby high above her head so
that she could see this magnificent home in which her father had
been born, in which he had lived.

"Look, Charlotte!" Juliet held the baby
close and pointed it at one of the suits of armor. "I'll bet your
papa played with that thing when he was just a little boy!"

Charlotte, however, was more fascinated by
the glittering chandelier above her head. Juliet, half-laughing,
half-weeping, touched her nose to her daughter's and swung her
high. Charlotte squealed with delight, kicking both legs now and
punching at the air.
Oh, Charles ... are you here? Are you here
with me and your daughter?

Caught up as she was in a giddy sense of
closeness to her beloved, of relief at finally reaching her
destination, Juliet didn't hear the distant footfalls. The steady,
relentless beat of shoes against stone.

Suddenly a door opened and she froze, the
laughter dying in her throat, the baby still high over her
head.

Slowly, she lowered her daughter and held
her protectively close to her breast.

Thirty feet away he stood, tall and elegant
in a frock of black velvet, a ruby winking from the folds of his
lacy cravat, his breeches molded to long, muscled thighs that
tapered to silk-clad calves and shoes from which diamonds winked in
each polished silver buckle. His eyes were dark and smoldering. His
hair was as black as the night outside. His nose was narrow, his
jaw set, his cheekbones planed, stark, severe. His was a hard face.
An uncompromising face. He looked at Juliet with that ruthless
black stare, looked at her muddy, blood-drenched skirts, and
without batting an eye, gave a bow, coming up with an elegant sweep
of his arm that made the lace at his wrist dance in the resultant
breeze.

"I am Lucien, Duke of Blackheath. Gareth
tells me you knew Charles." The obsidian gaze flickered briefly to
the baby. "
Intimately
."

Juliet, taken aback, dipped in what curtsy
she could manage with Charlotte in her arms. Then she raised her
chin and, with more courage than she felt, met that chilling black
gaze. "Yes. We were supposed to have married."

He indicated the door through which he had
come. "Then won't you join me in the library? I am sure we have
much to discuss."

His voice was smooth, rich, cultured. The
words gave away no emotion, no hint whatsoever of his temper,
thoughts, or feelings. They were also, Juliet realized, not a
question but an order.

Warning bells went off inside her head.

"Yes, of course," she murmured, and,
painfully aware of her shocking, disheveled state, walked with as
much dignity as she could muster toward the door.

And as she moved through the great
corridors, liveried servants standing stiffly at attention with
eyes staring straight ahead as though bloodstained young women were
quite an ordinary sight at Blackheath Castle, a single, urgent
phrase kept repeating itself over and over in her mind:

Don't die, Lord Gareth. Please don't die. I
think I'm going to need you.

Chapter 5

"Really, Your Grace, I should like to change
my clothes before we have this — this discussion."

He was striding several paces in front of
her now, broad-shouldered and tall, carrying himself like a
general. Sconces lit the long, narrow corridors, and as he passed
each one, they flickered and bowed as though in homage to him,
their dim light gleaming in his hair.

"That will not be necessary," he said
without so much as looking over his shoulder.

Juliet hurried to keep pace with him. "I am
not presentable!"

"You are presentable enough for me. Come. I
haven't all night."

"But —"

"There is an alcove just ahead, with a bowl
and pitcher. Wash if you so desire, but be quick about it. This
night shall be long enough without having to wait for you to
indulge in the sort of silly nonsense in which females must engage
before they dare show their faces to anyone beyond their pet
lapdogs. I am not a patient man, Miss Paige."

He indicated the alcove, shielded by a rich
drape of dark red velvet, and, without slowing his stride, pushed
open a set of heavy doors several paces beyond. "The library. I
shall expect you within five minutes. Do not keep me waiting."

The heavy doors shut behind him.

Dear God above.
What arrogance! What
rudeness! If the Duke of Blackheath was your average English
aristocrat, it was no wonder America had risen up against the
motherland! Bristling, Juliet yanked aside the curtain, splashed
some water in the bowl, and scrubbed poor Lord Gareth's blood from
her hands, her fingernails, the little creases in her knuckles
while Charlotte watched her from the chair set in the corner.

And what of Lord Gareth? The duke had not
volunteered so much as a word about how
he
was faring!

Without further deliberation, she picked
Charlotte up and, pulling down her bodice and chemise, put her to
breast. The baby suckled greedily. Juliet cupped the downy gold
head in her hand and eyed the curtain behind her. Lord only knew
when she would have gotten the chance to feed her, given the Duke's
intolerance for the "silly nonsense" of females!

She emerged some ten minutes later. By then
her anger had cooled, and apprehension was quickly filling its
place. She forced her chin up, straightened her back, and, feigning
a courage she didn't feel, pushed open the doors to the
library.

There he was, leaning with casual insolence
against a magnificent mantle of carved Italian marble, a glass of
brandy dangling from his fingertips. He was a dark angel, some
brooding god of judgment, and as he turned his black, smoldering
gaze upon her, Juliet felt her courage falter.

"Sit down."

"I ... don't wish to soil the
furniture."

"The furniture is replaceable."

Expensive, too,
Juliet thought.
Arranged on a priceless Oriental rug were several chairs
upholstered in rich plum velvet, a claw-footed sofa stuffed with
horsehair and finished in an elegant brocade, a French loveseat on
spindly legs, and, nearest the fire, a very large, very masculine
chair of carved oak with a seat and back of leather.

His
throne, obviously.

Juliet headed for it. Not because she wished
to be difficult, not because she wished to challenge his rank, but
because leather was easily cleaned, and her sense of Yankee
frugality could not let her destroy one of the other expensive
pieces by sitting on it with her bloodstained skirts. Replaceable
or not, she was not one for waste.

"Do you mind?" she asked, with civil
politeness.

He shrugged and waved his glass, never
leaving his place at the mantle. "Suit yourself."

With Charlotte in her arms, Juliet sank into
the deep, butter-soft leather, painfully conscious of her
appearance. How carefully she had chosen her clothes that morning,
hoping to make the right impression on this man whose help and
charity she had crossed an ocean to seek. Now, her apple-green
skirts, parted to reveal a petticoat lovingly embroidered with
little roses, were dark with blood. Chalky mud caked her boots, her
stomacher was soaked, and blood smeared the front of the smart,
pine-green jacket she had chosen to match the ivy that twined
itself along the gown's hem. She looked a mess.

But the duke, true to his word, did not seem
to care. He wasted no time in getting the discussion underway,
sparing no thought for Juliet's feelings, her pride, or the fact
that she was a guest in his house and deserved more kindness than
he seemed capable of giving. She had no sooner sat down than he
asked her, bluntly, how she'd met Charles. She told him the truth.
His scowl, and the impatient look in his eyes as she related the
tale, made her want to squirm with discomfort. This was not going
well. Not going well at all.

"So. You first saw Charles whilst he was
drilling his troops on Boston Common. Love at first sight, you
say." He gave a bitter little laugh. "You'll understand if I find
the notion rather difficult to swallow."

"Charles was a very handsome man."

"Charles was from one of England's oldest,
most aristocratic families and would not have married beneath him.
As a second son, he could not afford to. What is it about you,
then, that commended you to him?"

"I find your question insulting, Your
Grace," she said quietly.

"Nevertheless, I'll have an answer from
you."

"I don't know what it was about me that he
loved."

"You have a passably decent figure, a pretty
face, and a fine dark eye. I suspect little else was needed to
bring a man to his knees — and into your bed."

"You dishonor your brother with such talk,
Your Grace. Charles was a fine man."

"Yes, well, far away from home and thrown
into a nest of rebel vipers and their conniving females, the devil
only knows what goes through a man's head. Any warm body will do, I
expect."

"Charles and I loved each other. He wanted
to marry me."

"Before or after he found out you were
breeding?"

She blushed. "After."

"Did it ever occur to you that he was merely
being honorable and that his heart might have lain elsewhere?"

"Indeed, it did not."

"Did it ever occur to you that it might have
been arranged at his birth that he marry a woman of his own
station, whose money would have allowed him to live a lifestyle to
which he was accustomed?"

"He made no mention of such a woman, Your
Grace, and Charles was not one to worship the god of money."

"Did it ever occur to you that his family
might not approve of his union with you?"

She looked him straight in the eye and said
quietly, "Yes."

"And yet you came here anyhow."

"I had no choice."

"You had no choice."

Juliet clenched her fist beneath a fold of
Charlotte's blanket, trying to keep a check on her rising temper.
Her face felt hot, and she knew her color betrayed her, but she
vowed he would not get the better of her, no matter how hard he
tried. If by forcing her to remain here in her disheveled clothes,
attacking her with his insolent questions, and implying things that
were not true he sought to put her off balance, he had another
thing coming. She was made of stronger stuff than that.

Politely, she said, "I fear, Your Grace,
that you suspect me of being some sort of fortune hunter. That I
lured your brother to me so I could claw my way up the social
ladder by use of his name and rank. But I'll have you know that
that wasn't the case. Charles was one of the king's officers. I was
a maiden of Boston, and maidens of Boston did not consort with the
king's officers — no matter how well-born they might be — if they
wished to maintain their standing in a community that had grown to
despise the Regulars' very presence."

He merely sipped his brandy and watched her,
giving no hint of what was going on behind those enigmatic black
eyes.

"I was well-respected by those who knew me,"
she continued, bravely. "I may not have your noble blood, nor
possess your limitless wealth, but my stepfather was one of
Boston's leading citizens and we lived well enough by pursuing hard
work and good causes. I have nothing to blush for."

"Your stepfather was a Loyalist."

"My stepfather was a spy for the
rebels."

"That is not what Charles told us."

"Appearances are deceiving. What is the use
of being a spy if everyone knows who you are?"

"Indeed. And did you learn all you could
from my brother only to pass the information on to your
stepfather?"

"I did not."

"Rebel, Loyalist ... and where do
your
sympathies lay, Miss Paige?"

She looked him straight in the eye. "With my
daughter."

He arched a brow.

"I don't want to be here," she said, firmly.
"I don't know a soul in England, my heart aches for home, and it is
obvious that my presence at Blackheath is most unwelcome — as I
feared it would be. I would like nothing more than to go back to
America and pick up the remains of my life, but I made a promise to
Charles, and I don't break promises."

"And what promise was that?"

"To seek you out in England if anything
should happen to him."

"And just what did Charles think I could do
for you?"

"He told me that you would take us in and
make our baby your ward. He said that you would give her your name.
I didn't want to come here, but things turned bad in Boston and I
had little choice. My daughter's welfare comes first."

"Charles died a year ago. Correct me if I'm
wrong," he murmured, with faint sarcasm, "but doesn't the crossing
from America take but a month?"

"Yes, but —"

"Why, then, did it take
you
a
year?"