The Earl's Bargain (Historical Regency Romance) (14 page)

He got up and walked to the hearth where he
picked up a poker and stirred. "The fire's died, and I asked that
the maid not disturb you to lay a new one."

She nodded appreciatively. "Also, I believe
it's turned colder outside."

"To be sure," he said, his back still to
her. "I just came from the stables, and I can attest to that."

A moment later he sat in a wooden chair
facing her and watched silently as she drank her tea.

She set down her cup and gave him a quizzing
look. "Why is it you know so much of wounds and of other things a
gentleman of substance is not supposed to know? What is it you did
those twelve years? How did you really make your fortune?"

Good God, did she
know?
Why would she be thinking on it if
she had not already guessed? A concerned look sweeping across his
face, Harry went to her, dropping to one knee at her bedside. "If I
tell you the truth I will lose any respect I have worked hard to
earn from you."

Her indigo eyes looked into his as if she
could see through to the soul he had long ago lost. "You were a
pirate, weren't you?"

He closed his eyes and muttered an oath,
then got up and walked to the hearth. He bent low and attempted to
stir the embers once again.

"I see I've hit upon the truth," she said
somberly.

He merely nodded, then moved to the door.
"I'll go down and order your breakfast."

* * *

Because of the injury to Louisa's knee and
the wetness of the weather, walking was out of the question. Harry
carried her to his coach. The rain which had continued throughout
the night had left the roads soggy.

The farther south they went, the cooler the
temperature became. It was as if the heavy white mist followed them
inland. Louisa lifted the curtain and pressed her face into the
foggy glass. Progress was slow the first hour of their journey
southward as the coach rattled sluggishly along the hilly terrain.
Once the hills were behind them, the somber landscape leveled out,
and the carriage picked up speed.

In the midst of the barren land that now
surrounded them, Louisa beheld a most peculiar natural phenomenon.
At least, she assumed the towering, cylinder-like rocks were
natural. Though, for all the world, they rather resembled giant
candles jutting up from the soggy earth.

"Pray, Harry, what are those things?"

He scooted across the seat opposite and
inched his face closer to hers. "I've never seen them before, but I
believe they're tors."

Her brows drew together. "Tors? Like
tornadoes?"

He sat upright and shrugged. "Don't know
where the word came from."

She continued peering from the window. "I
suppose these vast stretches of wasteland where no trees are
growing must be the moors."

"The Bodmin Moor," he said.

She let the curtain drop, and she
straightened up, her spine touching the back of the seat. "A light
mist is beginning to fall. I do feel so sorry for the
coachman."

"I assure you, your worries for him are
greater than his own. He's well used to physical discomfort."

She frowned. "What is the name of Lord
Blamey's abode in Bodmin?"

Harry answered without consulting his notes.
"St. Alban's Abbey."

They rode along in Harry's coach and for
mile after mile through the Bodmin Moor where villages were scarce.
Harry peered through the foggy window for any sign of
habitation.

Though it was early afternoon still, a
charcoal blanket covered the skies, and the wind whistled alongside
their vehicle. Harry knew Louisa must be cold and tired, but not
once had she asked that they stop nor had she complained of
hunger.

The second time he had to brave the weather
and help the coachman dislodge a wheel from the muddy mire, Harry
knew further progress would be impossible until the rain that had
begun an hour ago let up -- most likely not until tomorrow.

He grew impatient to learn the identity of
the mysterious lord who had orchestrated his father's downfall.
More than anything, he wondered why someone would hate his father
with such vengeance. Except for his squandering of the family
fortune, his father had been an amiable, well-liked man.

Could his father's political views have made
such an enemy? Harry thought back but could remember nothing that
his father could have done that would have warranted such
punishment. Perhaps the elder Lord Wycliff had angered a foreign
power through his fierce patriotism to England during its war with
France. He remembered the sacrifices his father had made in order
to purchase weapons for soldiers in the Peninsula in 1808. He had
not only bought the munitions with his own money, but he had spent
considerable time searching for qualified men to take the supplies
from Portsmouth into Portugal -- all using his own funds.

But if his father had
angered a foreign power, why would Godwin Phillips' mysterious
benefactor be a
lord from
Cornwall
? Perhaps Louisa had been
wrong.

He watched Louisa as she rubbed the fog from
the inside of the coach window. They had barely spoken all day. He
knew she would never be able to condone the manner in which he had
amassed his fortune.

The woman was far too fine to be sitting
with the likes of him.

While one side of him was sorry that his
silence had confirmed the truth, and in so doing had lost Louisa's
respect he'd only just won, the other side of him was somewhat glad
that he'd told her the truth. For some inexplicable reason, what
they had gone through the day before brought them as close together
as two people could be. She had even let him probe on her leg
without a blush hiking up her smooth cheeks.

He decided to cut through the barrier that
had once again been erected between them. "Are you sure the
benefactor was addressed as a lord? Could he have been a count or a
marquis or one of those titles the bloody French like to use?"

She shook her head. "Oh, no, I'm certain.
And that's what Williams said, too."

Harry frowned. So much for that theory. At
least she had spoken to him. He dwelled for a moment on the
melodious, child-like quality of her smooth voice. Was there
nothing about her he did not find admirable?

Oh, yes, he told himself. She was a bloody
do-gooder.

If the woman would not hold a civil
conversation with him, perhaps she would at least discuss her
bloody causes. Anything would be preferable to sitting across from
her do-gooding self scorning him with every turn of the wheels.

"Tell me," he began, "What are your feelings
about penal reform?" He crossed his arms across his chest and
settled back to smugly watch her leap to life.

"If I were a violent person -- which I'm
not," she said, throwing him a haughty glance, "I would be
violently opposed to the practice of depriving persons of their
lives for minor infractions like stealing a day's food to feed
one's family. I think, perhaps, the death penalty should be
reserved for only the most heinous crimes."

He sat straighter and uncrossed his arms.
"Like murder."

Her eyes flashed with satisfaction. "Yes.
And I am completely against transportation, too."

Her opinions exactly
reflected those imparted in the essays he had read by Philip Lewis.
As he said the name in his mind, something sparked.
Philip Lewis. Louisa Phillips.
Quicker than the flash of lightning, he knew they were one and
the same.

He knew Louisa's secrets as well as she knew
his. The knowledge afforded him great satisfaction. He slid into
the corner of the coach, a cocky arch to his brow and a mischievous
smile playing at his lips as he watched her.

A puzzled look flashed across her face.
"Whatever do you find so amusing, my lord?"

"Yesterday I was Harry."

"That was before I knew that you were a
thief."

"I admit I stole. I stole from ships owned
by men who had profited by my father's loss."

Her lower lip worked into a pout. "It was
still stealing."

"I do not deny it." He watched her sulk for
a moment before renewing his banter. "Have you never done anything
for which you have been ashamed?"

She thought for a long moment. "I have
certainly many regrets over how my life has been lived, but I have
none over actions which I controlled."

"Have you ever lied, Louisa?"

"Mrs. Phillips."

"I'm not going to call you by the despicable
man's name, Louisa. Answer me, have you ever lied?"

She refused to answer.

"Perhaps it was not a lie but an omission,"
he said. "Something like purporting to be a man. Say a man like
Philip Lewis."

She went rigid. Her lips parted, and her
eyes grew round. "How did you know?" she asked.

He got up and moved to her side of the coach
and drew his face close to hers. "I know you as well as you know
me, Louisa. You guessed correctly about my secret as I guessed
about yours."

"Will you tell?" Her voice was thin and
frightened.

He stayed there in the darkened coach nose
to nose with the most beautiful woman he had ever known. He peered
into the depths of her frightened eyes and spoke gently, like a
whisper of the night. "I will never hurt you, Louisa."

Then the coach came to a stop.

"What the deuce is going on?" Harry
demanded, scooting to the door and opening it.

There the coachman stood, his oilskin
dripping, his hat nearly covering his bearded face while all the
while rain beat down on him and thunder spiked the air like the
clashing of symbols. "There's no inn in this village, my lord."

"Mr. Smith," Harry mumbled, wiping the water
from his face.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Smith."

Harry uttered another oath. "Well, man, go
to the tavern and make inquiries. I will pay handsomely for a room
for my bride and myself for the night."

The coachman nodded, his sweeping hat
scattering water, and he walked off toward the town.

Harry, by now completely wet, slammed the
coach door and took his usual seat across from Louisa. It had grown
so dark, he could barely see her.

"Will we go on to the next town if we don't
find a room here?" she asked.

"My good woman, you know little of
travelling country roads if you think these passable, and you know
little of a man of wealth if you don't realize there is little that
cannot be bought, given that one has enough money."

She straightened her shoulders and shot him
a defiant look. "I mustn't forget that your plundering has made you
a most wealthy man, my lord."

"Louisa," he said, his voice soft and
pleading.

They sat in silence until the inside of the
coach became completely dark. The only sound was the dripping of
rain on the roof and the scattered boom of thunder in the far-off
skies. It grew colder, too. He was bloody miserable in these wet
clothes.

A half an hour passed before John Coachman
returned, hopped up on the box and drove them to a farm house a
mile from the village.

Harry did not wait for the coachman to open
the door. He was bloody tired of being cooped in the blasted coach
and bloody tired of Louisa's refusal to speak to him.

He was not so angry, though, that he did not
hold open the carriage door for her and give her his hand as she
climbed down. Then he remembered her knee. Uttering yet another
curse, he scooped her up and stormed up to the house, ignoring
Louisa's protests.

As they drew near the house, his voice
lowered. "Remember, my dear Louisa, these kind persons who have
opened their home to us believe us to be on our honeymoon. Act the
loving wife."

If she glared at him, he couldn't see it as
he swept through the opening door, putting Louisa down and
charmingly greeting the farmer's matronly wife. "Harold Smith,
ma'am, and my bride, Louisa." Removing his hat, he said, "I do
thank you for providing us shelter."

The woman extended her hand. "I'm Millie
Winston." She turned to Louisa. "Are you unwell, my dear?"

Louisa shook her head. "I've just injured my
leg is all."

"You'll want to get dry, I'm sure," the
woman said. "Then you'll be hungry. I wasn't expecting anyone, so
our fare is quite simple, but there's plenty. Now, let me show you
to what used to be our daughters' room -- before they got married
and moved to homes of their own."

They followed her up a simple wooden
staircase.

"Our girl Meg married the blacksmith over in
Penwick. She's increasing now with her fifth babe. I'll be going to
her soon."

"How many children and grandchildren have
you?" Louisa inquired.

"Three daughters, and our son helps with the
farm. He and his wife live just next door. Altogether, Mr. Winston
and I have sixteen grandchildren."

"You've been blessed, indeed," Louisa
said.

Harry fleetingly wondered if Louisa
regretted that she had borne no children. Though he did not like to
think of her bearing the seed of Godwin Phillips.

Their hostess walked across the room and,
using her own candle, lighted a tallow beside the room's only bed.
"It's not been dusted nor cleaned in here in a good while, but the
bedclothes are clean though most likely damp."

Louisa began to unbutton her pelisse. "I'll
come down and help you with dinner, Mrs. Winston, while my husband
changes into dry clothes," Louisa said, as Harry helped her out of
her pelisse and hung it on a peg on the wall.

My
husband
. The words had tumbled naturally
from her lips. Harry liked the way they sounded.

"I can't allow that," Mrs. Winston
protested. "Not on your sore leg."

"She's right, my dear," Harry said. "You
need to stay off that leg."

My dear
? Why did the endearment not offend her?