Anne Gracie - [The Devil Riders 02] (19 page)

Taking matters into his own hands, he leaned across and kissed her in midsentence. Firmly and possessively. Capturing her mouth with his and stopping the flow of words.

Nell blinked at him as he returned to his seat. “Wh-what was that for?”

“I had to stop you somehow and that seemed as good a way as any.”

“Stop me from what?”

She knew perfectly well what. “Putting off the moment. Come on, bite the bullet, sweetheart. You know you’re going to have to tell me all about it sometime. It might as well be now, rather than have it hanging over your head. You’ll feel better for it, I’m sure.”

She sagged against the seat, silently acknowledging he was right. “All right, what do you want to know?”

“Everything you didn’t tell me this morning.”

“There’s not much to tell,” she said in a wooden voice. “I fell pregnant. When he found out, Papa took me to a house in another county to give birth in secret so that no one would know and my reputation would not be ruined. Three weeks after my daughter was born, he took her away while I slept, mistakenly believing that was what I wanted. And then he died before I could find out where he took her. That’s it.” She spread her hands. “End of story.”

“Not quite and you know it.” There were a lot of gaps in her tale and Harry needed to have them filled.

She tried to stare him down, but failed.

“Who is Torie’s father?”

She shrugged. “It doesn’t matter.”

He smashed his fist against the back of his seat, making her jump. “Of course it damn well matters! Who is the blackguard and where the hell is he? Why didn’t he marry you? And why the devil did he leave you to cope with all this on your own?”

She set her jaw and looked away. But not before he saw a glimpse of something in her eyes that made him want to kick himself. Shame. She was ashamed. Of course. And he was riding roughshod over her like a brute.

He forced himself to calm down. He leaned forward and said gently. “You must see that it matters who the father of this child is. I need to know.”

“Why?” she challenged him. “You knowing his name can change nothing. It’s all in the past and that’s where it belongs. Stirring up everything is just . . . upsetting.”

“I’m sorry for that, but I can’t get him out of my mind,” he admitted.

She crossed her arms and stared out of the window for a while. Eventually she said, “Oh, very well, if you must know, he’s dead.”

Harry frowned. He wasn’t sure he believed her. If the swine was dead, why all the secrecy? “Dead? How?”

“He drowned. He went to sea and his ship went down in a storm.”

“What was the name of the ship? Where was he going?”

“So this
is
to be an interrogation after all,” she flashed.

“No, I’m sorry.” He sat back and tried to look relaxed. He wasn’t relaxed, not in the slightest. He was wound tense as a spring.

He mastered himself and said more gently, “So, how did you meet him, this—what was his name?”

“He was a friend of Papa’s,” she told him. “Papa brought him to the house one day and . . . we, we fell in love. And the night before he went away, he . . . we . . . you know. And months later I found out I was increasing, and shortly after that I heard he’d died.” She shrugged. “You know the rest.”

“A very affecting tale.” Harry didn’t believe a word of it. She’d recited the tale with too little feeling. She was an emotional creature; she could no more talk unemotionally about the loss of her lover than fly. But he wasn’t going to push her any further on the subject just yet. It would only make her pricklier and more defensive.

“Tell me about the place you were kept in.”

“I was very lonely,” she said, and her voice changed. “Papa left me there with strangers—they didn’t know my real name, or his. He paid them to be kind to me.”

“And were they kind to you?”

“Oh yes, in their way, I suppose,” she said. “But I was miserable. I couldn’t even take Aggie, only Freckles, and even so, I wasn’t allowed outside, not even to walk Freckles, except after dark.”

“Why not?”

“Papa left strict instructions.” She shook her head helplessly. “People might have seen me, someone could have recognized me—I don’t know. But there wasn’t even a proper garden. It felt like I was in prison.”

This part of her story was true, he decided. It was all about feelings, not just a recitation of facts. “What did you do?”

“Oh, I read and I sewed—I’d never been interested in sewing before. And I knitted but I wasn’t very good at it. Still, it helped to pass the time until m-my baby was born.

My daughter, my little Torie.” Her face crumpled. “I loved her. I thought I would keep her, but then I was ill . . . and my father came . . .”

Harry stood it as long as he could, which was about three seconds, then he pulled her into his arms.

“We’ll find her, don’t worry.”

She mumbled something incoherent and tried not to cry. He held her against him, stroking her hair, the nape of her neck, rubbing her back. Dry, silent sobs racked her frame at odd intervals.

He remembered what she’d said, that first day at Firmin Court.
I never weep. There’s no point.

Harry hated hearing women cry. He hated watching Nell fighting these ragged, jerky sobs more. “Go ahead, let it out. Weep,” he told her. “You have good cause.”

“I won’t cry. I don’t,” she said in a choked voice. “My daughter is alive, I know she is. And I’ll find her.”

“We’ll find her, I promise.” He held her tight and wondered what the hell he was doing, making a promise like that when deep down he thought the child was probably dead.

Babies died so easily. Newborn babies taken from their mother had even less chance than most. And if Papa really wanted to get rid of his unwanted illegitimate granddaughter, it wouldn’t be too difficult. People did it all the time.

They came to the next post and while they changed postilions and horses, Nell went into the inn and washed her face. She emerged pale and composed.

Harry watched her unhappily. He didn’t know the whole story—there were huge gaps that didn’t make sense—but she was too emotionally wrung out to go on.

He glanced out of the window. They were nearing Cherrill, he saw.

“Have you seen the famous white horse of Cherrill?” he asked.

“No,” she said in a wan voice.

“It’s coming up soon,” he told her. “A famous landmark hereabouts. You’ll see it in a few minutes.”

It appeared as promised, around the next bend. Harry remembered the first time he’d seen it as a boy. He’d been thrilled with the sight, a giant figure of a white horse carved out against the green turf.

“They say the tail alone is more than thirty feet long,” he told her.

“Amazing,” she said dully.

They watched it in silence until it had passed. She shivered.

“Are you cold?” he asked awkwardly.

“A little.”

He opened a compartment in the side of the carriage and pulled out a fur rug. He placed it around her. She huddled into it and closed her eyes, shutting him and everything else out.

Damn, damn, damn, Harry thought. So much for not rushing his fences.

 
They stopped overnight in Marlborough. Harry had sent a groom on ahead to expedite the changing of the horses at various posts along the way. He’d also arranged accommodation at the Castle Inn, a mansion that only a few years before had been the residence of the Duke of Somerset.

It was dark when they pulled up and the lights of the inn were most welcoming. The groom had obtained a private suite of rooms that contained a sitting room as well as several excellent bedchambers and rooms for the servants as well.

Lady Gosforth, disdaining any food or refreshment, retired straight to her bedchamber, Bragge in close attendance.

“That’s it for her for the night,” Harry told Nell, seeing her look of concern. “My aunt is always a little unwell after travel. But her maid knows just what to do.”

They sat down to dinner. “You were right,” Nell told him.

He looked up from carving a capon of veal. “About what?”

“You said it would help to talk, and you were right. I was upset at the time, but since my nap, I’ve realized I feel a lot better that you know.”

He didn’t know everything, Harry thought, but now wasn’t the time to raise it again.

They were served a delicious meal that included steaming oxtail soup, capons of veal, an excellent steak and kidney pudding and a quince pie with clotted cream. They ate in virtual silence, keeping conversation to the trivial, and at the meal’s conclusion agreed to make an early night of it so as to leave first thing in the morning.

Nell examined the door of her bedchamber. “There isn’t any lock,” she exclaimed.

“No need,” Harry told her. “This whole section is private and separate from the rest of the inn.”

She looked troubled.

“There’s a lock there, on the door that leads to the other part of the inn. It’s perfectly secure,” Harry assured her.

She bit her lip and looked unhappy, but simply said, “Then I will bid you good night,” and retired.

 
sound woke Harry in the night. He listened and
A
heard it again, the sound of someone moving softly around the sitting room. Thieves?

He rose and, taking his pistol, quietly inched open the door of his bedchamber. He peered into the darkness, illuminated only by the faint glow from the dying fire. From the corner of his eye he caught sight of an insubstantial ghostly figure. He froze a moment. But then it moved again.

It was no ghost, but Nell in a long white nightgown. He put down the pistol.

“What’s the matter?” he asked softly.

She took no notice of him, but padded across the room in bare feet, making for the door.

He followed. “Nell? What is it?”

She muttered something he couldn’t make out.

“What did you say?” he whispered. He didn’t want to disturb his aunt or the others.

Again she muttered something unintelligible and tugged at the handle of the door.

“It’s locked, don’t you remember?” he told her, puzzled and disturbed by her strange behavior.

“Got to find her,” she muttered. “Find her.”

“Find who?”

Again she just rattled at the handle of the door. She said something then turned away and walked swiftly toward the window. She pulled back the curtains. Moonlight flooded in.

And that’s when Harry saw her face.

Her eyes were wide open, but they were blank and unseeing. She was asleep, walking and talking, but sound asleep.

“Nell.” She tried to unlatch the window. Oh God, she was going to climb out the window.

He caught her by the arm. “Nell,” he said more urgently. “Nell, wake up.” He was about to shake her awake her when he recollected a story of a man who’d been woken while sleepwalking and dropped dead of shock. He didn’t know if the story was true or not, but he didn’t want to risk it.

“Got to find her, find her, find Torie,” Nell muttered, struggling with the latch on the window.

Oh God. He suddenly understood. He said the first thing that came into his mind. “Torie’s safe. She’s here.”

Instantly Nell turned toward him, her face anxious, her eyes still horribly blank. It was a heartbreaking sight. He lifted her up. She struggled a little, muttering unintelligibly.

“Torie’s asleep, she’s all right,” he soothed her and the worry slowly smoothed from her face. “Now, go back to bed.” Murmuring assurances of her daughter’s safety, he carried Nell, docile now, back into her bedchamber and to her bed.

“Torie’s asleep and you need to sleep, too,” he told her. Trusting as a child she curled up in bed and he pulled the covers over her.

He quietly closed her door and leaned against it with a sigh of relief. Thank God he’d heard her. Lord knows what could have happened if she’d climbed out of the window.

He poured himself a large brandy and sat down in one of the sitting room arm chairs. He’d heard of sleepwalking but he’d never seen anyone do it.

He sipped the brandy and recalled how when she’d first told him about the baby, he’d suspected her, just for a moment, of losing it deliberately. It had only been for a second, and he’d banished the unworthy thought instantly.

Now he felt ashamed for even considering it for a second. He understood the reason for those violet shadows underneath her eyes now. The loss of her daughter was tearing her apart, even while she slept.

He drank the last of the brandy and set the glass down. He hoped to God they found the baby soon. He returned to his bedroom, but just as he pulled his covers back, he heard a door open again.

It was Nell, still asleep, heading for the locked door again. Harry wasn’t going to go through all that again.

He reached her in three strides and guided her gently toward his room. “Torie’s safe,” he murmured. “Now, get into bed,” he told her and as before, she climbed into bed. Harry’s bed. He slipped in beside her.

“Come here, sweetheart,” he murmured. “You’re safe with Harry now. Torie’s safe. Nell’s safe. It’s time to sleep.” She sighed and relaxed against him. Her feet and hands were frozen. Harry tucked her against him and wrapped his body around her.

He lay there, holding her, feeling her chilled body slowly warm against him. Her feet were like ice. Slowly her breathing eased, and he found himself breathing in time with her. Her nightgown was cotton, old and soft with repeated washing. It was so thin it was almost like holding her naked body. She smelled of clean linen, soap, and woman and his body ached against her, racked with the hot tide of desire.

He ignored it. He had more important things to do. Desire could wait. She was his now, to care for.

And she wouldn’t wander the lonely night again if he could help it.

 
 
Nell woke to sleepy, gradual awareness. She felt warm, comfortable, safe.