Edith Layton (24 page)

Betsy looked doubtful. Gilly’s mouth turned down, and she looked as if she thought Bridget had just told the biggest lie of all. And perhaps, Bridget thought as her heart grew cold, she had.

“So,” she said too brightly, rising to her feet again, “are you ready to leave at dawn, with me?”

“We ain’t got much to pack,” Gilly said simply. Taking Betsy’s hand, she left the room with her sister.

Bridget wished they hadn’t gone. There was a whole afternoon and evening and night left to get through, to think and pace and wonder through. She looked around the bedchamber. The sunlight shone through bright windows, but Ewen’s shadow was everywhere in the room. T
hat
was what she didn’t want to leave. But that, too, was what she had to pass the long hours alone with, so she could copy it into her heart.

She walked through the room, trailing her fingers over the empty bed, the vacant chairs and settee. Here his head had rested. There he had sat sometimes and joked with her. Here was where he woke her with a kiss, and there where he settled her to sleep in his arms. Here, he had lain with her, there he had laughed with her. Would he be as real to her anywhere else?

Bridget’s head went up. Why had she thought that? Did she believe she’d never see him again?

She no longer knew what to believe. She sat by the window finally, looking out over the drive, thinking about Ewen, wishing he would suddenly appear there and solve her problems as easily as he had caused them.

Ewen woke before first light, as he always did these days. He didn’t bother waking his valet. He dressed himself, slipped from the townhouse, and went riding out into the mists of morning. He galloped his horse down long green paths, riding hard, as though he were pursued by the Furies. He raised few eyebrows from the other early riders in the park. They’d seen the tall, dark gentleman riding like that every morning for weeks now.

He rode until he felt his horse’s sides heaving, and then they walked down the damp paths, smelling the sweet summer scent of broken grass and damp earth. When the sun broke through the haze of dawn, he rode back home again. He gave his horse to the stable boy, then went back to the house to wash and to atone to his valet by letting him help change his clothing.

He sat only long enough to have biscuits and coffee and then left, walking the several streets to Monsieur Delacroix’s academy. There he passed an hour fencing with the master himself, applauding his opponent and taking his praise in return. They shook hands at the end, declaring another draw, before he put on his jacket and left. Once in the street, he rolled his shoulders to ease the tightness he still felt there. It was only a few more streets to Gentleman Jackson’s. A
good sparring match
, he thought.

But glancing up, he saw the height of the sun. He reluctantly turned and walked to the discreet townhouse, so near the palace, where he’d spent each afternoon for weeks now.

As he took the stairs to his office he wished he’d taken the time to have gone a few rounds after all. He still felt edgy, tense, and restless. But he knew there was nothing that would ease him. Not riding, sparring,
fencing, drinking…he’d tried them all in recent days. Nothing could cure him but her. He needed to get back to her, to talk to her, to tell her, to explain. And then to take her in his arms and let her take him far from himself and all the mistakes he’d made and would try to make up for.

He sighed as he opened the door to his office.

“About time you arrived,” the man sitting in his chair said with a crooked smile.

“Rafe!” Ewen shouted.

The two men embraced, laughing like boys. Then they spent some time slapping each other on the shoulders, pounding each other’s backs.

“Well met!” Ewen finally said. “You’re back. The mission was a success?”

His redheaded friend frowned. “Devil take it, no. Don’t know much more now than then. The damned little emperor may be planning something, and he may not be. Colonel Campbell says he’s there to stay. Campbell’s a good man and the right one for the job; I trust him to keep that devil in his place. But I’m not so sure he’s right, Ewen. Bonaparte’s too clever by half. He could charm birds from the trees, because he’s half snake. Imagine—I met him face-to-face.”

Rafe laughed mirthlessly. “That was all I dreamed of doing—all those months in the peninsula, all that time I was in hospital there. I dreamed of facing him and blowing his damned head off. Still do, but I couldn’t do more than shake his hand when we did meet. So I can’t say the mission was a success in any way.”

“But it was,” Ewen said, smiling. “You’re back, fit, and just as sour as you were before. I’d say you thrive. But best of all, my dear dour friend, I’m free now.”

“Free?” Rafe frowned.

“To go home, of course.”

“How does your father do?” Rafe asked at once.

“He’s well, I assure you. I’m not going there right away. I’ve a stop to make at Brook House first.”

“Ah.” Rafe’s craggy face grew grave and guarded. “Brook House, is it? How is the lovely Bridget?”

“I don’t know for certain,” Ewen said. “That’s the point. She’s there now, where I left her. I got word of your trouble and tore back to London by myself. I’ve been here since.” He looked at his friend measuringly, his expression thoughtful. “What are your plans now, Rafe?”

“A bit of this, a taste of that. My usual ramblings, I suppose. Why do you ask?”

Ewen sat back on the edge of his desk, looking at his friend. “I thought perhaps you might like to come with me.”

“What? But you said your father’s doing well. What do you need me for? You’ve got lovely Bridget. I’d be like a fifth leg on a horse at your little hideaway.”

“Not exactly,” Ewen said. His eyes were troubled, though he kept his voice light. He glanced down at his sleeve and brushed at an invisible spot there. For that fleeting second, the cool, urbane, ever facile Viscount Sinclair seemed uncertain and awkward. It was so strange that Rafe blinked. L
ike seeing a cat miss a step
, he thought, intrigued and a little worried now.

“I’m going to have to talk with her,” Ewen said, avoiding Rafe’s fascinated eyes, “and when I’m done I’m going to need a friend with me. Two, I think, now that I see you again. I’ve already asked Drum to come along. I told him the whole truth about Bridget—and Elise,” he added simply.

Rafe stared. “You told him?” he echoed.

“Well, but it was time. You were right. None of this has been what I’d thought it would be—no. Rather, Bridget isn’t what I thought a woman to be. It’s no longer a matter of what’s prudent; it’s become a matter of the heart—my heart, paltry thing that it is. She helped me discover it again, you know. I’d hidden it away so long, I think I’d forgotten about it.”

He twitched one broad shoulder, as though the sentimentality in his voice disturbed him. “In any event, I haven’t told her either.”

Rafe went still.

“Yes, I know, I’m a fool. I meant to, I would have, but events conspired…in short, I didn’t. And so,” Ewen said with a shrug, avoiding his friend’s eyes, “I must, and then ask her pardon. And in this case I don’t know if my words alone will do the trick.”

Rafe’s eyes widened. He had never thought he’d ever hear Ewen Sinclair say such a thing.

“I need you to support me after I speak with her,” Ewen went on. “Specifically, I need you and Drum to tell her”—Ewen raised his changeable eyes to Rafe, and there was rueful amusement in them—“that I’m not such a bad fellow after all, no matter what I’ve done. Do you think you can do that for me?”

“Of course!” Rafe snapped. “I think it, so I’ll say it.”

“Hold!” Ewen said. “A fine sentiment, but it may not be so easy. There is the matter of my reputation to dance around.”

“Reputation? You’ve done some mad things in your time. Who has not? But I’ve never known you to be cruel or unfair.” Rafe frowned. “Oh. The rake thing, is it? Well, even that isn’t such a bad thing. Shocks the blue-nosed. But it was for the good of us all.”

Ewen gave a short bark of a laugh. “Cut line, you know me better than that. They said I was a rake, and it helped our cause. True. But my dear friend, I practiced what I played. I
was
a rake.”

“Well, there you are,” Rafe said stoutly. “You pay for your pleasures and always take responsibility for them. A rake? Maybe. But you’re an honest man for all that.”

“No, not such an honest man, as it turns out,” Ewen said softly, sadly. “And apart from that, a rake is never completely honest, not really. Not with himself or his consorts. Not a successful one, at any rate. And I was,” He gave his friend a long, steady look. “It’s been easy for me to acquire women, Rafe. Too easy. And there were too many of them. Such simplicity. And such a simple act I always achieved with them. A meeting of two bodies and a moment of pleasure. Dogs, I think,” he said with a twisted smile, “make more of it than that.

“But me and my light ladies?” He laughed. “L
ight
is an apt description. All of it had no more weight than a feather. Airy love. A simple offer to a simple act, easily done, more easily forgotten. A pretty face or a stimulating shape, and it begins. A few hours later, the thing is done, and what of it?”

“Easy for
you
,” Rafe grumbled.

“For you, too. Here, I give you my formula,” Ewen said with a mocking smile and a short bow. “These are the ingredients: A man. A woman. A look of appreciation, followed by a knowing smile. Let it sit in the moonlight until the air thickens. When there’s a flutter of an eyelash or a fan, smile again. When there’s an answering smile, add a tribute to her eyes or nose, or whatever appears to be her proudest possession. Sprinkle with pretty phrases, blend with meaningful
gazes. Stir her with a whisper, fold in an embrace, drop a light kiss—as sample of pleasure to come. Don’t add a pinch, whatever you do; it must all go smoothly. Only stroke and caress lightly, then make the assignation, quickly followed by an act of what we chose to call love, for want of a word that won’t get us shown immediately to the door.

“There you are. Done. A tasty way to end an evening or start a day. Simplicity itself. But as for me, once my simple aim was achieved, I simply always forgot why I’d wanted it so badly. I suppose they did, too. But not this time.”

His hand made a fist, and he stared at it. “I didn’t understand what intimacy was. Everything was going as usual, and then…I found her, I wanted her, and because she was in difficulties, I—” His voice caught and he paused. He bent his dark head.

“Rafe,” he said, urgently, his eyes glowing, “she turned me round. It’s an astonishing thing. A responsibility and an honor. Something I never thought to find: a friend and a lover.” He shook his head and straightened. Rising, he started gathering papers from his desk. “Anyhow,” he said over his shoulder, “you’re back, so my job here is done. I’ll speak to the old gentleman and be gone from London by sunset.”

Rafe’s rusty eyebrows went up. “Leaving London in the evening? Riding through the night? Gad! You
will
need escorts. My bags are still packed, my pistols primed, too. I’ll be ready to ride. But…” He hesitated before he spoke again. That was so rare Ewen looked up at him.

“Ewen,” he said with difficulty, “how the devil do you think she’ll take it?”

“She’s clear water, Rafe. Pure and good, and completely honest. She’ll be shocked. Dismayed that I didn’t tell her, of course. But I think in the end, she’ll understand and forgive.”

“And if she doesn’t?”

“Then I don’t know her after all, do I? But I do. She trusts me, Rafe, I know that, or I know nothing in this life at all. With all I’ve done, she trusts me. As I do her. She’s been anxious and fearful, and why not? I suddenly left her alone in a strange place, on what was supposed to be her honeymoon. I’ve been gone a long time, so long that she keeps writing, begging me to let her join me here. But I’ve told her to wait for me. She is waiting, because she trusts me. And so whatever I tell her, I don’t think she’ll disappoint me. She won’t let me down.”

The moon rose over the trees, and Bridget finally got into bed. There was no more sense in pacing and plotting and planning anymore. Everything she owned was packed and secured, and ready to leave. So was she, at last.

T
hey took the Great North Road and left London behind them, riding quickly and silently into the deepening night. Many men would have been afraid of leaving London in such a fashion at that late hour. There were only three of them, after all, and all of them on horseback, instead of riding in a carriage, with coachmen and outriders to see to the dangers on the moonlit roads.

But these three men didn’t worry about highwaymen; they themselves were lethal. Two had been trained in ways of swiftly and silently taking the enemy down, and the third had played with instruments of death all his life, as many men of his age and class were trained to do. They were all experts, all fearless, all able-bodied. One of them was dead set on getting to his destination as fast as he could, and damned to the hour or the season. The
other two valued him so much they would have followed him into hell itself, much less the English countryside.

Not that it was that easy. Especially in the black velvet folds of a late summer’s night.

They didn’t speak at first, and then as the hours wore on, they fell under the spell of their friend’s urgency and the dreaming night itself. They rode without complaint, only stopping when they had to—they had more consideration for their horses than themselves.

The spoke together at the first stop they made, at an inn near a tollbooth two hours’ ride from London.

“Good thing you’ve got fair weather,” Rafe said as he took another swallow of ale.

“He’d race through a hurricane, the way he is now,” Drum said. “Don’t you see that look in his eye?”

“We’re crazed as he is,” Rafe said darkly, “and will pay for it, I reckon. At least we’ll make someone happy—aside from Ewen. There are probably hordes of robbers in the hedgerows, just waiting for fools like us.”

“Sorry to disappoint you,” Ewen said dryly, “but this is England, not Italy, my friend. There are no highwaymen here.”

“Ha!” Rafe grunted. “Famous last words.”

“Famous indeed,” Ewen said, “or rather, infamous—and historical, too. They’re a century past, a world away, my friend. Spiders nest on their headstones now. Bow Street put an end to that sport. There’s the odd road robbery these days, that’s true. But even then, most self-respecting highwaymen insist on inconveniencing at least a coachful of victims for their trouble. Who’d bother to lurk on a dark road in the middle of the night in hopes of some stray madman happening along?”

“Too true,” Drum commented. “And if they did see us, three men pounding down the road riding like they were pursued by devils through the night? They’d probably beg
us
for mercy. As I do now beg you, Ewen. If there are no highwaymen, perhaps we could take it easy. I don’t want to break my horse’s legs, or my own. It’s like riding through ink out there.”

“We’ll keep to the main road,” Ewen said, “and the ink is the disappearing sort. The moon’s up, half full. Ride straight and no harm will come.”

“But where’s the sense in it? Everyone will be sleeping when we get there, anyway.”

“You can stay here, then, and meet me later,” Ewen said, putting down his empty tankard. “But I must be going.”

“Damn,” Drum sighed, rising, too.

“There’s sudden storms at this time of the year,” Rafe offered. “I saw some stars put out by clouds a while back. You sure you want to go on further tonight, Ewen? This isn’t a bad place. If it’s not far enough along for you, there’s a neat little inn near Wallingford.”

“It isn’t far enough by half,” Ewen said. “I want to keep riding until I get there.”

“We’re not birds. We don’t have to be there before first light,” Rafe complained. “We can get a good night’s sleep and be there in the morning.”

“Everything looks better in the morning,” Drum said with a jaw-cracking yawn.

“I want to be there sooner,” Ewen said, drawing on his gloves.

They left.

But, in the end, they did have to stop for the night. Ewen’s horse pulled up lame. There was no question of
leaving the beast alone on the road. Ewen rode double with Rafe, until that gentleman’s I-told-you-so’s drove him to share Drum’s horse with him. Drum’s incessant grumbling about the madness of his own actions persuaded Ewen to take rooms at the inn they finally reached.

“Be there after breakfast, a civilized hour,” Drum said contentedly as he signed the register for a sleepy landlord.

Wordlessly, his dark face like thunder, Ewen paced up the stairs beside his friends.

“What’s so magical about dawn, anyway?” Rafe yawned.

Ewen said nothing as he left them. He didn’t say how magical it could have been for him. He didn’t tell them how he’d dreamed of arriving at Brook House to find her sleeping, warm and drowsy in their bed. Or about how he’d planned to tiptoe into their bedroom, strip off his clothing, and slide into bed, joining her there. First he’d have stayed quiet beside her, letting the chill of his night ride leave his hands and body, warming himself by watching her sleeping face, reveling in the very fact of her nearness again. Then he’d have wakened her, slowly, luxuriously, his hands soft and stealthy as they stroked her soft body and her small, silken breasts, his lips feathering over her smooth, warm neck, her sleep-flushed cheek, her slightly parted dreaming mouth. At last he’d take her soft surprised cry into his mouth, and bear her back into the bed with him.

But these were not thoughts to serve him well when he was trying to sleep.

So he didn’t. He couldn’t. He was in that state too well known to travelers, halfway to his destination, his
heart still racing as fast as his body had been, his mind even busier with thoughts of what he had to do when he got there. He stripped off his clothing, lay on the bed, and groaned. It would have been difficult to sleep even if the bed were comfortable. It was not. He was a big man with a long body. The bed was designed for the average traveler and had been used by so many of them it had conformed to every shape it had known except for his, he thought wryly as he turned, trying and failing to get comfortable.

But that was impossible. It had little to do with the bed, really, only with what wasn’t in it with him. So he lay wide-eyed, hands linked behind his head, staring into the dreaming night, waiting for morning and the task he’d set himself.

He couldn’t wait to get back to her. He’d missed her, and not just her body. That astonished him still. So many women, so many welcoming bodies, so many pleasures, and not one of them to compare to what he’d found with her.

He liked women, always had. He’d even loved a few. His mother, in the brief time he’d known her. Those first few females who’d shown him kindness: his nurse, an aunt, a cousin or two. And when he’d become a man, he’d even thought he’d loved the way a man should. He’d had his first infatuations. They’d all ended in sighs, but not sighs of repletion, because they’d all been gently bred girls, and because he’d come to know them too well to stay infatuated—or they’d found other men to love. That hadn’t surprised him. He’d been a bashful youth, though no one could know it now. Few realized it then. He’d covered it with the glaze of smiling boredom, as so many young men of his age and rank did.

He’d had some women friends in those days, and still did. They were friends of the mind, not the heart: wives of friends, or confirmed spinsters who offered carefully intellectual friendship to him because they’d seen that he was a man who respected any good mind of either sex.

But as for love? He hadn’t precisely loved Elise. He’d been awed by her and eager to wed her. He’d meant to be a good husband, but where that had led him? He turned in his lumpy bed again, wincing at memories of his marriage bed. Then, of course, Ewen the rake had been born, and had loved so many women—and not truly loved a single one of them.

But then…
He thought of Bridget again. Who would have thought such felicity could spring from a light-hearted, lust-driven offer? He’d seen her and wanted her. She’d shone out from the sad company she’d been sitting in; he’d glanced across the room and seen the wallflowers and dowagers and…her. That lovely face, blazing with life and intelligence, yet also filled with sadness. So vulnerable—and so desirable to him.

What had he been thinking? he wondered now. That he’d be doing her a favor because of that scar? That damned, blessed scar that had preserved her for him by keeping fools from seeking the loveliness behind it? No. Impossible. Because he hadn’t seen it at first. Not until she’d seen him staring and had raised that small chin and turned to him full face, staring back with challenge, pride, and defiance. That and not the scar was what had made him determined to have her.

He was a good hunter. He’d watched from the corner of his eye, carrying on a dozen dull conversations and limping flirtations, all the while alert to his opportunity,
awaiting his chance. It came when her blasted aunt had seen his interest. As soon as he could, he’d followed her into her exile and broached his offer to her. She’d refused him with spirit and intelligence—and just a trace of longing. That had been enough to make him try and try again. But by their first real meeting he knew he could have her.

He had, and yet it was not enough for him. He wondered if it would ever be. He wanted her entirely, but she still withheld a part of herself. She was open with him in so many ways, but wary, too. He’d wooed her. That was easy. He’d won her, but that was something else again. It was a thing he could do. But what had he won from her? She seemed to care for him, but with all they’d done, she’d never declared her feelings for him in anything but her actions. That had never bothered him in any of his prior relationship with females; it had never even
occurred
to him before.

He laughed bitterly to the empty night. What right had
he
to demand all of her secrets? Well, but he was going to correct that matter now. He was on his way to do it. Thinking of it kept his eyes wide even though all he could see was the blindness of the night and the doubts in his future. Thinking of her kept his heart racing.

He cared about what she thought of him, found with him. Not only in their bed, not just what she thought of his skill in the act of love. He’d known too many women to worry about that. Any man with experience and expertise could pleasure a woman. Or could appear to—with a woman who pretended it. He’d had enough of that, too. The women he’d brought to his bed in the past had been like the bed he lay in now—too accommodating to too many other passing strangers, and so
never exactly right for him. He hadn’t known it then. He knew it now. Since Bridget.

Any willing woman could bring a man pleasure. Many had brought it to him. None had ever brought him ease before, or such laughter, or peace. Her presence made him feel right and whole. There it was, he thought. He felt uncomfortable here—he’d feel so anywhere she was not. She made him feel at home, at last.

It was that simple. And that difficult. And that unexpected. Because even with all his wide experience, he’d never known that before, and so had never guessed what a risk it was. But with all he was, he wasn’t a coward. He waited for morning, when he could go to her and tell her everything he’d thought tonight. At last. No matter what happened afterward.

Bats flew home across the face of the setting moon. No bird sang. The crickets hadn’t ceased their slow pulsings yet; they still counted the minutes left to the ebbing night. But Bridget knew dawn was coming. She rose from her bed as the stars began to fade and the sky turned milky with a hint of the dawn to come. She saw the slight changes because she’d watched through the night. She hadn’t slept. She’d stared into the darkness, thinking, wondering, and then finally deciding what had to be, definitely, no matter how hard it would be.

The decision had been made. Now she had to be strong enough to implement it. But she
was
strong, she told herself, and rose from bed at last.

She rubbed eyes gritty from a night of wakefulness and washed her face. She dressed hurriedly. Then she looked across the room once last time. It was gray in the half-light of approaching day. Now all the rich colors in
the silken coverlets on her high bed, the fine furniture, even the paintings that hung on the wall were muted to the same pale shadows of dawn. It looked like the ghost of the room she’d known. And so it was.

Now it was time for reality. She nodded to herself and raised her chin. Everything that belonged to her was in the traveling bag by the door. Nothing of hers remained here now—only everything she’d ever wanted and loved. She turned her back on it.

She cracked open the door, stepped into the hall, and stumbled over a body on her doorsill.

“W
ha…
? Oh, it’s you,” Gilly said with a huge yawn, sitting up and rubbing her ribs.

“You slept here?” Bridget asked in astonishment.

“I slept in worse places,” Gilly said cheerfully as she rose to her feet. “Leastways this way I din’t miss you, did I? Well, then, so you meant it, eh? Leaving with the light, like that bitch asked, are you? Well, I don’t blame you. Can’t say I’d do different. Needs must when the devil drives, like they says. But if it makes you feel any better, I’m that sorry for it. On that head…listen, Miss Bridget, one thing afore we go.”

Gilly sounded embarrassed, uneasy. She occupied herself with scratching under the loose man’s jacket she wore, looking down at the heap of clothing she’d slept on as she did. “Thing is,” she said hesitantly, “I been thinking. How you going to earn your way now? That witch downstairs is sure to spread the story cross London, and so from now on you can bet no one of the quality is going to let you in their back door to scrub their floors, much less be a companion no more! And Ireland is a far piece, to be sure. But see—if you come to London with Betsy and me, I could find you a job of work.

“Wait, listen,” Gilly said fervently. “I know you’re not in the game. But a good girl can be fooled, or there wouldn’t be so many poor bastards cluttering the streets of London, would there? No, it ain’t work on your back, or
with
your back neither, nor is it work with your hands, ’cause you’re not used to such. You’re a lady. At least, to me you are. And so I know you’ll be that to them what I know, too.”