Intertwine (9 page)

James urged Luther forward and then dismounted, waiting for another burst of light before plotting his path off of the lane. Light skittered across the sky, lighting a woman’s slender body crouched low, her eyes closed, skin gray with cold.

Fearing the worst, James stumbled through knee-high brush lining the lane, sinking to her side. He used his teeth to strip off a glove and brushing rain from his eyes, tentatively felt for her neck in the pelting darkness. Her skin was slick and cold to his touch, short hair clinging to his hand. James exhaled in relief when he felt her pulse, strong and steady.

“Madam?” he asked, shaking her gently. No response.

Another flash of light showed that she was thinly dressed in what appeared to be a nightgown and wrapper, the drenched fabric plastered to her figure. She shivered and trembled with cold.

How had a woman thinly dressed come to be on his lane in this weather? She must be a tenant or some other young woman from the village, lost in the storm. Though it seemed odd. Terribly odd, as he thought about it.

Knowing she would likely die of exposure without his help, James slid his arms under her and gently carried her back to the waiting Luther. Somehow James managed to place her limp body before his saddle and then swing up behind her, clutching her close. Curious, he pulled her slightly away from his body, brushing hair from her cheeks

James waited.

When the lightning came, it lit her face. Oval, fine-boned, features delicate and regular.

A haunting face. An unfamiliar face.

And yet somehow not.

A jolt of recognition.

Not so much a memory. More a sense of knowing. As if his whole life had been coming to this moment. To her.

Which—given his current situation—seemed a little . . . unexpected.

James shook his head. He must be more exhausted than he thought. He never felt this way about women. Particularly strangers found clinging to trees along his lane. In the middle of the night. During a thunderstorm of epic proportions.

She shivered more violently and quietly moaned. Who was she?

Tucking her trembling body against his chest, James wrapped his greatcoat around her, hoping his body heat would help. Whoever this woman was, she was not from Marfield. This woman he would remember. How had she come to be here on a night such as this?

James had had quite enough adventure for one night. Cradling the unknown woman’s body closer, he turned Luther for home.

Chapter 8

The blue guest bedroom

Haldon Manor

Beltane

April 30, 1812

H
ours later, James, finally dressed in dry clothing and wrapped in a warm banyan, silently entered the bedroom. He was ready to drop from fatigue. His restless body begged for stillness and sleepy oblivion. But courtesy—and curiosity, if he were honest—required that he check on his guest. And James Knight might legitimately be called many things, but discourteous was not one of them.

The mysterious woman lay under the counterpane, her breaths gently stirring the heavy blanket, short dark hair spread on the pillow. Though still pale, her color was much improved, her breathing more even.

Again, he felt that strange sense of familiarity. Like he knew her.

But he didn’t. He was confident they had never met. Perhaps she reminded him of an acquaintance or the relative of a friend—just enough connection to give that sense of recognition. He found it puzzling.

James walked to the fireplace opposite the foot of the bed. Candles danced on the mantle and bedside table, reflecting off the dark paneled wainscoting and blue bed hangings. A fire crackled brightly in the hearth, lighting and giving the room a cozy warmth.

Georgiana sat in a chair next to the large bed, her face weary, fingers of one hand stroking her long golden braid. She was so thin, so fragile. Truthfully, she looked more in need of rest than the woman she watched over. Georgiana coughed—thankfully shallow for now—and looked up, seeing him.

She instantly stiffened, something tense and unreadable in her eyes.

“How is she?” he asked quietly.

“Resting,” Georgiana replied, her tone shuttered. “She does not have a fever. Aside from some scratches, she seems to be in fine health. Just tired and recovering from the cold. She is an utter mystery to
me
.” Georgiana oddly emphasized that last word, meeting his eyes challengingly. Expectantly.

James tilted his head, confusion apparent. Georgiana’s agitation was a subtle thing, showing only in the rigid uprightness of her shoulders, in the clipped emphasis of her speech.

“Well, once the storm breaks, I will send for the doctor. Perhaps he will have more answers for us,” James said, scrubbing a tired hand through his hair.

Whatever upset Georgiana could wait until morning. A good sleep often solved most arguments anyway. Georgiana looked exhausted. She needed rest more than any of them.

“Is there something you would like to tell me, James?”

Georgie did not want to wait, apparently.

She stood and walked toward him, her hand a fist at her side. She took in a breath as she stopped in front of him.

“I have always trusted you. As I hope that you will always trust me. With anything.” Her face again expectant and now also slightly accusatory.

James sighed the sigh—that sound that men intuitively perfect from the cradle. That sigh that connotes equal parts weariness and resignation. That can-you-just-tell-me-what-I-need-to-say-so-I-can-go-to-bed sigh.

“Georgie. . . .” He paused letting out a tired puff of air. “I’m tired. I’ve had a long day and an even longer night. I would really just like to find my bed.” He waited, pushing all his fatigue and cluelessness into his face.

“I trust you,” she said her low tone injured. “When anyone says a word against you, I defend you. When Arthur criticizes your behavior, I take your side. When Linwood or Marianne start in on your lack of propriety, I stand up for you. I have always championed you. Never played you false. Why would you not trust me in this? Do you think me too young to understand?”

She blinked rapidly, her chest heaving, and then she coughed, deep and harsh.

James blinked. He searched his memory, trying to think of something, anything he might have done. . . . Nothing. He had nothing. The silence between them lengthened, stretched. His night had only needed this.

He swallowed. “I know this will only make things worse, but I honestly have no idea what I have done. I have always tried to be honest with you, Georgie. You know I deeply value your loyalty. I would trust you with anything. Everything. You are truly the best and brightest part of my life. I don’t know. . . . I mean . . .”

His voice trailed off. James shook his head, sighing that sigh again and running a hand again through his hair. “Georgie you really should be in bed. Your health . . .”

Georgiana clenched her jaw even tighter, naked hurt blazing in her eyes, making James feel like the worst sort of scoundrel. For what, he had no idea.

How did women do this, filling a man with unknown guilt? Was it something they cultivated or was it a god-given talent?

“Why, James? Why would you persist in denying this? To me of all people?” The aching emotion in her voice cut him.

“Georgie, please,” James pleaded, fighting to keep exasperation out of his voice. “How have I not trusted you?”

“What is this then?” She quietly raised her fisted hand and slowly opened it, revealing a locket nestled in a golden chain. “It’s something that obviously means so much to you. Why would you not tell me? Did you wish to keep it from me until . . . until . . . ” Her voice trailed off. But James easily filled in what she left unsaid.

Until I am gone. Until I am dead
.

She waited expectantly. As if this would suddenly change everything.

Giving Georgiana a quizzical look, James took the locket from her upturned palm. “Is this locket supposed to mean something to me?”

He laid it in his hand, its gold case catching the light, throwing filigree decoration into sharp relief.

Georgiana rolled her eyes at him. Actually rolled her eyes. She had probably been thirteen-years-old the last time she had done that.

“Truly, do you think me a complete idiot? That you could bring her here and none of us would be the wiser?” Georgiana gestured toward the still figure in the bed. “Who is she, James? Your mistress? A secret wife? How could you . . .” She paused, reconsidered. Coughed again, sharp and bleak.

Yes, James was definitely floundering. “What is going on? What would ever make you think that I know this woman? Honestly. I never laid eyes on her until this evening. Truly. My story is exactly as I told. I found her along side the road. Why would you not believe me?”

Georgiana sighed, reached for the locket in his hand and opened it. She turned it in her hand so the light illuminated the image on the inside right. Frowning, James took the locket from her again and stepped closer to the candelabra on the mantle, tilting the portrait into the dim light.

He gasped. And then swore, lowly and impressively.

His own face gazed back at him. Or what seemed like his own face. The resemblance was almost eery: blond hair styled just as he wore his, playful blue-eyes, strong jaw. Even more strange was the blue-green jacket the figure wore. He had ordered just such a jacket from his tailor the previous week.

Puzzled, James turned the locket over in his hands, noting the gilt showed some slight wear in places. It was obviously not new. An utter mystery. Where had such a thing come from?

“Where did you get this?” he questioned again, looking up at Georgiana and shaking his head in baffled wonder.

“She had it.” Georgiana gestured toward the bed. “Around her neck.”

Still shaking his head, James turned back to the locket. Uncanny. How could such a thing exist?

“The resemblance is remarkable,” he said, lifting his eyes to Georgiana’s. “But truthfully, this is not me. Sincerely. All appearances to the contrary, I am not the man in this portrait. Please, you must believe me.” His eyes pleaded.

A coughing fit suddenly swept Georgiana. Instantly, James wrapped his arm around her and half carried her back to her chair, settling a blanket around her shoulders as she sank down.

“Really, Georgie. You should be in bed. This night will half kill you. Perhaps when our guest awakes in the morning, she will have a simple explanation. It is possible that there is another man in the world who resembles me. Besides,” he turned to the locket again, “this locket has seen wear and must be several years old at least. And the man in the image is as I am as of this moment. Not a younger version of myself. So you see, it cannot possibly be . . . rather, it is
not
me.” James turned the locket in his hand again, trying to better discern the sitter’s identity.

“Oh, James,” Georgiana whispered with a sigh. “I suppose I do believe you.” She blinked, as if trying to convince herself.

“Truly, Georgiana, she is unknown to me.” James pled for understanding with his eyes. “I would not lie to you about this. Why would I keep something like this from you?”

He turned the locket over in his hands again and caught a glimpse of lettering opposite the portrait. With a low exclamation, he tilted the locket into the light and then read the inscription.

“Ah-ha! You see, Georgie, here is proof!” He jabbed at the locket with his finger. “Proof that this is not me. Read this inscription.”

Crinkling her forehead, Georgiana leaned forward and read:

To E

throughout all time

heart of my soul

your F

“Oh!” she breathed. “I hadn’t noticed that!”

“My initials are neither E nor F, thank goodness,” James chuckled in relief. “So you see, I speak truth. This isn’t me. It is just an odd coincidence.” James breathed a hefty sigh. He had started to doubt his own sanity as well. But truly, it was simply a twist of fate, nothing more.

“Please tell me you believe me now? Truthfully, I have always held your trust dear and have sought to be worthy of it. I would never abuse you in such a manner. Were I to take a wife—secret or no—you would be first to hear of it.” James arched his eyebrows conspiratorially.