Leslie LaFoy (52 page)

“True, but I can get away from England,” he admitted as he flipped the center of the silk scarf over her head. The cool fabric slid over her bare nape as he added, “Once we're done with our business here, I'm boarding a ship bound for Algeria. English justice doesn't reach to the north of Africa.”

He'd crossed the ends and was drawing the silk tight when her fingers closed around the handle of the teapot.

•        •        •

“I DON'T NEED ANY KEEPERS,” Devon groused as he neared the top of the stairs. “And I damn sure don't need an audience.”

“We promise,” Edmund retorted dryly from behind him, “to leave as soon as she lets you in.”

“Trusting you, of course,” Ephram chimed in, “to do the right thing in our absence.”

“Of course,” Devon agreed tightly. He had every intention of doing the right thing, of saying what needed to be said. The four and a half months without Claire had been the most miserable of his life, but they hadn't altered his decision any more than had the pint of ale and sometimes slightly less than friendly persuasion. Not that Ephram's and Edmund's words had made any difference. He'd known when he'd left his rooms that he was going to end up here, that he didn't have any choice.

Claire was safe in England. He was more convinced of it now than he'd been the morning Governor Dunmore had suspended the House of Burgesses. War was coming. It was inevitable and Claire needed to be well out of harm's way. And for her own safety, she had to stay in England and she damn well had to divorce him. One way or the other, he was going to convince her of those certainties before the night was over.

He vaulted up the last of the steps, reaching the second floor and turning to start down the lamplit corridor on his right. Ahead of him, midway down the hall, a well-dressed man lay in a crumpled heap on the floor. Another man—stocky and thick-browed—lounged against the door frame beside him, apparently unconcerned for his companion's welfare.

Devon froze, instantly wary, his gaze quickly sweeping the hall beyond. Just the one man. Scruffy coat, poorly mended stockings, battered short boots. A man
who didn't belong in this place. A lazy glance up, then a start. The man straightened quickly, stepping into the hall as though to block it and then casting a nervous glance back to the door.

“I don't like this,” Edmund said softly from behind Devon's right shoulder.

“By the numbers,” Ephram said just as quietly from his left, “that door would be Lady Claire's.”

Certainty and horrifying possibility instantly melded in Devon's mind. Claire was in London to testify against her uncle. The uncle who had once tried to kill her to keep her from doing so. If he were to make another attempt before it was too late… The man on the floor was likely the court-appointed guard, and the man who looked like a hired thug…

Devon moved instinctively, his only thought of getting to Claire before it was too late. The stranger stood his ground, but only until Devon's fist connected with the center of his face. He was still falling when Devon whirled toward the door, grabbed the knob, turned it, and threw his shoulder into the solid wood panel. The mechanism squeaked and the timber groaned, but didn't grant him entrance.

He could hear Ephram's and Edmund's voices, but their words were only a low rumble lost in the rushing of his frantic heartbeat. Stepping back from the door, he focused his attention on a point just to the left of the handle. And then he kicked it with every ounce of strength and determination in his body.

It splintered into long, jagged pieces and sagged away from the frame as the world stood still. Claire was in the center of the room, staring down at her blood-covered hands. Her gown was soaked with it. So much blood. Too much to long survive its loss. Dear God, he was too late.

She looked up then, her gaze slowly meeting his. Recognition flickered and in its wake silent tears spilled
over her lashes. He wished the distance between them gone and it was. Her hands were in his and he was desperately looking for the wound, demanding, “Where are you hurt, Claire? Tell me where!”

“I'm all right,” she said weakly, her voice quavering. “It's
his
blood.”

His?
Devon started, realizing that once he'd seen her, he hadn't given any thought to her assailant. He quickly looked over his shoulder and sagged in relief to see Edmund standing between them and the figure lying stone still in a widening pool of blood.

“My uncle,” she said quietly as Devon turned back to her. “He was trying to kill me.” What was left of her composure crumbled. Tremors wracked her body and a sob caught deep in her throat as a fresh flood of tears poured over her cheeks. In the face of her need, all of his resolve and good intentions were undone.

“Edmund,” he began, sweeping her up into his arms and carrying her toward the bedroom.

“Ephram's gone for the constables,” his friend replied crisply. “It's too late to send for a doctor. Just see to Claire and I'll manage in here.”

Claire sighed and let her eyes drift closed, too exhausted to think, too weak to move on her own. Devon was there and the horrible nightmare had come to an end. It was all that mattered now. She would be all right. Her world would be mended and made whole. Devon had come for her. He loved her. She could feel it wrapping around her and radiating through her. She was in his arms and he'd never again let her go.

“I want to go home, Devon,” she whispered into the curve of his neck.

“And you will, sweetheart,” he promised, gently placing her in the center of the bed. “You will.”

He drew back and she tried to protest his leaving, but couldn't make the words come off her tongue. Her limbs were leaden and her eyes wouldn't open.

“Sleep now and we'll talk later,” he said softly as he pressed a kiss to her lips. “I'll be here when you wake.”

He would be. She knew it to the center of her soul. And as long as they were together, she'd have the strength and courage to face whatever happened next. The worst was over. She'd endured and survived. She was going home. With Devon. To Rosewind.

C
LAIRE AWAKENED
with a start, not knowing for a moment where she was. The first light of a new day trickled through the small parting between the curtain panels, and she sat up in bed and stared at it, waiting for a sense of place to come to her. The cold draft on her shoulders slowly brought her awareness back to herself. She wasn't wearing a nightrail. She wasn't wearing anything at all. Even odder, she didn't remember retiring last night. It was very strange indeed. She looked back to the window and studied the fabric of the curtains.

London? Yes, she—

The floodgates of memory opened and deluged her. Her uncle. The scarf. The teapot and his rage. The sickening feel and sound of the knife as he threw himself on her, on it. And the blood. Oh, God, the blood. Everywhere. The heat and smell of it. The look on his face as he'd staggered back, his hands red and fumbling at the hilt.

Devon had been there. Her handsome husband, striding through the splintered door, taking her into his arms. After that…

Her heart pounding, Claire looked around the room, hoping to find him there and choking back a cry of disappointment when she didn't. No, she couldn't have dreamed him, she assured herself as she flung back the covers. Her feet hit the cold floor and she stopped, her mind racing.

Her gown had been drenched with blood; that she
remembered. She looked at her hands. Clean. Devon had to have undressed and bathed her. Who else would have? She didn't remember doing it for herself, didn't remember anything after he'd wrapped her in his arms except for a sense of finally being safe.

She glanced around the room, but saw no sign of the dress anywhere. In fact, everything she'd been wearing last night was gone without a trace. No stockings, no stays, no shift, no petticoats. Had Devon taken it all away? Was he still here? Had he come to his senses? Had he come to take her home?

A snippet of memory, foggy and dim, came to her. Her own voice saying she wanted to go home. Devon promising her that she'd get there.

Claire started toward the parlor door, her heart filled with hope and excitement. She stopped halfway across the room and frowned. Her uncle was dead at her hand. There was a very good chance that London constables might be waiting with Devon. The first question they'd think to ask her would be whether she made a habit of bursting into rooms naked.

Smiling, she dashed to the armoire and took out the easiest clothing she could pull on.

D
EVON LOOKED AWAY
from the window to find her standing in the doorway of the bedchamber, silently studying him, her hair tumbling wildly over her shoulders, the swells of her breasts draped in the linen of her shirt, the length of her legs and the curve of her hips encased in the doeskin of her breeches. And to think that at one time he'd been appalled by her boy's clothing.

He filled his senses with her even as his brain reminded him yet again that he couldn't have her and that the price he paid for coming here was his heart breaking all over again. But it was one he was willing to pay for the chance to look into those beautiful eyes again, to
try one more time to protect her the only way he knew how.

God, that he could do that just by holding her in his arms. If only he could wrap her in his love and know that it would be enough to keep her safe. And if wishes were horses… He looked away from her, not wanting her to see his regrets and misery, not knowing what to say or how to begin.

Claire watched the sadness settle over his features, and the hope that filled her withered away. He wasn't here to tell her that he'd made a mistake, to ask her to come back to Rosewind with him. She stood frozen, desperately wanting to run to him and throw herself into his arms. And just as badly wanting to find something heavy and throw it at him. Unable to decide which she wanted to do more, she remained where she was, swallowing down her heartache.

After a long moment, he gestured to the main door and said, “As you can see, they've replaced it already. And put the place back to rights.” The silence stretched taut between them, and he stepped away from the window, asking, “Are you all right, Claire?”

She nodded, touched the tip of her tongue to her lower lip, and then asked, “Where are the constables?”

“They've been here and gone,” he answered, hooking his thumbs over the waistband of his breeches. “Your uncle's hireling told them everything they either needed or wanted to hear. Edmund went with them to do the necessary paperwork. Ephram went along to show him a bit of London when they were done. Edmund asked me to tell you that the court will send you something official tomorrow—” He glanced toward the window and smiled weakly. “Make that today—that releases you from any obligation to remain in London on its behalf.”

“So I'll be free to return to Crossbridge,” she ventured,
needing to know what he was thinking and desperately hoping to hear him protest.

“Yes.”

No single word had ever hurt as deeply. Pride was all that kept her from running away. “Why are you here, Devon?”

He looked out the window as he replied, “Edmund and I were sent to talk with British businessmen in London to see if we could get them to make the King and Parliament exercise good judgment.”

“Yes, I know. I've read the newspapers. I imagine that they'll make an appeal,” she said, exasperated, knowing an evasion when she heard one. “It's in their best interests to keep relations between England and her colonies peaceful. I don't expect it will do any good, though. Why did you come to my room last night?”

Squaring his shoulders, he finally met her gaze again. His jaw the same hard granite it had been the morning she'd last seen him, he answered, “Ephram came by the inn yesterday evening. He told me that you don't intend to petition for a divorce.”

Ah, there it was. The divorce. He'd come to see finished what he'd begun on the James City dock. She'd made it easy on him that day; she'd been too hurt and afraid and confused to put up a real fight. He wasn't going to walk away unscathed this time. She hadn't been angry that morning. She was now. “I think Ephram has done quite well for himself as a freedman. Don't you?”

Her eyes had turned the color of steel. Despite the hair prickling on the back of his neck, Devon doggedly held to his course and answered, “He looks good. I forgot to ask about his job. Why won't you do the sensible thing?”

“Meg and Hannah?” she asked breezily. “How are they? Has Edmund asked Meg to marry him yet?”

“They're fine,” he supplied, struggling to contain a
burning mixture of hunger and anger as he watched her amble toward the hearth. “And yes. The wedding's to be this spring. Now answer my question. Why won't you petition for a divorce?”

“I'd offer you a cup of tea,” she said, not bothering to look at him as she warmed her hands before the fire. “But I broke the pot over my uncle's head. Not that it'd be at all palatable at this point even if I hadn't. I could order some sent up if you'd like.”

Claire started as a settee pillow sailed past her, hitting the mantel in front of her as from behind her he bellowed, “Dammit, Claire! Talk to me!”

She whirled around, furious. “Why should I talk?” she demanded, marching to stand toe to toe with him. Tilting her head up to meet a gaze every bit as angry as her own, she charged on, not caring what damage she did with her words. There wasn't any damage that hadn't already been done.

“You don't talk, Devon. And you don't listen, either,” she accused. “You issue decrees and everyone is expected to obey. You decide what's important and what isn't, and what anyone else thinks or feels doesn't matter. Almost five months ago we stood on the dock at James City and you made one of your kingly pronouncements. I was to go to England, petition for a divorce, and be happy. What I wanted didn't matter. King Devon decreed and I was to see his wisdom and obey.”

She paused to seize a breath, and then, jabbing a finger into the center of his chest, she declared, “Well, I'm not going to obey and there's not a damn thing you can do about it.” She turned around and marched off to the bedchamber, saying, “If you want tea, send for it yourself!”