Love's Price (Lord Trent Series) (23 page)

“Bentley Something-or-other.”

“Bentley Struthers? Gad, I know him. Trust me: He probably deserved it.”

“If we ever get back to England—”

“Not
if
,” he said. “
When
we get back to England.”

“When we get back to England, if she was ever captured, would you help her? I’ve been frantic about it, and I don’t have anyone to take her side.”

“Of course I’d help her.”

“I couldn’t pay you.”

“Harriet,” he muttered, scoffing, “I would do anything for you. You wouldn’t have to
pay
me. I’m embarrassed that you’d assume so.”

“Thank you.”

He stroked her hair and kissed her cheek, thrilled that she’d confided in him.

“I’m glad you told me about her,” he said.

“So am I.”

“You’re so tight-lipped about your life and your past.”

“As are you.”

“Me? Compared to you, I’m a veritable chatterbox.”

“There’s nothing much for me to tell.” She was very still, and when she spoke again, she struggled to sound casual. “Is there anyone—other than your brother—grieving for you in London? A sweetheart? A mistress? A...a...wife?”

“I’ve never been married.”

“You’re not betrothed either? There’s no pretty fiancée pining away for your quick return?”

“No,” he lied, and he couldn’t figure out why he would.

There was no reason to deny his betrothal, no reason to pretend Miranda didn’t exist. Nor was it fair to deceive Harriet, but Miranda was a distant memory while Harriet was very, very real, and he truly didn’t feel like a man who was about to wed.

Besides, his engagement to Miranda had no bearing on his relationship with Harriet. One woman was completely irrelevant to the other.

He had to marry, and he had to marry for money. Miranda had some. Harriet didn’t. It was as simple as that, and while he was very fond of Harriet, he could never consider her as a bride, so it was foolish to create a big issue over something so immaterial.

“I miss my sister,” she said. “We were very close, and I’m worried about her. She has a knack for getting into jams.”

“
She
has the knack? You’re the one who is lost at sea and likely presumed drowned. You’re not in such great shape yourself.”

“You’re right about that.”

She rolled over and peered at him. Moonlight drifted through the roof and walls, painting her skin a silvery color.

“Once we’re rescued,” she pressed, “do you think we’ll ever see each other again?”

“Do you mean...when we’re in London?”

“Yes. Will we remain friends, or will we just walk off the ship and never cross paths again?”

He studied her, gaping with consternation, and at his failure to profusely assure her that of course they’d see each other, he sensed she was deeply hurt.

“Never mind.” She laughed, trying to make light of her comment. “I’m feeling awfully melancholy. I suppose it’s all this talk about my sister.”

He rested his palm on her cheek, and he scrutinized her face, committing her features to memory.

“I’d like it if we stayed in contact.”

It was a tepid, pitiful response. This was the moment where he should have been proclaiming himself, where he should have insisted that he couldn’t go on without her, but he didn’t dare utter the promises she was desperate to hear.

When they were alone and so isolated, it was easy to discount their respective positions, but once they were in London, they could never fraternize. It simply wouldn’t be appropriate, but he would never insult her by saying so.

“Could I write to you occasionally?” she shamed him by querying. “Would it be all right?”

“I’m sorry; I’m being an ass.” He smiled and shook his head, disgusted by his gutless nature. “My personal life is complicated, but you will always have a place in it. We’ll figure it out when we get home.”

“If I never saw you again”—a flood of tears surged to her eyes—“I don’t know how I’d bear it.”

“I feel exactly the same. I don’t know how I’d bear it either.” He bent nearer, and he kissed each of her eyelids. “Don’t be sad. You know I can’t stand it when you are.”

“I’m being silly.”

“No. It’s just difficult between us. You understand that.”

“Yes, I do.”

“My choices are more complex than yours, but everything will work out.”

She pulled him to her and initiated a kiss of her own, and he readily joined in, making love to her slowly, tenderly, showing her with his hands and mouth what he couldn’t put into words.

When he finally entered her, there was a poignancy to it that they hadn’t achieved prior. The most stunning wave of affection rushed through him, and a voice in his mind whispered that he loved her, that he’d always loved her, which couldn’t be true.

The prospect was frightening, and he shoved it away, determined to focus only on the physical, on him and her and how splendid they were together.

He flexed leisurely, pushing in all the way, then retreating over and over again, and when he arrived at the end, she finished with him. They were in complete accord, as united as if the Lord, Himself, had bound them to one another.

How could they ever be parted? What force in the universe was powerful enough to tear them asunder?

As he slid away from her, he was extremely overwhelmed. They were silent, staring.

“What is it?” she eventually asked. “Why are you frowning?”

“I wish I’d met you long ago.”

“Why is that?”

“Things might have turned out differently.”

She stretched and grinned. “Is it always like this between lovers?”

“No,” he said. “It’s never like this.”

“Then I’m very lucky, aren’t I?”

She slipped her hand into his, linking their fingers.

“I can’t predict what will happen in the future,” he stated.

“But it will be something wonderful,” she hurried to reply. “I’m certain of it.”

“For now, I have to know that you belong to me.”

“Yes, I’m yours. Forevermore, if it’s what you want.”

“To have and to hold,” he said, in an abbreviated version of the wedding ceremony, “for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, from this day forward.”

“I take thee, Tristan Harcourt.”

“And I take thee, Harriet Stewart. Will you have me?”

“Yes, I will.”

He kissed her, and though they’d merely been spewing romantic nonsense, he was inundated by the perception that the words had a deeper meaning, as if they’d actually exchanged vows.

He felt as if God had been listening, as if they’d attached themselves in a manner Tristan had never intended, but he wasn’t about to complain.

The time he had been granted with Harriet was a gift to cherish and nurture. Until they had to leave the island, he would shower her with all the care and devotion a wife deserved, and when their idyll ended, he would revel in his recollections of how marvelous it had been.

He draped her body across his, her ear pressed over his heart. As he drifted off, a vision tried to intrude—of Miranda walking down the aisle at the cathedral in London—and the image was so terrifying that he felt ill.

He closed his eyes and slept.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

“James, what is it? Where are you going?”

“There’s news.”

“About Tristan?”

“Yes.”

Miranda studied his traveling clothes, the pack slung over his shoulder, and her heart pounded with dread.

All through the summer, she’d been panicked that Tristan would return safe and hale. If he was located, she’d have to pretend to be glad, and her scheme to snag James would end.

It was September already, and so far, she’d had no luck in garnering his affection. Nor had she been able to orchestrate a compromising situation. He’d proved himself adept at avoiding the few traps she’d managed to set.

Surely Tristan was dead. How could he be alive after so many months had passed?

“Oh, do tell me he’s been found!” She struggled to look excited.

“No, but there’s a message from Aiden Bramwell, coming in on a ship that’s docking in Portsmouth.”

The search had galvanized national interest. The story of how
Le Terreur Franҫais
had tried to kill Tristan had spread across the land. As a result, the hunt for Tristan had become nearly a patriotic duty on the part of British sea captains, with the general public following the saga as if it were a staged melodrama.

James constantly received reports from Bramwell, funneled through various ships heading to England, but there had been no sightings of Tristan and no clue as to his whereabouts.

“You’re riding to Portsmouth?” she asked.

“Yes. I’m leaving immediately.”

“Why not simply wait for the letter to make its way to London?”

“The last one took forever, and I can’t bear the delay.” He paused and grinned, appearing sheepish. “I realize this will sound silly, but I’ve been having the most strident thoughts of Tristan. I feel that his rescue is very close.”

“My goodness!”

“It’s ridiculous, I know.” He waved a disparaging hand. “I don’t mind if you say so.”

“No, it’s just that...well...I hope your confidence isn’t misplaced. This entire ordeal has been so frustrating. I’d hate to see you disappointed again.”

“As long as Bramwell is out there, I can’t possibly be disappointed.”

“At least take the coach. I’ll worry if you’re on horseback.”

“I want to get down and back as fast as I can. Don’t fret over me.”

“All right, I won’t.”

“I should return next week.”

A whole week!
It was an eternity. Anything could transpire.

“Godspeed, then.”

As she smiled and walked him out, she was quickly plotting as to how she’d use the interval to her advantage. His absence would provide her with ample opportunity for dealing with Miss Stewart, which was too difficult when he was at home.

His horse had been saddled and was standing in the front drive. He leapt onto the animal and had grabbed the reins to be off when she remembered that she’d needed to speak with him on an important topic.

“Before you go,” she said, “did you pen the notice of termination to the housekeeper as I suggested?”

“Yes, it’s on my desk in the library—with a small stipend for her.”

The housekeeper had been with them a short time, and it had become evident that she lacked the necessary skills for such a massive job. The maids were growing slothful, the footmen inattentive, and the butler was in an uproar.

Miranda had convinced James to get rid of her.

“Should I find a replacement while you’re away? Or would you like to take care of it yourself once you’re back?”

He reflected for a moment. “Why don’t you call on Mrs. Ford and ask her to generate a list of suitable candidates? I’ll interview them when I return.”

She nodded. “Have a safe journey.”

“I will.”

He gave her a jaunty salute, then cantered away.

She went inside and proceeded straight to the library, and she seated herself at the desk and read the termination letter. She’d just stood to convey it to the woman, to notify her that she’d been fired, when a very diabolical, very wonderful idea dawned on her.

“Why not?” she mused.

With James gone, there was no one to contradict any story Miranda told. When he was away, she was in charge. Who was there to gainsay her?

She smirked and, letter in hand, hurried to James’s bedchamber.

Helen braced herself and knocked on the door to James’s private suite.

She’d been his mistress for months, but she rarely joined him in his personal quarters, choosing instead to tryst in her much smaller, less conspicuous room.

The secret of their affair was no secret at all, with the staff aware that she was consorting with him. No one had dared mention the situation to her face, but from the curious glances and condemning glares, it was obvious everyone was gossiping about her.

She refused to fuel the fire of speculation. They could titter until Doomsday, but they’d get no confirmation from her that any untoward conduct was occurring.

Unfortunately, James had left suddenly for Portsmouth to retrieve the most recent message about his brother, and she was extremely nervous over his rapid departure. It had her feeling vulnerable and exposed.

Miranda wanted to meet with Helen. Immediately. In his bedchamber.

A maid had delivered the disturbing edict, and Helen had had to question the girl three times to be certain she’d heard correctly.

“Enter,” Miranda commanded in a sleepy, sultry voice.

Prepared for anything, Helen gritted her teeth and stepped inside.

She hadn’t known what she expected to find. She’d understood that it would be very bad, that she was at Miranda’s mercy, but the reality was so shocking that—at first—she couldn’t figure out what she was witnessing.

The sitting room was empty, with Miranda being farther in the suite, in James’s actual bedchamber. Through a crack in the door, Helen could see most of James’s bed, and someone was in it.

Not James. He was gone. She’d observed from an upstairs window as he’d ridden away.

“Miss Stewart,” Miranda called, “is that you?”