Samantha James (16 page)

Her lips parted. He was mad, she thought vaguely, as mad as she’d laughingly accused him of being.

“No,” she said faintly. “That’s not possible. I’ve had it since I was a child.”

His gaze was frigid as ice. “There’s no mistake.”

“There has to be! Perhaps they’re merely similar—”

“It’s not. My father commissioned it expressly for my mother, on the occasion of my birth. It was her most prized possession.”

“And it’s
my
most prized possession. My father—Miles—gave it to me. It’s all I have left of my mother—all that was left from the accident that killed her!”

Damien’s mind was racing. He wasn’t mistaken. It was he who had broken the hinge—his mother had been heartbroken. He’d made her cry, and it was a moment he’d never forget. His father had taken it to London to be repaired, and it was then he’d fallen ill and died. He hadn’t remembered until now, but he was certain the jewel case had been missing from his father’s belongings. Yes…yes, he was certain. He hadn’t seen it since the day his father had left for London…

The last day he’d seen his father alive.

An eerie foreboding prickled the hairs on the back of his neck. It was so bizarre…his mind screamed. How had Heather—or Justine Duval—come by it?
How
?

He hated the seething undercurrent of suspicion that gnawed at him, but he couldn’t help it. Had he been wrong to trust her? Perhaps it was true. Perhaps she
did
remember her father. Perhaps he’d been right, and Elliot had been here….

His jaw clamped shut. “It may have been
with
her. But it wasn’t hers.”

“What do you imply? That my mother was a thief?”

His mouth was a grim line. “Aye,” he said harshly.

“It belonged to her,” she said feelingly. “And I—I won’t let you besmirch her memory this way!”

His lip curled.

“No,” she stated bluntly. “You’re wrong, Damien. Or perhaps you’re the one who’s lying.”
Her gaze moved over his stony features. Their eyes locked, a battle of wills. A chill trickled over her skin.

“Who are you?” she whispered. “Who are you really?”

Now it was she who confronted him, no matter that her voice was more breath than sound.

“You know who I am.”

“No.” She shook her head. “You’re hiding something. I can see it.” Her fingers curled into her palm. “I can feel it.”

A mantle of silence hung in the air.

Her breath came fast, then slow. “You don’t deny it. What then! Did you plan to get close to me and”—the pain in her breast bled through to her voice—“and rob me little by little? Should I check the silver, Damien? The treasures in the drawing room? Perhaps you intended to steal the jewel case, and this is just a ploy to throw me off guard. Or did you have something else in mind? Something on a larger scale?”

A sizzle of anger sparked on his face. She didn’t care.

She swept an arm toward the bed. “What was this? A tender trap? Did you think to seduce me that I might turn over my estate—my money? What a fool you must have thought me! The little cripple who would never know the difference—who might be persuaded to part with any and everything…why, even her virtue!” Her voice rang with contempt—a contempt that encompassed them both.

“It was you who begged me to stay, Heather. Need I remind you?”

Oh, but he was cruel to taunt her so! Her reply was swift and emphatic. “But why, I ask? Because it was to your advantage? And you still haven’t answered, Damien. Did you intend to steal me blind? Or have you already done so?”

Silence.

With every breath, every heartbeat, she could feel her hopes, her dreams, drifting away….

She knew then…knew she was right. That he was not the man he said he was.

“Tell me!” she almost screamed.

His eyes flickered. “I’ve stolen nothing from you, Heather.”

You have, she longed to cry. Her trust. Her heart…

The silence was painful.

She drew back her shoulders. Forced back the crushing tightness in her chest. Armed herself with dignity…

For what else was left?

“I want you to leave.” Through some miracle, her voice never faltered. It rang out clear and unwaveringly strong.

His gaze narrowed. “Leave,” he repeated. “You mean…leave Lockhaven?”

Pain wrenched at her insides. She steeled herself against it. “Yes,” she said. “By this evening.” Coolly she met his regard.

Something blazed on his face, swiftly suppressed. “Oh, you needn’t worry, Miss Duval.” His eyes were as cutting as his tone. “I’ll be gone long before then.”

He disappeared without another word. He didn’t even bother to close the door in his wake.

Feeling as old as the heavens, Heather limped across to shut it. She was nearly there when her bare toe touched something. She glanced down.

It was her sketch of him.

Slowly she bent to retrieve it.

For an instant her eyes traced the outline of his profile, the proud set of his shoulders as he stared off into the distance. She remembered how she had ached for the unknown burden he carried….

With a jagged cry, she ripped it to pieces. The scraps drifted to the floor.

So did the shreds of her heart.

“I need to see Papa.”

Victoria’s blue eyes lifted from her needlework. At Heather’s entrance into the drawing room, she set it aside. “Heather, what a delightful surprise!” she exclaimed. “We weren’t expecting—”

“Where is Papa, Mama?”

Blond brows drawn together over her patrician nose, Victoria tipped her head to the side. She patted the space beside her. “Please, dear. Come sit—”

“Not now, Mama.”

Victoria’s welcoming smile vanished. She rose and moved to where Heather had stopped short, just inside the entrance. Gently she laid her fingers on the flounced sleeve of Heather’s gown. “Heather, whatever is wrong?”

Heather resisted the urge to shake off her mother’s touch. She was hanging on to her composure by the veriest thread. At the slightest provocation, she would fly apart.

“I do not mean to be either rude or short with you, Mama, but this concerns a matter solely between Papa and me.”

Victoria’s gaze searched her face. For an instant Heather was convinced she would question her further. But she only said, “He’s out riding Pegasus, love. Would you like to wait in his study?”

“Thank you. I believe I shall.”

She didn’t have long to wait. Within minutes Miles strode in, dashing and handsome in black riding clothes and boots. Excitement flushed his cheeks, and his dark eyes were agleam.

“Heather, you should have seen Pegasus! In all my days, I’ve never seen a horse so fleet of foot—” One look at her face and he stopped short.

“Poppet, are you sick? You’re as pale as snow!”

“I’m fine, Papa.” She laced her hands together in her lap to still their trembling. “But I must ask some questions of you. Will you answer me true?”

There was a brief pause. “Of course I will, poppet. Haven’t I always done my best by you?” Concerned, he sat down beside her.

“It’s about the jewel case that belonged to my mother. The one you found with her after the accident. You remember it?”

“Yes. Yes, of course.”

“How long had she had it?”

“I daresay I don’t know, Heather.”

“Where did it come from? Was it a family heirloom?”

“I really couldn’t say, love.”

“But you knew her well, didn’t you?”

Did a hint of wariness flit across his features? Or was it merely her imagination? Yet, for a heartbeat, she could have sworn he appeared uncomfortable, and the pangs of uncertainty bit deep within her….

“Yes, you already know that. But I was hardly acquainted with belongings of a personal nature.” He ran a hand over his hair. “Heather, it seems an odd thing to ask about. After all these years, why her jewel case?”

Heather let out a long, uneven breath. She decided to say nothing of Damien’s accusation that the jewel case was his mother’s. It was too preposterous. And Papa had never lied to her—never.

All at once she felt rather foolish. “It’s nothing, Papa. Please, I—I’m just being rather silly. And perhaps a bit melancholy these days.” She summoned a smile. “Truly, it’s nothing.”

But even after she’d departed, Miles wasn’t so sure.

Victoria entered almost as soon as Heather had gone. “What was that about?”

Miles turned from where he stood near the window, staring out as the breeze stirred the treetops. His expression was grave as Victoria had never seen it.

“I wish I knew,” he said quietly. “She was asking about her mother’s jewel case.”

“Whatever for?”

“She didn’t say. Or perhaps more aptly, she
wouldn’t
say. She asked how long her mother had had it, if it was a family heirloom. Christ,
Victoria, what was I to say? I’ve no idea.” He gave a slight shake of his head. “I remember Justine clutching it when I found her. I recall thinking the very devil himself couldn’t have pried it from her fingers.”

“It’s quite gorgeous. Simple, but lovely nonetheless,” Victoria said slowly. “At times I wondered how she came to be in possession of such an elegant piece.”

“So did I,” Miles admitted. “But it was the only thing of substance that she had, and I thought it only right that Heather should have
something
of her mother’s. She’s always treasured it dearly.”

“And rightly so,” Victoria agreed. “Indeed, without knowing anything of Justine’s circumstances, we have no right to think ill of her. ’Tis possible her circumstances declined for some such reason, and that was all she had left.”

Possible, though not very probable
. The thought filled both their minds.

Miles’s features were somber. “It bothers me, Victoria. First she came to me with questions about her father—what he looked like. And now these questions about her mother’s jewel case…it’s odd. Very odd.”

“I know.” Victoria hesitated. “Yet I have this—this feeling that something else is troubling her as well, Miles. I’ve never seen her quite like this.”

He slipped his arms around his wife and rested his chin atop her shining blond hair. His gaze was pensive. “I know. But she’s a grown woman, Victoria, and, much as I hate to admit it, ’tis
none of our affair. If Heather needs our help—if she wishes to confide in us—then it must come from her.” A crooked smile lifted a corner of his mouth. “One never stops worrying, I fear, even after they leave the fold.”

Victoria pretended to pout prettily. “What! Are you saying we cannot interfere?”

A dark brow arose. “That’s precisely what I’m saying. Indeed, I seem to remember your saying those very same words quite often in the days when Heather first moved to Lockhaven.”

Victoria wrinkled her dainty nose good-naturedly. The conversation moved onto other matters, and, while they shelved their concern for Heather momentarily, it was most assuredly not forgotten.

Heather spent yet another sleepless night. There was no rest for her weary body, no ease for the turmoil in her soul. She tried to blot out the memory of all that had happened here, in this very bed. She squeezed her eyes shut, burning inside when she thought of all he had done…all
she
had done.

But that was not all. She thought of all she’d ever confessed to him…. She’d exposed her every fear, her every hurt, bared her very soul.

And for what?
For what
?

In his arms she’d been so certain that she had at last discovered the sweet promise of belonging. But he had deceived her, and she hated him for it…

But she hated herself far more for her weakness.

Yet still a hundred questions pounded at her brain. He’d come to Lockhaven for a purpose. But what? And why hadn’t she listened to her heart? She thought of all the times her senses had warned that all was not right. His manners. His speech. His cultured air. His queries about her parents…She should have listened and taken heed. Yet still the burning question remained.

Who was he…really?

Near dawn, two scalding tears slid down her cheeks. She wiped them away with the backs of her fingers, secretly bleeding inside.

They were the only tears she allowed herself to shed.

Over the next week, Heather went about her daily life as if nothing had changed. A halo of pain encircled her heart, but outwardly she remained calm and composed.

Or so she thought.

“I know what’s wrong with Heather.”

Beatrice made this startling announcement after Arthur and Christina had departed the dinner table one evening.

Two pair of eyes swiveled in her direction. A vibrating tension hummed in the air as Miles and Victoria waited for her to speak.

Bea took a deep, fortifying breath. “I went to visit yesterday. Heather was not at home,” she hastened to add. “But on my way out, I heard one of the maids confide to another that Damien Lewis was seen coming down the stairs at dawn the other morning.”

Victoria’s teacup slipped from her fingers. It
clattered on the saucer, sloshing tea across the delicate lace tablecloth.

Miles leaped from his chair like a thunderbolt—and his voice clapped like one, Bea decided with a nervous inner giggle.

“I knew it all along. I knew he was a blackguard! By Jove, I’ll kill the bastard!”

“Oh, but he’s not there, Papa. He’s gone.”

Victoria paled. “Never say that has anything to do with you, Bea,” she gasped.

Beatrice yelped. “Mama, how can you say such a thing?”

Victoria glanced beneath her lashes at Miles, who had resumed his seat but now glowered at both of them. “Well, dear,” she murmured, “you were quite taken with him—”

“Oh, but that was eons ago! And you and Heather were right, Mama. Handsome though he is, he is quite old. Besides, it seems he’s much more suited to”—she glanced at her father, who was scowling at her blackly—“to Heather,” she finished weakly.

“I dislike like what you imply, Beatrice.” Miles’s tone was stiff and scathing. “I’ll not have you insulting your sister in such a manner.”

Suddenly Bea looked ready to cry. “I meant no insult! Nor am I a child any longer. If Mr. Lewis left the house at dawn, ’tis obvious where he spent the night—”

“You don’t know if that’s true, Beatrice.” Miles glared across the table at her.

“But what if it is?” she cried. “I—I saw them together once. His head was very close to hers and—and I think they had a tendre for each
other. Then suddenly he left, and Heather looks like a wounded doe…I am worried about her. And I wanted to help, Papa. Otherwise I wouldn’t have said a word!”

“And you did the right thing, dear, though you must understand your father’s need to squelch rumors that may not be true.” Victoria sought to placate both of them.

“I think it’s time we found out precisely what the truth
is
.” Miles started to shove back his chair.

Victoria had already laid a hand on his. “No,” she said softly.

Miles looked ready to explode.

“Darling,” she said quietly, “Heather is aware you love her dearly. And while I realize the two of you have shared much more than many fathers and daughters, I’m not certain Heather would wish to discuss her…relationship with Mr. Lewis with her father.” She squeezed his fingers. “It’s a matter that requires a woman’s touch, don’t you agree?”

“Yes. Yes, I suppose you’re right.” Miles’s tone was gruff.

Victoria smiled at him and rose. Before she left the dining room she laid a hand on Bea’s shoulder. “Beatrice,” she murmured, “I trust this discussion will go no further.”

Bea lowered her eyes and said meekly, “Of course not, Mama.”

A week after the stillborn birth of Bridget’s baby, Heather returned to the MacTavish cottage. Luckily the midwife had returned the very
next day; it was she who saw to Bridget’s care in the days that followed. Heather was secretly glad of the midwife’s return, for she dreaded facing Bridget again.

It had taken this long for Heather to gather the courage to face Bridget. Guilt ate at her insides like acid—oh, she’d come to realize the poor babe’s death was not her fault. But Heather couldn’t forget…while Bridget had been plunged into the depths of despair, mourning the death of her child, she’d been locked fast in the wanton embrace of a lover….

It was an emotionally tearing visit for both of them. In each other’s arms they wept anew over the loss of the babe. Physically, Bridget was doing well—she’d been up and about for several days now. But Heather was secretly heartsick. She tried to console Bridget and assure her that all was not lost. That, God willing, there might well be another babe. But Bridget had lost faith.

And so had she.

Back at Lockhaven, she passed the reins to the stableboy. It was then that she saw Mama’s white mare grazing beneath the shade of a tree. Though she was in no mood for company, she knew she must try and put on a good face, or Mama would worry. It crossed her mind that she should also apologize to both Mama and Papa. She’d been curt with both of them.

In the drawing room a diminutive figure rose from the divan, both hands extended.

“Heather!” Mama’s smile was as sweet as always. “How are you, love?”

Heather obligingly gave her a peck on each cheek. “I’m fine, Mama.”

“Really? You look a bit peaked, dear.”

Marcus entered bearing a tea tray. Heather thanked him and they sat.

The countess poured, chattering about the divine summer weather. Heather refused the jellied tart her mother placed on her plate.

Victoria frowned. “But these are your favorite, dear.”

“I know, Mama. I’m just not hungry.”

Victoria studied her over her teacup. “You look thinner, love. Aren’t you eating?”

Heather wished she could evade her scrutiny—and her questions. At times Mama was just a little too astute. “I’ve not had much appetite of late.”

Victoria lowered her cup and saucer to the gleaming cherrywood table. “Heather,” she said quietly, “we are all aware that something is wrong—your father, Bea and I.” There was a tiny pause. “Bea thinks it has something to do with Mr. Lewis. Indeed, she’s convinced you and Mr. Lewis have a tendre for each other.”

Heather felt as if the rug had been pulled from beneath her feet. The observation—as well as Mama’s bluntness—caught her off guard.

She tried to hide her panic. She swirled her tea in her cup, staring into the murky liquid, wishing she could disappear inside it.

“I cannot think why she would say such a thing.” Her voice was barely audible.

“Can’t you?”

For all the softness of her tone, she could feel Mama’s eyes. Probing. Searching…

She jerked her head aside. “Don’t!” she cried. “Don’t look at me!”

The outburst startled both of them. Mama’s arm slid around her.

“Heather…oh, sweet, I do not mean to interfere. But it makes me ache inside to see you like this, and I cannot bear it! I—oh, perhaps I am wrong—but I cannot shake the feeling that Bea is right. That you might very well be in love with Mr. Lewis—”

Heather’s head jerked up. A stark, wrenching pain seized her heart. It was true, she realized helplessly. She loved him.

She loved him
.

Her shoulders slumped. All the life seemed to go out of her. “It doesn’t matter. He’s gone. I—I sent him away.”

“Heather, listen to me. I’ve never told you before, but…remember the story I told you when you were a child? The story about the scandalous young miss who kissed a wicked earl in the garden?” A wispy smile curled her lips. “Sweetheart, that was me.”