Samantha James (20 page)

For the longest time, Heather didn’t say a word. Then she said tightly, “I want to know about my mother. You said she was a kind, sweet woman. Was she? Or was that another lie as well?”

Miles glanced at Victoria; she gave a tiny nod.

His tone was wooden. “Your mother was nothing like you, Heather.” His eyes squeezed shut. “She was the most vile woman I have ever known, for as she lay dying, she cursed you—her own daughter—for living. And God may punish me forever, but as she breathed her last, I—I gave thanks that you were spared her presence in your life.”

There was nothing more to say. Miles opened his eyes and gazed across from her, hoping…waiting…praying for some sign of forgiveness.

But the silence in the room was like a pall. Heather got up and limped slowly across the floor. Her features were drawn in harsh, bitter lines. She left without a word. Without a look.

Miles remained where he was, too stunned to move. It was left to Victoria to pick up the pieces. She rose. Her footsteps followed in Heather’s wake. She stopped only to briefly catch her husband’s hand in hers.

“Do not despair” was all she said.

Upstairs in her room, Heather lay upon the bed. She’d drawn the drapes against the sunshine streaming in through the windows.

Only her head moved as the door creaked open. “Please, Mama. I want to be alone.”

She sounded as old as the heavens. Victoria’s heart went out to her, but she remained undaunted. Her tread was noiseless as she moved to the bed.

The mattress dipped as she sat. “I won’t let you do this, Heather. To him. Or to yourself.” Soft as her tone was, the words verged on steel.

Heather’s eyes were on her face. “You knew?” was all she said.

Victoria nodded. “Until this day, I agreed with your father that no good would come of telling you the truth, Heather.”

Heather’s gaze skipped away. “It’s…it’s too much, Mama.” Her voice was so low Victoria had to bend near to hear. “Damien’s masquerade…finding out my father is still alive, to say nothing of what he is…Papa lying to me all these years…” The breath she drew was deep and tremulous.

Victoria’s expression was pained. With a tender hand she smoothed Heather’s brow. “I know these revelations have been a shock. But what you must remember now is that in time the hurt will ease. Then you’ll see that nothing has changed.”

Heather stared at the ceiling. “You’re wrong, Mama. Everything’s changed.”

“No, love.
No
.”

Heather averted her face. Thick, black lashes veiled her expression. “Yes, Mama.
Yes
. I—I feel like I don’t know who I am.” Her voice trembled. “I—I feel sick inside. I feel dirty. Unworthy. Like God has cast some blight upon my soul—my life.”

Victoria’s heart twisted. “Heather. Oh, Heather…you’ve nothing to be ashamed of, nothing!”

Heather twisted on her side, curling her knees to her chest. “How can you look at me and not think of him—of James Elliot? How can you look at me and not be reminded that my father is a murderer?”

Victoria’s hand stroked her shoulder. “You ask that as if you think I have no answer. But I would tell you this, Heather. I look at you and I see
you
. No one else, Heather, no one but you. I see what you are, the sweet, loving child you always were. So giving…never asking for anything. I see…what I’ve always seen. A beautiful young girl whose soul is filled with goodness…a woman who has overcome so very much…a woman whose strength rivals that of the most powerful man…I see my daughter, who makes me so
proud I feel I could burst. That has not changed, love. It never will.”

She bestowed on her a smile that was almost whimsical. “I say that because I love you, Heather, the same way your father loves you. No, you are not a child of my womb, not a child of his loins, but you are a child of my heart—of our hearts. No child of mine, of ours, could be more our own than you. What Miles did, he did out of love. Never forget that, sweet. Never lose faith in us…or in yourself.”

Heather’s eyes had slowly lifted. Warm, wet tears trickled down her cheeks and dripped from her chin. She didn’t bother to wipe them away. What she glimpsed in Victoria’s eyes in that moment would live on in her forever. A hot ache filled her throat as she sought to grapple with all that filled her heart.

Reaching out, she hugged her mother fiercely. “I—I love you, Mama,” she choked out.

Neither knew that Miles had slipped into the room as well. He could not help but feel left out and alone. But a rustle of his clothing alerted them to his presence.

Heather sat up and bravely wiped the wetness from her face. Her smile was misty. Wordlessly she held out her hand.

Miles was too choked up to utter a sound. But he couldn’t withhold the tears that sprang to his eyes…nor did he try to.

A morning mist hung close to the ground, for the sun had yet to pierce the low-hanging clouds. All around the London street vendors hawked their wares in the damp morning air.

A sleek, ruby-red carriage clattered on the cobblestone street, then cleanly rounded the next corner.

Gleaming avarice shone in the eyes that followed the vehicle until it disappeared from view. The boy to whom they belonged was a street urchin known as Jack Scavenger. His shirt was threadbare, his too-short breeches held up by a knotted rope, his scrawny feet bare. He made his living day-to-day—begging, stealing, peddling what goods his wits and quick hands brought him. He slept in alleys, under doorways, wherever he could find a place from which he’d not be chased.

“Now there’s a man wot I’d like to be,” Jack remarked to the fellow next to him. “Come from America, ’e did, only to find his elder brother
dead. Next thing ’e knows ’e’s stepped into his brother’s shoes—and his brother an earl, no less!” The man gave a cackling laugh. “Can ye imagine? The bloke probably danced a merry jig atop his brother’s grave! A bleedin’ shame it ’appened to ’im instead o’ me!”

James Elliot turned sharply in the direction of the coach. “You know that man?” he demanded.

Jack shrugged. “Well, I don’t know ’im personal-like, but I know who ’e is.”

“That’s what I asked!” Elliot had no patience with imbeciles. He seized the boy by the collar and dragged him forward.

“’Ey! No need to take on so! ’e’s the bloody Earl of Deverell, that’s who ’e is!”

Stunned, James Elliot released him. Jack scurried backward. Elliot’s mind was racing. Charles Tremayne’s voice echoed through his head.

Never again will I see my boys, Giles and Damien
.

So this was the younger son. He’d only recently heard tales of how the one called Damien had made his way to America years earlier. It had crossed his mind more than once that perhaps the jewel case might be with the younger son instead. He’d been trying to learn more, but with an ocean between them—and a shortage of money—it was difficult. But now it seemed he need search no more….

“The earl is living ’ere in London, is ’e?”

“I believe so,” Jack answered sullenly.

Elliot reached into his pocket and slipped the lad a coin. “Remember me, lad. If you learn
more about the earl—where ’e goes, who ’e sees—there’s more where that came from.”

Elliot sauntered away. A smile as black and sly as his heart rimmed his lips.

This was news. Good news indeed.

The days that followed were among the most difficult of Heather’s life. Her pride was both her ally and her bane. It was a struggle to reconcile the truth about her parenthood—knowing that she was the spawn of an evil, unscrupulous man was difficult, but with one day into the next, it was easier. But where Damien was concerned…

Her heart was in turmoil.

In the days since she’d left Lockhaven, she had convinced herself he meant nothing to her. She’d convinced herself she despised him, for he’d made her achingly aware of all that was lacking in her life…all that would never be hers—a husband and children. She didn’t want to need him. She didn’t want to
love
him.

But now he’d appeared once more. He was back in her life…and in her heart.

And she knew not what to do about it.

He was the first man to kiss her, the first man to make love to her…the first to hurt her. Perhaps it would be better for them both if he left her alone….

He couldn’t. The very idea was unbearable.

He called on her the very next afternoon. The message came down through the butler that she was otherwise engaged. It was repeated the next day and the next. The fourth day, it was Victoria
who came down the stairs, who crossed the gold-flecked marble floor to greet him.

His hands laced behind his back, he rocked up on his heels and back. “Let me guess, my lady,” he drawled. “She is indisposed.”

The merest smile grazed Victoria’s lips. “Actually, my lord—”

“Damien,” he corrected curtly.

“Well, Damien, in all honesty, her speech was quite explicit. She refuses to see you under any circumstances.”

“Indeed.” Damien clenched his gloves in his fist. His eyes narrowed. Unless he was mistaken, there was a glimmer of amusement in the countess’s eyes. He was abruptly irritated. “I do not mean to be rude, my lady, but I do not find this situation humorous.”

Her smile faded. “No,” she sighed. “It’s hardly that, is it? And please, there’s no need to stand on formality here. Call me Victoria.”

His irritation fled as suddenly as it had made itself known. “If it pleases you, Victoria it is, then.” There was a small pause. “How is she?”

Victoria’s hesitation was marked. “Coping as well as can be expected, I suppose. Some days are better than others. At times she feels she doesn’t know herself very well. You must understand, this is a trying time for her. She doesn’t know what she wants—”

“Only that she does not want to see me.” He couldn’t disguise his bitter frustration.

Victoria’s expression had turned cloudy. “May I speak plainly, Damien? Just between you and me?”

“Of course, madam. I would have it no other way.”

She laid a beseeching hand on his sleeve. “If Heather is important to you—I pray you correct me if I am wrong, for I truly believe she is—then you must give her time. Be patient. In a sense she is finding her way again.”

Damien’s jaw was bunched and knotted. Time, he thought darkly. That he had—an abundance of it, as it were. But patience was a virtue he’d never learned to master.

He gave her a low bow. “Thank you, Countess. I trust we shall see each other again”—his smile did not quite reach his eyes—“in time.” With that he departed.

He tried to keep her counsel firmly entrenched in his mind, but he was not a man to stand idle. Victoria seemed sympathetic, but…

Three days later, Heather received a summons early in the afternoon. A maid rapped on her door, then opened it. “Excuse me, Miss Heather, but Lady Beatrice requests your presence in the garden.”

Heather glanced up from the book she’d been reading. “Now?”

The maid nodded. “She stressed that it was a matter most urgent.”

Heather frowned but got up and reached for her cane. Had Bea gotten herself into some sort of trouble? Such a request was most unusual; she hurried outside.

But the garden was deserted. There was no one present save a fat, noisy robin. Puzzled, Heather glanced down a twisting row of pristine white
and blood-red roses. Stupefied, she gazed all around. “Bea?” she called.

From just behind her, she caught a flash of movement. A hand clapped over her mouth, stifling her cry of alarm. A steely arm wrapped around her waist. The world tilted crazily as she was borne from her feet and dumped with little ceremony onto the velvet seat of a coach.

As she scrambled upright, the coach lurched forward so suddenly she had to grasp the seat for balance.

Damien sprawled across from her on the opposite side of the coach, a study in indolent grace. He gazed across at her, his smile lazy. He was obviously quite pleased with himself.

Her gaze went straight to the door. She licked her lips. It was locked, but that was no barrier. She had only to ease a little to her left…

“Don’t even think about it.” His warning was icily polite.

Heather gritted her teeth. “What is the meaning of this?” she demanded.

“You would not see me,” he said, as if that explained everything.

“And so you abducted me?”

He laughed at her closed, angry features. “An unfortunate choice of words,” he said mildly. “I prefer to think of it as an outing.”

“An outing,” she said through her teeth. “And where is this outing taking us?”

“Oh, not terribly far. To the country just outside the city.”

She glared her outrage. “The last time you took me to the country was a disaster.”

Regret flashed in his eyes. “This one will not be, I promise.”

“My family thinks I’m upstairs reading. They’ll be frantic when they realize I’m gone.”

His mouth quirked. “No,” he said dryly. “They won’t.”

Heather’s jaw clamped together. “Let me guess. Beatrice?”

He nodded, a faint twinkle dancing in those silver depths. “Wonderfully helpful, that girl.”

Heather fumed. The little traitor! By Jove, she vowed, she’d see that Bea did not pull such a stunt again.

He crooked a finger at her. “Come here.”

Panic blazed high and bright in her breast. If he touched her—if he touched her she would surely shatter into a million pieces. She would be completely, utterly lost.

She shook her head, huddling even farther into the corner.

“Very well, then. I’ll come to you.”

He was beside her in an instant, moving with the lithe, effortless grace she had once envied. Tugging her from her niche, he proceeded to pull her back against his chest. Long arms curled around her from behind, spanning her waist, caging her in a tender prison.

Heather froze, her hands extended almost straight out before her.

“None of that, now,” he scolded gently. “All I want is to hold you. Nothing more, I promise.”

Hah! she thought, for their position was shockingly intimate. She was lying in his lap, her hips snug between the notch of strong, hard thighs.
Yet there was nothing sexual or threatening in his hold; it was loose and passionless. Letting out a long, shaky breath, her hands fluttered atop his. She stared, for the contrast was riveting. His hands were wonderfully masculine, his fingers long and lean and dark against the paleness of her own. A little quiver tore through her.

“Just relax,” he whispered. “Don’t think about anything, Heather. Don’t worry or fret. Just lie back and enjoy the moment.”

She wanted to, she realized wistfully. The past weeks had been fraught with tension. And it felt so good to be held, tight and safe and warm, as she hadn’t been in such a long, long time.

The coach bounced along the roadway. Her body rocked gently against his. Gradually her limbs relinquished all resistance. His jaw scraped lightly against the tender skin of her temple, but she didn’t mind.

Warm breath stirred her hair. “You looked beautiful the other night, Heather. Enchanting. Like a fairy princess.”

A wisp of a smile lifted her lips. “That’s what Bea said.”

“She was right.” His tone was husky. “I remember thinking I’d never seen anyone quite so lovely in all my life. But then, I shouldn’t be surprised. You’re beautiful, no matter where you are, no matter what you wear. As the princess you were the other evening. As the gypsy I first met at Lockhaven.”

Her head ducked down. “Don’t,” she said very low. “Don’t—don’t say such things.”

“Why not?”

She twisted around so she could see him. She spoke with hesitant words…and hesitant heart. “Damien, I—I have been trying to understand why you did…what you did…at Lockhaven. But there is a part of me that feels betrayed.”

His regard was steady. “I can understand that, Heather.”

“From the start, I felt you were…a man of conviction. A man of honor. I—I would have no more duplicity between us. So if it’s guilt that prompts such flattery—”

“Disabuse yourself of that notion here and now, Heather.” His tone had gone hard.

All at once Heather shivered. The hairs on the back of her neck prickled eerily.

Damien frowned. A surge of fierce protectiveness shot through him. “What is it? What are you thinking?”

“I was thinking…of him.”

“You mean James Elliot.” His arms had gone as brittle as his voice.

She nodded.

“What of him?”

His expression was so forbidding that she was momentarily afraid to speak. “I think he is a horrible, odious man—the man who killed your brother.” Dark, sinister features flashed before her. She spoke haltingly. “Remember…I told you about…the terrible man in my dream?”

“You said if you made a sound, he would punish you. He’d hurt you.” Dear God, how could he forget?

“He did,” she said in a voice that made his blood run cold. Tensely he waited.

“You asked me once…if the man in the dream was my father. I—I do not know if that man is James Elliot. God help me, I—I don’t want to believe it.” Her hand came out to touch the mangled surface of her knee. “But the man in the dream. I…I think he did this. He—he raised something high above his head. And then he—he hit me….”

Damien’s blood had gone to boiling. Rage stole over him, a rage so potent he shook with the force of it. Heather might doubt the identity of her father, but he did not. If James Elliot were before him now, he would tear him limb from limb without a second thought. Not only for what he’d done to Giles…but for what he’d done to Heather, to the poor, innocent child who could not defend herself against him.

Staring up into his face, Heather went cold to the tips of her toes. His features were harsh and taut, his eyes empty of emotion. Yet in that mind-splitting instant she sensed a ruthlessness about him that was almost frightening.

She blanched. “Dear God,” she said faintly. “You’re going to kill him, aren’t you? When you find James Elliot, you’re going to—to kill him.”

His lips were ominously thin. “When I find him, he’ll be punished. I’ll say no more.”

She didn’t recoil from him, yet she wore her horror like a wounded animal.

“Don’t tell me you would have him spared! Heather, he murdered my brother!”

Her breath tumbled out in a rush. “Yes…no. Oh, don’t you see? I don’t know! I don’t know what to think! Is there no forgiveness for the damned? No mercy for the weak? Will you kill him without knowing for certain he is the one?” She tried to tear herself free of his embrace. He wouldn’t let her.

He closed his arms around her and buried his face in the shining black cloud of her hair, fighting a violent tug-of-war inside.

He lifted his head. “Heather.” Her name erupted on a long, tense breath of air. “Heather, please. Do not torture yourself, for this I promise. An innocent man will not pay for my brother’s death. Though James Elliot has already killed two men, if he is the one who murdered Giles, I will have it from his lips.”

Her troubled gaze sought his. “I have questions, too, Damien. I would know if he is indeed my father. And if he is, then I—I would know why my mother traveled without him that long-ago night. I would know why he did not seek out his daughter after twenty years in Newgate. Indeed, I’ve been thinking an investigation of my own—”