Samantha James (9 page)

His eyes half closed. He could see the silver, claw-footed jewel case in his mind, the image as vivid as it had been the day the Earl of Deverell met his Maker.

Hidden within the case is my legacy to my wife, a treasure I pray she will find beyond price. She will know how to find it, for she alone knows the secret…

Mad, Thomas the jailer had called him when he’d boasted of the treasure that awaited him once he was free. But he wasn’t mad. It was his prize. His salvation. By God, he’d earned it.

His lips curled back over yellowed teeth. If only Justine hadn’t stolen it, all would have been so different! But the case hadn’t been with her at the site of the accident. He’d reached there within the week, and bits of clothing were still
strewn all about. But the jewel case was nowhere to be found.

Of his young daughter, he gave but momentary consideration. Apparently the accident had spared her life—what a pity! If she ended up in an orphan house, it made no matter to him. Certainly he had no intention of presenting himself as her father. Nay, not when he was at last well rid of the burden of his crippled bratling!

His gaze strayed to the stump of his thumb. A snarl twisted his features. The little bitch had maimed him for life, and he’d never forgiven her. Aye, he thought viciously. It would have been better had the sniveling little bitch died….

He hoped she had.

His mind returned to the jewel case—to more important matters.

Not long after he’d been imprisoned, he’d learned that the earl’s wife had died…and the secret of the jewel case along with her. James had pondered on this long and hard, night after night, for God knew there was little else to think about in that wretched hole; it was this that had given him renewed hope, all that had sustained him through those long, hellish years…. What if the jewel case had found its way back into the Deverell family?

No one else knew of the secret compartment.
No one
. He had only to find it, and the secret would be forever his….

And so he’d gone to the Earl of Deverell’s family estate in Yorkshire, to the home of Giles Tremayne. Only the jewel case was nowhere to be
found. And the fool Tremayne declared he knew nothing of it—or the treasure within! The memory of his rage scalded his veins anew. Of course he’d been livid—what man wouldn’t be? If Giles Tremayne wouldn’t give over the jewel case, what use was he? Besides, he thought furiously, Tremayne was a liar, and deserved to die.

But the jewel case was still lost to him.

He stared off into the shadows. It had to be somewhere, he thought broodingly. And someday…someday he would find it.

The carriage sped toward Cumberland, climbing rolling hills that took them steadily northward, cutting past glittering lakes of deepest sapphire. Sheep grazed in placid green valleys, occasionally lifting their heads to gaze at the conveyance that interrupted their peace.

Inside the small, cramped interior of the coach, Heather’s companion looked totally at ease. His long, booted legs stretched out before him, his arms crossed over his broad chest in contented repose. With his eyes peacefully shut, his lashes lay like ink-black fans upon the high plateau of his cheekbones.

Such tranquility was not the case for Heather. The journey progressed in silence. Neither of them was disposed to idle conversation. She could have screamed, for the trip was as endless as she had feared. The tension wound in her breast was almost unbearable. His nearness was overwhelming. So close to him like this, it was all she could do to take in enough air to fill her
lungs. In those moments where their eyes chanced to collide, she felt the biting touch of his gaze like the lash of a whip.

They stopped for luncheon at a tiny tavern, and it was a welcome respite. It was with an icy dread that Heather climbed back inside the coach. Yet it wasn’t long before her limbs grew heavy. Her senses were lulled by the creak of the springs and the sway and bounce of the vehicle; her neck began to Ioll. Her breathing began to deepen. Hard as she tried, she couldn’t keep her eyes open.

The next thing she knew, she felt absurdly warm, yet wonderfully so. Her cheek rested on soft, fragrant wool that carried a familiar scent. Her senses warm and sleep-shrouded, she nestled against what she knew instinctively was a warm male shoulder. It really was a most comfortable place to rest….

She bolted upright, eyes wide in appalling chagrin. One small hand flew to her breast. She scrambled back against the cushions as if he were the very plague.

“What are you doing over here?” she gasped.

Beside her, Damien gazed down at her, as calm as she was unsettled. “Your posture was most awkward, Miss Duval. Your head was bent sideways, like a frail stem about to snap. I merely thought to save you a few aches and pains tonight.”

Heather’s mouth opened and closed. She could hardly chastise him for being considerate, now could she?

He removed himself to the other side of the
coach. Gray eyes held her in watchful regard, cool and inquisitive. “As I recall, you once said your parents were French, did you not, Miss Duval?”

“My father was,” she said quickly. “My mother was English.”

“And what were their names?”

Heather hesitated. A curious foreboding had knotted her stomach, yet for the life of her, she couldn’t have said why. “Bernard and Justine Duval,” she supplied after a moment.

“Where are they buried?”

“In the cemetery outside the church in Lyndermere.”

“I see.” He paused. “One would have thought the Earl of Stonehurst might have sent them home to be buried.”

“Ah, but they had no home. Didn’t I tell you that, Mr. Lewis?” She had. She was certain of it. With her head angled to the side, she studied him. Her unease hadn’t lessened. “That they had just come to England in order to make a new life for themselves?”

“I’d forgotten,” he said smoothly…almost too smoothly?

She couldn’t quell the notion, but there was no time for further speculation, for he was speaking again.

“Your mother Justine…what sort of woman was she?”

Her eyes narrowed. “And what sort of question is that?”

His eyes flickered. “I meant no harm, Miss Duval. I merely wondered if you resemble her.”

“I…I couldn’t say.” She paused, then said slowly, “My mother didn’t linger long after the accident. But Papa knew her well and said she was a kind, sweet soul whose only thought at the end was of my well-being.” Her expression was one of wistful yearning. “That’s the one thing I’ll always regret. That I never knew my mother.”

“You don’t remember her?”

She shook her head.

“And your father? Do you remember him?”

“No, but I—I think I resemble him. His hair was dark like mine.” The statement came from nowhere. The memory came as if plucked from somewhere deep in her being, from some place she hadn’t known existed, even as the image of a tall, black-haired man flashed through her brain.

Heather looked at him, stunned. “Good heavens,” she said aloud. “How odd…I—I’ve never before recalled what he looked like.”

Damien’s regard sharpened. He echoed the sentiment. How odd indeed, for Corinne had stated that the man who killed Giles had grimy black hair. All at once he wondered if Heather weren’t lying. Perhaps Elliot had already come to Lockhaven. Perhaps she knew where he was. And yet, her surprise seemed genuine.

Dammit, he didn’t know what to think anymore! With an effort, he curbed his frustration. “It’s possible you remember more than you think,” he suggested. “Indeed, sometimes one memory may trigger another. Do you remember anything else about him?”

It was her turn to gaze at him sharply. Why all these questions from Damien?
Damien
. Even as
it struck her that she no longer thought of him as Mr. Lewis, a vague disquietude nagged within her. It struck her that there had been times when she’d been made uneasy by his prolonged stare. It was as if he searched for something…but what?

“And I find your questions most curious, Mr. Lewis. Frankly, I do not understand your interest in my background—in particular, in my father.”

His gaze flickered. “There’s no need to be so defensive, Miss Duval. It was more an observation than anything else, I assure you.” He shrugged. “You seemed distressed. I was merely trying to be helpful.”

Heather made no reply. Had she been defensive? She wasn’t certain.

“If you have no objection, Miss Duval, I think I’ll ride with the driver for a while.”

“Certainly, Mr. Lewis.” She gave a nod of assent, in all honesty relieved to be spared his presence. She watched as he rapped on the hatch behind the driver’s seat. The portal opened, and he voiced his intent. Within seconds, they’d rolled to a halt. With nary a backward glance, he leaped down and left her alone.

Heather’s gaze remained fixed on the door he’d just passed through. Despite his glib response, his questions disturbed her. Not for the first time, she wondered who Damien Lewis really was. Oh, she knew what he said. But was it the truth? She disliked the doubts that suddenly leaped in her breast, yet they were not so easily subdued.

With a sigh she turned her attention to the greenery passing by outside. Soon the road
wound in and out of a verdant woodland. When dusk began to drop its gauzy folds on the hilltops, they stopped at an inn for the night, a rambling stone building partially hidden in a copse of trees.

She alighted from the carriage to discover Damien had already gone inside without waiting for her. She pressed her lips together. Glancing around, she noticed a meandering brook that sneaked through the grass nearby. Several ducklings darted and twisted to and fro. Tiny flies buzzed in the air above the bushes. All around, spring was a warm, vibrant celebration, but for once Heather paid little heed. The afternoon’s turbulent musings of her mind had spoiled all else for her.

It was several minutes before Damien emerged.

“We’re in luck,” he said, striding toward her and Morton, the driver. “I was able to get the last two rooms for the night, and there’s room in the carriage house.”

He offered his arm. Heather waited a heartbeat, then lightly placed her fingertips on his sleeve, unaware of the tightening of his lips at her telltale reluctance. He guided her to the far side of the inn where the main entrance was, but there she stopped short. She gazed in mute distress at the high, wooden steps that angled toward the doorway.

The next thing she knew she was whisked from her feet and swung high into the air. Firmly ensnaring her in strong male arms, he carried her bodily—aye, and boldly!—up the stairs.

Heather was bristling by the time he set her on her feet. She should be grateful, she knew, for the cramped hours in the carriage had left her knee aching and stiff. Yet her pride wouldn’t let her yield even that to him.

She inhaled a stinging lungful of air. He might regard her as a cripple, but she was not helpless, and it was time he knew it. Nor did she wish to draw attention to herself, and he had just embarrassed her beyond words!

“I do not recall asking for help, sir,” she said in low, clipped tones. Her chin climbed high aloft. “I realize I am hardly a picture of grace, but I assure you I am fully capable of negotiating a flight of stairs on my own. I’ve been doing so for quite some years now—why, fully all of my life!” The sharp rapping of her cane as she crossed the wooden floor conveyed her displeasure quite well.

Neither one said a word to each other as the innkeeper’s wife showed them to their rooms.

Heather was still smarting when he joined her in the common room a short time later. With a cursory nod, he took the chair across from her.

His hand smoothing his chin, he scanned the room. Loud, raucous laughter and boisterous voices rang throughout. He judged the crowd to be a mix of merchant and farmer alike, but he disliked the look of the two gentlemen who sat on a bench against the far wall. One wore a jaunty hat pushed back on his head. The other had curling blond hair that swept across his forehead. With their eyes they prowled the room like hungry cats in search of a meal.

He frowned. “The crowd seems a bit rough,” he said. “Perhaps we should dine in our rooms.”

Heather shook out her napkin and placed it on her lap. “Do what you like, Mr. Lewis”—she didn’t look at him as she spoke—“but I would like to remain here.”

Damien tensed his jaw. “Then I’d better stay,” he said brusquely.

Her head came up, her eyes ablaze like gems. “I’m well aware that you’d rather not, so please do not bother.”

“But a woman alone—”

She cut him off abruptly. “As you should know, I’m quite capable of fending for myself.”

Damien’s chair skittered backward. God, but the woman was stubborn.

He took his meal at a small table in the far corner. A glass of ale in hand, he turned and surveyed with burning eyes the woman who so tormented him. For all that she was the most intelligent, level-headed young woman he’d ever met, she was also the most irritating. Oh, he knew what she was doing. He’d meant no affront when he carried her up the stairs, but she’d taken it as such and now she was taunting him. Punishing him. Defying him, for undoubtedly she thought it wasn’t his place to object to her behavior—or to intervene.

His mood was suddenly anything but easy. Needing a breath of fresh air, he surged to his feet, leaving his ale on the table. Four long strides took him to the doorway, yet at the last instant something stopped him from leaving.

He glanced back over his shoulder. The two
gentlemen on the bench were whispering; their backs were to him. Apparently they were under the impression he’d gone; they had fixed greedy eyes upon Heather. Even as Damien watched, they rose and approached her table. Her expression was one of startled surprise when the pair presented themselves before her and bowed low. She started to cast a fleeting, sidelong glance toward the table where he’d been sitting, then chanced to see him near the doorway.

Their eyes met and held for the space of a heartbeat.

Then, with a faint lift of her chin, she turned back to the pair. She was smiling, waving a graceful hand toward the vacant chairs across from her.

The pair immediately sat.

Damien seethed. The stupid little fool! What did she think she was doing?

Before long the blond laid his hand across hers where it rested on the table. Every muscle in Damien’s body went stiff. Heather tried to withdraw, but the man’s hand now clamped the delicate span of her wrist. Alarm flashed across her features.

Damien was halfway across the room within the span of a second.

The pair had pulled Heather to her feet. She gave a stricken cry, only to have her face jammed into the blond man’s shoulder. They flanked her on either side. One small wrist was still imprisoned; his hand on her waist, he started to turn her bodily toward the stairs.

Damien blocked their way.

“Good evening, gentlemen.” His tone was ever so mild.

His expression was murderous.

The man in the hat went pale. Another time, it might have been gratifying, but not now.

The blond was not so cautious. Straightening himself to his full height, he squared around to face Damien. “Move aside,” he ordered harshly.

Damien inclined his head. “Not until you release the lady.”

“The lady is coming with us!”

“The lady,” he said with soft deliberation, “may have something to say about that.” He looked at her. “Heather?”

Heather’s eyes were huge, the shade of darkest purple, filled with sheer terror. She tore her elbow from the stranger’s grasp. Three small steps brought her to his side. He could feel her quaking against him. His hands curled into fists as he struggled against the urge to draw her close against his side. Dammit, she’d brought this on herself, and it was time she realized it!

But it wasn’t over. Muttering a vile curse, the blond clapped a heavy hand on Damien’s shoulder. “Now see here—”

He got no further. Damien whirled. A lean fist shot out, crashing into the blond man’s jaw.

The wretch slumped to the floor without a sound.

The man in the hat held up both hands. “Easy, man.” Slowly he began to back away. “She’s yours, I can see that. Let’s just leave it at that,
shall we?” He whirled and bolted toward the outside entrance.

Stunned, Heather stared up at him. “Dear God,” she said faintly. “You—you probably broke his jaw.”

“Quite likely.” He spoke from between his teeth.

Grasping her arm, he steered her toward the stairway. His features were a mask of unrelenting purpose. The gaping onlookers, who’d gone silent during the episode, parted like the sea before Moses. With a finger, he flicked a silver coin to the proprietor.

Upstairs in the narrow hallway, he strode straight to her room. His was the next door down. Flinging open the door, he pushed her across the threshold, then stepped inside. With the flat of his hand he slammed the door closed. Snatching a candle from the stand, he lit it from the fireplace, then jammed it into the candlestick on the table.