Three Heroes (41 page)

She fought him. He felt tears splash on his hands. In fear of hurting her, he let her go.

She whirled on him, brushing angrily at her eyes with both hands. “Logical! Do you deny that you went to Cheltenham in search of the Devil’s Heiress?”

“No.”

“Then why, for heaven’s sake, when the rabbit wants to leap into the wolfs jaws, are you stepping back?

”

“Perhaps, dammit, because rabbits are not supposed to leap into jaws!”

She planted her fists on her hips. “So! You will hold my boldness against me and cling to conventional ways!” Her look up and down was magnificently annihilating. “I thought better of you, sir.”

With that salvo, she turned and marched away, and this time he did not try to stop her. He watched for a moment, transfixed with admiration and pure, raging lust.

My God, but he wanted this treasure of a woman in every possible way. He forced his feet into action to follow, plunging madly back into thought to find an answer, a solution. And it was as much for her as for him. He could not bear to see her suffer like this.

He could accept her offer of marriage. He recognized it for the worm it was, but he could make a clear case in favor.

She loved him. Perhaps she would forgive. Perhaps she would accept a future as Lady Deveril. If not, she would be the offended party, and could march off, banners flying. He’d keep not a penny more of her money than he absolutely needed, and would never try to restrict her freedom. He’d give her a divorce if she wanted it.

But divorce always shamed the woman. She would never be restored to the promise of life that she had now. He would be stealing that from her.

And it would have to be an elopement, with all the problems he’d already considered. All the problems that had made him reject that course. He had always prided himself on courage and an iron will, but now he’d found his weakness. He seemed able to stick to nothing where Clarissa was concerned.

Van.

He had made his friend a promise. He’d already gone further than he ought. Elopement, though—that would be an outright violation. Van might even feel obliged to call him out.

God Almighty! That would be the hellish nadir, to risk killing or being killed by one of his closest friends.

The path separated from the high stone wall, and Clarissa took the branch heading toward the river and the humpbacked bridge. He watched her straight back and high-held head.

Such courage, though he was sure she was still fighting tears. She hurt. He knew that. She wouldn’t agree now, but it was a minor hurt that time would heal.

He must stick to his other plan and let her fly free.

Clarissa watched a crow flap up from the field in front of her and wished she could simply fly away from this excruciating situation. All she could do, however, was hurry to rejoin her party and return to Brighton.

Empty, purposeless Brighton.

No more Hawk.

Why had he pursued her if he did not want her? Why had he kissed her like that in the wilderness if he did not want her? Was it true what they said, that a man would kiss and ravish any woman, given the chance?

It hadn’t felt like that, but what did she know of the reality between men and women?

But, oh, it hurt to think that all her money was not sweetening enough to make her palatable.

She was sure that he was still coming along behind her, and she longed to turn and scream stupid, pride-salving things at him. That she didn’t want him. Didn’t need him. That she thought his kisses horrid.

She bit her lip. As if anyone would believe that.

All she could do was escape with the shreds of her dignity intact.

And then what?

No more Hawk.

No Hawk in the Vale.

No heaven for her. Ever.

She came to a stile, and for a stupid moment the wooden structure seemed like an insurmountable obstacle, especially with tears blurring her vision. She gathered her skirts in order to climb it.

Hawk suddenly stepped past her to climb over and offer her a hand. She had to face him again. Was she fooling herself that his eyes seemed to mirror her pain?

She put her hand in his, realizing by sight that it was gloveless. Somewhere in the wilderness she had mislaid that symbol of the well-bred lady.

As she stepped up on her side, he said, “I’m sorry. You know how to turn a man topsy-turvy, Clarissa.”

“It’s entirely an accident, I assure you. I know nothing.”

“I shouldn’t have criticized you for making that proposal.” He was blocking her way, but at a point where she was nearly a foot taller. Deliberately giving her that superiority?

“I meant what I said,” he went on. “I’m dazzled. This has been an unexpected and remarkable day, and our adventures in the wilderness were enough to turn any man crazed. You must see that.”

The splinters of ice in her heart started to melt, but he wasn’t really explaining. Or accepting her offer.

“I can’t answer you now,” he said. “I told you about my parents. My mother flung herself into marriage with my father in a state of blind adoration, then clung to her disappointment for the rest of her life.

Marriage is not a matter to be decided in emotion.”

She stared down at him. “You’re likening me to your father? You, sir, are the fortune hunter here!”

“Then why did you ask me to marry you?”

She knew she was turning red again. “Very well. I, like your father, lust after Hawk in the Vale. At least I

’m honest about it. And I won’t push you aside if you get in my way.”

There was something to be said for anger, she realized, and for an additional foot of height!

“And,” she added, “you went to Cheltenham looking for me.”

“Yes.”

“Checking me out before making a commitment?”

A smile twitched his lips. “I liked what I found.”

“And you suggested that I come to Brighton.”

“Yes.”

“And kissed me at the fair.”

“Yes.”

“And took me into the wilderness.”

He looked rather as if she were raining blows on him. That didn’t stop her. She would not play coy games anymore.

She stepped over the middle of the stile to loom over him even more. “So, Major Hawkinville, what happens next?”

“You fly like the falcon you are.” He put his hands at her waist and lifted her, spinning her in a circle twice, then down to the grass beyond.

She landed, laughing despite herself. “No one but you has ever done that to me, Hawk. Made me fly.”

She meant it in many more ways than a spin through the air, and she knew he’d know that.

What now? Should she risk devastation by asking him again… ?

A scream severed the moment.

A young child’s shriek.

After a dazed moment, Clarissa realized that a splash had gone with the scream. Hawk was already running, already halfway across a field to the river—the river so deep it had kept the village on one side until the bridge was built. She picked up her skirts and raced after him, dodging around slightly startled cows.

The child was still screaming, but she couldn’t see the riverbank for bullrushes. Screaming was good, but then she realized that there might be more than one child. One screaming, one drowning.

Hawk could swim. She remembered that and thanked God.

The screaming stopped, and she saw that Hawk was there, and a small child was pointing. Then he waded through the rushes.

She ran the last little way, gasping, and took the girl’s hand. She could see a boy Sailing, but in quite shallow water near the edge. Hawk grabbed the boy’s arm and hauled him close.

Safe.

Safe.

Clarissa sucked in some needed air, collapsing onto the grass with the little girl in her lap. “There, there, sweetheart. It’s all right. Major Hawkinville has your friend.”

The dark-haired child was very young to be out without an adult, and the lad didn’t look much older. No wonder they’d fallen into such trouble.

Wondering at the silence, she turned the girl’s face toward her and found tears pouring from huge blue eyes, but eerily without a sound. “Oh, poppet, cry if you want.” She raised her cream skirt to wipe the tears.

A hiccup escaped, but that was all. But then suddenly the child buried her face in Clarissa’s shoulder and clung, shivering like Jetta that first day. Clarissa held her tight and crooned to her.

She thought to look around for the forgotten cat and found it there, lying in the grass, eyes on the child in Clarissa’s lap. Clarissa made a little room, and Jetta leaped up.

The child flinched, but Jetta pushed closer, purring, and the little girl put out a grubby hand to touch her.

Then shivering little arms encircled, and tears fell onto the silky fur.

Hawk had the other child out of the water and was hugging him too. He and she were both going to be muddy, but Hawk didn’t seem to mind, and she certainly didn’t. She was glad that he wasn’t wasting breath yelling at the frightened boy.

Clarissa bid her face in the girl’s curls. She was besotted by everything about Major Hawk Hawkinville.

She could even, in a way, admire him for not snatching the prize she’d dangled in front of him.

He would be a wonderful father, though. She’d never thought that way before, but she wanted him as father to her children.

He carried the boy over. “He seems to mostly speak French, and be of a taciturn disposition, but he’s one of Mrs. Rowland’s children, so this must be the other.”

“Who’s Mrs. Rowland?”

“A Belgian woman married to an invalid English officer. She has rooms in the village.”

“Her children shouldn’t be out alone.”

“No, but there’s little money. She has to go away sometimes, seeking an inheritance. People have offered to help, but she’s proud. We’ll take them home as we go.”

Clarissa separated reluctant child and cat, then held out a hand. He helped her up with the little girl still clutching.

“At least,” he said, looking her over, “no one is going to be commenting about stains on your dress now.”

Clarissa chuckled. “I’m definitely not still tied down by mundane cares.”

She didn’t want to think back to all that had happened, however, and she had no idea how to go forward. She focused instead on the fact that the little girl was barefoot, and the boy too.

“Where are your shoes, little one?” she asked the girl in French.

The dark curls shook, no.

The boy said, “We were not wearing any.”

“That’s not uncommon in the country,” Hawk said, “and even less so on the continent. But I suspect that these two slipped out of the cottage without permission. Their mother is probably frantic.”

They crossed the bridge into the village, passing a sinewy woman with a basket who clucked her tongue.

“Those little imps. Do you want me to take them, sir?”

Hawk thanked her but refused, and led the way behind the clanging smithy to a door in the back of another building.

“Bert Fagg lets out these rooms,” he said.

“A rough place for an officer and his wife,” Clarissa said.

“I know, but she’s living on my father’s charity. She claims to be a connection of his. He certainly enjoys her company. He said he invited her to live in the manor house, but she refused. She’s a strange, difficult woman.”

He knocked on the door of the very silent building. Rough cloths covered the windows, so Clarissa couldn’t see inside.

“Perhaps she’s out looking for the children,” she said.

But then the door swung open and a dark-clothed woman stepped out. The only brightness about her was a stark white cap that covered her graying hair and tied under her chin with narrow laces. She did not look well. Her skin was sallow, and dark rings circled her eyes.

“Oh, mon dieu!” she exclaimed, snatching the little girl from Clarissa’s arms. “Delphie!” Then she went off into a rapid tirade of French that Clarissa could not follow.

She heard a noise and looked down to see Jetta, back arched, hissing at the woman. She hastily picked up the cat. “Hush.”

Jetta relaxed, but still looked at Mrs. Rowland with a fixed stare. Clarissa could almost hear a silent hiss, and knew just how the cat felt. Yes, any mother might berate a child who had fallen into danger, but there was something coldly furious rather than panicked about Mrs. Rowland.

Clarissa glanced at the boy, whom Hawk had put down. He looked suitably afraid. Any child could be afraid after being caught in such naughtiness, and he had taken his baby sister into danger with him. All the same, there was something old about his fear. She desperately wanted to stand between the woman and her children, as she’d stood between Jetta and the duckling.

Mrs. Rowland suddenly put the girl down and said in clear French, “Come, Pierre. Take Delphie inside.”

Pierre walked over to his sister, head held high, and led her into the cottage,

“Thank you, Major Hawkinville,” said Mrs. Rowland in heavily accented English. She sounded as if she’

d rather be eating glass.

“Anyone would have helped. May I ask that you not be too harsh on them, Mrs. Rowland? I think they have learned their lesson through their fright.”

The woman did not thaw. “They must learn not to slip away.” She went back into her house and shut the door.

Clarissa blinked, startled by such lack of gratitude, and also by a flash of recognition. Who? Where? She was certain she’d never met Mrs. Rowland before.

Hawk drew her away. “There’s nothing we can do. Any family in the village would spank the pair of them for that.”

“I know. But I don’t like that woman.” She stroked the cat in her arms. “Jetta hissed at her.”

“Understandable. That’s only the second time we’ve spoken, and she makes the hair on the back of my neck stand on end. I’d think she was avoiding me except that she avoids everyone except my father.”

They walked back around the smithy onto the green.

“She visits your father?”

“Yes, and surprisingly he frets if she stays away too long.”

“You don’t like it?”

He glanced at her. “I told you once, I’m inclined to be suspicious of every little thing.”

“I suspect your instincts are finely tuned.”