Treasured Vows (19 page)

“Yes,” he answered softly. He lowered the blade and leaned closer to her. “Phadra, if I don’t meet my challenges, if I don’t follow these rules that gentlemen of honor have set, then I don’t have the right to consider myself one of them.”

“This duel isn’t about whether or not you are a gentleman!”

“Yes, it is.” His voice was low and full of passion. “It’s about wanting what my father didn’t have. It’s about honor and dreams. My dreams. I may have ruined my chances for a knighthood, but I will let
no one
say that I did not have honor.”

That hurt. Phadra leaned her head back against the column. “It was honor that made you marry me,” she whispered.

He’d heard the pain in her voice, and his expression softened. “Oh, Phadra…” He brushed her cheek with his fingertips.

She flinched, as if his touch hurt, and then to her horror realized that she was crying, silent tears that she couldn’t stop. She attempted to twist away from him, but he wouldn’t let her go. “I think what you need is a new dream,” she finally said.

Grant leaned an arm against the column and rested his head against it, so that she was forced to stare up into his serious silver eyes and see as well as hear the truth in his words as he told her, “Some dreams you don’t give up. You wouldn’t give up your dream of finding your father, would you?”

“I already have,” she started to answer, and then caught herself in surprise. In one clear, crystalline flash of realization, Phadra understood to her wonder
and amazement that all of her dreams now centered on this one man. Somehow, at some time, in a way she didn’t completely understand, he had become her dream, her reality, her destiny.

Almost as if bewitched by the revelation, Phadra raised her hand to place her palm against his lean cheek, reveling in the feel of his whiskers beneath her fingertips. He stood close enough to her that she could see the race of his pulse beneath the skin at his throat. She drew her fingers over his skin until she reached that warm pulse point. His heart was racing as fast as hers.

“Phadra?”

Phadra couldn’t move. She couldn’t even breathe.

He leaned close, his lips less than an inch from hers.

Her lips parted in surprise. She had to lean against the column for support.

Slowly he smiled, as if her reaction was everything he could desire and more, before he opened his lips and kissed her fully and completely on the mouth.

And Phadra kissed him back.

His sword clattered to the floor as he threw it aside. He buried his hands in her hair and pulled her closer to him. She didn’t know if she wanted to laugh or cry as he kissed her shoulder, her throat, the pulse point beneath her ear…and when he took her in his arms and claimed her lips, she was lost.

Her body sang with its need for him.

His kiss deepened, growing more demanding. She hugged him closer, delighting in the feel of his chest against her breasts, the burn of his whiskers against her cheeks, his ability to turn her world inside out…

Her feet no longer touched the floor. Instead she
clung to him for support, feeling the outline of his bandage and the hard, long lines of muscle beneath his shirt. She gave herself over to his guidance completely. He managed to loosen the clasp of the brooch that held her dress at the shoulder. The silk slipped to her waist held only by her golden belt. His finger unfastened the binding of her light linen bodice that served as her corset.

Surprised to find herself half-naked in the candlelight, Phadra pulled away.

“No,” he commanded softly, then lowered his head and kissed one taut nipple. Phadra cried out at the sensation. As if with a will of their own, her arms wrapped themselves around his head, pulling him even closer.

Just when she thought she couldn’t take any more he blazed a trail of kisses to her earlobe. “You’re wonderful,” he said. “I want you, Phadra. Now. Right here.”

Deep inside her she heard his need, the sound of near desperation in his voice. Her body answered, begging to join with him, to become one. She slid one leg around his hips, needing to bring him closer, to fit him against her.

Bracing her weight against the column, Grant lowered a hand to cup her buttocks and pull her closer. His hand smoothed down the back of her haunch, over her knee, and up the inside of her thigh until his knowing fingers could slip through the slit of her undergarments and touch her intimately. She responded immediately with a start at first and then giving herself over completely to such exquisite pleasure.

“Give me this night, Phadra. I want this night,” he said, his voice ragged. He kissed her again, deeply,
fully, as if he could take the measure of her very soul with his kiss. His body pushed her back against the cool, painted brick of the support column. The hand that had pleasured her now began unbuttoning the buttons of his breeches.

Even lost in his embrace, Phadra was aware of these movements and so much more. In his kiss she could taste the desire that drove him—and, again, that fierce, almost overwhelming desperation. She ran her hands over his strong shoulders, the bandage, the muscles of his arm. A swordsman’s arm.

And in just a few hours he would fight a duel over her.

As a drowning victim struggles to the surface for air, Phadra now warred with herself. She pressed herself closer to him, feeling the strong beat of his heart, the pressure of his chest against her breasts, the night’s warm air, the sweat of their excitement. She wanted him inside her, making love to her. She wanted him to live….

Almost as if from a distance, she heard herself say, “No.” She made herself say it again, the sound stronger this time. “No.” She slid her leg down and leaned back, taking his face in her hands. “Please, Grant. Listen to me. We can’t do this. We can’t.”

His eyes were glazed with passion. After she spoke, he jerked his chin out of her hands. He leaned against her, letting her feel the tense readiness of his body, the strength of his arousal. “Yes, we can,” he shot back in a harsh whisper.

Phadra pushed against his shoulders with the heels of her hands. “No! I can’t do this if you are going to fight that duel tomorrow. I can’t let you go off to die that way.”

Grant stared at her as if he hadn’t heard her correctly.

For one mad second Phadra wanted to call the words back. But she couldn’t change her mind, not if there was a chance that she could get him to see reason.

To her dismay, he pulled back, gently setting her down on the floor. Embarrassed, she pulled her bodice up to cover her nakedness. He frowned in reaction and then turned his back to her. “Go away, Phadra.” His voice was so low, she wasn’t sure that he had said anything.

“You’re upset with me,” she said, fighting a rising sense of panic at the thought that she might have gone too far.

As he tucked his shirt back in and finished buttoning his breeches, the air was so quiet and still between them that she could hear the sounds of his fingers against the material.

“It’s not right,” she said.

“And you think that by refusing me, you will change my mind?”

She hated the question. She didn’t know what she thought or felt. All she knew was the thrumming of unfulfilled desire. She stumbled over her words, trying to put her feelings in order. “I can’t make love to you and then send you off to a fool’s death. I can’t do it.”

“Go,” he said again.

“Grant, please—”

He whirled on her, his handsome face contorted by anger. “Go, I said! You want me to give up my honor for you. I will
not
do that. Do you understand? You cannot have my honor!”

“Grant—”

“Go, damn you!” he yelled in a voice so ragged with emotion that Phadra took to her heels and ran down the stairs, her sweet little bells accentuating each step.

The sound of deep male voices by the front door woke Phadra at her post on the parlor floor, just inside the closed door. She could distinguish Grant’s voice, but she couldn’t hear what he was saying. The door shut.

Phadra scrambled to her feet. She hadn’t meant to fall asleep. Her plan was to follow Grant to his assignation. In the wee hours of the morning, she’d decided that she had to talk to Captain Duroy. She had to make him understand that Grant hadn’t stolen her from him. If it meant ruining her own reputation by revealing the story of how she had run away, then so be it. Cracking open the door, she saw that the hallway was empty.

She charged out of the parlor and ran to the front door, grateful to have the good, sturdy boots, from her days at Miss Agatha’s, to wear. Not even Miranda’s knife could cut through their leather.

Peeking out the front door, she saw Grant’s tall figure and that of another man ride off on horses down the street. Phadra slipped out the door, saying a prayer that all had gone well and Wallace was ready to go. He was an unwilling accomplice, but—as she had pointed out to him the night before—his first loyalties were to her.

To her relief, Wallace led a rented team of horses out of a side alley. Phadra jumped when the door flew open behind her. Henny stood in the doorway, her hands on her hips.

“I can’t believe you are going through with this,” she said.

“Henny! You scared me half to death.”

“I’m hoping I’m going to scare some sense into you!”

“It’s too late,” Phadra called over her shoulder as she ran down the steps and climbed up into the open carriage beside Wallace.

With a snap of the reins, she and the butler took off after Grant. “Do you have any idea where they will be going?” Wallace asked.

Phadra looked up at him blankly before saying, “You mean there isn’t one place where everyone goes to fight duels?”

Wallace groaned. “Not in a city the size of London.”

Phadra chewed on that knowledge a moment before asking, “Where are most duels fought?”

“Well, I don’t know that much about it myself, but I hear Hyde Park is a popular place.”

“Are we going in that direction?”

“Aye.”

“Then it must be Hyde Park,” Phadra said with a confidence she was far from feeling.

“I hope we never find it. When the master finds out that I let you hoodwink me into this, he’ll turn me out without references.”

“But at least he’ll be alive to do so,” she replied with false sweetness. “Besides, I’ll give you references.”

“Ha! Fat lot of good that will do me. References from a wife who doesn’t know her place.”

“Wallace, I’ve already been over this ground with Grant. We’re all agreed. I don’t know my place. Now, can’t you make these animals go any faster?”

With another snap of the reins and a great deal of grumbling under his breath, Wallace did exactly that.

Phadra held on to the side of the carriage with one hand and used the other to hold her hat in place as they drove to Hyde Park. It was going to be too pretty a morning for a duel. Already the first rays of the sun were turning the sky rosy and golden.

Pistols at dawn.

Grant and the other gentleman, who Wallace assured her was his second, were completely out of sight as they turned into Hyde Park. And stopped.

At this hour the park appeared peaceful and quiet. Too quiet.

“Where do you think they’ve gone?” Phadra asked, straining to see through the trees and wisps of early-morning fog for a sign of life.

“I’m not even certain we’re in the right place,” Wallace answered. He drew a deep breath. “Well, we’ve done everything we can. Better get you home.”

Phadra put her hand down firmly on his, which was holding the reins. “Drive on.”

Wallace raised his eyebrows but did as he was told, following the main path through the park. Phadra watched for any signs that riders might have recently turned off the path, but there were so many tracks that she had no success.

They rounded a turn and there, a quarter of a mile away from them was a small gathering of people beneath two huge, leafy oaks. Phadra pointed it out to Wallace. “Drive over there.”

“I don’t think this is wise.”

“I don’t care.”

“It could be anyone. The young bucks fight duels here almost on a daily basis. It wouldn’t look good
if we stumbled into someone else’s business, would it?”

“Drive.”

Wallace turned the horses off the road and onto the grass. As they drew closer Phadra felt even more certain that this was the right place. In another second the wispy fog lifted enough for her to make out the bold red and blue of the officers’ uniforms. She reached over and squeezed Wallace’s arm, almost overcome with joy that they had found the right place.

They saw two men separate themselves from the group. Each took up a station away from the other, one man in uniform, the other in severe dark clothing. It could only be Grant!

Phadra’s grip on Wallace’s arm tightened. “Wallace, we must hurry. Can’t these horses go any faster?”

They were still about four hundred yards away when Phadra heard one man shout an order. She couldn’t hear what was being said over Wallace’s telling her that the “damned cattle” were going as fast as they could without a road to travel.

Phadra couldn’t wait. She climbed off the seat and, hanging her feet off the edge of the carriage, slid down to the ground, landing on her knees. She didn’t worry about her bonnet, her dress, or Wallace’s shouts for her to wait. Instead she struggled to her feet and ran with her heart pounding in her throat past the horses, heading for the clearing beneath the oak trees.

There was another shout. This time she heard what had been said: “Turn and fire!” She ran faster, even as Grant raised his arm and fired into the air.

“No!” she cried. At that moment she stepped in a small hole, and her ankle twisted underneath her. She fell heavily to the dew-kissed earth.

A split second later another shot cracked the air.

A
s he stood staring into the bore of William’s pistol, a million thoughts invaded Grant’s mind…. but the last thing he thought he would hear was Phadra’s voice distinctly shouting, “No!” even as William raised his arm and fired into the air.

Phadra.

Phadra was
here!

The shock of realization mingled with the sudden elated relief Grant felt that he was alive. Afraid that if he took a step in any direction, his knees would betray him by buckling, Grant stood very still. William lowered his arm. The acrid smell of gunpowder hung in the air as the duelists studied each other for a moment that stretched like eternity. Finally William said, “I couldn’t do it.”

“I’m glad.”

His dry answer broke the restraint between them. William came forward with an outstretched hand.
Grant met him halfway. Their hands clasped as men of honor, and then they embraced as friends.

William raised his head. “I’m sorry, Grant. I shouldn’t have challenged you. I let my hot temper rule my good sense. I beg you to forgive me.”

“It’s behind us, William.”

William stepped back and answered softly, “Ah, but you have the girl.”

Immediately Grant recalled the image of Phadra as she had been the night before: clinging to him and responding with wanton passion to his kisses, then demanding his honor, his pride. And he remembered her shout only moments earlier.

She was here. He could sense it. He looked over William’s shoulder, past the men who served as their seconds, past the surgeon’s dark carriage, his eyes searching for her. He immediately recognized Wallace sitting in the seat of a hired vehicle. As if sensing his master’s scrutiny, the servant came to attention.

And there was Phadra—walking away from Wallace toward a grove of trees.

“Did you hear that shout?” Duroy was asking. “I realized then that I couldn’t shoot you. We’ve been through so much together. Who shouted, anyway?”

“Phadra.” Grant frowned. What the deuce was she doing walking off that way? And she looked as though she was limping slightly.

“Phadra?” Duroy turned and stared in the direction in which Grant was looking.

“She’s over there,” Grant said. “The woman in the canary-yellow dress.”

“I see her,” Duroy said. “I say, that color makes her stand out, doesn’t it? And the dress is rather different.”

“It looks medieval.”

“Medieval?”

“My wife sets her own fashion, William,” Grant responded dryly. “I’m sure if you take a turn around the museum, you’ll see a picture of a dress very much like it. And that silly hat, too.” He started walking toward Phadra, who had disappeared behind a clump of shrubbery.

“Oh,” William answered in a tone that said he understood nothing. He walked beside Grant. “What is she doing here?”

Grant handed his dueling pistol to Duroy. “She probably had it in mind to stop us.”

“Stop a duel?” Duroy asked in an incredulous tone. “No one interferes with an affair of honor.”

“When I catch her, I’ll tell her you said so.”

Duroy stopped abruptly, as if struck by a sudden thought. “You know, Morgan, perhaps I should consider myself fortunate that I didn’t marry the lady.”

Grant stopped also and turned to the officer. “You don’t even know the half of it, William,” he said before turning on his heel and charging after his wife. Behind him, he could hear the men questioning Duroy and then bursting out into deep male laughter; Duroy must have told them that Phadra had planned on stopping the duel.

Wallace, his hat in his hand, intercepted him. “I told her not to do it, Mr. Morgan,” he said, having to trot to keep up with his master’s long strides. “I argued with her. But you know how she is. She doesn’t always listen to reason. Even Mrs. Shaunessy told her it was a fool’s errand—”

“Wallace, shut up.”

The servant’s mouth closed with a snap.

“Take that rig and bring it around to the other side of the park. My guess is that she is heading in that direction.” He started to walk off. Over his shoulder he added, just so the servant would understand that he wasn’t finished with him yet, “And I’ll talk to
you
later.”

Grant considered the subject closed and started off again. But Wallace’s voice timidly called to him.

“What?” he practically roared as he turned on the servant.

Wallace jumped slightly but stood his ground. “Don’t be too hard on her, Mr. Morgan. She only did what she thought was right.”

Once again Grant was struck by the loyalty Phadra inspired in servants—servants whose wages
he
now paid! “I’ll keep that in mind,” he said curtly. “Now get that rig over to Knightsbridge.” He walked toward the grove of trees where he’d spied Phadra last, his long legs eating up the distance between them.

Phadra knew he was following her…and she knew he was angry. At first she’d been relieved when Captain Duroy had fired into the air. Certainly her prayers had been answered. But then Grant had turned and recognized her. In that awful moment of recognition, she didn’t have to read minds to know that she was in serious trouble.

Her ankle hurt, though not enough to prevent her from walking. Afraid that if she went back to Wallace, Grant would blame him for her actions, Phadra had decided the best course of action would be to run in the opposite direction. Maybe if Grant had time to reflect upon the duel and its possible consequences, he would understand that she only had his safety at heart.

She’d almost talked herself into turning around and facing him when she heard him call her name. His deep voice rang through the park, and in it Phadra heard his displeasure.

No. Now was not the time to turn and face him.

Her decision made, she came out of the park and quickly limped across Knightsbridge. The park might have been quiet and serene, but on Knightsbridge, London appeared wide awake and off to the business of the day. Dodging through the morning traffic coming into the city, she worked her way across the street. In her haste, the ribbons holding her bonnet, one that she had cleverly fashioned after a design in a Bellini painting, had come untied. As she avoided a farmer’s cart the bonnet blew off her head.

“Phadra!” Grant’s voice carried over the din of the traffic. She let the bonnet go.

Hobbling down the street, her mind worked frantically, formulating a plan. She’d hide from Grant, then walk home. It couldn’t be that far. Later that night, when he was calmer, they’d talk. He’d see that she had his best interests at heart. He might even laugh about the whole unfortunate incident.

“Phadra!”

Phadra looked over her shoulder and then choked.

She could see Grant’s tall figure on the other side of the road. He didn’t look as though he was ready to laugh—or to abandon the chase.

And Phadra didn’t feel ready to confront him. She ducked down the first side street she came to, pausing only long enough to see that he was weaving his way through the traffic. Her last glimpse was of him sidestepping a dogcart loaded with milk cans.

Phadra rounded a corner and took another street,
brushing by fellow pedestrians on the narrow sidewalk in her haste. He wasn’t far behind. She could sense his presence—and his determination—by the prickling sensation up the back of her neck.

He shouted her name, and she limped down an alley. Here the neighborhood appeared more shabby, the tall houses narrow and crowded. A heavyset man in a hurry almost knocked her over. To avoid him, she stepped out into the unpaved street and narrowly escaped having a chamber pot dumped on her head.

Catching a whiff of the contents, Phadra covered her face with her hand and moved on. She couldn’t keep running like this. Her ankle hurt, and she had a sharp stitch in her side.

Stopping at the threshold of another alley, this one smelling of rotting fish, she realized she had two options. One was to face Grant. The other was to hide and hope that he passed her by.

“Phadra!”

Hide.

Phadra dodged into the alley. A stack of rain barrels sat haphazardly against a building. Quickly she hid behind them and pulled her skirts in, angry that the first thing she’d pulled out of her wardrobe to wear was such a bright and frivolous color.

For long moments the only thing she could hear was the sound of her own breathing. She stared so hard at the entrance of the alley, waiting for him, that her eyes watered.

He called her name again. Someone yelled at him to stop bellowing. And then there he was, standing at the alley entrance.

The set of his face reminded her of the keen, hunting glance of a hawk. He carried his hat and her
trampled bonnet in one hand. Phadra pulled back, held her breath, and prayed,
Not now, Lord. Please don’t let him find me now, when he’s so angry.

As if in answer to her silent prayer, Grant moved on. She strained to listen for the sound of his booted footsteps until it disappeared in the distance.

She let out her breath with a sigh of relief. Safe. Of course, she still had to find her way home. That prospect seemed a great deal less daunting than facing Grant.

She had just emerged from her hiding spot when a noise startled her. Pulling back behind the barrels again, she watched as one of the alley doors opened and a greasy-looking man pushed an obviously pregnant woman out into the alley. She fell heavily to the ground.

“ ’Ere, I told yer to get out and earn yer keep, and I meant it,” he said.

“I’m so tired,” the woman begged. Her face was swollen with bruises, and Phadra realized that she was little older than one of the girls at Miss Agatha’s. “You told me that if I worked last night, you’d let me rest.”

“We need the quid. Now, get on.”

The woman was openly crying now, sobs of terror and exhaustion that tore at Phadra’s heart. When she didn’t move, the man kicked her. She cried out and scrambled to protect her swollen stomach.

The knave pulled back his foot again, and Phadra had had enough. She came out from behind her rain barrels and stood tall and proud. “You leave her alone,” she commanded.

Her intervention stopped the man in mid action. He raised one eyebrow and peered through the
greasy strings of his hair at her as if surprised by her presence. “ ’Ere now, who do yer think yer are? This ain’t none of yer business.”

Phadra was too angry to be intimidated by a man only a few inches taller than herself. “You have no right to beat this woman.”

“She’s my woman. I can do wot I please.”

Phadra quivered with anger. Her hands doubling up into fists, she took a step toward him. “You touch her again and I’ll call the magistrate on you.”

“Call the magistrate on me? For touching ’er?” he asked, as if that was the most wildly preposterous idea he’d ever heard of. “Wot do yer think they’ll do? She’s my woman. No one cares.”

“I care,” Phadra declared. “And I’ll make them care.”

“Please, miss,” the girl at her feet whispered. “He’s terrible mean. He’ll hurt you.”

“That’s right,” the man mimicked in a high falsetto. “I’ll ’urt yer.” He broke off into crude laughter that stopped abruptly, his eyes glittering dangerously. “So, the fancy miss’ll turn me in to the magistrate if I touch ’er. Wot yer mean? If I touch ’er loike this?” He poked a grimy finger at the girl’s neck. With a cry, the girl squirmed reflexively.

He looked up and grinned at Phadra, a soulless smile that warned her he would give no quarter.

He proved her right when he whispered harshly, “Or touch ’er loike this?” He dug those dirty fingers in the girl’s hair and yanked it so hard that her head was lifted off the ground.

At the sound of the girl’s cries, Phadra was overcome by a red haze of uncontrollable anger. Acting without thinking, Phadra jumped forward, clasped
both hands together, and punched him in his soft belly for all she was worth. He let go of the girl, doubling over in pain and teetering backward. Phadra lost her balance and fell heavily to the dirty alley beside the girl.

Holding a hand against his stomach, the man whirled around, snatched up a good-sized piece of wood in his other meaty fist, and raised it into the air. “Bloody bitch! I’ll beat yer to a pulp!”

He drew his hand back. Phadra covered the girl’s body protectively, closed her eyes, and braced herself for the blow—which never came. Instead she heard Grant’s harsh, angry voice. “What in the bloody hell do you think you’re doing?”

She opened her eyes to see Grant—tall, strong, and angry—holding the man up by his neck against the brick wall of the alley.

The man’s feet danced in the air. His face was turning a purplish color.

Phadra rose up on one hand. “Grant! Grant, you’re killing him.”

“Scum like him doesn’t deserve to live, especially when I’m having a bad day,” her husband responded succinctly, but then he loosened his hold, and the man slid down the wall to collapse in the dirt.

Phadra scrambled to her feet and threw her arms around Grant’s waist. “I’m so glad to see you!”

He pulled away slightly, his expression stern. “I can tell you are. You led me on a merry chase! It’s a wonder you didn’t get killed before I got here.” The man started to crawl away. Grant scowled and barked, “I haven’t given you permission to go anywhere.”

The man cowered back against the wall. “Listen,
guv, I didn’t know she was yer woman,” he wheezed out. “I wouldn’t ’ave touched ’er if I knew she belonged to someone.”

Phadra marched forward. “Belong? Is that what you think? That this girl belongs to you, and you can do whatever you like to her?” She almost picked up the discarded piece of wood and beat the man herself, but Grant’s large hands came down on her shoulders as if he anticipated her thoughts.

“My wife isn’t known for her sweet temper,” Grant said calmly. “I’d advise you to crawl quickly back into whatever hole you came out of.”

The man scurried his way toward the still-open door. He paused in the doorway. “Come on, Sarah. Get back in ’ere.”

His order sent the poor girl into another fit of sobbing hysterics. Phadra shook loose of Grant’s hold. “She’s not going anywhere with you!”

Using the door for protection, the bastard shouted out, “Yer think yer so smart with that big ’ulking brute behind yer.” When Grant took a step toward him, the man slammed the door shut, and they heard a bar come down on the other side. “Yer can keep ’er!” his muffled voice shouted. “She’s no good to me breeding!”