Читать книгу No Other Love - Candace Camp - Страница 8

1815

THE CARRIAGE WAS DRAWING CLOSER to Exmoor’s estate, and the thought filled Nicola with dread. Why had she ever agreed to visit her sister here? With every passing mile, Nicola wished more and more that she had not. She would have much preferred staying in London and helping Marianne and Penelope with their wedding plans. But Deborah had looked so unhappy and frail, even afraid, and Nicola had not been able to deny her plea. Deborah was, after all, her younger sister, and Nicola loved her. It was only her marriage to the Earl of Exmoor that had caused the bitterness and estrangement between them.

Nicola sighed and shifted on her seat. She hated to think of the quarrels that had followed Deborah’s announcement that she was going to marry Richard. Nicola had done her best to dissuade her, but Deborah had been determinedly blind to Richard’s faults. When Nicola had pointed out that only months before Richard had been pursuing her, Deborah had lashed out that Nicola was just jealous and unable to accept that a man might want Deborah instead of herself. After that, Nicola had given up trying, and for the past nine years, she and her sister had seen each other only occasionally. Nicola had refused to enter the Earl’s house, and Deborah had grown more and more reclusive, rarely traveling to London or even venturing out of her house.

But when Nicola had seen Deborah last month at their cousin Bucky’s house party, Deborah had begged Nicola to come stay with her through her fourth pregnancy. She had miscarried three times in her marriage, never managing to provide the Earl with a son, and she was terrified of losing this child, too. Looking into her haunted eyes, Nicola had been unable to refuse, no matter how much she hated the thought of living under the same roof with Richard Montford, even for a few months.

Deborah, of course, could not understand Nicola’s hatred for the man. But Nicola could not escape the fact that every time she looked at Richard, she was reminded that he had ruined her life. That he had killed the only man she had ever loved.

The carriage lurched through a pothole, throwing Nicola across the seat and jarring her from her head down to her toes. She straightened herself, grimacing. It served her right, she thought, for not stopping for the night an hour ago, but insisting on going on through the dark. Little as she liked the thought of being at Tidings, she had wanted to get the journey over with, and they were only two hours from their destination. Impatience, she had been reminded often enough, was one of her besetting sins.

At that moment a shot boomed out, perilously close to the carriage, and Nicola jumped, her heart beginning to race in her chest.

“Halt!” a voice cried, and the carriage lumbered to a stop.

“I wouldn’t if I were you,” a male voice drawled in an amused tone. His accent, curiously, was that of the upper class. “You, dear friend, have only one blunderbuss, whereas we have six assorted firearms aimed at your heart.”

Nicola realized, in some shock, that the carriage had been stopped by a highwayman—several of them, in fact, from what the man had said. It had been a common enough occurrence years ago in the outlying areas around London, but the practice had died down in recent years, and it was even more unusual so far from the City. Certainly such a thing had never happened to Nicola.

There followed a moment of silence, then the same man continued. “Excellent decision. You are a wise man. Now, I suggest that you hand your gun down to my man there—very slowly and, of course, the business end pointed up.”

Carefully, Nicola lifted the edge of the curtain covering the window closest to her and peered out. It was a dark night, with only a quarter moon, a good night, she supposed, for men who operated in secrecy and furtiveness. The groom beside the coachman was handing down his blunderbuss from his seat high atop the carriage. A man on horseback reached up from below and took the firearm, tucking his own pistol into the waistband of his trousers and raising the newly acquired blunderbuss to train it on the driver and his assistant.

Several men ringed the carriage, all of them on horseback and holding pistols. Each of the men was dressed all in black, and, on their dark horses, they seemed to melt into the night, only the bits of metal on guns and bridles catching the faint light of the moon and the carriage lamps. Most sinister of all, every one of the men wore a black mask across the upper half of his face. Nicola drew an involuntary breath at the ominous tableau.

One of the men turned his head sharply at the sound, his eyes going straight to where Nicola sat. She dropped the curtain, her heart pounding.

“Well, now,” the cultured voice said cheerfully. “A curious passenger.” A certain note of satisfaction entered his voice, and he continued, “Ah, the Earl’s crest, I see. Can I have been so fortunate as to have encountered the Earl of Exmoor himself? Step out, sir, if you please, so that we may see you better.”

The man who had seen her was obviously the leader, and Nicola knew that he had noticed the family coat of arms drawn in gilt on the door. No doubt he was pleased to have stopped someone wealthy. She only hoped that he did not intend to seize her and hold her for ransom, assuming that the Earl of Exmoor would pay a great deal for his passenger’s return. Under her breath, she cursed Richard’s insistence on sending his carriage for her. A plain post chaise would have been a far better vehicle, upon reflection.

Drawing a calming breath, Nicola turned the handle of the door and opened it, stepping out with what she hoped was cool aplomb. She thought of her friend Alexandra’s American habit of carrying a small pistol in her reticule. Everyone had looked askance at her for it, but right at this moment, it seemed a remarkably good idea.

She paused on the step of the carriage, standing ramrod straight, and looked at the leader with a steady gaze. She was determined not to appear cowed. The man on horseback stiffened and muttered a curse.

“Well done,” Nicola said with icy sarcasm. “You have managed to capture an unarmed woman.”

“No woman is unarmed,” the man returned, his mouth quirking up into a smile. He dismounted in a smooth muscular sweep and stepped forward, making a formal bow to Nicola.

The man was tall and well-built in his dark clothes, a figure of power and even grace. Watching him, Nicola felt an unaccustomed quiver dart through her. Most of his face was covered with a soft dark mask, only the square jaw and chin visible, and a neat black goatee and mustache further disguised those features. But there was no way to conceal the clean-cut, compelling lines of his face—or the wide, firm mouth, now curved in a mocking smile. White, even teeth flashed in the darkness as he straightened and moved toward her, reaching up to help her down. His black-gloved hand closed around hers, neatly pulling her the last step down to the ground. He continued to hold her hand for a moment, his eyes boring into hers.

Nicola raised one eyebrow disdainfully. “Let me go.”

“Oh, I will, my lady, I will.”

In the dark night, his eyes were utterly black—soulless eyes, Nicola thought a little breathlessly. She could not tear her own gaze away from them. His hand tightened fractionally on hers. Then he released her.

“But you must pay a toll first, for passing through my lands.”

“Your lands?” Nicola curled her hands into fists, struggling to keep her voice cool and slightly amused despite the strange torrent of sensations that was rushing through her. She made a show of glancing around. “But I thought we were on Exmoor property.”

“In a legal sense.”

“What other sense is there?”

“One of right. Does not the land belong to those who live upon it?”

“A radical notion. And you, I take it, claim to be the representative of ‘the people’?”

He gave an expressive shrug of his shoulders, a more genuine smile parting his lips. “Who better?”

“Most of the people I know who live upon this land would not consider a thief a proper representative of themselves.”

“You wound me, my lady. I had hoped we could be…civil.” There was a faint caressing note in his low voice.

Once again something stirred in Nicola’s abdomen, shocking her. “It is difficult to be civil when one is being threatened.”

“Threatened?” He raised his hands in a gesture betokening innocence. “My lady, you shock me. I have made no threat to you.”

“It is implicit, is it not, in stopping my carriage and demanding money?” She glanced around significantly at the men waiting silently on horseback, watching their exchange. “Why else are these men pointing guns at us?”

One of the men let out a soft grunt. “I am afraid she has you there, my friend.”

This voice, too, came in the crisp accents of the upper class, and Nicola glanced in his direction, surprised. “What is this?” she asked, suddenly suspicious. “A group of town swells on a lark?”

The man who had just spoken chuckled, but the man before her said grimly, “No, my lady, it is no lark. It is business. So let us get down to it. Your purse, please.”

“Of course.” Nicola jerked open the drawstrings of her reticule and held it open to him.

He reached inside and deftly withdrew the leather money purse, gently bouncing it in his palm as if to measure its weight. “Ah, you do not travel lightly. A bonus for me.”

“I suppose you want my jewelry, too,” Nicola snapped, pulling off her gloves to reveal the two simple silver rings that adorned her fingers. If she exposed such valuables, he would not go searching for anything hidden. And she could not let him take the token she wore on a chain beneath her dress. It was worth very little, of course—except to her—but this obnoxious fellow would probably take it just to spite her.

“I am afraid I wear no bracelets or necklaces,” she continued. “I rarely travel wearing jewelry.”

“Mmm. I find it is usually carried on a journey rather than worn,” he said, his tone amused, and made a gesture toward the carriage. Two of the men dismounted and swarmed up on the roof of the carriage, jumping down triumphantly a moment later, carrying Nicola’s traveling jewel case and a small square strongbox, which they proceeded to stow on their mounts.

Nicola hid her relief at the thief’s acceptance of her statement. He stripped off his own gloves and took her hand in one of his, and Nicola jumped at the contact. His hand was hard and warm, and as he slid the rings from her fingers with his other hand, her breath caught in her throat.

She glanced up and found him looking down at her enigmatically, the faintly jeering expression gone from his mouth, his eyes black and fathomless. Nicola jerked her hand from his.

“Now,” she said bitingly, “if you are finished, I would like to be on my way.”

“No. I am not quite finished,” he replied. “There is one more item I would steal from you.”

Nicola raised her brows questioningly. His hands gripped her shoulders, and she sucked in a startled breath. A dark flame flashed to life in his eyes, and he pulled her to him, his mouth coming down on hers.

Nicola stiffened in outrage. His lips moved against hers, soft and seductive, searing her with their heat. Involuntarily, she went limp, her body suddenly hot and liquid. Wild, turbulent emotions bubbled through her, surprising and disturbing her as much as his insolent action had. Nicola was a beautiful woman, with a petite but curvaceous body, thick pale-gold hair and wide, dark-lashed eyes. She was accustomed to men being attracted to her, even to their making improper advances. But she was not accustomed to feeling such a response herself.

He released her as abruptly as he had seized her. His eyes flashed in the darkness, and Nicola was certain he had been aware of the way she had melted inside. Hot anger surged through her, and she reached up and slapped him sharply.

Everyone went still and silent around them, frozen in a tableau. Nicola faced him, certain that he would punish her for what she had done, but too furious to care. The man gazed at her for a long moment, his expression unreadable.

Finally he drawled, “My lady.” Then, sketching a bow toward her, he turned and fluidly remounted his horse. He wheeled and vanished into the darkness, followed by his men.

Nicola watched him leave. Her lips burned from his kiss, and every nerve in her body seemed to be standing on end. Anger roiled inside her, making her tremble. The problem was, she didn’t know whether she was more furious at the highwayman because the wretch had had the audacity to kiss her—or at herself for the way she has responded to his kiss.

“DAMN HIS IMPUDENCE!” The Earl of Exmoor slammed his fist down onto the closest thing to him, a small table of knickknacks that shook and rattled at the blow. He was a tall man, as all the Montfords were, and looked younger than his nearly fifty years. His hair was brown, graying at the temples, and his sharp features were generally considered adequately handsome. Today, however, they were distorted with rage.

Predictably, he had been furious when Nicola arrived and told him of the highwaymen waylaying her carriage. He had been striding up and down the length of the drawing room for the past few minutes, his face red and fists knotted. His wife, Deborah, had watched him with pale-faced anxiety, Nicola with a poorly suppressed dislike.

“Attacking my very own carriage!” Richard continued, disbelief warring with rage. “The effrontery of the man!”

“I would say that effrontery is something that man is not lacking,” Nicola pointed out with cool amusement.

The Earl ignored her. “I’ll have the coachman’s head for this.”

“It was not his fault,” Nicola pointed out. “They had dragged a cut tree across the road. He could hardly have ruined his horses on it, even if the horses had not balked.”

“What about the groom?” Richard swung around, pinning her with his piercing gaze. “I specifically put him up there beside the coachman with a gun to ward off such an attack. But he not only didn’t fire a shot, he gave them his weapon!”

“I don’t know what else you could expect. There were at least six men surrounding the coach. If he had fired it, both he and the coachman would have been dead in an instant. And then where would I have been? It would scarcely be doing their duty to leave me stranded and unprotected in the middle of the road, would it?”

Richard snorted. “Lot of protection they were.”

“Well, I am here and unharmed, with nothing worse lost than a few jewels and some coins.”

“I must say,” her brother-in-law said resentfully, “you seem rather blasé about the whole affair.”

“I am happy to be alive. For a few moments there, I was certain that I would be killed.”

“Yes. Thank heavens you got here safe and well,” Deborah put in, reaching out a hand to her sister.

Nicola moved nearer to Deborah and closed her own hand around Deborah’s.

The Earl regarded the two women sourly. “Well, I am glad that you can regard it so lightly. But it is something I cannot ignore. It is a blatant insult to me.”

“Oh, really, Richard! I am the one who was attacked!”

“You were traveling under my protection. It is a slap in my face. That blackguard is as good as saying that my protection is worthless. He clearly did it to humiliate me.” He smiled grimly. “Well, this time the chap will find out that he has gone too far. I won’t rest until I have his head on a pike. Thank heavens I had already sent for a Bow Street Runner. As soon as he gets here, I’ll set him on this. Then that scoundrel will learn that he has been tweaking the wrong man.”

It was typical, Nicola thought, that Richard would be much more concerned over the presumed insult to himself than he would be over his passenger’s safety. She glanced at her sister, wondering if Deborah was still so blinded by love for the man that she did not see how cold and self-centered he was.

But, looking at Deborah’s pinched, pale face, Nicola quickly dropped all thoughts of Richard or of the attack. “Enough of this talk,” she said crisply, going to her sister. “Deborah is obviously tired and needs to go to bed.”

Her sister cast a grateful smile in her direction, though she demurred, “No, I am all right, really.”

“Nonsense. It is quite clear that you are dead on your feet. Come along, I will take you up. Richard,” Nicola said, casting him a perfunctory nod, “if you will excuse us…?”

Richard bowed back, barely sparing a glance for his wife. “Of course. I need to go out to question the coachman. Good night, Deborah. Nicola.” He hesitated, then added with a wry twist of his mouth, “We are pleased to have you visit. I apologize for the inconvenience.”

He left the room, and Nicola took her sister’s arm and helped her up from her chair. They began to walk to the stairs. Deborah cast an anxious look toward the front door, through which Richard had disappeared.

“I do hope Richard will not be too harsh on the coachman. I—he would not be unkind normally, of course. It is just that this highwayman has him so upset.”

“I could see that.”

“It is because the man plagues Richard, you see. He—I know it sounds odd, but he seems to particularly delight in stealing from Richard. Tenants’ payments, the shipments to and from the mines—I cannot tell you how many times those wagons have been stopped. Even in broad daylight. It is as if he were thumbing his nose at Richard.”

“It makes sense. Richard is the largest landowner around here. It would stand to reason that much of the money the man takes would be from him.”

“Oh, he stops other things—other carriages, the mail coach sometimes. But it is Richard who has been hit the hardest. It has cut deeply into his profits from the tin mines. Richard has been nearly beside himself. I think what bothers him the most is that ‘The Gentleman,’ as they call him, has evaded capture so easily. He comes out of nowhere and then melts back into the night. Richard has sent men out looking for his hiding place, but they have found nothing. He has put extra guards on the wagons and his carriage, but it doesn’t stop him, just as it didn’t tonight. And no one will come forward with any information about him. Even the miners and farmers who work for Exmoor claim to have no knowledge of the man. Do you think that is possible?”

“I don’t know. It does seem somewhat unlikely that no one would know anything about him.”

“Usually the people in the village seem to know about everything. Richard says they are deceiving him. Hiding the man’s whereabouts from him. For some odd reason, the highwayman seems to almost be some sort of hero to the local people.”

Having seen the fit of rage that Richard had pitched about the theft and the way he had blamed first the coachman, then the guard, Nicola could well believe that Richard’s employees and tenants told him little. She had never seen Richard be anything but arrogant, even with his peers. With those he considered his inferiors, he was doubtless far worse. She suspected that the people around here were probably secretly pleased that the highwayman was harassing the Earl of Exmoor.

“What do you know about this highwayman?” Nicola asked, trying to keep her voice casual. “He seems an odd sort to be a thief. He spoke as well as you or I. And so did one of the other men.”

Deborah nodded. “That is why they call him The Gentleman.” They had reached the top of the stairs, and Deborah paused for a moment to catch her breath. “That and his manners. He is reputed to be invariably polite, especially to ladies, and it is said that he has not harmed anyone that he has stopped. He stopped the vicar once at night when he was going to the side of a dying man, and he didn’t take a farthing from him, just apologized for stopping him when he saw who he was—and sent him on his way.”

“Indeed.” Nicola did not tell her that the man’s behavior toward her tonight could scarcely be characterized as polite. Not, of course, that he had actually harmed her, but that kiss…well, it had been an insult, an effrontery.

“No one knows where he came from,” Deborah added. “He started only a few months ago.”

“It seems an odd place to choose. Thieves usually operate closer to London or on a main thoroughfare, not out in the country. How do you suppose he came to this pass? Do you think he really was gently born? A son who disgraced his family and was disowned?”

“Or a wastrel who squandered his fortune,” Deborah offered. “That is the theory that the vicar’s wife proposes. Or perhaps he was merely someone who was well-educated but poor, a tutor or a fencing master, or someone of that sort.”

“A tutor?” Nicola couldn’t suppress a giggle. “A history scholar who takes to the highways?”

Deborah grinned, too. “That does seem a little absurd. Richard says that he is merely a ‘damned actor’ who has learned how to ape his betters.” She sighed. “And perhaps he is. No doubt we make him seem a more romantic figure than he is.”

“No doubt.” Nicola remembered the touch of his hand on hers, the searing pressure of his lips, and a shiver ran through her.

“I am sorry.” Deborah, holding her arm, felt the faint tremor, and she turned toward her, frowning in concern. “I should not be speaking so lightly of him when you have just had such a dreadful experience. It must have been awful.”

Nicola smiled. “I am all right. No doubt you remember that I am not a very sensitive woman. I rarely have the vapors.”

“But meeting a ruthless criminal would cause even you to feel some qualms, no doubt. Let us not speak of it any longer.”

Deborah had come to a stop outside a door, and now she turned the knob. “This is your room. Mine is right next door.” She motioned to the next door down the hall. “I hope you like it,” she continued. “If there is anything that you need, just let me know.”

The room beyond the door was spacious and well furnished, with two sets of windows upon the back wall, the heavy drapes now drawn to close out the night. A fire had been banked in the fireplace, and an oil lamp burned low on the bedside table. A maid was running a warming pan between the sheets as they came in, and she curtsied and left the room.

“It’s lovely,” Nicola said, looking around the room.

Deborah smiled. “I am so glad you like it. It has quite a lovely view during the day—the garden below and the moor rising in the distance.”

“I am sure it is beautiful.”

“Come see my room,” Deborah urged, taking her hand and leading her out of the bedroom and down the hall.

Deborah’s bedroom turned out to be quite similar to the room she had allotted to Nicola—spacious and attractive, it was a very feminine room, full of ruffles and frills, with no sign of masculine occupancy anywhere, not even a pair of men’s boots against the wall or a shaving stand. It did not surprise Nicola that the Earl and his Countess had separate sleeping quarters; it was quite common among the aristocracy. However, it did strike Nicola as a trifle odd that there was no sign of even Richard’s occasional presence.

Nicola glanced at her sister, who was happily talking about her plans to put the baby’s crib beside her bed and a cot for the nurse in the dressing room once the baby was born. She wondered if Deborah still loved Richard as she had when she married him, or if she had come over the years to see him for what he really was.

Deborah sighed, still looking at the spot where the baby’s crib would stand, and Nicola could see the fear and sorrow mingling in her face. No doubt she was remembering the other babies whom she had hoped to place there.

“I am sure it will be a wonderful arrangement,” Nicola said quickly, going to her sister and putting her arm around Deborah’s shoulders. “And the baby will love it.”

“Really?”

Nicola knew that her sister was actually asking for reassurance that this baby would not meet the fate that its siblings had. So Nicola smiled at Deborah, putting every ounce of confidence she possessed into her expression. “Of course. You’ll see. Now, you must not worry. That will not help the baby at all.”

“I know. That is what everyone says. But it is so hard when—”

“Naturally. But rest assured that I am here, and I will help you. If there are problems with running the household or anything else, I will take care of them. You know what a bossy soul I am.”

Her sister smiled and relaxed a little against Nicola, and Nicola knew that the ingrained habit of a younger sister to depend on an older one had worked its magic.

“It is so wonderful to have you here,” Deborah said, and there was such a sad, yearning look on her face that Nicola felt guilty that she had avoided visiting her for so long. “I—I know you and I disagreed on—a number of things. But we can put that behind us now, can’t we?”

“Of course we can.” Nicola knew that it had never been her differences with Deborah that had kept her out of this house. It was Richard—and the things that he had done ten years ago. “Let us not worry about that. All that need concern us is your health.”

“I am tired,” Deborah admitted. “I seem to have so little energy these days. And the morning sickness is much worse this time.” She brightened, smiling at her sister. “But the doctor says that is a good sign, that it means this is a healthy baby, not like the others.”

“Doubtless he is right,” Nicola replied, even though she personally thought doctors were often woefully ignorant. It was one of her many opinions that made others in London Society term her “eccentric”—or worse. “And I am sure he told you that you needed to get plenty of rest, as well, didn’t he?”

Deborah agreed, smiling. “Yes.”

“Then let me ring for your maid to help you undress so that you can go to bed.”

“But I want to hear all about Cousin Bucky’s engagement!” Deborah protested.

“We shall have ample time for that tomorrow. I promise I will tell you all about it—and Lord Lambeth’s, too.”

“Indeed? He is marrying, as well?” Deborah’s eyes widened with interest. “But who? I thought he was a confirmed bachelor.”

“I suppose it only takes the right woman,” Nicola replied. “But it is far too long a tale for now. I will tell you all about it tomorrow.”

With a rather tired smile, Deborah agreed. Nicola gave her a peck on the cheek and left the room, going down the hall to the room Deborah had prepared for her. She closed the door behind her with a sigh and looked around the pleasant room. The glow of the lamp was welcoming, but it could not dispel the chill in her heart.

She hated it here. She wished she were miles away, back in London, in the life she had built for herself there. In London she was content. She had her charity work with the poverty-stricken women of the East End, the kitchen that dispensed food and clothes for those bitterly in need. There was the social round that she kept up with when and if it pleased her, the little flirtations that no one took seriously, the intellectual discussions at her small, intimate dinners. Even the arguments over her causes with various members of her social set were a bracing part of her life. She was useful and busy, and there were the pleasures of the opera and theater to be enjoyed.

But here…here she felt unsettled. She hated being in this house with Richard. And there had been that dreadful confrontation with the highwayman…that kiss….

Nicola shook her head as if to clear it. It was so stupid to be thinking about that kiss; she would not do it.

She walked to the window and parted the heavy drapes, peering out into the dark night. The trees and shrubbery of the garden were dark shapes in the moonless night. Nicola closed her eyes and leaned her head against the cool window as a sharp yearning pierced her, so fierce she almost cried out. Oh, Gil!

It had happened like this before, a swift, unexpected pain in her chest, as if the wound were brand-new, not years old, and when it did, she would ache for Gil with a sorrow that threatened to smother her. But it had not happened for a long time now; it had, after all, been ten years, and usually when she thought of Gil it was in a sweet, sad way, a remembrance of his smile or his laugh, or the way he walked, that made her smile as much as it made her sigh with regret. But this—this yearning that swept over her—was bitter and painful, cutting into her almost as it had ten years ago.

The thought of him had kept popping into her mind all evening. As her carriage had pulled into the yard, she had remembered suddenly the first time she had seen him. It had been here at Tidings, as she and the rest of a large party had returned from a hunt. He had come up to her horse, reaching up to help her down, and she had looked down at him, taking in with a jolt his handsome face and laughing black eyes, the thick shock of dark hair that tumbled across his forehead. Her heart had been lost to him at that moment, though she had fought it for a while.

Thoughts of him had kept intruding all through her talk with Richard and later with Deborah. Now that she was alone, she could not hold them back. Memories came flooding in. She supposed it was because she was here at Tidings, where she had first met him, or perhaps it was being around Richard, whom she had done her best to avoid for ten years. Whatever it was, her heart ached with a pain and hunger that she knew would never die, only recede now and then until the next time they welled up.

With a half sob, she left the window and threw herself down on the bed. She turned on her side, gazing into the glowing red coals of the fireplace, and, curling up like a child, she gave herself up to thoughts of him….