A Daughter's Destiny (2 page)

She stared up at him, unable to look away. Something glittered in his eyes as they lowered toward hers. His fingers tilted her mouth beneath his. The warmth of his breath caressed her face as his arm tightened around her waist.

The door from the kitchen opened, and Brienne jerked herself out of Mr. Somerset's arms.
Mon Dieu
, was she mad?

A lad peered past the door, his eyes growing wide. A sly grin inched across his freckled face. “Didn't know I was interruptin', Miz Laclerk. Do ye want me comin' back in a while? Don't want to get in yer way with yer fancy gent.” He snickered behind his dirt-encrusted hand.

Brienne fought the heat climbing her cheeks. Why had Tip arrived
now?
She fought to keep her voice steady. “Tip, wait in the kitchen.” When the door swung closed, she whirled and spat in a furious whisper, “Mr. Somerset, I want you out of my salon. You have ruined my reputation with your antics.”

He pointed to the vase she held. “Let me give you the Ł200 for the vase, and I will be glad never to return.”

“No.”

“No?” He reached toward her again.

She backed away. “I will not listen to this nonsense any longer. Will you please leave before I have no choice but to send for the watch?”

“Miss LeClerc, I—”

“Good day, sir.” She glanced at the kitchen door. It was ajar. Blast Tip! The lad would soon be spreading the tale of the outrageous Mr. Somerset holding her in his arms.

Catching her by the wrist, Mr. Somerset spun her back to him. “You must listen to me.”

She choked back a gasp. His easy smile was gone, replaced by a fury that burned blue-hot in his eyes. Her first impression had been right. He was hiding something—a temper too fierce to be voiced. If she did not convince him to leave.… She was not sure what he would do.

As she drew back, she was surprised he released her. Quietly, she said, “I have listened to you and have given you my answer. The vase is not for sale.” Again his gaze locked on the vase that she held close. The heat in his eyes seared her skin. When he took her hand in his, she gasped, “Sir, if you do not leave posthaste, I shall scream.”

“And embarrass L'Enfant de la Patrie? I doubt that, Miss LeClerc. The tale of such a public spectacle would be repeated in your patrons' ears.”

“Are you threatening me?”

“Me?” She did not know if his astonishment was real or feigned. “I wish only to close this business deal. Why don't you sit down while we discuss this like two reasonable people?”

Brienne pulled her hand away. She wondered how many other business deals he had closed with this charm. It would not work on her … again. “That is quite impossible.”

“Why?”

“Because we do not have two reasonable people in this room.” She smiled coldly. “Good day, sir.”

As she put her hand on the kitchen door, she heard Tip scurry away. Behind her, Mr. Somerset's angry steps stamped toward the front door. The bell sounded over the door as it opened and closed.

She glanced over her shoulder to be sure he had left. When his shadow passed the front door, she shuddered. Had it been Mr. Somerset's shadow that had caught her eye in the kitchen?

She wrapped her arms around herself, but fear enveloped her in its serrated claws. Evan Somerset would not accept defeat this easily. His eyes had glowed with obsession when he spoke of how each person had a price, warning how sincerely he believed that.

And one thing she believed. He would come back to the salon to get the vase and to find out exactly what her price was … and then do whatever he must to be sure she paid it.

Chapter Two

Brienne shoved the kitchen door open. Setting the vase on the table, she asked, “Tip, do you have fresh green beans for me today?”

“Well 'e was quite a dandy. Who was that bloke?” The delivery boy gave her a bawdy grin.

“Someone who has learned to mind his own business!”

“Looked like 'e was mindin' yers, Miz Laclerk.” He crowed at his jest.

“I could use you tending to your business and letting me tend to mine. He will not be returning.” She drew on her apron.

“'E'll be back. No gent looks at a lady like 'e looked at ye and don't come back.”

“You are wrong. He—” When he laughed again, she shook her head. “Dash it, Tip! Where are those beans?”

After haggling with the lad, who always tried to add on a few pennies profit of his own, she bought what she needed and sent him on his way. She checked the simmering broth, then began to cut the beans.

“You look busy.”

Brienne smiled as her grandmother came down the stairs. She carried an armload of clean tablecloths, and the warm smell of freshly ironed linen swarmed over Brienne. With the soup's aroma, it combined into the fragrance Brienne loved most.

“Good afternoon, Grand-mère.” As always, she spoke in French while
en famille
.

Setting the linens on the table, Grand-mère picked up the small vase. She ran a gnarled finger along the design. A sad smile deepened her careworn face beneath her thinning, white hair.

“Why did you bring this vase down here,
ma petite?
” asked her grandmother. “I thought Lucile had it in her room.”

“Take it if you wish.” Brienne was tempted to add that she would be delighted never to see the vase again.

“It may ease Lucile's discomfort.”

Brienne nodded. Maman had always been sickly, and the sooty air of London made it impossible for her to leave her bed. Every year, she grew weaker.

Grand-mère walked to the door opening onto the stairs. “I am going to get the desserts Lord Grantton ordered. Do you need anything while I'm out?”

“I have everything ready for tonight. Finally.” She gestured toward the table. “Tip just arrived with today's order.”

“So it was his voice I heard?”

“Yes.” She looked away, not wanting to let her beloved grandmother know she was not being completely honest.

“I shall be back within the hour,
ma petite
.”

“That will—Oh, no!” Brienne whirled as a telltale smell warned that the broth needed stirring.

Grand-mère chuckled. “I believe the broth needs more basil.”

Kissing her grandmother's cheek, Brienne smiled. Cooking here was always a cooperative task, as long as Grand-mère did not catch her tasting the sauces.

Brienne went into the salon. Seeing a man's hat on a table, she sighed. Mr. Somerset must have left it. Dash it! That meant he would be coming back. Mayhap he would send a servant to retrieve it. She put the hat on a peg near the entrance. If she met Mr. Somerset at the door, she could have him on his way without delay.

As the door opened, Brienne glanced over her shoulder. Her lips tightened, and she prepared to tell Mr. Somerset to take his hat and himself from L'Enfant de la Patrie.

Her eyes widened as two men entered the salon. They were dressed in the shabby clothes of seamen.

“May I help you?” she asked, hoping they would realize their mistake and leave.

The taller man ran his fingers through his greasy, black hair and leered a broken-toothed smile. “Ye ain't Brienne Laclerk, are ye?”

“I am Miss LeClerc.”

“Listen to that Frenchie talk. Right out of Boney's court, eh, Lefty?”

She followed his gaze to the man by the door. He reached for the drapes and closed them.

“What are you doing?” Brienne asked.

The black-haired man grabbed her arm. She gasped when he spun her to face him. Her breath snagged as she stared at the long blade of a knife he held close to her face.

“Be quiet, darlin'. I wouldn't want to be cuttin' yer pretty face.”

“Wh-wh-what do you want?” About a dozen guineas were cached in the box on the top shelf in the kitchen. Would that be enough to satisfy them? It must, because she could not let them upstairs where they could hurt her invalid mother.

He shoved her into a chair. “Miss Laclerk, make it easy on yerself. Tell us what we want t'know. Where is it?”

“Where is what?” She stared at the blade.

“C'mon, darlin'. Tell us. If you don't …”

Scowling, she ordered, “Begone!”

He laughed. “As soon as ye tell us where it is.”

“Where what is? I don't—” She gasped as he raised his hand. He would not strike her … would he?

“Tell me, darlin'. Otherwise, I'll 'ave to be searchin' this place. Ye won't be liking it.” He cracked the knuckles of one hand.

“There, Ep! Look over there!” called the other man.

When the black-haired man went to the sideboard, she started to rise. A heavy hand pressed her onto the chair.

“Don't be moving, lass,” the second man warned. “Give us what we came for, and we'll be on our way.”

“What do you want?” she whispered.

“Shut up!” snapped the black-haired man. “Shut up, or I'll be shuttin' ye up.” He examined the vases Brienne had yet to fill with flowers.

Horror filled her. Vases? Had Mr. Somerset sent them? Was this what he had meant when he told her she would regret not selling him the vase?

“Where is it?” the black-haired man demanded.

“If you would tell me what you want, I could—”

With a growl, he swept everything off the sideboard. Dishes crashed to the floor, splintering. When he scowled at her, she feared her punishment was just beginning.

If only they would explain.…

“Where is it, darlin'?”

“Please tell me what you want.”

“All right, darlin'. We'll pretend yer as stupid as ye act. The vase. The one with the lightning bolt. Where is it?”

In disbelief, she stared at him. For almost twenty years, the vase had been here. Why was someone interested in it now? “I don't know.” She could not take them upstairs. Maman was too fragile. The shock of seeing these wretched men could kill her. “Honestly, I … d-d-d-don't know.”

He seized her hair, tilting her head back. “When yer brains are loosened a bit,” he growled, “ye might be more likely to be rememberin' where ye put it.”

“Stop,” she whispered, but he did not heed her as he raised his hand again. It swung at her.

The pain lasted only a heartbeat before it, along with her fear, disappeared into blackness.

The warm, sweet scent of starched linen teased Brienne. Slowly she became aware that she was moving. Odd, for her feet were not on the ground. It was as if she were floating.

Sound intruded. A low, repetitious rumble close to her ear, like a distant church bell tolling matins. The cadence grew more rapid as she heard a soft squeak. A door opening?

“Miss LeClerc?”

A man's voice! Whose?

Something hard and flat pressed against her back. Cool dampness caressed her forehead. She tried to reach up to touch what lay across her brow. Her arm was too heavy.

“Miss LeClerc, can you hear me?”

Yes, she could hear him. She tried to find words to answer.

The dampness moved from her forehead to her cheek. Agony erupted through her. Her eyes opened as her hand clasped a wool sleeve. She stared up at Evan Somerset.

“What …” She groaned when the single word ached through her head.

“It might be better if you don't say anything right now.”

Brienne looked past him. She was in the kitchen. She was lying on the kitchen table if her blurry eyes were not playing her false. That smell—the broth was burning! With a moan, she pushed herself up to sit.

“Be careful,” he warned.

She cradled her throbbing head in her hands. She doubted if she could move any way but carefully right now. Any sudden motion threatened to send her head flying off.

“The stove,” she whispered, closing her eyes. “The broth … it needs stirring.”

He muttered something; then she heard his footsteps cross the wood floor. He yelped. Metal clattered. She moaned as the noise struck her.

“Those handles were hot,” he grumbled as he came back to the table.

“You should have used a cloth.”

“Thank you for the sympathy.”

“I'm sorry.” Weak tears billowed into her eyes. “I don't have much sympathy for anyone else at the moment. My head hurts so horribly.”

His arm slipped around her shoulders as he put the damp cloth in her hands. She raised it to her forehead. When she swayed, he placed her cheek against his chest. The scent of starch and the low sound of his heartbeat were shockingly familiar.

“I brought you in here,” he said as if he could hear her confused thoughts, “because I did not want you to wake up and see the other room.”

“What is wrong with the other room?”

“How much do you remember?”

Brienne frowned, then wished she had not. Another slash of pain cut across her face. She touched the puffiness by her left eye. What had happened? Her eye was as sore as when she had fallen as a child and suffered a black eye. What if she had another one now? How was she going to explain that to her patrons or to Grand-mère?

“Brienne, how much do you remember?”

She stared at Mr. Somerset, shocked he would use her given name. As the fuzz clouding her vision cleared, she saw his straight lips.

“Brienne?”

“I remember you,” she retorted, irritated at his impatience. “What are you doing back here?”

“I came back for my hat, but I found something quite unexpected.” He pushed aside the door to the salon.

Brienne slid from the table. Smoothing her dress around her, she took a single step, then wobbled. She forced her feet to take another step.

“
Mon Dieu
,” she whispered.

Every table and chair in the salon was upset. Shards of broken glass and mounds of dented silver covered the floor. All the cabinets gaped open. Even the plants edging the window had been tipped over.

She shivered as memory burst upon her as viciously as the black-haired man's blow. “Two men came in here and did this. Did you send them?”