Andrea Kane (2 page)

“What does?” He was lost again.

“Why, everything you see.” She seemed amazed by his response. “The sea, the wind; by day the sun; by night the stars. They are always here for me. No matter what. And nothing can take them away.” She paused. “Do you understand?”

He understood, possibly better than she, for he had lived thirteen years longer and knew far more of life’s fickleness. He looked into her haunting eyes and abruptly changed his mind. Perhaps he did not know more. Perhaps he knew nothing at all.

“Yes, Kassandra,” he answered softly, really looking about him for the first time. “Yes, I understand.”

Tired of being ignored, the now bereft beagle plopped down upon the sand and began to whimper for attention, gazing soulfully at Kassie.

“Apparently you have made a friend,” Braden commented, snapping his fingers in command, frowning when the dog refused to budge. “I am sorry if he is making a nuisance of himself.”

Kassie shook her head. “He most definitely is not! He’s precious.” To Braden’s surprise she leaned down and hugged the ecstatic canine. “Do not be angry with him; he is too young to understand authority.”

“Evidently,” Braden replied dryly. He made another, equally unsuccessful attempt to order the dog to his side. “He has taken a fancy to you.”

“And I to him.” The look in Kassie’s eyes was tender, filled with longing. Braden felt another uncustomary tug at his heart.

“Why don’t you keep him?” Seeing her astonished joy, he wondered if she had ever received a gift before now. “Consider him to be my birthday present to you.”

“Really?”

“Really.” He waved away her thanks. “Happy birthday, Kassandra.”

Kassandra. It was a beautiful name, befitting the exquisite promise of beauty she contained. Not merely a beauty to behold, but a beauty to be savored and cherished; a beauty that was generated from within.

She looked at him quizzically, still clutching her new, squirming pet. “What are you thinking?”

“That Kassandra is a very beautiful name.”

She nodded. “And I plan to use it in a year or two, when I am grown. But until then you may call me Kassie.”

It suited her perfectly, a hint of the regal forename. “I would be delighted … Kassie.” He gave her a charming smile. “However, you must then agree to call me Braden.”

She considered the request. “Is that not deemed forward by the ladies of your acquaintance?”

“I thought we agreed that you were nothing like the ladies of my acquaintance,” he reminded her.

She laughed, brushing rich strands of blowing black silk from her face. “So we did. All right, Braden.” She tried it out. “I like it much better than Your Grace,” she decided.

He could hardly remember his earlier somber mood. “So do I, Kassie,” he agreed, thinking to himself what a delight she was, part woman, part child.

Kassie’s thoughts were anything but childlike. The fluttering sensation in her stomach, until now unknown, was nonetheless understood. She also knew she should go back, but she was not yet ready to say good-bye to the magnificent man who towered above her, making her feel so alive.

Braden was equally reluctant to say good night. His gaze drifted across her small, fine-boned features. He felt utterly entranced by the soothing effect of Kassie’s presence amid the natural splendor all around them. It had been years since he had taken the time to admire the beauty of the sea or the stars. Now he turned to view them through Kassie’s innocent eyes.

The beach was smooth and undisturbed, though closer to the water the waves slapped up onto the sand, then receded, only to return again. On the far side of the beach towering cliffs rose high and jagged, dropping off sharply to the land below. There were few homes in this section of Yorkshire, and the land was vast and wildly beautiful. Although Sherburgh was not far inland, Braden had never noticed the house on the cliffs that Kassie had shown him to be hers. Now he looked up at it again, realizing that it was surrounded on three sides by the sea.

“Are there paths up there in the cliffs?” he asked.

Kassie nodded. “Yes.”

“They must be lovely to stroll through. Do you walk there as well?”

“No.”

He was surprised by the curtness of her tone. Troubled, he watched her wrap her arms about herself in a gesture of self-protection. He could actually feel her withdraw from him, caught in some turbulent emotion of her own.

The puppy barked, as if to remind them of the lateness of the hour.

“I must get back now, Braden,” Kassie told him regretfully. Her tone was bleak, resigned, and Braden could almost swear that he heard a tremor of fear in her voice as she glanced toward home.

“I agree.” He studied her expression carefully. “Why, I am certain that your father is crazed with worry by now!”

A veil of sadness settled over her flawless face, and suddenly Braden wanted nothing more than to see it lift.

“What would it take to make this birthday a special one for you?” he heard himself ask. “What one thing would you wish for?”

She gazed up at his strong, chiseled features, the thick black hair that the wind had blown off his tanned face, and the warm hazel eyes that glowed down at her.

There was only one thing she wanted, one unattainable dream to be fulfilled. Her answer was spoken in the softest of whispers, and Braden was still reeling from its impact long after Kassie had disappeared into the night, her new puppy gathered in her arms.

“I wish that you would wait for me to grow up.”

July. 1819

“T
HIS BETROTHAL WAS ARRANGED
twenty years ago, and I refuse to let you break it, Braden!” Abigail Devon was furious.

Braden was bored.

“Do you hear me?” she shouted. “I have given you ample time to reconsider your ludicrous decision of three years past. It is time to cease this nonsense and make me your wife!” Abigail’s coldly beautiful features contorted with rage as she paced the full length of Sherburgh’s impressive library. Her blue eyes flashed sizzling fire, and she whirled around to face Braden, tossing her pale blond curls over her shoulders and down the back of her lemon-yellow gown.

A muscle flexed dangerously in Braden’s jaw as he stifled the urge to throttle Abigail and put an end to her outrageous demands. He leaned back against the intricately carved walnut bookcases that lined the pillared walls, struggling for control. “Yes, I hear you, Abigail,” he said through clenched teeth. “In fact, the entire staff can hear you.”

Two red spots appeared on her pale cheeks. “I don’t give a damn about who hears me, Braden. Or about your servants. Or about—”

“Grant?” he added helpfully.

She exhaled sharply. Damn him for remembering. “Or about Grant.”

He nodded. “Or about any of the other men you have since spread your lovely legs for?” he inquired in a deceptively silky voice.

Abigail looked stunned.

“Oh, did you think I knew nothing of them?”

Her mouth opened, but no words came out.

Braden pushed himself to his feet. “Let’s end this deception, shall we?” He strode over to stand directly in front of her, every muscle of his powerful physique taut with suppressed anger. “The betrothal was a mockery from the start. Not only do I not love you, I do not even like you. I am aware of every man you have enjoyed. The reason I said nothing is that I never felt anything stronger than disinterest. Your life is your own, Abigail. But you will never be part of mine.” He paused, his eyes flickering over her contemptuously. “The truth is you have absolutely nothing to offer a man but your beautiful, though somewhat soiled, body.” He paused. “ ’Tis a pity you do not spend nearly as much time on your honor as you do on your back.”

She gasped, then slapped him with all of her strength. “You are a bastard!” she spat out through clenched teeth.

He didn’t even blink. “And you are a slut.”

He walked around her, throwing open the library door. “We have nothing further to say to each other. Get out, Abigail.”

Braden waited for the resounding slam of the entranceway door as confirmation of her departure, then poured himself a brandy. Abigail hadn’t changed one iota. But then, he hadn’t expected she would.

He could still remember her theatrics when he had ended their betrothal three years ago. It had been much the same as the scene she had enacted just now, only then she had protested her innocence, whereas today she had not. A wise decision, considering her continued wanton behavior.

Braden lifted the glass to his lips and swallowed deeply. Well, the whole damned
ton
was welcome to her. She was actually quite accomplished in bed, if one cared nothing about the consequences. As far as he was concerned, a paid courtesan was a far better choice. Braden was more than willing to part with his money, which was in abundant supply. But at least with a
fille de joie
he could retain his title, his name, and his self-respect.

The library door closed with a thud.

“What happened?”

Braden turned at the sound of his uncle’s voice, facing Lord Cyril Sheffield with an expression carved in granite.

“I presume you are referring to my conversation with Abigail?”

The tall, middle-aged man nodded, displeasure evident in his rigid stance.

“I just saw her bolt out the entranceway door. She was quite distraught.”

“Pity.” Braden tossed down the remaining contents of his drink, then regarded the empty glass thoughtfully. “She came here today hoping that I had experienced a change of heart with regard to our severed betrothal.” His lips quirked in amusement. “Or perhaps she hoped that I had suffered a selective memory loss and had forgotten all that had preceded our … er, parting.”

Cyril sighed, smoothing the collar of his greatcoat as he broached the unpleasant subject of Braden’s future with Abigail Devon. “Your father did make an agreement with William Devon when you were but a boy,” he reminded his nephew.

Braden’s magnetic hazel eyes darkened to a smoldering slate gray. “Let us not begin this argument again, Cyril. I have as little respect for my parents’ wishes as they always showed for mine. What they may or may not have wanted me to do no longer matters to me.”

“I am your uncle, Braden. What you do affects the Sheffield name. Think of that, if not your father.”

Braden gave Cyril a contemptuous look. “ ’Tis a shame that Father could not have left his title to you when he died. You would have taken far better care of it than I do.”

“Braden—”

Braden slammed his fist down so hard that the ornate wooden table shook from the impact. “That woman is a trollop at best. When I marry, it will be to someone I like and respect. Surely that is not too much to ask, even for a duke.” The taunting words silenced his uncle. Braden’s irreverent feelings about his title were no secret to Cyril Sheffield. There would be no winning this argument.

He took a deep breath and tried in a more understated tone.

“Braden, if you would just be reasonable—”

“Is it
unreasonable
that a man should demand some degree of respect from the woman he is
expected to
marry?”

Cyril grew silent at the implication of Braden’s words. He was well aware of the fact that over the years Braden had shown not a shred of interest in the prospect of marrying Abigail. And her involvement with men hadn’t helped.

Cyril shrugged. “I do not believe it is a question of respect, Braden. It is your duty to marry and provide Sherburgh with an heir.”

Braden’s lips tightened. “Of course it is. However, I am hardly ancient. I still have time to fulfill my familial obligations, Cyril, and I
will
choose a suitable wife. But,” he bit out, his jaw clenched, “given the fact that I have a strange aversion to worrying over whether the heir to Sherburgh is indeed mine, my choice will not be Abigail Devon.”

When Cyril opened his mouth to protest, Braden shook his head vehemently.

“The subject is closed. You are overstepping your bounds, Uncle.” He lowered his empty glass to the table with a loud thud. “I am going out.”

He needed some fresh air.

He needed some faith.

The air would be easier to acquire.

He slammed the door behind him, leaving the library and the house.

Outside, Braden strolled about the vast grounds of Sherburgh. He willed himself to relax, letting his mind wander where it would.

The words he had said to Cyril echoed in his head. A woman he liked and respected? A virtual impossibility.

Unbidden, an image appeared of an exquisite, ethereal creature with coal-black hair and eyes like flawless aquamarines. A young woman of strength and courage, of wisdom beyond her years. A breathtaking angel without guile or pretense who was on the very brink of womanhood.

Kassie. The earnest and lovely girl that had looked up at him so adoringly, asking that he wait for her to grow up, was by now a ravishing beauty of eighteen.

Braden had thought of her often these long years, feeling strangely restless and vaguely unfulfilled at the memory. Countless times he had been tempted to seek her out for the sheer pleasure of her company but had resisted. She was young,
too
young, and she called upon emotions within him that he preferred to leave unexamined. He had, instead, contented himself with the hope that she was happy, that she would one day find someone worthy of her goodness. He was too old, too experienced, too jaded to be anything in her life … even merely a friend.

Braden turned in the direction of the beach, staring off into the darkened sky.

He could almost hear her call his name.

Dark. It was so dark. She couldn’t see.

Cold. She could feel the cold. It gnawed through her body.

Oh God, she was so afraid, so alone. Oh please, someone come … someone help …

And still it grew colder, darker.

She began to run.

She cried out, but no sound emerged. She ran faster, faster still. She was falling … falling. She could feel the air rush by her, dragging her down, down. She couldn’t breathe … couldn’t breathe.

Suddenly it appeared. A huge black beast. It reared back on its hind legs, opening its cavernous mouth. It was going to devour her. And she couldn’t stop it. She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t run. She was frozen. Then falling … falling. Alone … alone …