Andrea Kane (3 page)

The scream began deep inside her, rose up to her mouth, and pierced the silence of the room. An endless scream of inescapable terror.

Kassie was wide awake, trembling uncontrollably, struggling for air. She was assailed by a stark panic that would not be assuaged. Frantically she combated the fear, taking deep, deliberate breaths, purposefully wiping her mind free of the chilling images.

Moments passed. Slowly the insurmountable terror receded, diminished until it was a dull ache inside her. With a shuddering sigh Kassie eased herself back down onto the pillows, closed her eyes, and soothed herself in the same manner that she had each night since her fifteenth birthday … by conjuring up an image of Braden Sheffield.

Braden. Handsome, powerful, tender. Though they had met for but an hour, it seemed she had known him for a lifetime. He was compassionate and gentle, yet she could feel his reluctance to display these qualities, his need to hide them beneath a mask of self-protection that experience had only served to reinforce. It had been three years, and still the memory of their only meeting had not faded. If anything, it had grown stronger, clearer. Kassie could remember every detail of the way he looked, the things he said.

The things he didn’t say.

His eyes had offered her his friendship, his strength … and something more. There had been a magnetic pull between them … or did she just will it to be so?

She knew what Braden’s real world was like, for she read about it every day in novels, in newspapers. The nobleman’s world, the world of the
ton;
vapid and without substance; exciting and glittering, filled with carefree men and beautiful women. A world she could not understand and in which she had no part.

Her dream of Braden disintegrated into sharp particles of pain and loneliness.

It was but a fantasy, for he had, no doubt, long since forgotten their encounter. In truth, Kassie would probably never see him again.

Throwing back the covers, she jumped out of bed, reaching for the thin robe that lay upon it. She couldn’t bear to be alone. She just couldn’t.

Seeing his mistress prepare to leave her room, the silky-haired beagle jumped up from his warm spot by the fire and hurried along behind Kassie on short, sturdy legs.

Kassie smiled down at her only friend, a warm, brown-eyed reminder of that special meeting with Braden.

“Come, Percy,” she whispered. “Let us go down to the library and fetch a book of your namesake’s poetry.”

A light shining beneath the library door altered her plans. Kassie spotted it as she descended the steps and felt a small stab of fear. Her father was awake. She had no desire to see him … or to have him see her. She knew what he was like when he was disturbed … and drunk. It was very ugly.

She turned to retrace her steps, gesturing to a bewildered Percy to follow her.

It was then that she heard the voices.

“You must try to understand … to be patient.” Her father’s speech was slurred, but his tone was clearly pleading.

“I have been more than patient, Grey,” a second masculine voice snapped back.

“I will have your money very soon.” Kassie winced at her father’s idle promise.

“Really? And from where do you intend to get it, you sniveling fool?” the stranger demanded.

“
That
is my concern, not yours.”

“I beg to differ with you, my dear Robert, but that is very much my concern. Now, I repeat, from what source do you intend to get such a large sum of money?”

There was a pause, during which time Robert was, no doubt, draining his glass of whiskey.

At last Kassie heard a barely audible reply. “My luck is changing. I can feel it.”

A sardonic laugh. “And this is what you are pinning your hopes on? A change in your luck? I can hardly sleep easy, knowing that my debt will be repaid by your winnings. Judging from your luck thus far—”

“My luck”—Robert’s voice broke—“has not been the same since Elena died.” He moaned. “Oh, why was I such a fool? If only I could have controlled her, convinced her not to turn away from me … none of this would have happened. She wouldn’t have had to die. But as it was, it was inevitable. She left me no choice but to do what I did … to her, to myself.” A choked sob. “Don’t you see that she left me no choice?”

The words echoed inside Kassie, setting off a warning bell as ugly memories threatened to claim her, to drag her down into their drowning darkness. From the moment the conversation had started her heart had begun to beat faster, reaching a frantic, erratic rhythm. Her palms were damp, her throat dry. The room began to close in on her. Escape was the only answer.

She backed away from the door, clapping her hands over her ears to block out the assaulting voices. She had to get away … now.

Desperately, with Percy at her heels, Kassie fled to the beach.

A
VAGUE FEELING OF
foreboding plagued Braden, together with a persistent restlessness that refused to be appeased.

He leaned back in his elegant traveling carriage, eager to begin the ride home from York. He had been more than pleased with the performance of his two-year-old filly, who had raced for the first time today. She was every bit as splendid as he and Charles had expected, and she promised to be a prime contender for the thousand guineas at Newmarket next spring.

Watching his horses race usually made Braden’s blood pound with excitement and renewed energy. Much as lovers of ballet were moved by the grace and skill of the dancers, Braden never ceased to be awed by the tremendous speed and elegance of the glorious Thoroughbreds.

In contrast, today he had been unable to concentrate fully.

“Rather quiet, are you not, Braden?”

Braden started as a tall, agile man of middle years jumped into the carriage beside him. Thinning hair and slight facial lines could not diminish the vitality of Charles Graves’s penetrating blue eyes or the warmth and strength of his very presence.

Braden forced the frown from his face.

“Were you displeased with the filly’s performance?” Charles continued cautiously.

Braden shook his head. “No, she was spectacular. A true product of her unsurpassable parentage.”

Charles heard the tension in Braden’s voice, noted his faraway look. Braden had been unusually moody for months now, and in poor humor since his confrontation with Lady Abigail Devon a fortnight ago. It puzzled Charles, for it was unlike Braden to allow anyone to incite his emotions. The damage had been done many years ago by Braden’s parents, who had taken out their own frustration and resentment on their bewildered only child until Braden had withdrawn into himself. And now, as a grown man, Braden had erected towering, steellike protective walls around him that no one could penetrate.

“Then what is it?” Charles gently pressed.

“I don’t know,” Braden answered truthfully. He signaled to his coachmen to begin their journey home, then turned back to Charles as the gleaming carriage moved off slowly. “Perhaps Abigail’s latest performance brought back memories I would choose to forget, and that served to remind me how predictably unpleasant the world really is.”

“Not all things are unpleasant,” Charles reminded him.

“No, only people.” Braden gave an ironic shake of his head. “I do believe that you were luckier when you were a mere groom at our stables. During that time you had only horses to deal with, not cold-blooded human beings.”

Charles chuckled. “True. But despite the fact that I can no longer keep to horses alone, training is much more of a challenge. Twenty years as a groom is enough.”

Braden opened his mouth to reply but was cut off by a sudden loud commotion.

“Get out of ’ere, man!”

The resistant protestor was shoved unceremoniously out of the gates, where he teetered for a moment, then staggered toward the street.

“This is an outrage!” he muttered under his breath in a voice slurred from too much alcohol. “I am a guest … a spectator—”

“A drunken thief!” the ouster retorted. “Ye owe me the £100 ye wagered on that last race … and ye don’t ’ave a blessed farthing with ye! Now get out of ’ere, and take yer bloody swindlin’ elsewhere!”

Pushing limp strands of dark hair away from his face, the disoriented man stared around with unseeing bloodshot eyes, then stepped out into the road … directly into the path of Braden’s moving carriage. The driver shouted a warning at the top of his lungs; the horses whinnied their rebellion at the sudden veering of their course. The drunk raised his head at the commotion about him, then froze in place, staring at the oncoming carriage. In mere seconds he would be beneath its wheels.

With a jolt the carriage stopped.

Braden reacted instantly, throwing open the carriage door. He had heard no sickening thud that would accompany an impact, and he prayed that the man had been miraculously spared. By the time he and Charles had alit the liveried coachmen were tugging the very much alive, disheveled drunk to his feet.

“Let go of me, I say!” he sputtered. “First you try to run me down, then you molest me! Unhand me at once!”

Braden made his way over. With a curt nod he dismissed his harried coachmen, then inspected the sputtering man. Braden’s gaze was cold, brittle, clearly mirroring the disgust he was feeling. He noted that the man’s clothing was rumpled and askew, but not inexpensive.

“Get up.” Braden’s tone left no room for argument.

The stranger blinked, then struggled awkwardly to his feet, dusting himself off with hands that shook.

“You are most fortunate that my driver is as quick as he is”—Braden’s tone was filled with condemnation—“else you would be dead.” He folded his arms across his broad chest. “How did you plan on getting home?” he demanded without preamble.

The man looked about with glazed eyes. “I’m not certain. I believe I hired a carriage. …”

“Well, as you can see, none is present,” Braden said, cutting him off. Impatiently he gestured toward his own open carriage. “Get in. My driver will take you wherever it is you need to go.”

The man stared at the elegant coach done in the Sheffield colors of crimson and black, the family crest embossed on its gleaming sides. He himself might be a mere member of the gentry, but he recognized the signs of nobility when he saw them.

“Is this your way of apologizing for your driver’s carelessness?” he managed.

Braden motioned to Charles to help the man into the carriage.

“No. This is my way of being charitable to someone who is in dire straits. Worthy or not.”

With that Braden strode back to the carriage and settled himself within the plush interior. Minutes passed, and Charles appeared, tossing the uncoordinated, still-muttering man into his seat, then climbing in beside him.

Braden leveled his cold stare at their passenger. “Where shall I instruct my driver to take you?”

A pause. “T’Scarborough, m’lord.” Since he was unsure of his rescuer’s exact title, “my lord” was a safe form of address. “I live in a cottage on the cliffs overlooking the North Sea. You can see it from the road, so it can’t be missed.”

Braden felt an odd constriction in his chest, and his earlier feeling of foreboding intensified. He called out instructions to his waiting driver, then sat back, silently admonishing himself for his irrational reaction. Surely there were many such cottages along the North Sea.

The carriage moved purposefully on its way.

“What is your name, sir?” Braden asked slowly, perusing the flushed cheeks and the unkempt clothing.

The man swallowed, feeling terribly uneasy and not quite sure as to why.

“Robert Grey, m’lord,” he supplied.

Braden felt bile rush up to his throat, his worst fears confirmed. This miserable excuse for a human being was the father of that vibrant young woman who had so briefly but profoundly touched his life. Kassandra. Lovely, innocent Kassie. Braden’s fists clenched in his lap. She deserved better than this.

Despite Robert’s dazed condition, he was certain he had seen a tightening of his noble escort’s jaw. Vaguely he wondered what chord his identity had struck in the younger man. Maybe Elena, he thought, anger rising inside him. But no, this man was too young … little more than thirty years of age, he would guess. And Elena had preferred her men older, more mature, and incomparably affluent.

Robert’s fuzzy gaze turned to the other occupant of the carriage, and his stomach knotted. Whoever this man was, he would certainly suit Elena’s tastes. The age was right, as were the rugged good looks. And while the younger man had reacted to the name of Grey with anger, this older man’s face had drained of color.

Robert blinked. Could his befuddled mind be playing tricks on him? Perhaps … He shook his head to clear it, struggling to focus on the question the young nobleman had asked him.

“Pardon me, m’lord?” Robert managed.

Braden shifted impatiently. “I asked if you had a daughter named Kassandra.”

Now Robert looked startled. “Why … yes, I do. How on earth do you know—”

“We met once, some years ago. She was an enchanting girl.”

Robert massaged his temples. “Once? Then I am surprised you remember her … forgive me, m’lord. I don’t seem t’be able t’recall our introduction. What is your name?”

Braden gave Robert a look of utter distaste and refrained from telling him that they had, quite fortunately, never met prior to now. “Braden Sheffield, the Duke of Sherburgh,” Braden supplied. “And I beg to differ with you, Mr. Grey. Your daughter is not an easy person to forget.”

Dull, dark eyes flickered over Braden thoughtfully, then moved on to Charles, who still remained silent.

“Your Grace,” Robert acknowledged, addressing Braden, but staring at Charles. “And this is …”

“Charles Graves,” Charles supplied in a cold, tight voice.

Braden glanced over at Charles, startled. He had never heard his friend sound so bitter. No … it was more than bitter; it was lethal. And Charles’s hands were clenched tightly in his lap. Most odd.

“And what is your title?” Robert asked, feeling himself fade.

“I have no title, sir” was the clipped reply.

“No title,” Robert repeated in wonder. “Now that is a surprise.”