Leslie LaFoy (40 page)

“I don't mind at all, Edmund,” she assured him as she moved resolutely to the stairs. “Actually, you look quite fetching together. And you two have definitely been the high point of our evening.”

“That's not saying much, you know.”

Yes, she did know. Holding her waterlogged skirts above her ankles while carrying the tray up the stairs sorely taxed what little good humor Edmund had provided. It was fairly well gone by the time she reached Darice's door. She knocked and waited for what seemed an eternity before hearing Darice call out permission to
enter. The woman sat on the edge of the bed, dressed in a diaphanous gown and brushing her waist-long hair.

“Tea as per your request, Lady Darice,” Claire announced, setting the tray on the small table just inside the door. “And some biscuits.”

“I detest biscuits. They're dry and tasteless. I want scones.”

Claire paused, her hand on the doorknob. “As my mother frequently reminded me, beggars can't be choosers. Perhaps breakfast will be more to your liking. It will be served at seven. In the dining room. We hope to see you there. Until then, Lady Darice, pleasant dreams.”

Darice was sputtering in wordless outrage when Claire stepped out and closed the door. Grinning, she moved down the hall, determined to be rid of the cold, heavy, wet dress as soon as she could. And since there wasn't another gown altered and ready to be worn, there was no choice except to put on her breeches and linen shirt. She was going to be comfortable when she went down to the library and sent Edmund back to the kitchen. And if anyone cared how she looked or what conventions she defied, she didn't care. It had been a very long, very trying day; she deserved a bit of ease and a little tolerance of eccentricity.

The fire had been lit in her room hours ago, and in her absence it had burned to pulsing embers. In the dim light she quickly added several small pieces of wood and then set about the interminable process of peeling off her dress and petticoats. Gathering up the sodden mass of fabric, she carried it all to the armoire, pulled open the door, and unceremoniously dumped it into the wicker hamper.

With a smile of anticipation, she bent down and pulled open the lower drawer. Her fingertips had barely touched the soft doeskin of her breeches when the
impact came, tearing a startled cry from her throat and sending her tumbling headfirst into the armoire. Her head struck the back wall of the oaken cabinet hard enough to momentarily daze her, and in those seconds where up seemed down and in seemed out, a pair of hands grasped her about the ankles and spun her around. She landed, breathless and dazed anew. And then there was nothing but darkness and the solid, resonating click of a latch. Blindly, she scrambled to her knees and frantically slid her hands over the wooden walls of the cabinet that had become her prison. She found the door panels easily enough, but no amount of searching or praying revealed an interior latch.

Suddenly, anger replaced the desperation that had driven her to that point. Holding her breath, she pressed her ear to the wood and strained to hear something of the world beyond the confines of her cold, dark cell. Who was out there? Who thought this vicious prank was amusing?

She heard no voice, no footsteps. Only several dull thumping sounds and then, a half dozen heartbeats later, the heavy clang of metal falling against metal. In the silence that followed, Claire knitted her brows, knowing the sounds as familiar but unable put an object or an action to them.

And then she caught a tiny whiff of smoke and she knew.

Pounding on the doors with both fists, Claire screamed for Devon with all her might, all her hope.

EVON TOOK A HUGE
sip of his brandy, slammed the glass back down on the tabletop, then, leaning down to pry off his waterlogged boot, resumed his long rant right where he'd left off. “Enough damn clothes to get her to England and back four times. Jesus. My mother and Aunt Elsbeth don't travel with that goddamn much baggage. Combined. I swear she brought every stitch she owns.”

The boot finally came free and he flung it toward the fireplace and the mate that had preceded it. Steam was rising from the other one already. As well as from his jacket that he'd dropped over the woodpile.

“ ‘Do be a dear,’ ” he mimicked, yanking his shirttail from his waistband, “ ‘and send your man out to help mine with my baggage.’ ” He paused for another drink and glared at Edmund. “As though I could ask Ephram to wade out into the storm and wrestle her damn trunks while I stood inside all nice and dry and watched him.”

“You only think you're mad,” Edmund said,
swirling his brandy around in the snifter. “You should have seen your wife, Devon. I wouldn't be at all surprised if ol' Darice doesn't end up wearing a teapot for a hat.”

Devon sank down onto the chair, his knees suddenly too weak to hold him upright. “What happened?”

“Darice wanted a pot of tea, scones, clotted cream, and strawberry jam. Claire came into the kitchen like a Fury, slamming things about and calling Darice Princess and Her Majesty and threatening to send her packing right back to Lytton Hall.” He polished off his drink, sighed, and smiled. “And in case you're wondering, Darice got what was left of a pot of tea Hannah had made for the three of us and the biscuits we didn't eat at dinner. Another brandy?”

“Not quite yet. Help yourself.” He picked up his snifter with a smile, pleased by Claire's fiery spirit.

“What are you going to do about Darice?”

“I honestly don't know,” Devon admitted, his smile fading. “I suppose I'm going to have to think of something beyond hoping the ground opens up and swallows her. I wish to hell I knew why she was so damn persistent in pursuing me. I'm hardly the prize catch of Virginia.”

“She's a loyalist to the marrow. Maybe she's hoping to spy for King and country someday.”

Claire was a loyalist. No, that wasn't quite right. Nor was it fair. Claire wasn't a blind follower, waving the Union Jack and singing “God Save the King” just because she'd been born English and it was expected of her. Her objections to colonial rebellion were soundly philosophical. And humanitarian. He understood why she felt the way she did, why she couldn't stand at his side and proclaim the fight worth the price of limbs and lives. She'd endured in a very personal, very daily way the consequences of man's willingness to take up arms.
She'd seen her father's mangled body, and compensating for it had set the course of her life, had made her who she was. And what she was—strong, resilient, daring, and confident. She was a fighter. A survivor.

If only they had more time. Six months to a year was all it would take for Claire to realize that her spirit was more colonial than English, that there were principles more precious than peace. The colonies needed women like her. He needed her. Not to run Rosewind. Hell, Rosewind could burn to the ground and he wouldn't really care all that much. It wasn't the house that mattered, it was the life within it. And Claire was the very heart of it. If she left, Rosewind would go back to being a cold, lifeless, cheerless asylum for the inept. And he'd go back to dreading every sunrise and hoping for a noble excuse to die.

But how to get her to see that this was where she belonged? How was he going to get her to choose to come back to Rosewind once she'd fulfilled her obligations to the court? There wasn't a damn thing he could offer her in the way of traditional inducements. No woman in her right mind would choose impending poverty, insane inlaws, and looming revolution over the serenity and stability of life in an English country cottage. And she wouldn't be alone in that little haven for long, either. Some pasty-faced vicar or schoolmaster would swoon at her feet and Claire—sweet, loving person that she was— would pick them up, dust them off, and then marry them out of pity and compassion.

And eventually she'd be free to marry someone else because there wasn't a damn thing he could do to keep her married to him. Annulment, hell. If Darice Lytton hadn't come barging through the damn door, an annulment would have been an impossibility an hour ago. Darice had only delayed the inevitable, though, and he knew it. As soon as he could get rid of Edmund, he was
going to find Claire, start the seduction all over again, and shoot anyone who so much as thought about interrupting it.

Just why she was willing to be his lover was beyond him; it didn't make any sort of rational sense. But she clearly was and he didn't have the ability to resist temptation for the both of them. Not that he'd tried all that hard, he had to admit. He'd wanted her from the beginning.

The only explanation for her willingness to surrender had to be in her having realized that an annulment wasn't her only way out, that she could return to England and petition the Crown for a divorce. If rebellion came, it would be granted on the grounds that he was guilty of high treason. And if she didn't want to wait that long, she could rightly claim that she'd been forced into the union by her uncle. In either case, she could indulge her carnal curiosity and the Crown would free her to walk away. The life would go out of Rosewind. And some pale, simpering English fop would make his way to her door and collapse.

Unless … Devon scowled into his brandy, disgusted that the thought had even occurred to him. No, he'd be inordinately careful. More careful than he'd ever been in his life. He wouldn't have Claire coming back to Rosewind because she felt obligated to. And he wouldn't have a child growing up on the other side of the Atlantic without a father. There were far too many Rivard bastards in the world already. His father and brother had seen to that.

“Devon, darling.”

He looked up, his blood chilling even before he could bring Darice into clear focus. It turned to ice when he did. She stood in the doorway, an all but transparent dressing gown cinched loosely at the waist and her dark hair spilling in waves over her shoulders.

“No,” he said sharply, knowing exactly why she was there. “The answer is no.”

She slinked toward him, purring, “But you haven't even heard my offer yet.”

“I don't want to hear it,” he declared, coming to his feet. “Go back to—”

“Then you leave me no choice but to show you.”

“I'm not interested in what—”

The wrapper came open at a mere touch and instantly fell to the floor at her feet. He was already scrambling back, barking, “Jesus Christ, Darice! Put your clothes on!” when she held out her arms to better display the wares she was selling.

“Personally,” Edmund drawled, “I'd prefer that you didn't.”

God, he'd forgotten Edmund was there. Devon sagged with relief even as Darice gasped and snatched up her dressing gown. Clutching it in front of her, she stamped her bare foot and squealed, “You should have made your presence known, sir.”

Edmund grinned from ear to ear. “I've been standing right here all along. Not that it's been that long, mind you. All of four, five seconds at the most. The last two of which I've been struck absolutely speechless.” He turned to Devon and lifted his glass in salute. “I'm really most impressed, Devon. I had no idea that a woman could get naked so quickly. And you didn't have to do anything except protest.”