Secrets of Midnight (14 page)

Corisande couldn't say the same for Frances, however,
the poor woman still pale and uncommonly silent. "Everything's all right,
Frances, really. You see?" Corisande did a slow twirl for the housekeeper's
benefit. "Even my dress came out without a tear or scratch. Now, is the
meal put away?"

Frances nodded shakily.

"Good. Take Marguerite and Linette with you to the
carriage, and we'll be on our way, sure to have a lovely time." Corisande
looked round the circle of faces. "Papa?"

She had seen him among the villagers, keeping to the
back, which for him wasn't at all strange. He'd been pale as a ghost, too,
which
had made her heart go out to him, but now he was
nowhere to be seen.

"Papa?"

"I believe I saw the Reverend Easton enter the
parsonage, Lady Donovan."

That from Henry Gilbert,
whose
large Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed as if he'd summoned all of his
courage just to speak to her. Meanwhile, she had to summon all her will not to
frown.

Lady Donovan. No, she didn't like the sound of that
lofty title at all, but let her not forget her resolve . . .

"Thank you, Henry." Then she opened her mouth
to tell Donovan that she'd fetch her father if he wanted to wait for her by the
church, but he took her hand firmly before she could speak and began to lead
her through the crowd to the parsonage, Corisande gaping at him in some
surprise. "I could have gotten Papa by myself—"

"If it's all the same to you, my love, I'd prefer
to see you safely there and then back to the carriage."

Astonished at the sudden warmth flooding her face,
Corisande just as quickly reminded herself that her temporary husband was
anything but altruistic. Oh, he'd done a magnificent job already of looking
concerned and outraged as any proper groom would do, surprising her with the
intensity he had displayed. But now was not the time to commend him, although
she certainly planned to do so when they were alone . . .

"It doesn't look as if the wall is damaged."
Donovan had paused near the front door, his gaze raking the site where the
barrels had crashed against the sturdy gray stone of the parsonage, now
splattered with bits of salted fish. "I'll send Henry Gilbert back later
to clean up the mess."

Oh, he'll love that, Corisande thought to herself as
Donovan proceeded into the house, still gripping her hand tightly and leading
the way. But they had no sooner entered the front passage than he suddenly
stopped and pushed her none too gently against the wall, holding her by the
shoulders, the fierceness of his action making her breath catch. And her heart,
she'd never felt it pounding so hard when he leaned toward her, the buttons on
his coat grazing her breasts, his eyes searching hers.

"You are sure you're all right, Corie?"

She'd never heard such a deep huskiness in his
voice,
and for a moment she could only stare up at him,
wondering at this man whose moods could change so drastically from one day to
the next. Yesterday he'd wanted nothing to do with her, calling her a shrew,
and now she could almost swear he was truly concerned.

But, of course, that couldn't be. He must be toying
with her again, even when he'd said yesterday he wouldn't, the lout! He'd said
as much in a holy church, too, which proved he was as trustworthy as a snake
and, oh, she was feeling infuriated again and quite, quite shrewish and to hell
with playing the rapturous bride!

"Of course I'm bloody well fine," she said,
keeping her voice very low so her father wouldn't hear. "And just because
we're married now, my lord husband, don't you dare think for a moment that
anything has changed between us. No, not even in your dreams!"

Stunned, Donovan wasn't sure for an instant whether to
smile or frown. He was stunned at himself, too, not wholly certain why he'd
pinned her against the wall. Something had come over him—good God, just
thinking about those huge barrels crashing toward her . . .

"You . . . you insufferable oaf! Are you going to
release me so I can find my father, or not?"

Now Donovan smiled, much to Corisande's indignation as
her face grew a rosy pink, but he couldn't help himself. It appeared to his
relief that the woman he knew was back, and with a vengeance, but what was this
latest accusation

"So I was right, you bloody lecher! You are
thinking—"

"Thinking what, woman?"

"Shh, my father might hear you! Must you shout?"

"Must you call me preposterous names?"
Donovan countered, any humor he'd found in the situation gone altogether as
vexation gripped him. "Hell and damnation, woman, I am not a lecher."

"Oh, no? What was all that in the church, then?"

"All what?"

His question was rewarded with a sigh of pure
exasperation, Corisande staring at him as if he were a complete idiot.

"If you've something to say . . ." he
prompted, knowing full well what she'd meant, but nonetheless finding a bit of
perverse pleasure in baiting her. The woman had called him a lecher—she
deserved it! "All what, Lady Donovan?"

"Your . . . your looking at me and leering, what
else could I possibly be talking about?" she finally spouted in an
outraged whisper, her cheeks reddening even more as she struggled to free
herself. But Donovan held her tight, determined that they would have this
matter out.

"Not leering, Corie, 'admiring' is more the word.
Perhaps more intently than I should have, given the situation—"

"That's an understatement!"

True, Donovan thought to himself, "admiration"
was hardly the word to describe what he'd felt in the church. Now wasn't,
either, for that matter, which didn't please him. Doing his best to ignore the
indignant rise and fall of her breasts as she began to struggle again, he
continued gruffly, "You look very lovely today, Corie, and I am a man
inclined to notice beautiful things."

Corisande froze, more aware in that moment of Donovan's
overwhelming masculinity than she wanted to be. He was simply standing too
close and holding her too tightly, the strength in his hands alone proving
altogether disconcerting, his clean, virile scent invading her senses, Donovan
so tall,
his
body so massive, that she felt nearly
smothered against the wall. Not an unpleasant sensation at all, but something
wholly exciting—oh, Lord, whatever was coming over her?

"Please, we should talk of this later," she
said, feeling no small amount of desperation. "I want to find my father,
and —and I'm not bloody beautiful! Lindsay is beautiful, and Marguerite is very
nearly so, and . . . and why is it that a wedding dress and veil make people
say the most ridiculous things when they know—"

"Corie."

She started, meeting his eyes. Dark midnight eyes held
an understanding of her now that she didn't want to see. Furious with herself,
she dropped her gaze to stare blindly at her feet.

"Once again, you haven't allowed me to finish.
Nothing is any different than what we discussed yesterday. But as you said, we
can talk later if you wish—"

"I do wish! I wish for you to kindly release me so
I can look for my father—oh!" Corisande nearly toppled forward when
Donovan abruptly let go of her shoulders, but of course he was right there to
catch her, which only made her
more angry
. With an
agile twist she was free of him, half storming through the parlor and down the
hall to her father's study.

"Papa?"

Grateful at least that they had been so far to the
front of the house that he couldn't possibly have heard them, Corisande was
even more relieved when she found that his door was closed. But he wasn't
inside his study, she soon discovered, which made her gaze jump at once to the
windows. They were securely shut, not like a few days ago when she'd spied him
out in the garden. Of course, the garden.

Corisande hurried from the darkened room, her eyes
widening as she entered the kitchen, which still smelled fragrantly of Frances's
cooking. Donovan stood next to the high-backed settle where her father was sitting
as eerily silent as a stone, Joseph Easton giving neither of them any notice as
he stared with unblinking eyes at the glowing red embers Frances had carefully
banked in the center of the hearth.

"Reverend Easton—"

"Please, Donovan, let me talk to him."
Ignoring his raised brow, which no doubt indicated he was more surprised she'd
called him by his Christian name than that she'd interrupted him, Corisande sat
down next to her father and placed her hand gently on his arm. "Papa,
please, you mustn't be distressed about those silly barrels. It could have
happened to anyone—"

"No!"

Corisande sat back stunned, her father's vehement
outburst the last thing she would have expected from him. The tears now
streaking his drawn, ashen face were another matter. Corisande felt her own
eyes grow wet at the shock he must have suffered when he thought she and
Estelle were in danger. But they were both fine, her father had surely seen
that . . .

"What am I to do? What am I to do?"

The despair in her father's voice was heartrending, and
Corisande looked at him in confusion. "Do about what, Papa? Has something
else happened? If so, you must tell me—Papa?"

She'd felt him stiffen an instant before he lurched to
his feet and headed for the door, but he turned abruptly, his eyes moving from
her face to Donovan's. Desperate eyes that held a fervent pleading while he
stood there for the longest moment, looking as if he wanted to speak but saying
nothing. Then he was through the door and gone, walking stiffly into the
garden.

At once Corisande flew to follow him, but she didn't
get far as Donovan caught her arm. She turned upon him, incensed.

"Let me go, damn you! I've never seen him like
this—"

"Leave him, Corie. It's clear that he wants to be
alone. Give him some time."

"Time? How could you possibly know what my father
needs? You don't even know him!"

"No, but I saw his face. I've seen that look a
thousand times on the battlefield when the cannon smoke has cleared and the
ground is slippery with blood. When an infantryman wipes the burning sweat from
his eyes to find his comrades lying wounded and dead around him—"

"Oh, forgive me, I almost forgot that you're a
veteran of the war in Spain," Corisande broke in sarcastically, Donovan's
face hardening at her biting tone.

"Not a veteran. I'll be going back as soon as my
business here is done."

Corisande felt a stab; he had said the word "business"
so coldly, and of course he'd meant their temporary marriage and—and bloody
hell, what did she care if he planned to return to Spain? Thinking mutinously
that she, too, couldn't wait until their arrangement was done, she tried to
yank her arm free.

"Infantrymen, battlefields, I don't see what any
of this has to do with my father!"

"He's been badly shaken, Corie. You saw him. He's
probably never come so close to losing you, or even thinking that he might have
lost one of his daughters."

"Or else he overheard everything from the front
entryway, and for that I blame you! If you hadn't grabbed me—"

"Corie! Lord Donovan?"

Corisande gave a small gasp as Frances came bustling
down the hall toward the kitchen, while Donovan at once released Corisande's
arm and swept her into an embrace—an embrace! She felt like wrenching away, but
she forced herself to nestle her head against his chest and throw her arms
around his waist instead, making it
look
, quite
convincingly, as if she were hugging him back.

"Oh! Oh, my, 'ee two! Here I thought there might
be some trouble with the good parson an' I came to see if I could lend a hand
but—where is the Reverend Easton?"

"He's gone out to the garden, Frances."
Donovan felt Corisande tense in his arms, but he held her firmly, smoothing the
delicate veil that covered her hair. "I'm afraid my new bride is quite
distressed about her father. He's upset, too—those damned barrels . . ."

"Ais, so I was right. Nearly scared the life from
me, the accursed things!" Frances went to the kitchen window, clucking her
tongue in dismay. "I'll stay here with the parson, Lord Donovan. You an'
Corie go on your way—ah,
such a thing to spoil a lovely
wedden
an' the girls being so excited too."

"No, no, Frances, I'm sure Papa will be fine."
Corisande lifted her head, doing her best to gather together the shreds of her
resolve and trying not to glare at Donovan. "My husband believes Papa just
needs some time to collect himself, and I can't but agree, so there's no need
for you to stay. And you're just as excited to see the house as my sisters. It
wouldn't be fair if you didn't come with us too."

That said, Corisande pulled herself free of Donovan's
arms and with a last look at her father, who was sitting on the bench staring
out across the vast sunlit heath, she led a still reluctant Frances from the
kitchen.

"Ah, me, look at your poor flowers," the
housekeeper bemoaned a few moments later as they walked past the spot where
Corisande's bouquet of purple veronica lay crushed into a paste upon the
street. "Lord help us, I don't even want to think—"

"So we won't, Frances." Corisande's voice was
firm. "It's a lovely warm spring day, and we've a fine carriage ride ahead
of us.
That's
what we'll think about,
nothing more."

Which was much easier said than done, Corisande thought
to herself, glancing over her shoulder at Donovan, who was following close
behind them, his dark eyes meeting hers as he looked up from what was left of
her bouquet. At once she turned back around, her face heating most
uncomfortably at the memory of how he'd grabbed her in the entryway and told
her nothing had changed between them.