Secrets of Midnight (23 page)

"Not anymore. You've a very gentle touch, Lady
Donovan. Where did you learn to nurse so capably?"

His low, husky voice brought chills to her spine,
strange, wonderful chills that made her shiver and yet feel quite warm all at
the same time. "F-Frances, I suppose. She's seen to all our scrapes and bumps,
and I've helped at birthings too. We've only one doctor in the parish, and the
tinners could rarely pay . . ." She gave a tiny shrug, inhaling softly
when her shoulder rubbed against Donovan's. "It's common sense, really."

"Not at all. Birthings, helping your father,
helping out at the church, the poorhouse, the schoolhouse, watching after your
sisters, hollering down mine shafts—"

"Mine shafts? Who told—?"

"Henry Gilbert, for one." Donovan's voice
grew even huskier as he brought his face closer, causing Corisande's
breath
to snag in her throat. "You're quite amazing,
Corie. Bloody amazing. Is there anything you can't do?"

Corisande had no voice to answer, Donovan's mouth so
near to touching hers that she found herself closing her eyes and tilting her
head, every part of her suddenly aching to believe that she had truly heard
sincerity in his voice. But she no sooner felt the stirring pressure of his
lips upon hers than she started as if stung— Dear Lord, what was she doing?
What was she thinking? With Donovan's gift for sarcasm? He was mocking her, not
praising her. Mocking her! Oh, she could already hear his taunting voice . . . "
You said you wanted a good-night kiss, didn't
you?
"

"No, don't you dare kiss me!" Her hoarse cry
sounded like a thunderclap in the room as she pushed away from him, Corisande
just as horrified that she could have been sitting there nearly atop Donovan's
lap, and he was naked—wholly naked—while she was practically naked too!

"Corie?"

"No, I don't want to hear any more! You're mean
and cruel and—and I hate you!" Feeling stupid and so ridiculously naïve,
she lurched to her feet only to jump in surprise when something hard clattered
to the floor, barely missing her toes. She looked down but then backed away,
saying brokenly through the tears swimming in her eyes, "I—I don't like
knives. You'll have to pick up the damned thing yourself!" Then she spun
and ran around to the other side of the bed, never more grateful that it was so
huge. She climbed in and pulled the covers tightly over her head, biting her
clenched
hand
and feeling a total fool that she could
be crying.

Donovan sat at the edge of the bed for a long, long
time, shaking his head and wondering what the hell had just happened. He could
hear muted sniffles under the bedclothes, but eventually they quieted,
Corisande, he imagined, having fallen asleep.

Eventually he lay down, too, after returning the knife
to the bottom wardrobe drawer where he kept his pistol. But he couldn't sleep,
instead listening to the mounting wind whistle and howl outside and glancing
from time to time at the still, shrouded figure on the opposite side of the
bed. She looked more like an Egyptian mummy underneath all those bedclothes
than his temporary wife.

Hell and damnation.

Women.

Chapter 20

Men!

If it wasn't enough that Donovan continually occupied
Corisande's mind, this past interminable week had proved a trial like nothing
else she'd known, now that Oliver Trelawny's whereabouts plagued her, too, and
she was growing more worried by the hour.

Staring out the window into the pitch-dark night,
Corisande hugged her arms to her breasts as she looked for the signal that she'd
been
awaiting
for three days now. It wasn't ten o'clock
yet, though she still couldn't help looking.

Corisande sighed and glanced over her shoulder at the
small gilt clock above the mantel. No, only quarter to ten. Fifteen minutes yet
to wonder and worry if Oliver and the twenty-man crew of the
Fair Betty
were back safe and sound from
France. Lord, what could have kept them?

Oliver hadn't sailed out early last Wednesday morning
as he'd planned, the gale he'd so welcomed becoming a fierce spring storm that
had churned up the sea and slashed the Cornish coast with torrential rain,
delaying his departure until Friday before dawn. Those two days for Corisande
had been the worst, when she'd been cooped up in the house with Donovan because
the weather was simply too foul to venture out.

Oh, he'd left her alone. He'd left her alone all
week,
in fact, those first several rainy days by staying in
his library much of the time and saying he had work to do. So she'd played the
agreeable wife and left him alone, too, spending her time reading dusty old
novels and exploring the house with Ellen Biddle.

It hadn't been her idea, but the housekeeper had seemed
eager to get started on what yet needed to be done around the place, and she
wanted Corisande's opinions. Of course, Corisande knew nothing about the latest
styles in drapery and upholstery fabric and the best ways of arranging
furniture, but she tried to show suitable interest. Yet all the while she
couldn't help thinking again of how within weeks every room would be shuttered
and closed, the house settling once more into dust and disuse.

Oddly enough, the thought had bothered her. Everything
seemed to be bothering her, so she tried to keep such troublesome musings out
of her head.

Like the fact that Donovan rarely spoke to her. No, not
even in front of the servants,
which had made her task of
appearing content all the more difficult.
He was especially silent at
night when that dreaded time came for them to adjourn to bed, but thankfully
much of the awkwardness had been eased straightaway when he'd gruffly said it
made no difference in whose room she was found sleeping in the morning now that
she had been "properly bedded." Since then, he had made no other
reference to that disconcerting night, clearly not wishing to discuss it
further, and neither had she.

That bothered her too.
Not that he
wouldn't discuss what had happened but that it had happened at all.

Oh, Lord, she still couldn't believe she'd come so
close to allowing Donovan to kiss her. He might have done so before, but this
time had been different, disturbingly different. She didn't like to admit it,
but she'd wanted him to kiss her. At least for a split second before she'd come
to her senses.

It was all so ridiculous. What a stupid fool! To think
she had believed for even an instant that Donovan might have spoken
sincerely—that sarcastic, self-centered cad! Then her getting so upset, crying
even. Bloody ridiculous!

Her face blazing at the memory, Corisande looked
outside again, but she saw nothing, only inky blackness. Sighing more heavily
this time, she began to pace although she didn't stray very far from the
windows.

When the storm had finally passed and she'd been able
to go about her business, she had felt as if she'd been released from prison.
But not before Donovan had insisted on Friday morning that she first see the
document he had drafted saying the tinners would continue to be paid fairly no
matter the state of his personal affairs or his whereabouts, which had bothered
her too.

And it bothered her that she should be bothered! So
Donovan could think of nothing but annulling their marriage and returning to
Spain. Good riddance! And where was Oliver, that grizzled rogue? The
Fair Betty
should have been sighted late
Saturday, and here it was Tuesday night . . .

Corisande swatted at the blue velvet draperies when
another glance outside proved fruitless; with another ten minutes to kill, she
needed something to clear her mind.

One bright spot in the week had been a letter from
Lindsay, posted the very day Corisande had written to her about Donovan, so
Lindsay had known nothing yet about her temporary marriage. Held over in
Helston because of the storm and delivered to the parsonage on Friday, the
letter had been raced over to her at the church, where she was working on the
accounts, by a breathless and giggling Estelle, an indignant Linette, and
Marguerite hard on her heels.

"A letter, Corie! From Lindsay!"

"I had it first, too, but Estelle took it from me,"
Linette had groused, scowling at her younger sister only to glance back
pleadingly at Corisande. "Remember, Corie? You said we would read it
together—"

"And me!" Estelle had chimed.

"Me too!" Appearing as eager as the others,
Marguerite had looked expectantly at the letter, her lovely brown eyes alight. "I
want to hear about London, Corie. Go on, open it!"

So Corisande had done so, perusing the letter very
quickly to make sure there was no reference to Donovan and their sham marriage
before she'd read it aloud, delighting in every word. She went to the writing
desk now and retrieved that same letter, smiling to herself as she plopped onto
the bed.

Suddenly it felt as if Lindsay were there in the room
with her, breathlessly recounting everything she'd seen since she'd gone to
London, her somewhat reckless handwriting spilling forth in an animated tumble
as lively as her speech . . .

Oh, Corie, I can hardly believe I'm here!
So many things to tell you—where to begin? London is so very, very grand, and
so much bigger than I'd expected! I've never seen so many people—ah, but more
of that later!

Aunt Winifred is a dear, though terribly
cowed by Olympia, poor thing. It seems she received reams of instructions on
where I'm to go, how I'm to deport myself, how I'm to dress, the people I must
meet—what silly rubbish! You know I hope to strike out on my own, but Aunt
Winnie is quite excitable, even more than I remember—Lord, her lady's maid,
Matilda, doesn't dare leave the house without smelling salts in hand! So I must
take care—oh, Corie, you won't believe what I've to tell you!

Some things here are so strange. I've seen
gentlemen in corsets! Yes, corsets, their waists cinched so tight they look
like plump-breasted pigeons, and their collars so starched they can no easier
look to the left and right than if their necks were encased in plaster . . .

Corisande let the letter drop to her lap, imagining
what it must be like to see such startling things.

Of course, she didn't regret that she hadn't gone to
London; she would never have met Donovan and . . . and for heaven's sake, that
wasn't the point either! She wouldn't have been able to help the tinners on
such a vast scale if not for Donovan, and that was virtually the only thing for
which she had to be thankful about meeting him!

Corisande focused once more on Lindsay's letter, but
she felt all bothered again and hardly in the mood to read. And she still had
five minutes to go, she saw irritably as she glanced at the clock. Lord, if
that signal didn't come tonight—

"Corie, may I come in?"

She froze, her gaze flying to the sitting room door, a
door she'd left pointedly closed all week as a clear sign that Donovan was not
welcome. He hadn't made any move to disturb her until now—bloody hell, why
tonight of all nights? It was almost ten o'clock and, oh dear, she'd retired
early, claiming a headache, and here she was dressed in her sturdiest clothes
and ready to go out at the first sign . . .

Corisande had only a moment to leap into bed, still
holding Lindsay's letter, fully clothed, shoes and all, and yank the covers
under her chin before she heard Donovan enter the room. Her eyes were squeezed
shut, and her heart raced. She made no move at all as he crossed to the bed,
but she knew at once he didn't believe she was sleeping when she heard him sigh
heavily.

"You haven't bothered to douse the lamps, Corie,
and I heard you pacing just a few moments ago. You can't have fallen asleep
that fast."

She didn't readily open her eyes, moaning instead. "Of
. . . of course I was pacing. My head hurts so . . ."

"Then I should have Ellen Biddle bring you a pinch
of laudanum in some tea—"

"No, no, I don't want any laudanum!"
Realizing that she'd half shouted, Corisande tried to control her annoyance as
she stared up at Donovan. "I mean, my headache isn't all that terrible,
but it does hurt. I—I'm sure I'll be fine if you'd allow me to sleep. Would you
please turn out the lamps for me, Donovan?"

He seemed taken aback by her docile request although
quite reluctant, too, to leave her side, the tension in his body plain to see. "Actually,
Corie, I thought we should talk—"

"Please, Donovan, not tonight." Her gaze
skipped to the clock—oh, Lord, it was almost ten!—and then back again to his
face. His expression had hardened. "It's so late, and I'm so tired.
Tomorrow would be better."

"Very well, very well, tomorrow."

He didn't sound at all as if he wanted to leave,
sighing with exasperation, but finally he went to douse the lamps, plunging the
room into darkness but for the low red glow of the fire. She could sense his
barely restrained agitation as he came back around to stand beside the bed, but
she gave as audible and as wide a yawn as she could summon, rolling over onto
her
side
and snuggling her head into the pillow.

"Thank you, Donovan. Good night."

No
answer came but for the sitting
room door closing behind him a long moment later, even
the dull thud
sounding disgruntled.

Somehow Corisande managed to wait another moment, just to
make certain he didn't come back in again, then she could stand it no longer as
the clock began to chime ten. She was on her feet and over to the windows in a
flash, taking care to move silently, her breath stopping as she spied a lantern's
yellow glow far off in the distance, the light swinging back and forth in an
arc.