Sweet Surrender (25 page)

"I don’t need you lecturing me."

"So go to town.  You don’t have to stay here and put up with me."

"I’m being hounded to death by creditors in London."

"Then remain if you must, but don’t
let me catch you chasing after Grace’s sister."

"It’s
Grace
now, is it?" Duncan sneered.  "It seems that you’re getting terribly friendly yourself.  Better watch how you act, Jackson.  You might misbehave with one of your guests."

"She and I are having very delicate negotiations," Jackson claimed.  "It’s only natural that we’d have grown closer."

"Oh, it’s all bloody proper when you’re doing it, isn’t it?"  Duncan pushed himself to his feet.  "You’re an ass, Jackson.  Have I ever told you I thought so?"

Duncan stomped down the stairs and out into the dark garden.  There were no lamps to light his route so he’d probably break his neck.  At the moment, Jackson wouldn’t be sorry.

He listened as Duncan’s strides faded, and he kept expecting Duncan to turn around, to trot back to the verandah and chuckle over his strange mood.  Duncan never obsessed, never rued or regretted.  He simply stumbled through life, eager to implement his next scheme, which would always end in disaster.

Why was he fretting?  Perhaps his fiscal troubles were more dire than he’d admitted.  If that was the problem, Jackson couldn’t help him.  He wasn’t about to toss money at Duncan.  He could pay off all Duncan’s debts, and the man would instantly begin accruing new ones.

The quiet settled in, and Jackson realized he was moping, too.  But while he had no idea what was vexing Duncan, the roots of his own melancholy were easy to discern.

Since Susan’s foray to the library the prior afternoon, he hadn’t seen Grace.

She had to be angry over what she’d witnessed and was acting as if she was jealous, as if he’d been cheating on her.  While her fury shouldn’t have mattered, he was desperate to explain himself.

With his having deflowered her, he felt they were unusually attached.  When they’d copulated—and with her being a virgin—he’d worried that
she
would place more importance on the event than it needed to have.  Evidently, he’d been overwhelmed, too.

He couldn’t stop pondering her, couldn’t stop mulling every detail of the encounter, and he couldn’t wait to be with her so they could do it again.

Yet she was nowhere to be found.  Not in the dining room when supper was served.  Not in the morning parlor when the breakfast buffet was laid out.  Not at tea.  Not walking in the garden.  Not doctoring in the kitchen.  Not sleeping in her bed—he’d checked when he shouldn’t have.

He’d heard from the clerk he’d sent to Cornwall, and Grace’s story appeared to be true.  He still couldn’t decide how to resolve the situation.  What was the best conclusion and how could he reach it with the least amount of upheaval?  He supposed he could bribe Grace into going away—as Beatrice had suggested—but if Michael was really Edward’s first-born son, it wasn’t fair to deny him his birthright.

But it was also unfair to deprive Percival and Susan of the position they presumed to be theirs.

There was no equitable solution, and he didn’t possess the wisdom of King Solomon.  Tricky riddles were beyond his ability to unravel.

He had to speak with Grace—about Michael and about Beatrice.  It might be beneficial to move her into the village until Beatrice’s storm had passed, but he’d made one misstep with Grace after another.  He’d had sex with her when he shouldn’t have.  Immediately after, he’d written that idiotic note, ordering her to conceal herself. 

Afterward, he should have sought her out, but he’d let himself be waylaid by other, less pressing responsibilities. 

She’d caught him in Susan’s arms. 

What must she be thinking?

To protect her from Beatrice, he’d asked her to stay in her room, but there’d been no cruel intent.  And he’d had nothing to do with Susan’s ludicrous seduction.  He’d been an innocent bystander who hadn’t encouraged her.  He’d simply been
there,
and she’d taken advantage the exact moment Grace arrived.

His temper flared.

How dare Grace hide from him!  How dare she assume the worst without bothering to consider his side of the story!  Wasn’t that just like a woman?  She’d deemed him culpable without ascertaining the facts.

Though he’d had too much to drink and was beyond the point where he could rationally reflect, he decided to find her.

He would begin in her bedchamber, and if she wasn’t there, he would tear down the bloody mansion—brick by brick—until she was located.

He was going to talk, she was going to listen, and when he was done, they’d have a bit of fun, which was what he’d been hoping to instigate since their first dalliance had ended.

He downed his brandy and hurried into the house.

DC

Grace had just finished packing her satchel when booted strides marched toward her out in the hall.  It was after midnight, but she didn’t have to wonder who was approaching.

Jackson.  Coming to her.  Sounding irate and determined.

After stumbling on him in the library with Susan, she’d managed to avoid him.

He’d been raised in a different world, where rules and morals didn’t apply, where a person could act however he chose simply because he was rich and entitled.  That sort of person could cheat and deceive without consequence. 

In the process, if lesser mortals were wounded, if they were shocked or saddened or aggrieved, who cared?  He was Jackson Scott.  He was permitted his foibles and indiscretions.

For a few brief days, she’d stupidly believed she could step into that world with him, then step out again, unaffected and unscathed.  But she’d been fooling herself.

She was too naïve to trifle with someone like him.  Shrewd malice was required, and she didn’t have it.

Where he was concerned, she had proved herself reckless and wildly negligent.  She hadn’t the strength to fend him off or to resist his sly enticement.  She was lonely and unhappy and fearful for the future, and he made her feel better, so she latched on to his dubious suggestions.

She’d forgotten her responsibilities, her ethical obligation to Michael, and she wanted her old life back.  She was anxious to return to the spot where she’d been prior to meeting him. 

They never should have departed Cornwall, but they had.  Now, she had to figure out how they could start over in a similar place.

Villages were always on the lookout for good healers, and she had to remember that fact.  To her dismay, Eleanor would have to work, too—there’d be no suitable marriage to a suitable boy—and the quicker they left, the quicker they could establish themselves.

Apparently, she’d have to fight with Jackson before she could escape.  She didn’t relish the notion, but it was like a festering toothache that wouldn’t abate until it had been pulled.  That’s what she needed.  A swift, hard yank to reality.

He knocked three times, very forcefully and much too loudly.  She might have cringed, might have worried that others would overhear, but in her mind, she’d already fled the Abbey and was far down the road.  If the servants heard him, she didn’t care.  She’d never see any of them again.

"Grace!" he snapped.  "Are you in there?"

"Yes, I’m here."

He spun the knob and stomped in.  She was perched on the bed in the bedchamber, and he approached until he was directly in front of her. 

Alcohol and fresh air wafted from his clothes, so he’d been outside and drinking.  He studied her worn cloak, her packed satchel.  Fists on hips, he scowled.

"What are you doing?" he fumed.

"What does it look like I’m doing?"

"You’re dressed for traveling."

"I am."

"Where are you going?"

"Probably to Cornwall.  Or if we can find another town that suits us along the way, we’ll stop there."

"In the middle of the night?  Are you insane?"

"I have to be ready at first light."

"No."

"No, what?"

"No, you’re not leaving in the morning."

She sighed.  "I’m very tired, and I have no idea why you’ve visited me, but I’m in no mood for your posturing."

"Where have you been?"

"Here, why?"

He gestured around the pretty room.  "You have not been here!  For the better part of two days, you’ve been elsewhere, and I demand to know where."

She stared up at him.  With her sitting and him standing, he seemed very tall, larger than life, larger than the whole kingdom.  He filled up the house and the sky and the air until she couldn’t breathe.

Why would it matter where she’d been?  Why would he have been searching?

"I was in the village," she admitted.  She’d finally tracked down Mr. Porter.  He was departing for London at dawn, and he’d agreed to give them a ride.

"The village?" he sneered.  "I don’t think so.  I looked for you there, too."

"You did not."

"I did."

A headache was forming behind her eyes, and she rubbed her temples.  She wished he’d go away, wished he’d cease his shouting and complaining.

"Would you explain what’s happening?" she asked.  "Why are you so angry with me?"

"The woman you saw me with in the library?"

"Yes?"

"She’s my sister-in-law."

"I know."

"Then you should also know that there’s nothing between us.  I loathe her."

It didn’t appear as if you loathe her,
she could have said, but the remark would have sounded jealous and petty, and she wasn’t jealous.  If he chose to rekindle his great love for Lady Susan, what business was it of Grace’s?

She had no hold over him.  She had no connection to him.  She was simply a guest who’d lifted her skirt when she shouldn’t have.  If he decided to attach himself to Susan Scott, or any other female, what had it to do with Grace?

"Fine," Grace said.  "You loathe her."

"And that note I sent…"

"Yes?"

"My mother is here."

"I know that, too."

"She arrived unannounced, and I needed a chance to inform her about you and Michael.  I didn’t imagine she’d take the news very well."

"I’m sure she wouldn’t."

"I just wanted you to be wary, to stay out of her way."

"Believe me, I’m extremely wary."

"I wasn’t trying to hide you."

"Of course, you weren’t."

The note had been like a cold slap in the face, had forced her to realize how stupid she’d been in her dealings with him.

"What’s wrong with you?" he asked.

"Nothing."

"Why are you so…quiet?  Why are you so sad?"

"It’s late, and I’m exhausted."

"But I’ve clarified the situation, and it hasn’t made any difference.  You should be happy now.  You should be smiling."

If she could open the top of his skull and peer inside, if she could read his thoughts, what might she learn?

"Have you told your mother about me?"

"I certainly have."

"What did she say?"

"She said I should threaten you, then give you ten pounds to go away.  If you refused, she’d have you dragged away in chains."

"Seriously?"

"Yes, seriously."

"What did you say in reply?"

"I didn’t have an opportunity to respond.  She likes to have the last word, so she stomped out before I could."

"Will she have me dragged off?  Or will you bribe me and send me away?"

"Neither of those will happen."

"Then what will happen?"

"Nothing—for the moment.  I’m still thinking."

"About what?"

"About you and Michael."

"We shouldn’t have come to Milton.  I wasn’t aware of Percival or Lady Susan, and I didn’t mean to usurp or cause trouble.  I just needed some help."

"I understand that."

"I won’t have a protracted fight with your family.  I could never win it."

"I have no intention of fighting with you.  Don’t be absurd."

"I suppose I’d take a bribe—if you offered one.  If we could have a few pounds to see us on our way, I’d be very grateful."

"What are you talking about?"

His fury was so great, he almost hissed his question.  He grabbed her satchel, yanked on the buckles, and dumped her belongings on the floor.

"Stop that!" she protested.

"You’re not leaving.  Wasn’t I clear?  Weren’t you listening?"

She tried to retrieve the bag from him, but he held it out of reach.

"Give it to me," she seethed.

"No."

"Don’t act like a child.  Give it to me!"

"No!" he repeated more firmly.