Read Tempting the Heiress Online
Authors: Barbara Pierce
Tags: #Fiction, #Romance, #Historical Romance
Tempting the Heiress (29 page)
Sounds from above had everyone glancing up. The footfalls traveled the length of the room and then faded. None of the men seemed worried about their late caller. A door creaked somewhere in the house.
She shivered. “You never mentioned you had a brother.” Amara twisted the ropes at her wrists.
Cornley sipped his beer. “Why would I? He was poor, titleless, and lacked my good looks. Most women ignored him.”
The door swung open. Amara had not perceived she
was inching backward until one of the men grabbed her bindings and pulled her closer to the table.
was inching backward until one of the men grabbed her bindings and pulled her closer to the table.
Conte Prola laughed at her surprised expression. “John,” he ordered Cornley in crisp English, “get our lady a chair. She looks as if she is about to swoon.”
“May I present to you my brother, Matthew Fenner,” the earl said, using a falsetto voice.
Amara let herself be pushed into the chair one of the men procured. “Brother. You fooled everyone. My father—my—everyone!”
The man named Matthew Fenner bowed. “Thank you, Miss Claeg.”
She persisted, trying to find the conte in this gentleman. “Are you even from Genova?”
He shook his head apologetically. “We have traveled extensively over the years, but England is my homeland. Conte Prola is merely a useful character. He opens doors that are now closed to Lord Cornley.”
Cornley muttered under his breath.
“After I rejected your proposal of marriage, you could have left town. Your—the conte could have continued on somewhere else.”
“There is no need to move on once we are married,” Matthew assured her.
It suddenly occurred to her why she had resisted Conte Prola. It was his eyes. Those gorgeous orbs were always so eloquent, their bluish depths filled with a liquid sincerity she never quite believed. Now he watched her, his gaze sharp and filled with a touch of arrogance. The determination gleaming from within absolutely terrified her.
Her hands concealed under the table, Amara diligently plucked at the knot with her fingers. She wet her parched
lips with the tip of her tongue. “My father is ambitious. Even so, he does have his principles. A foreign count is acceptable for his daughter, a swindler is not,” she said, allowing the derision she felt to reflect in both her expression and voice.
lips with the tip of her tongue. “My father is ambitious. Even so, he does have his principles. A foreign count is acceptable for his daughter, a swindler is not,” she said, allowing the derision she felt to reflect in both her expression and voice.
Lord Cornley pounded his fist on the table, causing her to flinch. His body shook with mirth instead of the anger she had expected. “She is correct. Keyworth would choose a monkey over you!”
“Silence, you grotesque monstrosity!” Prola shouted over his brother’s laughter. Walking around the table, he grabbed Amara’s upper arm and pulled her up. “Your father will not contest a consummated elopement.” He pinched her arm so hard the muscles grated against bone. “Are you breeding, Miss Claeg? Keyworth will be pleased you have settled so quickly into marriage.”
Amara parted her lips.
“Yes,” he said, seeing her sudden comprehension. “I am aware how close you were with Bedegrayne. I followed you both out of London. Your activities that night were most shocking.”
Cornley slammed his cards down on the table. “It is unfair! You cooed and sighed for Bedegrayne. When I had you, all you did was whine and scratch.”
The scoundrel! His attack had almost destroyed her sanity. She wanted to kill him for what he had done. Using her bound hands as a weapon, she struck Prola in the face.
The unexpected blow stunned him. He staggered backward, landing on the lap of one of the other men. The chair tipped over.
Amara did not hesitate.
Baring her teeth, she dashed by Cornley and through the open door before anyone recovered from her bold
escape. She ran through the connecting chilly corridor. Someone had lit the lamps suspended from the arched stone ceiling, chasing the darkest shadows away, although the bleak light did little to quell her fear of the unfamiliarity of her surroundings or the ambitious men behind her. With her heart pounding in her ears, she moved as fast as her skirts permitted, half convinced phantom fingers were brushing her nape.
escape. She ran through the connecting chilly corridor. Someone had lit the lamps suspended from the arched stone ceiling, chasing the darkest shadows away, although the bleak light did little to quell her fear of the unfamiliarity of her surroundings or the ambitious men behind her. With her heart pounding in her ears, she moved as fast as her skirts permitted, half convinced phantom fingers were brushing her nape.
The corridor widened. This room was unlit, the only hint of its dangers provided by the distant corridor lamps. Amara cried out as she collided into something solid. Using her bound hands to feel her way around the obstacle, she dropped into a crouch. The rough fragrant wood of the oak casks confirmed her earlier suspicion that they had indeed stashed her in a cellar. She flinched when one of the men shouted that he had glimpsed her. Since he was on the opposite side of the subterranean chamber, she guessed the befuddled man was pursuing rats.
Rats,
she thought with a squeamish shudder. Forsaking modesty, she hitched up her skirts so she could crawl forward to the closest rack of wine bottles. Her fingers closed around the neck of one of the bottles and silently removed it from its dusty berth. Wielding it like a club, she stood and moved stealthily in what she hoped was the direction of the stairs. The sound of scuffling feet had her pressing herself against the wooden frame of one of the numerous racks.
Rats,
she thought with a squeamish shudder. Forsaking modesty, she hitched up her skirts so she could crawl forward to the closest rack of wine bottles. Her fingers closed around the neck of one of the bottles and silently removed it from its dusty berth. Wielding it like a club, she stood and moved stealthily in what she hoped was the direction of the stairs. The sound of scuffling feet had her pressing herself against the wooden frame of one of the numerous racks.
“Amara,” Cornley rasped, his voice the embodiment of all her nightmares. “If marrying Matthew is disagreeable, you could have me.” She counted the approaching footfalls.
“Never,” she vowed. Aiming high, she swung out and shattered the bottle into his horrified visage. Dropping the severed neck of glass, she ran straight to the stairs. More
bottles shattered as Cornley blindly thrashed into the racks. His eerie howls had her panting in terror. Halfway up the unlit stairs, she blindly slammed into one of her captors.
bottles shattered as Cornley blindly thrashed into the racks. His eerie howls had her panting in terror. Halfway up the unlit stairs, she blindly slammed into one of her captors.
His arms circled around, binding her to his chest while she kicked and screamed.
“Amara!” the man shouted, dragging her the remaining distance up the stairs and into the light. She fell onto the floor, striking out at real and imaginary foes.
“Dove, dove,” Brock said, dropping to the floor and pulling her into his arms. He repeated the word over and over until the world around her came into focus. She finally recognized the three formidable men standing above her: Mallory, Tipton, and Wynne’s Milroy. They had formed a protective circle around her and the man who held her so fiercely that she could barely draw a breath.
Shaking, she squeezed him tighter. She choked on a bubble of laughter at his groan. “Brock,” she cried for her friend and her lover. “Cornley is alive.”
The news was met with grim silence. The sounds of breaking glass and rage-filled shrieks still echoed from below.
“Prola saved him from the fire. I—I hit him in the face with a bottle. They are brothers, you know,” she chattered, not certain she was making any sense.
Mallory bent over and kissed the top of her head. Then he met Brock’s livid pale green gaze, and the two men conversed without speaking. With a nod, her brother straightened and headed down the stairs. Tipton and Milroy followed. Cornley would not escape justice this time.
Overwhelmed by the ordeal, she leaned into Brock. “Once again, you rescued me from Cornley.”
Trying to shield her with his body, he rocked her. She
felt his denial long before he quietly said, “No, Amara, this time you were strong enough to rescue yourself.”
felt his denial long before he quietly said, “No, Amara, this time you were strong enough to rescue yourself.”
The nightmare had ended. Amara barely felt anything as she watched Prola and a mewling Cornley with blood and gore on his ruined face being turned over to the police. Perhaps the brandy Brock forced down her was to blame, but she thought she would feel something, anything.
Mallory appeared before her and with sweet gentleness took up her hand. “You have hurt yourself, puss. Let the surgeon tend it.”
She glanced helplessly at the three-inch cut across her right palm. Until her brother had brought it to her attention, she had not even noticed she had been hurt. Still bleeding, the laceration pulsed and burned. She must have cut her hand when she hit Cornley with the bottle.
“I’ve got her,” Brock said, using the linen strips bandaging his own leg to wrap around her hand. His gaze heated with something darker than anger when he said to Mallory, “Follow after them, and make certain Cornley and Prola remain under guard. I do not trust myself if justice fails us.”
“You are not alone in this,” her brother said, the softness he had shown her vanishing at the mention of her captors. “Take care of her, Bedegrayne.”
Amara wanted to call her brother back for fear he might try something foolish. Milroy, perceiving her distress, gave her a reassuring nod and trailed after her departing brother.
“You both need tending and this place is unsuitable. I have already sent word home to expect our arrival,” Tipton said with his usual peremptory aplomb.
Amara was too tired to argue. Besides, she was not certain her father would accept her into his household again. She allowed Brock to assist her to stand. “Tipton, once you came to me in my bedchamber and eased my grief by telling me that Doran was alive.” Brock tensed; his grip on her arm bordered on painful. Ignoring him, she begged, “I need the truth, my lord. Does my brother Doran still live?”
“Tipton.” Brock managed to infuse both a command and a warning in the one word.
Regret washed over the surgeon’s austere features. “No.”
The edges of her vision started to gray and close in on her. Amara did not realize she was falling until Brock caught her in his arms and lowered her to the floor.
“Damn you, Tipton!” Brock seethed. “Has she not suffered enough for one evening? Why did you have to tell her the truth now?”
She never heard Tipton’s calm reply. Her last thought before she succumbed to the darkness was that Brock had always known of Doran’s true fate and had let her believe the lie.
Brock carried Amara into the bedchamber his sister had prepared earlier and placed her on the bed. She had not said one word since she had revived from her faint. That had not deterred him from holding her while they traveled to Tipton’s town house. She had not resisted his embrace, nor had she clung to him. Tipton, in his dispassionate manner, explained the circumstances that had led to her brother’s murder. Expressionless, she had stared out the carriage window. Brock was not even certain she had heard Tipton.
His teeth snapped together in frustration. They had gone through so much for him to lose her now. At first, he had wanted to break Tipton’s neck for his revelation. Tipton had quickly cooled his ire by pointing out that Amara had fallen for Prola’s ruse because of their deception. She whimpered now as Tipton unwound the linen around her hand to examine her wound. The ropes that had bound her wrists had cut into her tender flesh as she had struggled to escape. Holding her close, he closed his eyes in pain; the knowledge boiled in his gut that he was once again responsible for Cornley’s harming her.
“I regret so much, Amara,” he said wearily. “My actions in the past have not always been respectable or redeemable.” He laughed softly at himself. “Loving you tempered the wickedness that threatened to consume me in my reckless youth. I need you to believe in me again.”
Amara sealed his lips with just the light touch of her fingertips. He kissed her fingers, accepting her silent forgiveness. Ignoring the tears that were threatening to unman him, Brock held her while Tipton stitched the deep three-inch gash in her palm. He distracted her with a slightly embellished tale about his ambush and his clumsy manservant’s heroics. There was no point in confessing how perilous the situation had become. He could not help the omission. Whether she accepted him in her life or not, he intended to spend the rest of his life protecting her. She and Tipton laughed with him. Then the horror of the night sank beneath her icy veil. She turned her face into his chest and began to sob. Tipton finished stitching her wound, then silently departed, leaving Brock to the healing of her heart.
Unable to bear her wild grief, he pulled her into his
lap. “I will not tell you not to cry,” he said, rubbing her back as if she were a child. “You have experienced enough pain in your young life not to shed a tear about the past.” She clung to him and cried. He preferred the tears, believing they were more healing than the icy walls she had tried to build to protect herself. Brock did not speak again until her gulping sobs had quieted to an occasional shiver. “I was never the kind of man who looked farther than a few days ahead. Loving you gave me a future to dream about. Do you know what I see?”
lap. “I will not tell you not to cry,” he said, rubbing her back as if she were a child. “You have experienced enough pain in your young life not to shed a tear about the past.” She clung to him and cried. He preferred the tears, believing they were more healing than the icy walls she had tried to build to protect herself. Brock did not speak again until her gulping sobs had quieted to an occasional shiver. “I was never the kind of man who looked farther than a few days ahead. Loving you gave me a future to dream about. Do you know what I see?”
Amara sniffed into a handkerchief and cuddled closer. He tolerated the physical pain her movements caused him because he preferred having her close when he spoke of his dreams.
“Do I not have a say in this grand future you have planned for us?”
Since he heard the amusement in her tone, he relaxed and smiled. “I see us married, Amara, and soon, since I need you snuggled by my side at night.” His hand slipped down to her stomach and rested there, wondering if their child already slept in her womb. “I see us with a house filled with children because a love like ours was meant to be shared.”
“And because you look forward to such an endeavor,” she added, blushing prettily at her boldness.
“I confess that I intend to concentrate all my energies toward the task as soon as possible,” he teased, and then sobered. “Your mother and father will most likely disown you if you marry me, dove. You will have Mallory, of course. Their disapproval has not bothered him in the past. And I can offer you my family. They have loved you almost as long as I have. Who knows, maybe someday, if Lord and Lady Keyworth can forgive me for stealing you
away, I can figure out a way in which to give your family back to you.”
away, I can figure out a way in which to give your family back to you.”
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