The Devil's Love (2 page)

from seeing the man she had dreamed of and admired since she could remember. Her

father’s constant compliments of Michael’s military career, the enormous shipping trade he had built, and the fact that he was now the very important

Marquis of Darfield kept him constantly in Abbey’s consciousness. The captain

delighted in relating stories of Michael’s courage in a world of ruthless shipping magnates and pirates, of fair business practices for which he was exalted among his peers, and of his relentless chase of unsavory pirates, racketeers, and injustice in general.

Her papa had been so admiring of Michael Ingram for the last twelve years that

Abbey could not imagine another man who could possibly compare to him. That he

wanted her as a wife thrilled her. That she might not measure up mortified her.

But her occasional doubts were easily erased with a new letter from her father.

The fact that Michael had never written her directly or that she had not actually seen him in all that time did not daunt her. He had been too busy building a fortune, her papa had said, so that Abbey would never want for anything. And naturally the responsibilities of his very important title did not

leave him time for leisurely correspondence.

Three years ago her father’s consumption had taken a turn for the worse, and he

had sent her to live in America with her aunt Nan. She had been waiting patiently since then, believing the captain’s letters explicitly when he told her Michael would soon send for her and their days would be filled with love,

laughter, and strong, healthy children. She believed everything Captain Carrington told her about the man who was to be her husband.

Fortunately, in Virginia, it had been easy to wait for Michael. Abbey loved living on her aunt Nan’s farm with her cousins, Virginia and Victoria. She loved

working in the fields by day and tending her small garden in the evening.

With

no men about the house—except for a few freed men and occasional gentleman

callers—life on the farm had been idyllic. At night, while her cousins sewed and

Aunt Nan painted, Abbey would play her violin. Or they would sit and talk.

And

when they grew tired of talking about the farm, the people in town, and the various men that called for them, they would talk of Michael.

In truth, they all dreamed of Michael. They would take turns imagining him standing at the stern of his ship, his open shirt blowing in the breeze, his long, dark hair tousled by the wind. They imagined him, his crew incapacitated,

fighting off wave after wave of pirates by himself, and boasted to one another

that his skill with the sword was the greatest in all of Europe. They imagined

him spurning the attentions of dozens of beautiful women with the excuse that

his heart’s true love was in Virginia. That particular daydream always had Victoria swooning.

Abbey dragged her gaze from the sky and looked at the coastline where Portsmouth

was beginning to take shape. It wasn’t until her father’s solicitor sent word of

his death that Abbey had her first pangs of serious doubt. The solicitor, Mr.

Strait, was adamant that Abbey leave for England right away, as the will demanded she settle her father’s estate by marriage. Heartsick by the news of

her father’s death and privately uneasy that she had not heard anything about

Michael in more than eighteen months, almost immediately Abbey had begun to

fight waves of doubt. What if he had changed his mind and her papa had not had

opportunity to tell her?

She pulled her cloak tightly about her as she recalled the day she had pleaded

with her aunt to let her remain in Virginia.

“Nonsense,” Aunt Nan had said. “Are you going to leave that poor man standing on

the dock in Portsmouth waiting for you, his arms laden with two dozen roses?

“Yes!” Virginia had cried, “he’ll have his best coach, at least the size of Mama’s parlor, with four grays waiting to take you away!”

Aunt Nan had added he would probably sweep her to the altar that very day, for

he would not be willing to wait for her one more moment. Abbey had paled at that

remark. Aunt Nan had read her expression and cuffed her on the shoulder, sternly

reminding her it was every woman’s duty to follow their husband to the marriage

bed, without complaint, and lie there patiently while he did that. Virginia and

Victoria had snickered behind their hands as Abbey’s expression had turned to

horror, but Aunt Nan had insisted, “You are not the first and you certainly won’t be the last woman to make do with it.”

Otherwise oblivious to the bitter cold, Abbey unthinkingly pulled her hood up

over her dark head as a steady rain began to fall, and recalled how her emotions

had warred during the voyage. Part of her doubted that Michael esteemed her as

her father had claimed. But then again, her papa would never lie to her, so it

had to be true on some level. Part of her doubted he was the heroic figure she

had dreamed about. After all, how many pirates could one man fell? But her papa

had said he was that and more. Perhaps the stories had been embellished, but

surely they were grounded in truth.

She sighed quietly as she absently counted the masts bobbing in the port ahead.

The part of her that had seen Michael through her father’s eyes all these years

had finally won out over the doubts. She had nothing to fear. Michael Evan Ingram, Marquis of Darfield and Viscount Amberlay, loved her with all his heart

and even now, was standing on the dock, waiting for her with two dozen roses in

his arms.

She abruptly turned on her heel and marched back to her cabin. She was not going

to meet the love of her life in anything less than her best traveling clothes.

Michael Evan Ingram did not meet her on the docks of Portsmouth‘

instead she was

met by a severe-looking woman with coarse gray hair and brows knit into a

permanent frown.

Despite the jostling crowd of passengers and stevedores that crowded the dock,

Abbey found the woman. Had it not been for the wooden sign the woman carried

with the words “Abigail Carrington” crudely painted, Abbey would have missed

her.

“I’m Abigail Carrington,” Abbey said uncertainly as she bobbed a quick curtsey.

The woman’s mouth puckered as she eyed her from the top of her head to the tips

of her toes.

“Show your trunks to Mannheim there, and he’ll load ‘em,” she said curtly.

She

then turned abruptly on her heel and, tossing the sign to the gutter, stalked

toward a sleek black coach emblazoned with a coat of arms bearing the name

Darfield. Abbey glanced nervously to the man she had indicated, who was every

bit as bedraggled as the woman.

She refused to dwell on the fact that these people were the last thing she had

expected. For some reason Michael had sent them, and therefore, there had to be

more than met the eye. For the moment, she would not allow herself to wonder why

he had not met her himself.

“Git in the coach. Too cold out here for a young lass,” Mannheim said through a

gaping smile as he struggled with her trunks. Abbey hesitated only briefly, the

cold and thickening snowfall propelling her toward the coach. There were no

coachmen—only a driver who did not even acknowledge her. Abbey timidly opened

the door of the coach and peered inside.

“Git in, git in!” the woman barked, and shivered violently to make her point.

Abbey hauled herself up, promptly tripping over her skirts onto a seat across

from the woman.

“Mrs. Petty’s the name. I been hired on to see you to Blessing Park,” the woman

growled.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Petty,” Abbey replied, relieved the woman had

finally spoken and eager to believe she had misjudged the old crone. “I, of course, am Abigail Carrington. Well, actually, I’m Abbey.”

“I know who you are,” the dour woman snapped.

Abbey ignored her nasty demeanor and smiled bravely. If there was one thing she

had learned in a life of travel, a sincere smile was welcome in all ports. For all she knew, Blessing Park was halfway across the country, and she faced the

distinct possibility that she could be in the company of this sourpuss for some

time.

“Are you a relative of Lord Darfield?” she asked in an effort to make polite conversation.

The woman’s red-rimmed eyes narrowed. “Certainly not!” she snapped.

Confused, Abbey bit her lower lip. “Is Lord Darfield at Blessing Park?” she

asked in a tight voice, wondering just how far exactly she would have to travel

with this woman.

“Don’t know. Just hired on to escort you, not to fill a book on his whereabouts,” she snarled.

Abbey nodded, mouthed the words “I see,” and slid her gaze to the window. The

snow was beginning to thicken, which did not help in the least to temper the

feeling of pure dread that was beginning to build in her. The coach rocked as

her trunks were loaded. Suddenly, the coach lurched forward.

“How far to Blessing Park?” Abbey asked cautiously once she had secured herself

again.

Mrs. Petty bestowed a disdainful gaze on her. “Two hours on a good day.

Slower

in the snow.”

Abbey smiled politely and wondered if her wait of twelve years for Michael Ingram was about to be eclipsed by a more interminable wait of two hours with

Mrs. Petty.

They rode in tense silence for what seemed like hours to Abbey. The uncommunicative Mrs. Petty sat rigidly in her seat, staring vacantly out the

window. Abbey was dying to ply her with questions but she wisely kept silent and

allowed her thoughts to wander to excuses for why Michael had not met her.

Obviously something very important must have kept him, or he would have been

there. She further deduced that Michael had been forced to hire an escort, and

seeing how this appeared to be a very rural area, he obviously did not have many

suitable candidates from which to choose. She guessed that he was now impatiently pacing in front of his hearth, having realized the snowfall would delay her arrival. He was undoubtedly very worried and was probably, at this

very moment, calling for a mount, determined to search for her himself…

A jarring of the coach jolted Abbey from her daydream; it took her a moment to

gather her bearings. She had sunk down against luxurious squabs. Slowly

she

pushed herself upright, stealing a glance at Mrs. Petty, who was sneering openly

at her. Outside, the world was a blinding white; the thick snow obscured any

remarkable feature in the landscape.

“Where are we?” Abbey asked.

“Pemberheath,” Mrs. Petty grunted, then leaned forward to peer outside.

“Pemberheath?” Abbey did not expect her to answer, and not one to disappoint,

Mrs. Petty did not. The coach of the door was suddenly thrown open, and the

toothless Mannheim shoved his head inside.

“Message says to stay here overnight. Roads are bad,” he said with a grunt.

“ Overnight?” Mrs. Petty fairly shrieked.

Mannheim shrugged indifferently. “He left some coin and arranged for two rooms.”

With that his head disappeared and the coach door slammed shut.

Mrs. Petty turned a murderous gaze to Abbey as if she had caused the foul

weather. “I ain’t no nursemaid, miss. You got to fend for yourself,” she snapped.

Abbey raised one finely sculpted dark brow and, biting back the stinging rebuke

that she had never been waited on in her life and certainly wasn’t going to start with the likes of her, answered coolly, “I am quite capable of fending for

myself, Mrs. Petty.”

Mrs. Petty mumbled something under her breath before flinging the coach door

open. Without a word to Abbey, she climbed out and began to stalk away, taking

giant steps in the deep snow. Finally she turned and glanced over her shoulder.

“Well? Come on, then!” she snapped, and disappeared into the white haze.

Abbey sighed wearily, pulled her hood up and climbed down from the coach. She

certainly hoped Michael would show himself soon.

Despite the heavy snowfall, the common room of the small inn was very crowded. A

group of boisterous men was gathered around the dart board, while smaller groups

of men and a few women were scattered about rough-hewn tables. The stench of ale

permeated Abbey’s senses, as did the uncomfortable notion that heads swiveled

toward her and lips curled at the sight of her.

Mrs. Petty had stopped to talk to a rotund man with a red, rubbery nose and a

dirty apron stretched across his ample belly. He bent his head forward, listening, then motioned toward the stairs with the three empty tankards he held

in one hand. Without looking back, Mrs. Petty began to make her way up a rickety

staircase. Abbey supposed she should follow, and lifting her chin, she marched

past the ogling men at the dart board, wended her way through the crush of

tables, and up the stairs.

The room in which she found Mrs. Petty was small and sparsely furnished. A

single bed was shoved up against one wall, just a few feet from a charcoal brazier that provided the only heat in the room. A mound of dirty blankets was

stacked next to the single chair. The only other furnishings were an old basin

and a small, tarnished mirror. Abbey glanced at Mrs. Petty, who was standing in

the middle of the room with her feet spread apart and her hands on her hips.

She returned a sidelong look at Abbey. “Can’t sleep on the floor. Got a bad

back,” she announced, and tossed her cloak on the bed. The woman was beginning