The Princess and the Pauper (11 page)

“
And here I’d thought you’d found yourself another
mistress.”

“
And why would you think that?” he drawled.

“
Gossip, of course. I’d heard you’d acquired a lightskirt, paid
a king’s ransom for her.”

His
heart rapped with quickened beats, and he envisioned breaking
Woodward’s neck. Synonymous with discretion, indeed.

“
I wouldn’t listen to gossip, if I were you,” he
growled.

A
seductive smile entered her eyes. “I thought it rubbish, of
course.”

But as
soon as she dismissed the gossip as rubbish, his heart tightened
until he ached for breath. “I didn’t say that, my lady. I only said
I wouldn’t listen to the gossip, if I were you.”

The
amorous light in her eyes darkened, turned vicious, in truth. “I
see.”

Grey
didn’t know what the hell had possessed him to give the rumor
credence, but when faced with denying Emily, even in such a
superficial manner, he couldn’t . . . he just couldn’t do
it.

“
I think we’ve talked quite enough for tonight.” The fervid
spark in her eyes returned, burned brighter. “Shall we have a
little fun?”

~ * ~

Arms
folded across her chest, Emily stood
in front of the window, gazing out at the misty city.

Rees had left over an hour ago
to find a more “agreeable bedmate,” his mistress, she assumed. If
he were a stranger, she wouldn’t care who he visited or where he
went. She’d know as little as possible about the man and not feel
anything a’tall. But he was
Rees
. And she couldn’t separate her feelings from him, however
much she tried.

She flexed her hands, the imprint of his
kisses still etched on her skin. For one hopeful moment, she had
believed she might reconnect with him. For just a little while, she
had dared to dream a future might sprout from the ashes of their
past. But she’d been foolish to hope. Like the singed nightstand
and her charred dress, there remained only ruins.

Turning
away from the window, she dropped
onto the bed and wrapped her arms around his pillow, inhaling his
scent. She’d achieved her goal, she thought ruefully. She’d roused
his emotions with music. Clearly, though, she’d stirred prickly
memories, not the affectionate ones she’d intended.

I want
freedom
, he’d
cried. Freedom from what? The past? How would he attain that
freedom by listening to her play?

Haunted
by his cryptic words, she burrowed
her fist under his pillow. She was sure about one thing, though. He
wasn’t keeping her in the house to rekindle their
friendship.

H
er fingers touched crumpled paper, and she
frowned. “What is this?”

She pulled out the sheet and unfolded the
corners. Squinting in the dim light, she scanned the hand-scrawled
lines. Her eyes skipped over dates and company names. But her heart
stopped when she read the name “Wright.”

Scrambling off the bed, she
sprinted toward the window again. As white moonbeams settled over
the crinkled note, she realized what she was reading—an overview of
Papa’s life, in particular his business deals. The letter wasn’t in
Rees’ hand, but it was
his
letter. Why else would it be stuffed under his pillow? He
was studying her father. No, investigating the man. He wouldn’t let
the past rest. He would
never
let it go, she thought bitterly, not until he was
satisfied, not until he’d had his . . . revenge.

Is that what he’d meant by
freedom?

She tore the paper to pieces,
into the tiniest scraps, and released the debris so it rained like
snow. What did he want from her? She had already lost everything.
Her father. Her home. Her life. What more could he take? Her
memories?
Her
heart? Her soul?

A
sob wracked her breast. She picked up the
violin she’d played and hurled it against the wall. A loud dong
filled the room as the wood splintered and the strings snapped.
Spurred by an overwhelming sense of gratification—and no
remorse—she reached for another violin and smashed it,
too.

She knew Rees didn’t care for
the instrument
s. He treated them like rubbish. He treated them like he
treated her. And knowing that had her reaching for yet another
neglected violin.

She wrecked it, too, but her resentment
still raged, and she grabbed another case. This case was locked,
unlike the others, and it took the aid of a nearby dinner knife to
pry apart the halves.

The case
split
. She
started, expecting an instrument to fall out, but folded papers
dropped to the floor, instead. Cherished love letters from his
mistress, she thought. Or musical admirers. But when she noticed
the familiar handwriting, she dropped to the ground
herself.

“
No.
It can’t be.”

She gathered the papers.
These were her
letters. The letters she’d written him from Switzerland. The
letters she’d begged him to burn after reading so Papa wouldn’t
find them. But Rees hadn’t burned them, even after all these
years.

Hope spilled back into her heart
without limit.
If Rees truly wanted freedom from her, he would have
destroyed the letters. Instead, he’d kept them. He’d kept her. A
part of her, at least. The best part, even, when she had lived with
joy.

The door burst
open
.

Emily whirled around to witness the
groomsman and butler carrying a bruised and bloodied Rees. They set
him on the bed as more servants followed, holding lamps and
fretting.

“
What’s happened?” she cried,
scrambling to her feet.

“
We found ’im on the front steps
like this,” a kitchen maid sobbed. “E’s dead!”

A
groan from the bed confirmed Rees was no
such thing.

Emily
instantly recovered from her shock
and ordered, “Fetch water, linen and the physician.”

“
Aye, miss!”

The staff rushed out in
obedience.

Emily crawled onto the bed beside
Rees. “What have you done to yourself?”

His eyes were swollen shut, his cheeks
bruised. She couldn’t see what damage had been done to his body,
but she imagined it as gruesome as his face. And then she noticed
his bloody knuckles.

“
Your hands!”

She gingerly cupped his battered
fingers.

“
They’ll heal,” he said in
a dispassionate voice.

“
And if they don’t? How
will you play?”

“
Do you worry for my sake
or yours?”

“
Mine?”

He must
have thought her question an answer,
for he replied, “Don’t worry, princess. I’ve plenty of money to
keep you in comfort, even if I never play again.”

She frowned.
Did he really believe money, and
the need for it, the whole of her character? Yes, she needed funds
to support herself, but he had to know she was more than the
spoiled princess he’d first met ten years ago.

A
maid returned with a bowl of water and
strips of linen. Emily couldn’t refute his hard-headed
misconception now, not in his condition, and she set his hand back
on the bed before carefully cleaning his wounds.

He
breathed roughly and moaned whenever she
touched a more sensitive spot. She needed to see what was under his
clothes and told the milling servants to leave the room. They
needn’t gawk at their employer in his poor condition.

As soon as the door closed, she lifted
his shirt and exposed his battered belly. When she touched the
side, a feathery stroke, he hissed.

“
Your ribs might be
broken,” she said in
a matter-of-fact tone.

“
I thought as
much.”

But his cavalier attitude didn’t
mask the real pain he suffered, and she wondered again,
“
What
did you do? Fight a
bear?”

“
It’s not your concern,
princess.”

She
pinched her lips before scooting off
the bed and reaching for her carpetbag. She pulled out another day
dress. The linen was creased and unsightly, but she wasn’t
particular about its condition and shrugged out of the robe,
slipping into the other garment.

When the physician
finally arrived, he
examined Rees and determined his ribs weren’t broken just badly
bruised. He was bandaged, propped up on pillows, then told to rest
and take a tonic for sleep and pain. Emily was actually given these
instructions, for she’d asserted herself his nurse.

Soon t
he room was quiet again, and she
found herself staring at the injured musician with inexplicable
earnest and dread.

She’d been prepared to shatter
ever
y violin
that bound her to him—until she’d found the letters he’d been brave
enough to keep. She had burned the notes he’d written her, fearing
someone would find them, read them. She had always feared her
feelings for Rees. And more. She had also feared admitting
them.

Even now
, she trembled at the thought of
being truthful. She was an orphan, a social outcast, yet still she
hesitated to let her feelings free.

Her heart pounded as
she approached the
bed, and a new apprehension came over her—a vulnerable, quivering
hope of being with the man she’d once trusted with her life, but
didn’t trust anymore . . . only hoped to trust again.

Emily
eased onto the bed and rested beside
him, listened as he talked to the ghosts in his dreams. The tonic
had dulled his mind and muscles, and he’d quickly fallen asleep,
but he murmured about music and damned princesses, and even called
out for his grandfather.

Her throat welled with tears when she
heard his grandfather’s name, and she nuzzled into his shoulder. He
sighed and stilled, and she kept a hold of him for the rest of the
night.

CHAPTER
6

Grey stood in a field of
lavender, watching the
rising sun. The brilliant light warmed him like
nothing else before, and the heady lavender both spurred and
comforted him. The moment might have lasted a thousand years—there
was no stormless place more restful, and he grimaced with regret
when an unnatural weight settled over him and darkness covered the
sky.

As Grey
opened his sore eyes, pulsing pain
spread through the rest of his face and across his chest. He
struggled to breathe. For a few confused moments he thought he was
suffocating.

He closed his eyes again and
steadied his irregular heartbeat, and as his breathing evened and
the room focused
in the morning light, he sensed a peculiar heaviness on his
shoulder.

Rolling
his head to the side, his mouth and
chin brushed against a mass of red hair.

Emily.

She was dreaming, so peaceful, curled
alongside him in the bed. His skin heated as his heartbeat hastened
again and blood surged through his veins. He didn’t remember her
coming to him in the night, couldn’t think why she was there. He
only knew he didn’t want to disturb her untroubled sleep . . . or
separate from her.

The longing stretched and
swelled until his
chest ached and he gasped for breath.

The movement inadvertently roused her.
She wriggled and sighed and lifted her drowsy head, tousled, fiery
tresses spilling over him. With her beautiful, lush lips, she
murmured a good morning.

It was a bloody awful morning, he thought
in that wretched moment, when her honey-brown eyes captured him,
held him, mesmerized him. The look of uncertainty, even fear, was
gone, replaced with wisdom and confidence and something more . . .
a sensual heat he hadn’t seen in her expression since they were
younger and fighting dangerous passions.

What in the bloody hell had happened
last night?

He was having trouble breathing
again, his chest raw, and she leaned over him to collect a small
bottle on the nightstand.
When her soft hair and breasts slid across his
chest, his muscles clenched, and he gritted his teeth in greater
discomfort.

She popped the cork and tucked the
spout under his lips. “Here,” she said, voice hoarse with sleep.
“Drink. It will help with the pain.”

The sweet smell of opium filled his
nose and lungs. “No.”

No wonder he felt so weighted, immobile.
She’d drugged him! Why? And why was he in such agony?

Grey struggled to sit up, but she planted
her palm on his chest and applied pressure. He grunted, then
dropped back against the pillow.

“
I’m sorry,” she whispered. “But
yo
u have to
remain in bed. The doctor said—”

“
What doctor?” he
snapped.