A Taste of Seduction (An Unlikely Husband) (9 page)

He was about to enter the cottage when Francie flung open the door and ran outside. “She’s not inside,” she said, her voice quivering. “We’ve got to find her.”

“We’ll find her, child,” Bernard vowed.

Alexander followed behind as Francie raced toward the fields, her movements swift and graceful as she called out her aunt’s name. His chest tightened. He knew pain. He knew despair. And he had a terrible feeling Francie was about to become acquainted with both of these quite intimately. Someone had ravaged these fields, carved them up with hatred and vengeance, until each stalk lay decimated, the very life ripped out of it. Had Francie’s aunt suffered the same fate?

He wasn’t a man of prayer, held little stock in it, believing each man created his own destiny. Now, as he traveled row after row of deliberate destruction, he prayed the woman had been spared.

Minutes later, Francie’s blood-curdling scream told him his prayers were useless. Alexander ran toward her, the sound of her screams pounding through him like heartbeats. Bernard was several yards behind, walking with a quick shuffle gait, his arms swinging side to side as though that would get him to Francie faster.

Alexander spotted her through a clump of green stalks. She knelt on the ground, huddled over a body, her red hair draping the other person’s chest. Her shoulders shook, her arms clutching the lifeless form of a woman whose face was beaten to a swollen, purplish blue. The left side of her jaw bore marks resembling someone’s knuckles—a man’s, judging from the size. Her lips were cut and covered with dried blood.

“Oh no,” a voice moaned from behind him. “Dear God, not my Eleanor.” Bernard pushed past him, falling to the ground to kneel over his wife. He ran his thin, bony fingers over her face in a soft caress.

Alexander looked away. Too much pain, too much gut-wrenching emotion turning him inside out, making him feel things he did not want to feel.

A low moan slid from the prone form on the ground. His gaze whipped back to the old woman. She was alive! One eye opened to little more than a slit. Her breathing came in shallow puffs. When she tried to open her mouth to speak, a whimper of pain escaped.

“Don’t speak, Aunt Eleanor.” Francie smoothed wisps of gray hair from her aunt’s face. “It’s all right now. You’re safe.”

The woman’s eyes inched open. Her swollen lips moved a fraction, but no sound came out.

Alexander’s gut twisted again. “Who, in God’s name, would do such a thing?”
To a woman, no less?

“Who did this, Eleanor?” Bernard clutched his wife’s hand, his voice trembling.

Francie cast Alexander a quick glance. “It was him,” she breathed. “I know it.” She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Then she turned to her aunt and spoke in soft, soothing tones. “Aunt Eleanor, the person who did this, was he a tall, blond-haired man? Well-dressed, like a nobleman?” The old woman’s eyes grew large.

“If the answer is yes, you need only blink,” Bernard murmured.

They watched as Eleanor Jordan met her husband’s gaze. And blinked.

Francie looked up at Alexander. “You didn’t believe me.”

Guilt crept over him, smothering him until he found it hard to breathe. No, he hadn’t believed her, hadn’t believed she wasn’t trying to take advantage of the earl by creating a monster in Amberden.

But the monster was real.
And deadly.

His next words stuck in his throat like a foreign language, hiding behind his tongue, until he pushed them out with great effort. “I apologize for my misjudgment.”

Francie stared at him, her blue eyes filled with sadness and tears. Her bottom lip quivered as she tried to speak. “Please...” She sniffed twice and swiped at her eyes. “Please make him pay.”

Alexander stared at the beautiful young woman kneeling on the ground cradling her aunt, and in that instant, he wanted to be her prince, wanted to slay her dragons and dry her tears. He wanted her to believe in humankind’s innate goodness, even when he himself did not. Knowing he’d regret it, he opened his mouth and let the words fall out.

“I’ll make him pay. By God, I’ll make him pay.”

***

Alexander had been watching her sleep for the past half hour. She lay perched in an old rocking chair, legs tucked underneath her gown, head tilted to one side. A pair of serviceable brown shoes rested on the floor a few feet from one another. No doubt, she’d kicked them off.

Beautiful. With her wild mass of sun-kissed red hair cascading about her shoulders, a few loose tendrils falling over one cheek, Francie was the vision of beauty and innocence. Long dark lashes lay in contrast against her creamy skin. Though he couldn’t see them from where he sat, Alexander knew a light dusting of freckles covered the bridge of her nose. He’d been close enough yesterday, during one of their
…
discussions
, to notice. And the mere fact that he
had
noticed bothered him. He pinched the bridge of his nose. He wouldn’t notice anymore. Period.

He cursed himself for promising to deal with Jared Crayton. It was an irrational, impulsive decision, driven by one woman’s tears. What was the matter with him? If there were two things he abhorred most and never displayed, they were irrational and impulsive behavior. Yet, he’d exhibited both this afternoon without a second’s consideration.

Blast Francie Jordan! He should have turned his back on her tears, kept to a firm resolve, and simply refused. No one expected such things from him, such involvement where it was not his concern. But Francie Jordan did. Some sense of duty drove her, some commitment to righteousness rare in the world and almost nonexistent in polite society. And she was hell-bent on dragging him along on her crusade of good against evil.

She shifted in her chair and sighed, let out a low moan, and snuggled further into the chair, heaving another sigh. Alexander’s groin tightened.
Damn!
He sprung from the chair, nearly toppling it over, grabbed his jacket, and headed for the door. Once outside, he sucked in the brisk, evening air and cursed the smallness of the cottage. That’s why he’d noticed her. That was the only reason.

If he’d been at Drakemoor, he’d be working on his books right now, or visiting Tess, perhaps.
Or maybe relaxing in his library with a good book and a glass of sherry. Any number of things from his evening routine. But not watching Francie Jordan sleep. And not being so depraved as to get an erection over an innocent sigh.

Alexander cursed under his breath. Circumstance. That’s all it was. He needed to get back to Drakemoor and pay Tess a visit. Then he needed to take Baron out and run the hills. It was the only time he forgot to be a gentleman and was as wild as the animal he rode. In truth, it was the only time he felt alive.

The only time he felt free.

“I was hoping to find you alone.”

Alexander spun around. Bernard stood several paces behind him.

“I needed some air.” Alexander dug his hands in his pockets. “It was stifling inside.”

Bernard nodded and pulled a pipe and tin of tobacco from his pocket and began filling it.

“I prefer cooler temperatures,” Alexander said.
And anyplace your niece is not
. What was wrong with him? He was babbling like an idiot.

“I don’t want Francie to blame herself for Eleanor’s attack,” Bernard said, lighting his pipe and taking a long drag. “If anyone’s to blame, it’s me. I should not have left her alone.” His voice cracked. “But I never dreamed the monster capable of such violence. Word in the village was he seduced young girls with his good looks and easy smile. Not this,” he faltered, “this...”

“He’ll pay for his actions,” Alexander cut in, uncomfortable with Bernard’s raw emotions. He wasn’t used to seeing a man cry over a woman or express feelings with the openness Bernard showed tonight.

“I’m counting on you, Alexander. The monster has to pay for what he’s done.”

“He will,” Alexander vowed, though at present he wasn’t certain how he’d keep this vow. Perhaps he should request a private audience with the duke himself? Or maybe a little visit to the perpetrator first would negate a meeting with the duke. No. That wouldn’t work. Jared Crayton’s word counted for less than nothing. He’d have to speak with the duke himself.

“I want to get Francie and Eleanor to Drakemoor as soon as possible,” Bernard said. “They’ll be safe there.”

Alexander nodded. “And Eleanor can recuperate in peace. Thank God it looked worse than it was. Swelling and bruises and no broken bones.”

“Thank God, indeed,” Bernard returned, taking another long drag on his pipe. “Eleanor’s a tough one. We’ll do just what the doctor said. She can lie down and rest the entire trip.”

Visions of the crowded carriage flitted through Alexander’s mind. If Bernard and Eleanor shared one side of the carriage, then Alexander would spend the entire ride tormented by Francie’s closeness, her lavender scent teasing his nostrils. If she shared the seat with her aunt, he’d be forced to look at her, tortured by her sky-blue eyes and red-gold curls. If his eyes dipped below her neck, well, then he’d be in true agony.

“Francie may have a hard time adjusting to life at Drakemoor,” Bernard said, interrupting his thoughts. “She’s quite content here in Amberden.”

“I’ve gathered that,” Alexander said in a dry voice. He thought of her sleeping in the chair, tucked in with a blue and green blanket. Warm, cozy, and content. More seductive than the most skilled mistress sprawled on a silk counterpane.

A hint of a smile peeked from under Bernard’s mustache. “That’s Francie. Content with everything. She never complained, even when she had to wear the same gowns three years in a row, all too short and too tight. She never said a word.” His smile deepened. “And Eleanor, well, she never was the best seamstress.”

Bernard puffed away a few moments, saying nothing more. Alexander figured he was most likely thinking of his injured wife and just when the silence stretched to the point of uneasiness, the older man pointed the end of his pipe at Alexander. “Francie deserves the best. She should have grown up wearing the finest silks and satins. Diamonds, rubies.” His voice thickened. “She shouldn’t have had to dig around in that blasted dirt, sewing and crafting into the night with a needle that made her fingers bleed, even if she claimed to love it.”

No, she shouldn’t have, Alexander thought, with a twist in his gut. She should not have been forced into a crude existence,
dependent on the land and her own industriousness to survive, when he, a product of filth and depravity, enjoyed a comfortable existence at Drakemoor with her father.

“Why did you take her away?” It was a question he needed to ask. Alexander pulled a thin cigar from his pocket and waited.

“Eleanor and I had no choice. We promised Catherine, who was Francie’s mother and Eleanor’s sister, to protect any child who bore a resemblance to Philip.” He met Alexander’s gaze. “When Francie was born we had to take her away or risk her safety.”

“Take her from whom?” Alexander tried to keep his voice casual, but he wanted to know and that desire changed his tone from indifferent to something short of desperate. He searched Bernard’s face, saw the hesitancy there, and plunged forward. “I can’t protect Francie if I don’t know everyone who might pose a threat to her.”

The old man sighed, his shoulders slumping forward on his bony frame. “It was Belmont. The man everyone thought was her father.”

Edgar Ashcroft, the Earl of Belmont.
Ruthless, cunning, manipulative. Rumor had it he’d pick the pockets of a dead man if he thought there’d be profit in it. Alexander didn’t like him much and trusted him even less. But harming a child?

“I know Belmont,” Alexander said. “He’s a bastard, I’ll grant you, but do you really think he would have laid a hand on a child? A babe no less?”

“I know he would have,” Bernard answered without hesitation. “The man’s capable of anything. Even murder.”

Alexander tried to make sense of everything he’d just heard. “Belmont’s daughter, Claire. Is she not his real daughter?”

“No,” Bernard shook his head. “She doesn’t belong to him.”

“But she looks just like him. Same hair, same eyes, same coloring.”

“She would have to, wouldn’t she? Belmont would accept no less.”

He’d come to Claire Ashcroft’s rescue twice and even considered paying her a call until he spied her with her head in some chap’s lap in the garden at the Almsteds
’ soiree. Of course, she had no idea he’d spotted her.

He wondered at Claire Ashcroft’s heritage. A commoner? Had to be. For a coin-filled purse, anything could be bought. Catherine must have had it all planned out. If her babe were a red-head, she’d substitute it for a black-haired one. The color of their hair sealed their fates. The black-haired girl would be gifted with jewels, the red-haired one,
a trowel.

Alexander’s chest tightened. Francie belonged in silks and satins, with maids braiding pearls in her hair and putting slippers on her feet. Yet she claimed to care nothing for that sort of frivolity, seemed more intent with her flowers and her reading. She’d packed two boxes of books to bring to Drakemoor and only one pathetic, half-full satchel.

“Does Francie know any of this?” How would she react if she discovered Belmont was her mother’s husband?