Always a Temptress (17 page)

The only odd note was her four-poster bed. Not positioned in the center, as expected, but shoved against the far wall. He didn’t understand why until he finally caught sight of Kate, lying on her side, her back against the wall.

Harry didn’t realize he’d moved until he found himself at the edge of the bed. God, he thought, his chest hurting with the sight of her, how could she look so small? So young? Her hair had been braided, strands already straggling over her flushed cheek. Her eyelashes were long and sooty, her mouth lush. She could have been fifteen again if her forehead hadn’t been pursed and her hands tucked close. She placed herself in a defensive position and slept as if bracing for attack; it woke a new ache in Harry’s chest.

He’d never imagined he’d feel the need to protect Kate. He’d never pictured her being soft and vulnerable enough to need him. Kate was all sharp angles and brittle surfaces, with no cushion to comfort a man. And yet suddenly he was beset by the feeling that a dangerously soft heart lurked just beneath her unyielding surface.

He felt an overwhelming urge to wake her. To demand answers for all the incomprehensible questions that circled around his brain like leaves in an eddy. He kept hearing her voice, thick with condemnation.
You left it for Murther to finish
. She couldn’t have meant that she’d gone to Murther still a virgin. It was cruel enough to know the life she must have faced. But if she meant…

No. He’d had the word of her father, and the only man he trusted more on earth was his own.

In the end, it didn’t matter. What mattered was the promise he had just made, to honor her; to protect her. To cleave himself only unto her.

Oh, God. What had he done? It was only now that the full impact of this day hit home. He had married a woman he didn’t trust. A woman who had betrayed him more than once. And she’d just told him that she would never allow him into her bed.

And yet, for the first time in his life, as he looked on her sleeping alone in this vast bed, he knew she was going to need him. Not just his strong arm, but his patience, his support, his common sense. And how could he provide that half a world away?

But how could he stay? He would never have the big, noisy brood he’d always half imagined. His house would be silent, populated only by ticking clocks and the whisper of servants’ feet. His holidays would be sterile and his nights cold.

His parents had shared everything: laughter, anger, grief, attraction. No one could have spent more than five minutes in the rambling, cluttered Lidge household without knowing that Big Jim and Nancy Lidge couldn’t keep their hands off each other. Harry had always expected to find a marriage like that. If he couldn’t soften Kate’s defenses, though, his chance was lost before he started.

First, though, he had to decide if it was worth it to try.

Outside, a church bell tolled the hour. Birds chattered on their way to sleep, and a last flower girl touted her violets in a singsong voice. The light was fading fast, and Harry had places to be. But for a long moment, he stood looking down on the woman he’d once loved and wondered what would become of them both.

K
ate swore it was the voice that woke her.
They’ll never let us out…

She looked around, almost expecting to see the woman it belonged to, even though she’d only ever heard her in the asylum. But there was no one in the room. It was pitch dark outside. Kate’s unerring internal clock told her it was about three
AM
, long past the witching hour. Bivens must have snuck in, because all the candelabras were lit, the flames casting wavering banners across the walls like sunlight through young trees. At least that was how Kate chose to see it.

Outside the streets were quiet, and a stiff little breeze lifted the curtains. Normal. All normal. But her heart was racing and she tasted the metallic tang of fear on the back of her tongue. She hated this sudden, stark waking when nothing was certain. When nightmares still had form, and the morning seemed so far away. She wanted so badly to close her eyes and rest. But it was too dark to manage it. Besides, she was remembering the dream that had woken her. She had recognized the voice that had been plaguing her. She knew who it belonged to. It was just a matter of believing it.

And then a matter of proving it. If she spoke, it might just be her ticket back to that white, silent room.

I know this sounds ridiculous, but do you remember Lady Riordan? The sweet young viscountess who drowned out on the Solent last year? You know her. They just had the memorial for her at St. George’s. Weeping children, loads of black crepe? Oddest thing. Two days ago she was sitting in the room next to mine at the Richmond Hills Asylum.

Even more awful, Kate thought, Lady Riordan had claimed to be the wife of a Lion who had put her away to keep her from betraying his activities.

Lady Riordan.
God, if that were true, then her own husband had locked her up and told everyone she was dead, even her two children. Kate had met Lord Riordan. He’d seemed nice. Not very exciting, but stalwart. Could he really have been so despicable?

She could be wrong. God knew her mind had been taxed. She was cold just thinking about it. But if she was going to bring an accusation this absurd to Harry, she had to support it. She
had
to try to remember everything she could.

She tried, she really did, deliberately walking back into the shadows of that grotesquely charming madhouse. But no matter what she did, her memory skipped about like rain on a roof, unable to settle. She could capture images, lightning flashes of distress: the bruising grip of the constables as they’d forced her up the steps into that innocuous gray country house. The discordant symphony of shuffling feet, jangling keys, and whispers, always whispers. The sharp sting of lye soap, impatient hands, and hard voices, as they scrubbed her down like an urchin from the stews. The satisfaction of sinking her teeth into that fleshy hand.

She managed a smile at that last, but she was shaking and nauseous, sweat pooling beneath her breasts just at the memory of that stark white room. The echoing thud of that closing door. She simply couldn’t go past, even for answers.

She had to wake Harry. She had to tell him her tale and risk seeing that careful, placating light dawn in his eyes as he realized just how mad she sounded. She rubbed her eyes, as if that would ease the panic. Damn it. Why did it have to be Harry?

She had no choice. Sitting up, she climbed out of bed and donned a robe. Her body ached in the oddest places, as if someone had thrown her down the steps. She still felt thick and stupid with exhaustion, but she knew that she would never be able to sleep now that she was up.

Tying her belt, she unlocked her door and left the suite. She was already in the hallway when it occurred to her to wonder where Harry had bedded down. She needed to ask one of the men patrolling the house. She’d just turned for the main staircase when she stopped, caught by a shadow curled against the wall.

She squinted. “Mudge?”

The boy’s head turned. He was sitting on the floor across from the other master suite door, arms atop his knees. “My lady,” he greeted her, struggling to his feet.

“Sit,” she ordered, approaching. “Did we not allot you a room?”

He continued up, until he towered over her. His smile was breathtaking. “’Course you did, ma’am. I’m…watching.”

She heard a groan. Faint, chilling. Then a man’s voice, talking quickly, urgently. Coming from the direction of the bedroom that adjoined her own in the master suite.

“What’s going on?” she demanded, turning for the door.

She’d just about reached the doorknob when Mudge caught her hand. “Please, ma’am. Don’t. He just got to sleep.”

She stared at Mudge as if he were mad, her heart stumbling over itself. “Who? Harry? Is that Harry in the master suite?”

She tried to shake Mudge off. “I don’t want him sleeping next
door
.”

Harry was still talking, clipped, urgent, as if giving commands.

Mudge refused to let go. “If you wake him, we’ll never get him back to sleep.”

She stopped pulling. “He’s asleep?”

“First time in at least a week, I’m thinkin’.”

“But who’s he talking to?”

“His men. I think he’s goin’ back up the redoubt at Ciudad Rodrigo.”

She felt the words sink into her chest like tendrils of ice. Nightmares. Harry had nightmares. He’d brought his own ghosts to her house. Kate couldn’t stop the shiver that snaked through her.

“Shouldn’t you wake him?” she asked.

“Only makes it worse.”

“Then what are you doing here?”

He ducked his head, hands behind his back. “Just makin’ sure he’s…safe.”

Kate had a feeling he’d guarded Harry before. She wondered if Harry knew.

“I appreciate that, Mudge,” she said, patting his arm. “But I have to talk to him. I have information he needs.”

Or evidence that her mind was truly pulling loose.

Mudge took his own look at the door, through which they could now hear Harry yelling at someone to keep moving, keep moving, damn it. He sounded so desperate, so tired, as if in his dream he already knew that he was exhorting dead men.

“I’ll tell you what,” she said, shoving her hands into her pockets. “Can we get word to Lord Drake? He can handle this just as easily.”

Mudge actually looked relieved. “I can go.”

Kate knew she should wait till morning, when reality took solid form. But she was plagued by the feeling that she couldn’t waste time. So she returned to her sitting room and the marquetry writing desk by the window, where she jotted a note to Drake.

“Thank you, Mudge,” she said, sweeping back out to hand the slip of paper to him.

He was still watching the door. “I don’t like to leave him alone.”

Kate waved him off. “I’ll stay.”

Mudge frowned. “I can get somebody up here.”

“Somebody who’s sat with him through nightmares?”

Mudge’s expression gave him away.

“Since I’m probably responsible for at least a few of those nightmares,” Kate said, hand on his arm, “I’ll stay. Now get along before he wakes up and finds me here.”

Reluctantly, he pocketed the note and left. Kate settled herself on one of the hall chairs. She wished she hadn’t volunteered quite so quickly. It was dark in this hallway. Even with all the wall sconces lit, the shadows seemed to writhe and leap in tune with the rise and fall of Harry’s voice. She didn’t want to hear him. She didn’t want to think that he could be carrying the kind of pain that could only work itself out in the dark. It was so much easier to hate him when he was strong and sure.

Another moan rose, eerie in the flickering light, a sound of such despair that Kate found herself up and walking to the door. She stood there, hand hovering an inch above the doorknob for what seemed forever, fighting the impulse to enter. She knew better than to breach Harry’s room. Hadn’t Mudge just told her?

The compulsion was too strong. She had to measure Harry’s nightmares against her own. She needed, perversely, to see if Harry had really earned his. She opened the door and walked through.

The minute she stepped into the bedroom she knew she’d made a mistake. Dear God, she thought, her feet rooted on the ground. He was naked, splayed out across the mattress as if he’d run far and just fallen for rest, an ivory statue in repose.

She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t move. The boy she had loved had been lean, like a whippet. This was a man’s body, a man who had worked hard. His shoulders were broad and taut, his chest hard. He had a horseman’s thighs and the lean hips of an athlete. And bisecting his chest, that tantalizing line of hair she had once run her fingers through, pulling her eye inexorably downward. Right down to that devilish nest of hair at the juncture of his legs.

Once she saw his cock lying across his thigh, she couldn’t seem to look away. Even dormant it made her shiver. Once she would have reached out to touch it, to tease it into reacting, just to see if she could. She would have anticipated what it would feel like inside her. In fact, she had, all those years ago. She’d thought it could bring her great pleasure, transcendent joy. Now it only seemed a serpent that struck without warning. How could she have known then that something that small could cause such pain?

Well, she thought, inevitably comparing Harry with her husband. Not
so
small. Still, she thought, capable of bringing woe and pain to any woman who was foolish enough to get too close. Especially, she thought with another shiver as she considered the strength inherent in that body, a man with such power.

She should go. She should leave Harry to his dreams. She should cover him up. It was cold in this room, and she could see a sheen of sweat across his chest. But the blankets were bunched beneath his hips, and she wasn’t about to disturb him.

She managed to turn away. But as she did, she caught sight of something else, and it stopped her again. And this time there was no question about her reaction. She was appalled. Sickened. Oddly, frightened.

Scars. Not one, but a dozen, scattered across Harry’s body like a road map of his career. A long, puckered slash along his right shoulder, a constellation of raw dimples and mounds from what Kate suspected was shrapnel in his chest. A gunshot to the thigh and a burn to his forearm. Sweet Christ, she thought, shivering in the sudden chill of night. How had he survived? She’d helped tend the injured of Waterloo, and she knew what these wounds had cost him.

How odd, she thought, stricken by the sight of those marks. She’d never really thought of what Harry’s life had been the last ten years. She knew he’d escaped Moorhaven; it had been enough. Whatever his life was, it had to be better than hers. Suddenly, sharing the darkness with him, she wasn’t so sure, and it left her shaken.

As if to remind her that all scars weren’t physical, he began to move again, his hands opening and closing, his legs moving. “Come along, Forlorn Hope. Up with you!”

Forlorn Hope? He couldn’t mean he’d led a Forlorn Hope. Just the thought stopped the breath in her chest. How could he have so despaired as to volunteer for sure death, leading the first group of men over the walls in a siege? How had he survived?

A moan, mouth open, face taut, hand out. She couldn’t stop herself. She hurried up and took his hand. “No, Harry, it’s all right. You made it. The Forlorn Hope is up.”

God, what was she doing? She had no business here, not in Harry’s bedroom, and certainly not in his nightmares.

“No…no, they’re down. They’re down!”

“Keep moving,” she urged, as she’d heard him do. “Keep moving; you’ll get over.”

She could feel him relive the assault in muscle twitches and gasping breaths.

“It’s done,” she murmured, reaching out to brush her fingers across his forehead. “See, Harry? The army’s following over. It’s time to rest now.”

He still held her hand in a grip that threatened to break her fingers, but the rest of him paused, relaxed. Kate breathed a sigh of relief. Maybe now he would sleep.

Oh, Harry
, she thought, the unfamiliar sting of emotion crowding her throat as she looked down on those once beloved features.
I have enough nightmares of my own. I don’t want yours as well.

And yet fate had played the great game and done just that. No matter how they chose to proceed, she was tied to this man for the rest of her life. This man who had so betrayed her that she still couldn’t look at him without wanting to hurt him. This man who kept risking his life to save hers, even though he couldn’t seem to abide her, either.

Her marriage forced her to be reliant on a man who had already said he couldn’t wait to leave. Damn him. Damn them all for doing this to them both. She had been so happy…well, content. Yes. Content. Just her and Bea and the people of Eastcourt Hall, where she was actually making a difference. She had been free for the first time in her life. She’d been living life the way
she
wanted, without male interference or domination or disdain. And now, in a matter of days, of hours, it was gone.

She tried to gently pull her hand from Harry’s, but he didn’t seem to want to let go. She looked around, searching for a bit of help. All she saw was Harry’s trunk tucked at the end of the bed and his brushes on the dresser. No help at all. Simply evidence that Harry had felt comfortable taking the master’s place, pushing her a bit farther out of her own life.

She couldn’t do anything about that right now. Not if she was going to let him sleep. Pushing her straggling hair from her forehead with her free hand, she pulled over a chair and sat down. Maybe if she sat a few minutes, he would let her go.

Unfortunately, once she sat, she didn’t know what to do. It was, she realized, the first time she’d had a chance to be still for more than a few moments in a safe place since being locked into a runaway carriage—how many days ago? She sighed, rubbing at her scratchy eyes. It all seemed so unreal, a melodrama made for footlights and costumes.

Unfortunately, it was all too real. And only beginning.

She was going to need a chance to calmly, rationally decide what she needed to do next. But she would need to get away from Harry to do it.
Calm
and
rational
weren’t in their shared lexicon. She looked down at the filigree ring on her finger, almost expecting it to glow. Now that she was quiet, she could feel it again, that strange current of electricity that leapt between them, that so easily flared into flame. The same humming heat that had once seduced her; that now unnerved her.