Andrea Kane (8 page)

But Daphne would never betray him.

How the hell he knew that, he wasn’t certain. He just did—and had, even before she’d awakened, looked up at him with those melting eyes, and helped him rob her home. There was an intangible but implicit understanding between them, a commonality rooted in something deep and meaningful. He’d felt it at Newmarket, then again in her room—tenderness, affinity.

And desire.

Desire so powerful it had nearly brought him to his knees.

The combination was intriguing as hell; fascinating, exciting…

And, for many reasons, terrifying.

Because it was a combination Pierce innately understood would touch him in ways he’d never been touched, render him vulnerable in ways he couldn’t refute, couldn’t master.

Couldn’t allow.

For thirty years he’d lived, worked, and prospered alone, and he had no wish to alter that reality. To him, autonomy meant survival. Oh, he cared deeply about those who needed him, about his cause, about many.

But never about one.

Yet she was the Marquis of Tragmore’s daughter.

Pierce laced his fingers behind his head, accosted by a question he’d tried desperately to elude.

What did that bastard do to her?

Visions crawled into Pierce’s mind like odious insects, too heinous to be ignored. How many times, during his workhouse days, had he borne witness to the marquis’s vile temper? How many children had Tragmore tormented? How many others had he thrashed?

Dear lord, did he beat her?

Pierce felt his insides twist.

She’d implied as much to the bandit. But for God’s sake, how could he? Daphne was his only child. She was small and delicate and beautiful.

And I’m thinking like an insipid fool,
Pierce chastised himself bitterly. Who could be more fragile and unprotected than starving workhouse children? And if he brutalized them…

Frantically, Pierce recalled tonight’s burglary, reliving the moments he’d spent with Daphne. No. He’d seen no welts on her neck or shoulders, no bruises on her slender arms. Of course that didn’t mean anything. Tragmore was a smart man, too smart to leave such damning evidence unconcealed.

She was terrified of her father. Pierce had seen it, felt it, at Newmarket.

What prompted that fear? Was it Tragmore’s violence?

Protective tenderness surged inside him, and Pierce tightened his grip until his knuckles turned white. Daphne needed him. It was that simple. And, whatever the risk, he would be there for her.

Would she welcome his presence?

That sudden, ironic thought inserted itself, and Pierce shot to his feet and began pacing the length of the room.

His lack of title and position wouldn’t deter her, not Daphne. Just as he deemed her heritage an accident of birth, he instinctively knew she would view his background in much the same light. But how would she feel when she learned of Pierce’s enmity for her father, of the vengeance he was determined to exact?

Because taking Tragmore’s money was only the beginning. Pierce intended to see him in hell.

And whether Daphne feared her father or not, whether Tragmore were the most contemptible of scoundrels, Daphne was too fine a person to forsake the man who’d sired her, especially to walk into the arms of the enemy who sought to destroy him.

Which left Pierce—where?

Rife with questions; short on answers.

All but one.

Daphne’s true loyalties were clear and irrefutable. Like him, she sought to protect those less fortunate than she, as well as those in danger.

Tonight, she’d protected the Tin Cup Bandit.

Grinning at the memory of Daphne’s outrageous actions, Pierce felt more than a spark of pride. Heedless of her own safety, she’d spared him from Tragmore’s ruthlessness, taking the ruby to her father’s chambers so the bandit could escape undetected.

Her selflessness, her cunning, her earnest need to help, the inner beauty that melded with her physical radiance, made him want her all the more.

And she wanted him. Badly.

Or did she?

Pierce halted in his tracks.

Yes, she’d sat by his side at Newmarket, tested her daring, trusted her instincts. Yes, she’d thawed in his presence, joined in his banter, shivered at his touch.

But the true awakening of Daphne’s sensuality, the exquisite unfurling he’d glimpsed, the longing and the exhilaration she felt, had occurred tonight.

And it was not for him, but for the Tin Cup Bandit.

Daphne was infatuated with a man who didn’t exist, a romanticized champion of the poor who was more a god than a man.

What were the odds of combatting such a fantasy?

Not good, Pierce decided, tapping his chin thoughtfully. Not good at all. He’d provided himself with a unique and near-impossible challenge, one that required cunning, skill and instinct.

To hell with the doubts and questions.

Veering to his desk, Pierce extracted a sheet of paper and a pen.

This was a high-stakes gamble in the most dangerous of territories.

Fortunately, he was one hell of a gambler.

Daphne pushed her food around on her plate, keeping her gaze firmly fixed on her fork.

“My lady, you must eat something.” With a worried frown, Daphne’s lady’s maid hovered over her mistress. “I promised the marchioness I wouldn’t leave this bedchamber until you did.”

“I know, Emily, and I appreciate it, truly. But I’m just not terribly hungry today.”

Emily winced as the sound of the marquis’s bellowing emanated up from the first floor. “I understand your distress. Last night’s robbery has upset all of us. Why, the entire house is in turmoil. But it’s after noon and you do need to keep your strength up. Please, my lady, won’t you just eat a bit of Mrs. Frame’s pudding? It’s your favorite.”

The last thing Daphne wanted was pudding. But what she really wanted—to be alone with her thoughts—would be impossible unless she complied with Emily’s wishes. “Very well, a bit perhaps.”

Beaming, Emily watched her nibble three or four less-than-enthusiastic spoonfuls of pudding and take a great gulp of tea. “There, my lady. Now don’t you feel better?”

“Much better, Emily.” Daphne pushed the tray away. “But you’re right about the house being in chaos. All morning long the authorities were here, the servants were scurrying about, and Father was agitated. It’s taken its toll on me. I do believe I need to rest.”

“Of course you do,” Emily crooned, gathering up the tray. “You lie down and I’ll make sure you’re not disturbed.”

“Thank you.”

Daphne slid between the sheets and closed her eyes, relieved to hear the door shut behind Emily’s retreating figure. At last, solitude. Solitude to relive last night.

He’d been every bit as dashing as she knew he’d be—tall and broad and powerful, swathed in black from head to toe. She’d felt his strength when he touched her, even through the barrier of his glove. Never, had she felt so vital and alive as when he’d loomed over her, murmuring her name, gazing into her eyes.

He’d offered to answer anything she asked, anything but his name. And what had she done? Stared blankly up at him like some lovesick schoolgirl, when all she really wanted was to blurt out a million things at once: Where did he come from? What spawned the incredible compassion he possessed? How did he choose the recipients of his funds and the victims of his robberies? Did he loathe life’s injustices as she did? How could she help him? What more could she do for the ill and the needy?

Would he ever come to her again?

That possibility made her heart pound frantically. He’d seemed to like her, even seemed pleased by her cooperation. His eyes—the only unconcealed part of him—had spoken volumes, as had his carefully disguised rasp. And, at that moment, she would have gone anywhere, dared anything he asked of her.

If only he’d asked.

“This is an outrage! Find that bandit, whoever the hell he is, and do away with him.”

Daphne cringed, pressing her palms over her ears to block out her father’s shouts. She’d have to go down and face him sometime, but right now she couldn’t bear it. Nor could she be a convincing enough liar, not only to act shocked and outraged, but to feign ignorance of the theft. It was easier to plead upset and remain in her room.

Her mind resumed its wild racing.

She could almost see the rejoicing that was doubtless taking place in the Leicester workhouse right now. Exactly where had the bandit left his tin cup? Who had discovered it? How much money had it contained? When would the details reach Tragmore so she might privately celebrate the bandit’s success? And, when the news did arrive, how on earth would she manage to repress her joy and convincingly console her father?

What would he do to her if her efforts failed? What if he suspected the way she felt, or worse, what she’d done?

A knock interrupted Daphne’s shuddering thought.

“Yes?”

“May I come in, dear?” Daphne’s mother opened the door and tentatively poked her head in.

“Of course, Mama.” Drawing her knees up, Daphne patted the bed. “I thought you were with Father.”

“No, your father is in his study with the magistrate.”

“The magistrate!” Daphne paled. “I thought only the constable was here.”

Her mother sighed, closing the door and crossing the room to sit beside her. “Harwick wasn’t satisfied with the constable’s efforts to recover our property. He demanded to see the magistrate. Unfortunately, I don’t think we know any more now than we did then.” Lowering her eyes, she fidgeted with the bedcovers.

“Mama.” Daphne leaned forward, touching her mother’s hand. “Are you all right?”

Nodding, Elizabeth squeezed Daphne’s fingers. “Your father’s anger appears to be directed only at the bandit and at those who cannot unearth him—at least for the moment.”

Silence hung heavily between them.

“You’re not fretting over your jewels, are you?” Daphne asked, knowing the answer but anxious to divert her mother’s line of thought.

A sad smile touched Elizabeth’s lips. “Hardly. You know how little rings and brooches mean to me. The workhouses need food more than I need adornments. Although God help me if Harwick were to hear me say that.”

“He won’t. But think, Mama. Think how many people our gems are going to help.” Daphne’s eyes glowed. “I only wish I’d had more to give him. As it is, I had naught but my pearls and my cameo, so—”

“Give him?” Elizabeth cut in.

Daphne’s mouth snapped shut.

“Daphne.” Her mother’s expression had turned incredulous. “Did you
see
the bandit last night?”

Feeling like a fly caught in a web, Daphne sought escape and found none. “Yes, I saw him,” she admitted reluctantly. “I gave him whatever aid I could. Then I sent him away so he wouldn’t be caught.”

“Dear Lord.” Elizabeth’s thin hands were shaking. “If Harwick had an inkling—even the slightest hint—Daphne, have you any idea what he’d—”

“Yes.” Daphne raised her chin proudly. “But it was worth the risk. I’d do it again.”

For a fleeting instant, a hundred questions danced in Elizabeth’s eyes, and Daphne had a glimpse of the sparkling young woman who was no longer. Then, just as quickly, shutters of fear descended, blanketing the curiosity with years of instilled submission. “I don’t want to hear any more.” Nervously, Elizabeth glanced at the closed door. “Let’s pretend we never had this conversation.”

“But, Mama—”

“Daphne, please.” The terrified plea lay naked in Elizabeth’s eyes, tearing at Daphne’s heart.

“Of course, Mama. As you wish.”

“As it must be,” Elizabeth murmured. She rose to her feet, pausing almost against her will. “You’re dreadfully pale. Some fresh air would do you a world of good. A walk perhaps? To the village?”

Slowly, Daphne raised her head, meeting her mothers gaze. “The village?”

“Yes. I think a brisk stroll would put some color back in your cheeks. I would suggest taking Emily along, but the magistrate does need to question all the servants. So, given the circumstances, you’d best go alone. Is that all right, dear?”

A grateful smile touched Daphne’s lips. “Yes, Mama, that’s fine.”

“Good. Then I’ll leave you to dress. I’d best see if your father needs me.” Elizabeth bent to kiss Daphne’s forehead. “Send my warmest regards to the vicar,” she added in a breath of a whisper, “and tell him our stableboys will be requiring new boots this winter. They should be arriving at about the same time as the shipment of wool.”

Daphne’s whole face lit up. “Oh, Mama.”

With an adamant shake of her head, Elizabeth silenced Daphne by pressing a forefinger to her lips. “Have a lovely walk, darling.” She straightened. “I shan’t expect you home for several hours.”

“God bless you, Mama,” Daphne said softly to her mother’s retreating back.

Elizabeth paused, her head bowed. “May He protect us all.”

The door closed behind her.

Daphne was dressed and ready in a quarter hour.

Running a comb through her hair, she rehearsed what she would say if she encountered her father on the way out, although most likely her mother had already paved the way.

A walk. About the grounds. Through the thick woods surrounding Tragmore.

That could take hours.

Descending to the first level, Daphne walked gingerly by her father’s study and straight into the oncoming inferno that was her father.

“That arrogant bastard! I refuse to allow him to provoke me again!” Harwick exploded, waving a sheet of paper in the air. “I’m going to bring him down if it’s the last thing I do.”

Daphne’s first thought was that her father had unearthed the bandit, and stark fear for her hero’s safety eclipsed the customary dread her father’s outbursts evoked.

“Father?” she blurted out. “What’s happened? Have you discovered something about the robbery?”

“What?” Harwick blinked, focusing on Daphne as if he were seeing her for the first time. A vein throbbed in his temple. “No. As if last night’s theft weren’t enough, I’m being forced to meet with the lowlife I’m compelled to do business with, and at my own home, no less.”

“Oh.” Daphne was totally at sea, and terrified to question her father further. Convinced that his current rampage wasn’t connected with the bandit, common sense re-surfaced, urging her to flee before the marquis turned his anger on her.