Angel In My Bed (21 page)

Victoria found she could not watch as Sir Henry pleaded his case. David might be her husband and Nathanial's father, but he worked for the British government, and in that capacity, he had made it clear he would soon be gone—and she with him.

“Under the current circumstances, Nellis will attempt to find some way to contest your claim to Rose Briar,” Sir Henry continued to speak to David. “No doubt, he will make it a long and painful process. But though he may contest the legitimacy of your claim, he cannot successfully contest my will. I only ask that you think about my petition. I ask this because Bethany needs a guardian.”

David looked directly at Victoria as if she clearly belonged in Bedlam for agreeing to this—a look everyone else intercepted. “She knew nothing about my decision,” Sir Henry said.

Bethany was the first to react. “I don't want to be your family,
either
, Lord Chadwick.” Her blue eyes glistening in the firelight, she stood. “Why are you doing this, Peepaw? You speak as if you are in the grave when you are as well as an ox. I'll not allow you to talk as if you are already dead.”

“Sit down, Bethany,” Sir Henry ordered.

“I will not.”

Sir Henry came to his feet, the resulting uproar every bit as unpleasant as it usually was when he grew cross and accused his seventeen-year-old headstrong granddaughter of not only needing her bottom smacked but also needing a strong hand capable of finding her a husband.

“A husband?” Teary eyed, Bethany gasped. “I will pick my own husband, Peepaw.”

“And this is what comes from spoiling you, Bethany Ann
Munro.” He shook his grizzled head regretfully. “Is it your desire that Nellis become your guardian, then?”

“You should have asked what I wanted, Peepaw.”

Victoria stood. “What is it you want, Bethany?”

“I
certainly
have no desire to go where I am
not
wanted. Nathanial belongs to Lord Chadwick, but I am not his family…why should he want me?” She looked from Sir Henry to Victoria. “I am nearly eighteen…surely if you do not stay, then neither do I—”

David scraped back the chair and, though he was the last to stand, his movement silenced the room. He started to speak, thought better of saying anything at all, and, turning on his heel, walked out of the kitchen.

 

David was outside, half sitting against a hitching rail when he heard gravel crunch behind him. Watching through a pale streamer of blue smoke, he inhaled from the cheroot as Meg stepped in front of him. Behind her, Nathanial, Robbie, and the Shelbys' older son were playing pirates in the stable. David had come out here to get away from the cottage—from his own thoughts. He had been angry earlier, though he didn't know why.

Or maybe he did.

“I would have warned you of Sir Henry's plan if I could have,” Meg said. “But despite anything you might think about his motives, this is Nathanial and Bethany's home. I agree with his intent.”

“Did you maneuver Sir Henry into making his decision?”

“I did not. Clearly Sir Henry believes you are some guardian angel,” she said. “Everything happens for a reason and all that. Sir Henry is a firm believer your presence here is kismet.”

“What do you believe?”

“That kismet doesn't necessarily equate to good fortune for all.”

His arms folded one over the other, David tapped ash from the cheroot, acutely aware of her and wishing he was not. Clad in trousers and boots beneath her cloak, she presented an anomalous, striking figure, looking like something he wanted to strip naked and go at against some private, shady wall somewhere. The image, completely incongruous with the reality of their circumstances, turned his attention to the hills.

Indeed, Sir Henry had cleverly pried open the passageway to his innermost secret desires. Only his sense of duty remained to be questioned. The sole source of his conflict.

And he was no longer sure even of that.

Only of his doubts.

“Why is Nellis so intent on having this estate?”

“I don't know. Last year, we were at least on civil terms.”

“With the exception of you whacking off his sword.”

Her mouth crooked. “There was that,” she quipped.

Something in the silence that followed spoke to him of warmth and shared memories. “Do you still practice your gojushiho kata or kenjutsu?” he asked.

She shook her head, and a strange sense of loss caught him. How impossibly long ago it had been when he'd taught her kendo, the way of the sword. When her laughter had filled the empty courtyard of her father's house.

Sounds of someone dying in a pirate battle drifted from the loft in the stables, and Meg looked up at the opened shutters. “I believe our son just killed Robbie,” she said.

When he made no reply, she turned and, catching his bold perusal, frowned, for David did not turn away this time or
bother to hide the fact that he was staring at her with less than pure thoughts. She looked at him steadily and with something akin to growing wariness. Yet, strangely, he understood her guardedness, for he now fully understood his own and the source whence it came, even if she did not yet comprehend.

Silently laughing at his own weaknesses, he remembered that one of his brothers, Ryan, once told him he'd have to set his own affairs to right before judging another's.

When had he stopped judging Meg?

“You are not the sort of woman I'd ever envisioned marrying,” he said. “Yet from the first time I saw you, somehow you got in my blood. I was never quite sure what to do about it then anymore than I am now.” He studied the glowing tip of the cheroot. “I've done a poor job at most everything I've ever tried to do, Meg. Certainly, I'm no angel.”

“You're wrong about having done a poor job at everything.”

He arched a dubious brow. “A compliment?”

“You found me.”

David dropped the cheroot and ground it beneath his boot as he stood. “Maybe I was meant to find you. Meant to be here. And not in the divine sense of the word, either.”

Clearly, the thought had crossed her mind as well. “You are here when you should be in London,” she said. “Mr. Rockwell must have told you something new about the case, important enough for you to throw all caution aside.”

Her assertion that he could be here for any other reason but for her safekeeping brought a flicker of grim amusement to his mood. Then suddenly he was looking into her incredible eyes and wanted to do so much more than touch her. He wanted her to believe in him. To trust him. “Six months ago,
your father disappeared,” he said. “I found out Kinley was in charge of his incarceration.”

“Six months? That is about the time Nellis took an interest in Rose Briar. But…if someone knew where I was, why bring you in?”

“Isn't it obvious your father has revenge in mind?”

He thought she paled. “Do you think Nellis is involved? But why Rose Briar?”

“You tell me. Maybe he thinks something of great value is hidden on this massive estate.” There was neither anger nor accusation in his voice, merely a question that demanded an answer as he took her left hand and pressed her locket into her palm. “Would he be correct in that assumption?”

The expression on her face didn't change, and if he hadn't been holding her hand, wasn't aware of her every breath, he would not have felt her response. But looking into her face, he realized the subtle reaction was not a response to his question, but to the locket itself. “Why did you bring this back?” she asked. “It's only an old piece of jewelry.”

“You don't need to barter your possessions. I have money.” He brought her fist to his lips and placed a tender kiss on the knuckles clutched over the locket. “I believe we can agree to disagree about everything else.”

“Yet we both agree what will happen when this is over.”

“What do
you
want to happen when this is over?” he quietly asked.

She eased away her hand. The locket had hit a nerve, or maybe only he had. He was confusing her. Probably had been confusing her since his return from town last night. He liked her confused. Vulnerability was more permeable, and he could touch more of her without wading through the mantle
she wore around her like an invisible cloak. “Your mother's image is inside. Why would you trade the locket, Meg?”

She took a step backward as he straightened. “You were right. I also believe there is someone guiding our every movement. It's not safe for you here. Let Mr. Rockwell finish the job and turn me over to the authorities when it is time. But take Bethany and Nathanial with you. Start your life somewhere else,” she added, clearly having spent some time considering that point as she rambled on about an annulment. “I'm sure any woman in England would jump at the chance to be with someone of your
impeccable
credentials.”

Leaning his palms against the rough plank wall at her back, he encased her between his arms. “My impeccable credentials?” There was a lightness to his eyes, self-effacing humor that made him less upright and somehow more vulnerable to her tender gaze. “A moment ago you thought I should accept Sir Henry's proposal. Now you are you foisting me off on another woman?”

“It is not my desire to foist you off on anyone.”

She ducked beneath his arm, but he stepped into her space and gave her no place to retreat. “Why didn't you tell me there was gossip about us in town?”

“You are the source of a lot of gossip,” she said offhandedly. “Isn't that what you set out to accomplish? To make yourself as visible a target as possible? You're a baron with a beautiful mistress, a big house on the bluff. You've started a war with Nellis. How could my father or anyone working with him not notice you and through you find me? It has worked. So go away and let Mr. Rockwell finish this job before you and I end up exactly where we were nine years ago.”

“What do you want to happen when this is over?” he asked her again. “You said that we both agree on what will happen
when this is over. I want to know what
you
want to happen. Will we face each other as we once did before?” he forced himself to ask, forced her to look at him.

Shaking her head, she lowered her gaze. “I don't want to hate you, David.”

“Then the future does not have to end the way someone else wants this to play out,” he said, his eyes a little more gentle, knowing she had every right not to trust him, yet knowing she should have learned ten years ago that when he set his mind to a task, he got what he wanted. “A road of a thousand miles begins with the first step, Meg.” She looked down as he closed his hand over hers. “You can take that step with me.”

“Then what?” She met his steady gaze and whispered, “Do you have a miracle up your sleeve that can save me from
you
?”

“I might. But not today, love.”

The last word said on an intimate breath, he leaned into her because he couldn't stop himself. When her back came up against the side of the stable, he straightened slightly, his eyes burning into hers. He saw only a wariness that he understood too well. He knew how badly he had once hurt her.

And there
was
a darkness inside her that worried him, that lay beneath the surface. A part of her that he seemed to recognize because it lived inside him as well.

He didn't kiss her. Didn't even try. Though his gaze remained a moment longer on her mouth before he stepped aside to let her pass. It was enough for now to see the desire in her eyes and know that she wanted him as much as he wanted her.

A
s twilight settled over the hills, David reined in Old Boy atop the knoll overlooking the cottage. He watched as Meg and Nathanial stepped into the buggy that would take them back to Rose Briar. After Meg had left him at the stable, he had not remained to sup with them, preferring instead to run Old Boy.

David withdrew his field glasses from his pack and watched the buggy's progress up the drive and onto the road until it disappeared in the woods. He could see other activity on the drive as Mr. Shelby raked hay into a trough. Bethany appeared from inside the stable, pulling the reins of a horse and, for a moment, heedless of his inner struggle, he watched her. Meg had been only a little older than Bethany when he had first met her.

What did he know of playing the role of anyone's guardian anyway, or of the responsibilities that came with owning land and people's lives? Or interpreting an old man's reasons for
believing David had a right to any of it? Or thinking that he had the power to change anything for the better?

It was a familiar thought, he realized, one that he battled within every arena of his life. He had never had the power to change anything or make a difference.

The black stallion pranced in sudden apprehension. Twisting in the saddle, he turned the glasses on the countryside. He could see the distant church steeple through the trees and paused as he reflected on Sir Henry's belief in kismet or providence. David knew he would rather not attach his current fate to the workings of a capricious higher power. Yet his long association in Ireland left an indelible mark on him that he could not deny. For the very cause that brought him to Meg in India had brought him back to her now as if fate were offering him a second chance to do what he should have done the first time, and undo what he had destroyed. Fate was telling him to trust his heart.

And hers.

The buggy appeared atop the far rise, a speck against the darkening indigo sky. Even with the brisk chill in the air, cattle congregated farther away. The ridge dipped and the buggy passed out of sight again, and David was suddenly looking at Rose Briar across the vale. He was no longer seeing a house made of stone and wood. He was seeing Meg's vision and a hint of her dreams. He was seeing an opportunity for his own life, a glimpse of his future as Sir Henry saw it, if he chose to stay.

He also saw danger to everything and everyone that had come to matter to him.

The locket remained a constant in the back of his mind.

It was later, after midnight, as he stood in his bedroom at
his window, a saber weighting the sling at his side, that he realized he was no longer conflicted.

Dressed in black, with black boots beneath a dark cloak, he descended the narrow servants' stairs, the same way Meg had left the night she'd escaped the house. His saber scraped the walls. He lifted the lantern above his head as he walked around the outside of the house. His family was inside, and there were forces that threatened them. The foundation had been built hundreds of years before, perhaps even the same time as the church. He blew out the light.

Mounting Old Boy, he swung the stallion around and stretched out in an easy canter. As the moon continued its flight across an ebon sky, he rode the estate, high and low, from one end to the other, searching the banks of the bluff and the silent fields for the answers he sought. Colonel Faraday could not have disappeared into thin air. Someone had to be shielding him. Or he was dead and another threat loomed. Tonight, not even Stillings's men made an appearance to temper David's quest for answers. And in the end, he knew he would find them only with Meg herself.

 

Victoria stood at her bedroom window, watching David complete his kata. Dawn had not yet breached the dove gray clouds. But she'd known he would be there as he had been every day for the past week on the terrace, overlooking the valley when the first rays of sunlight topped the distant trees.

Watching him, she was sure she had not wanted anyone or anything more in her entire life. Except perhaps, she wanted her son safe, and Sir Henry's illness to miraculously disappear. She wanted Bethany to know she was not alone, and she wanted to be free to face her own destiny.

This past week, David had switched tactics on her and, if she'd once thought her father was the target of his hunt, she knew without a doubt that it was she he held in his sights now.

He probably knew she was at her window watching him.

For watch him she did, fascinated as any artist patron would be by a masterpiece, no matter the sculptor or painter. Wearing a sleeveless, woven top and pleated skirtlike trousers, he moved with precise steps and coordination through the kata. She stared, mesmerized by his disciplined movements—her former mentor, her lover, her husband—caught by memories she had no business exploring. Closing her eyes, she felt her body stir.

“You're very good, David Donally.” Her breath misted the glass, and she dropped the edge of the curtain.

Leaning against the wall, she drew in one slow breath at a time, recognizing a seduction when she saw one—David was very adept at his job. Yet, knowing that, she still wanted him. More than anything, she wanted to believe
in
him.

You can take that first step with me
.

Even if it took her off a cliff?

But Victoria couldn't shake David. He'd been polite and civil, and as clairvoyant as a ghost. He managed to appear everywhere she was, as if he had the ability to read her mind and knew where she was at all times.

Two days ago, she'd thought he and Mr. Rockwell were at the church, and snuck outside to see who might be watching the stables, to see if she could sit on a horse without experiencing pain in her side.

But David had been there casually talking to the groom. Without any outward suspicion of her motives for being in the stable, he'd saddled Old Boy. He then helped her mount and swung up behind her. They'd ended up riding across the
fields that had once sowed fertile crops. The horse's gait had hurt her side, but it did not affect her as much as the scent of David's presence, his warmth, his voice in her ear as he stopped to talk to Mr. Gibson and another tenant they'd met on the road as they passed the north edge of the property. Only David could think nothing of meeting others while sharing the same saddle with her in public or make her melt over such a mundane topic as the weather.

But he was busy now, Victoria thought as she washed her face and teeth, and braided her hair. She adjusted her stays over her waist. The sun had yet to rise. She eased herself into a pair of trousers, shoving her shirt into her waistband as she rushed to find her boots. Surely, David would be too occupied to notice if she'd left her bedroom.

She opened the door.

David was leaning against the wall, two bamboo staffs in his hands, clearly waiting for her to emerge. Narrowing her eyes, she realized he must have hurried upstairs after she'd pulled away from the window. A mischievous grin on his lips, he tossed her a staff, which she caught midair, surprising even herself.

“Not bad.” And despite her want to ignore the backhanded compliment, she felt warmed by the look in his eyes. “Join me,” he said.

“I can't, David. I'm still injured.”

He continued to block her path. “All the better. I'll win.”

“Oh, please, must you show me your conceit, as well?”

His open and appreciative scrutiny of her person brought a hot flush to her face. “The practice will do you good,” he said. “Do you remember the steps?”

She examined the length of bamboo in her hand. “Where did you get these staffs?”

“Doesn't yours feel familiar? It's the same one we used to practice with.”

“One staff feels the same as any other,” she said.

A slow wolfish smile showed his teeth. “Does it now? And here I was thinkin' my staff was special in your magic hands.”

She slid her fingers over the cool bamboo and peered at him from beneath her lashes. The unkempt, haphazard way his growing beard framed his jaw seemed to make his eyes bluer, like the sky at twilight or the sea at dawn. “Were ye now, David Donally?”

She never could turn down a challenge. Especially against a man encased in a whisper of scarlet and a short woven shirt that did not hide his sculpted strength. His feet were bare, and he made her remove her boots before they walked to the studio at the other end of the house.

David also made her wear the protective vest. She stood in front of him as he tied the leather strings at her waist and hips. Her braid lay over one shoulder. He moved in front of her and, taking her stance, she smiled at him over the bamboo staff. “If you feel the need to play nice because of some chivalrous sense of honor, don't.”

He did play nice though, she realized, as he patiently countered each move and allowed her to relearn the necessary cadence that came with the exercise. Her muscles were stiff. The action pulled at her side, while pulling at still deeper pieces of her she had buried long ago. She struggled within the spirit of the kata, every step coming back to her in slow degrees. Their staffs clicked and they circled each other.

“You're holding back.” He swayed from foot to foot, a reckless grin challenging her. “What are you afraid of?”

She slammed the staff across his. “I'm not afraid.”

But she was afraid.

“Then fight me, Meg.”

David met her every blow, moving with an indefinable grace and confidence that marked him as a skilled opponent. Not once did she think she had the upper hand, but neither did he overwhelm or defeat her.

They skirted a mat and circled each other. “You don't think fear controls you? Let it go, Meg. Fight me. Only then will you learn to master it.”

His eyes never left her face. Her eyes never strayed from his, and before Victoria realized what had happened, she was moving with her old grace and confidence. It was as if with every blow she aimed at David, she struck at the wall of her heart and soul, only to find him always there guarding her, the teacher who set the pace and the distance, and the lover who beckoned more. She was eighteen again. He was twenty-six. She swept her staff high then low, her movements increasing in speed and dexterity, her smile intent as he countered, the hollow clicking of bamboo filling the empty sanctuary of the studio. Outside the sun topped the trees and sunlight moved into the room, across the floor in a blanket of amber as the dawn brought the warm colors of the day to life. Still David and Victoria went around the room, oblivious to the rest of the world.

“I haven't forgotten.” She swung the staff at his feet, feeling more alive than she had in years.

He leaped the pole, turned, and countered, his movements restrained and carefully controlled, but not so weak that he didn't strike the staff from her hand. It flew above her head, only to be snatched out of the air as David caught it first. He did have the advantage. He was six inches taller.

She was breathing hard. Her side hurt, but she didn't care.

“One would think you practiced every day,” he said, offering her the staff, which she snatched back and attacked again.

As if expecting the action, he ducked and was suddenly behind her. In a swift move, not a choreographed part of the kata, he brought the staff over her head and trapped her against his chest. “No fair, David.” Breathing in the scent of him, she felt his heartbeat against her back. “You're improvising.” Her mouth touched his roughened jaw.

“So are you, love.”

Victoria could see nothing past the breadth of his shoulders. She possessed a desire to remain where she was. “If you were a priest, how is it that you've stayed in practice all these years?”

He let her go, and she turned to strike at him again. Her staff hit his. “There are places in Dublin that rival streets in Calcutta, Shanghai, and even Boston.”

“Have you traveled to all of those places?”

“Every single one.”

Again, he maneuvered himself around her back and she was beginning to feel like a mouse in the paws of a cat. Except David's body felt warm and inviting, and this time she let her bottom lean into his groin.

“Now tell me something no one knows about you,” he said against her hair.

“My favorite color is lavender.”

His mouth touched the shell of her ear. “I knew that.”

Lord in heaven
. Enticed by the bold feel of him, she cast the thought upward as if some higher power could save her from herself. “I've never told you that.”

“Maybe not. But one only need look at your room.”

She felt his subtle surrender as he allowed her to walk him backward. “What is
your
favorite color?” Breaking his grip with an upward thrust, she turned and pressed the length of her staff against his chest. She continued to walk him backward. “Black?”
Like sin
? her eyes challenged.

His teeth gleaned in the sunlight. “Nothing so mundane. Unless you have the ability to read my mind.”

She could not read his mind, and that was the problem, but he was aroused beneath the silky scarlet of pleated pants. “I may not be able to read your thoughts, but your body is an open book,
love
.”

She'd walked him toward the mat he'd left out after his practice with Nathanial last night, and his heel caught the plump edge. He wouldn't have fallen except that she took the opportunity to propel him backward by shoving him and sweeping her pole against his other foot. She thought he might have hit rather hard on his back, but without pausing, she straddled his hips and pressed the staff to his throat in the way of a Roman gladiator.

“I win, Donally.” Her breath coming in uneven gasps, she smiled in triumph. “Surrender or face the consequences.”

“The consequences?” David laughed unpleasantly.

“Are you hurt?” she thought to ask.

“Aye.” His hands wrapped around hers on the staff, and he lifted the pressure off his neck. “My pride could use a wee bit of your kindness just now.”