Dawn Thompson (5 page)

There was no denying her beauty—the alabaster skin and large, almond-shaped eyes glazed over and dilated with rage. Oddly, he couldn’t recall their color. And her hair! He had never seen the like: thick and lustrous, the color of chestnuts kissed by the sun. How long it was, falling about her like a wavy curtain fringed with tendrils. It had taken all of his willpower to keep from reaching out and stroking it. He’d curbed those urges, however, and stroked it with his eyes instead. She had already wounded him once; if he had done otherwise, considering her demeanor, he would have put himself to the hazard again.

Underneath the compelling scent of blood, his extraordinary sense of smell detected the faint aura of lemon verbena and roses. A soft moan escaped him as the ghost of it threaded through his nostrils. He had reached his suite without realizing it or remembering
stomping there. All he saw was her exquisite image in the sleigh bed, with that incredible hair cascading to her waist. He had already seen what lay beneath—what she tried to hide from him—perfect breasts, young and firm, their pink buds stressing the thin voile nightdress. He couldn’t help but stare. She was exquisite. Despite the palpable rage in her, the hostile attitude that brooked no room for opposition, Cora Applegate was the most desirable woman he had ever met.

Thinking on that, he burst into his bedchamber and slammed the door behind him, which brought Parker, his valet, shuffling through the door that led to the adjoining chamber. He’d evidently roused the man from bed. Clad in his wrinkled nightshift and plaid dressing gown, Parker was a comical sight, with his mouth agape and his sparse gray hair fanned out about him like a slipped halo, for the top of his head was bald.

“Heaven stone the crows!” the valet exclaimed. “What catastrophe has befallen us, sir?”

“A catastrophe by the name of Miss Cora Applegate, Parker,” said Joss.

The valet swallowed audibly, and his scalp shifted. “You’ll want a bath,” he said, shuffling off. “I shall see to it at once, sir.”

Joss crossed the room and pulled back the draperies. The view was just as bleak from his window as it had been from the window in the yellow suite. Blowing snow erased the terrain at the foot of the tor from view. Land and sky were whitewashed so severely that he couldn’t detect where one stopped and the other began.

Turning away from the frosted glass, he drew a ragged breath. He would not be able to send the coachman on his way until the snow stopped, and it didn’t show signs of letting up any time soon. It didn’t matter about the
girl, but something about Sikes did not sit well with him. It was ridiculous, of course, but still, the man made him ill at ease, and he would be glad to see the back of him.

No matter what happened, Joss had his work cut out for him. It still remained to tell Miss Cora Applegate that her entire entourage had perished, and horribly. He did not relish that chore. Considering that he’d come away from their meeting bloodied, he shuddered to wonder if he would survive their next interview without broken bones.

But not even that was paramount. He needed answers about the strangeness that kept coming over him. His parents were the key to that, but in their absence, there was Bates. He was anxious to question the butler, but not while the coachman was in residence. It had to be done in secrecy. It had been difficult enough over the years keeping his secret from the rest of the staff, let alone attempting to do it with an outsider of dubious origin underfoot. There was that nagging suspicion again, and again he shrugged it off. Whether he liked it or not, Joss was shackled with two houseguests until Mother Nature decreed otherwise. Deciding to begin preparations with a nice hot bath and a hearty breakfast before he bearded the lioness in her den again, he stalked off toward his dressing room to put that plan into motion.

“The young lady did this, did you say, sir?” Parker asked, doctoring the cut on his brow. He clicked his tongue and shook his head, making an attempt to cover the angry-looking gash with Joss’s hair. It was to no avail; Joss’s hair waved naturally in the opposite direction, and the valet soon threw up his hands in defeat. “Whatever provoked her?”

Joss’s eyebrow inched up a notch. “Not I, Parker, I assure you,” he said. “Leave it. I shall have to go down as I am.”

“Scalp wounds are nasty bleeders, sir,” the valet offered. “Take care not to stress the mend. It won’t stand opening, else I have to stitch it closed, and that will leave a nasty scar. Even as it is . . .” He clicked his tongue again. “Time was, young ladies of quality
behaved
like ladies. And that is all I have to say in the matter.”

Joss suppressed a smile. Over the years, Parker had said much about many matters. Hearing the words that had become his mantra—especially now, when things were so unsettled—put the situation into perspective.

“Don’t worry, old boy,” he said. “Believe me, I shall keep my distance hereafter.”

The valet nodded and said no more, attending to his chores. A quick glance in the cheval glass and Joss was on his way to the breakfast room for fortification before the dreaded interview with Miss Cora Applegate.

What did one say to draw such a person out? She was like a cornered animal—a lioness with sharp, hooked claws poised to pounce. How could he put her mind at ease? Hah! How could he hope to range himself close enough to attempt it?

Such were the thoughts that ruined his breakfast. He was scarcely aware that he’d downed two cups of coffee, and a plate of Cook’s best coddled eggs and ham. He asked twice for reassurance that Miss Applegate had been likewise fed, and almost asked again, though he did agree to a third cup of coffee to delay the inevitable. Preoccupied as he was, he was painfully aware that all eyes were directed toward the nasty gashes upon his scalp and brow. Thankful that the servants were well trained to keep their place, he finished his third cup of coffee, and quit the breakfast room.

Outside the yellow suite bedchamber door, he hesitated. He raised and lowered his hand several times before his knuckles addressed the wood. At first, no answer came.
Grace can’t still be sleeping,
he thought. The sun had risen hours ago. He rapped again; still no answer. He waited, his hand hovering over the door handle, but only for a moment before he gripped it, turned it, and stepped inside.

A gasp from the bed stopped him in his tracks. His eyes flashed toward the wing chair. It was vacant. Anger flared his nostrils. Why had they left her alone? His first
instinct was to close the door behind him. That would be a mistake. Instead, he left it ajar.

Cora vaulted upright in the bed, yanking the counterpane up to her chin. “Do you make it a habit of barging into ladies’ bedchambers, sir?” she snapped at him. God, she was beautiful with the snowy dazzle streaming through the window picking out the coppery lights in her chestnut hair. It was painful to gaze upon.

“What have you done with my housekeeper?” he asked.

“Done with?” she said. “I dismissed the poor woman, you tyrant. She was exhausted. I am hardly in need of a nursemaid.”

“You can trust me when I say—”

“I trust
no
man, sir,” she interrupted, narrowing her almond-shaped eyes. Blue. They were blue. He had wondered about that. How could he not have noticed? They were the color of the bluebells that carpeted the fells in spring.

“—when I say,” he went on with raised voice, “that Grace was not stationed here for that. She and Amy, my housemaid, were instructed to stay with you in shifts so that you would not wake alone in a strange place—and for propriety’s sake, lest you be . . . compromised.”

“Where is Lyda?” she demanded.

“Who?”

“Lyda, my abigail,” she said. “It is her function to see that I am not compromised, sir.”

Joss’s shoulders sagged. They were down to it too soon to suit him. He’d been hoping to make some kind of peace with the girl before breaking bad news. This did not bode well for a favorable first impression. She had already drawn blood, and now as he took a step
nearer, he saw her eyes flash in all directions in search of something else she might hurl at him. When she reached for the porcelain basin on the nightstand that had once held the splintered pitcher, he stopped in his tracks.

“Your abigail . . . has not survived, miss,” he said. “I had not meant to break the news to you this way. I know you have been through a terrible ordeal, and—”

“You have no idea what it is that I have ‘been through,’ sir,” she snapped. “What of the others—my father . . . the Clements?”

“I’m sorry,” Joss said, avoiding her eyes. They were riveting. A man could drown in such eyes, even as they were now, spitting blue fire. God, she was beautiful.

“A-all of them?” she murmured. “How . . . ?”

Joss took a ragged breath. There was no use prolonging the agony. “You were the sole survivor,” he said. “I was returning home from London when the storm overtook me, and I came upon your carriage bogged down in the drifts. I frightened off a wild dog that had begun to . . .” He couldn’t bear to give a detailed description.

“I prayed so for something to happen to spoil their plans. . . .” Her voice trailed off just as his had done. It was evident that she was thinking out loud. But what was this now? All lost, and not a tear? What sort of woman was this?

“The coachman told me the young gentleman was your betrothed . . . that you were on your way to Gretna Green to be wed. Is that so?”

Her incredible eyes, wreathed with dark lashes, honed in upon him cruelly. “What business is that of yours?” she said. “And where is the coachman? I would have a word with him.”

“In time,” said Joss. “I have given him lodgings in the servants’ quarters until the storm subsides.”

“You ought throw him back out in the snow!” she shrilled. “He left us—
left
us there to die!”

“To fetch help.”

“Is that what he told you?”

“You haven’t answered my question,” Joss said. “Were you on your way to be wed?”

“I do not have to answer to you—or anyone anymore,” she snapped.

Joss took another step toward her, his expression softened—he hoped. She was frightened. He had not caused her fright, and he was determined that she know he meant her no harm.

Like lightning, she seized the porcelain basin and menaced him with it. “Come one step closer and I will crown you again!” she warned.

Joss held up his hands in defeat. “I do not know what I must do to convince you that I mean you no harm,” he said, “or what gave you the idea that you face some sort of threat from me. If I had not brought you here, you would be dead in that coach out there with the rest—”

“They are
still out there?
” she shrilled.

“It is impossible to retrieve the . . . bodies until the storm is over,” Joss said. “You are welcome here as long as needs must. I do not know how long that might be. This storm is showing no signs of slacking anytime soon, and the roads are impassable. I shall certainly keep my distance, but we cannot hope to avoid each other altogether. If we are to have peace, a truce is in order, I think. Each time we meet need not end in bloodletting.”

She let the basin slip from her fingers onto the counterpane
beside her, but she did not replace it on the nightstand. Those incredible almond-shaped eyes were trained on his wounded forehead now. Was that remorse in her bluebell gaze? He wouldn’t count upon it.

“You frightened me,” she said, in a low murmur. How provocative her lips were when she pouted like that.

“Evidently,” he said through a humorless chuckle.

“Well, you did,” she returned haughtily, tossing her long mane. “I didn’t expect to see someone lurking in the shadows out there.”

“I was hardly lurking,” Joss defended. “I could not trust Grace to stay awake, and I found your coachman standing over you in that bed when I came up to have her report and see how you were faring.”

Cora gasped.

Joss nodded.

“I’m sorry for . . . eh . . .” she said, nodding toward his wounds. “But if you knew what . . . why . . .” She bit her lip and mercifully lowered those magnificent eyes.

“I am a good listener, Miss Applegate.”

Cora shook her head wildly. “I hardly know you, sir.”

Something I’d like to remedy,
Joss thought. He gave a crisp bow instead. “As you wish,” he said, “but since I sense something untoward here, I must insist that you not be left alone. You will accept Amy as your abigail while you are my guest. I shall have a cot brought up to your dressing room for her, and she will remain with you until you leave Whitebriar Abbey.”

Cora gave a reluctant nod.

“Good! And I must insist that you keep your door locked at night—just as a precaution, until the coachman leaves the Abbey. He claimed that he was concerned for your well-being, and wanted to see for
himself because he was responsible for your safe conduct. Well, like it or not,
I
am responsible for you now, since you are under my roof, and I must do my utmost to see that you come to no further harm. How are the cuts on your feet?”

“They are not deep, sir. Your housekeeper has tended them.”

“And you have eaten?”

She nodded. “Very well.”

He strode to the bellpull and yanked it. “Good,” he said. “I’ve rung for Grace to carry out my wishes. Did you have baggage on that coach? I saw none.”

“Two travel bags in the boot.”

“I shall retrieve them once the storm is over. In the meantime, you may avail yourself of my mother’s things. She and my father are . . . abroad. I’ll have Grace bring a selection.”

“You needn’t go to all that trouble,” she said. “I shan’t be here long enough to wear them.”

“I wouldn’t count upon that. North Country storms are hangers on, and often others follow. It may be days—a sennight or longer—before I can dig the coach out of those drifts, and you cannot go about in your night rail, can you?”

“I . . . expect not,” she said demurely, eyes lowered. How long and dark her lashes were against that creamy expanse of cheek, splotched now with red patches. His fingers itched to touch her.