Defiant Impostor (46 page)

"Describe him. I don't remember."

"Stout build, bearded, pocked face like he
suffered bad with the pox, and the strangest eyes I've ever seen on a man. A
real freakish dark-yellow color."

The man's hasty description, matching the one Susanna
had given him, made Adam all the more desperate to return to her. His heart
aching, he muttered, "Get back on your horse."

The overseer scrambled into the saddle, his hands
shaking as he took the reins. "Wh—what do you want me to tell Mr. Spencer?
About the letter, I mean?"

"Tell him to meet me here tomorrow morning at ten
o'clock and we'll go over the arrangements he requires," Adam replied
tightly, a determined plan taking shape in his mind. "If that isn't
acceptable, he'll just have to wait. My wife's recent injury will prevent me
from leaving Briarwood anytime soon. Do you have that?"

"I heard you, Mr. Thornton," the man agreed,
anxiously eyeing the pistol still pointed at his gut. "Tomorrow morning,
ten o'clock, the arrangements he requires. I take it that means you're in
agreement with what he told you in the letter?"

"Yes. Now get the hell off my land."

The overseer didn't need to be told twice. Jabbing his
horse with his spurred boots, he took off around the drive and never once
looked back.

Impatiently waiting until the man disappeared from
sight, Adam released the cock on the pistol and returned the weapon to his
pocket.

Oh, he was in full agreement, all right, he thought
grimly, limping back into the house and up the stairs. But only with the part
about seeing the magistrate.

Judging from the depth of Dominick's greed, Adam
guessed that the accursed bastard would throw aside all caution and be here
well before ten o'clock tomorrow, his fingers itching to touch the first
installment of his ill-gotten wealth. Adam couldn't wait to see his expression
when Dominick discovered he would soon be caressing cold prison bars instead,
and that Adam would be personally escorting him to Williamsburg. As Susanna
desperately had tried to tell him after he had so unjustly accused her, that
would be vengeance enough.

Entering their room, Adam knew when he saw Ertha
keeping faithful watch by the bed that she deserved to know what was going to
happen tomorrow. Everyone at Briarwood would be affected by his decision. But
he had no other choice than to admit everything to the magistrate.

Their charade couldn't continue, not if he hoped to
convince Susanna that he wanted her only for herself. The precious gift of her
love was worth more to him than Briarwood, worth more than any revenge the
plantation could give him. Once, he had told himself that he would be content
just to have her at his side for the rest of his life, but now there was an
all-important difference.

He didn't want the heiress to the Cary fortune; he
wanted Susanna Jane Guthrie, waiting-maid. He would never call her Camille
again.

"Has she stirred?" Adam asked, noting with
acute relief that some faint color had returned to Susanna's pale cheeks.

"Just once," Ertha answered, "though she
didn't open her eyes. She whispered something several times, whimpering like,
then she fell quiet again."

Deeply regretting that he hadn't been there to hear it,
Adam sat on the edge of the bed and took Susanna's limp hand in his bandaged
one, squeezing it gently. "What did she say?"

"Only your name, Master Thornton. Adam."

***

Susanna's eyelids fluttered open, but she quickly shut
them against the excruciating throbbing in her head. Having no clear sense of
why she was in such pain, she lay very quietly for several long moments, then
she tried again to open her eyes.

"Where . . . ?" she whispered to herself as
her fuzzy vision gradually focused. She saw the cream-colored canopy overhead
and, feeling smooth satin beneath her fingertips and soft pillows behind her
aching head, she suddenly had the strangest sensation that she had experienced
all this before. Girlish words spoken long ago surfaced and echoed in her
befuddled mind . . .
Yer angels, ain't
ye? I've died and gone straight t' 'eaven!

Yet there were differences, Susanna began to note, her
hauntingly vivid memories colliding with reality. Only a single candle
sputtered in this much larger room, and there was no cheery fire in the distant
hearth. The windows were open, a cool breeze billowing the white curtains.

She carefully turned her aching head to the right,
afraid to move too quickly lest she suffer more pain.

The walls were papered, but not with that pretty rose
pattern. She frowned. No, this couldn't be the same room. And she didn't hear
any female voices, neither Lady Redmayne's proper tones nor the lilting brogue
of Mary the waiting-maid. Susanna cautiously shifted her head to the left.
There weren't any voices at all and no wonder. No one else seemed to be in the
room but Adam, who was sound asleep on the divan pulled next to the bed

"Adam," she breathed, tensing. Instantly old
memories faded, and she knew exactly where she was, just as she was assaulted
by a shocking realization of why her body hurt all over.

They had been having a dreadful argument . . . he had
accused her of the most horrible things. She had shouted at him, saying she was
a fool to have fallen in love with him, saying she was leaving at once for
England. She ran past him, but he dragged her back and then . . . then he
violently shoved her into the balcony railing! She distinctly remembered saying
to him right before he pushed her that he could tell his friends she had
suddenly died . . . and he must have taken her suggestion to heart! Dear God,
he had tried to kill her!

Stricken with fear, Susanna's sudden consuming thought
was to get out of that room and far away from Adam as quickly as possible. She
gave no heed to the fact that she wore only a thin nightrail or that she
possessed no money. She had her costly wedding ring, which she was certain
would buy her some clothes and passage back to England. That was all she
needed.

Holding her breath, she eased back the covers and slid
from the bed, wincing at the terrible pain in her head and the aching soreness
in her limbs. Fleetingly grateful that she had suffered no broken bones in that
terrifying fall, she focused intently upon the door and, swaying slightly from
her skewed sense of balance, she passed as silently as a wraith across the
carpet.

Once, Adam shifted on the divan and she froze, certain
that he would wake and spy her trying to escape.

Her half-dazed mind raced wildly—what would he do to
her? She had obviously frustrated his scheme by surviving her plunge from the
balcony. Would he try to smother her with a pillow, or was it enough that she
now knew he was capable of murdering her and he could use it as a threat to
force her to his will?

Susanna didn't resume her desperate flight until he
sighed heavily in his sleep, his shadowed face turned away from her. Shivering
in the cool night air wafting in from the windows, she slowly turned the latch and
drew open the door just enough to squeeze through. Then she closed it with a
soft click, overwhelming relief flooding her bruised body as she fled down the
hallway to the stairs.

She paused on the landing, remembering that there was
always a footman at the front door. Taking the first few steps with great
caution, her bare feet making no sound, she heard the man snoring deeply and
sensed she would not wake him if she went out the back way.

Her head pounding anew from her exertions, she raced
down the rest of the stairs and along the darkened hall to the French doors.
She was surprised to find one side boarded up, a large pane of glass missing.
The bolt was also drawn, and fumbling at it, she managed to open the other door
and escape into the black night.

With only the faintest sliver of moon to guide her,
Susanna knew it must be very late, for a heavy stillness hung over the main
grounds. Even the distant servants' quarters were silent, everyone having gone
to bed.

As she hurried around the house and made her way
through the enveloping darkness to the stable, she wished she had taken a
moment to whisk a dressing gown around her bare shoulders. Her flimsy silken
garment was no match for the coolness of this early September evening, although
the fresh, sweet-smelling air was helping to restore her wits and sense of
balance. Then, hearing the sudden snap of a branch close behind her, she forgot
her teeth-chattering discomfort and ran all the faster, knowing that wild
creatures roamed the grounds freely at night.

She exhaled with relief when she reached the stable and
pulled back one of the doors, assailed by the pungent aromas of horses, straw,
and oiled leather. Expecting to find herself alone, she was startled to see
Zachary Roe, the building's manager, step from a stall where pregnant mares
nearing their time to foal were usually kept. He raised his lantern high, and
seemed equally startled to see her.

"Mistress Camille, what are you doing out
here?" he queried, studying her flushed face with concern. "I heard
what happened to you this afternoon. You should be abed."

"I—I need a horse, Zachary. Would you kindly
saddle my mare?"

"Pardon me for asking, ma'am, but for what? It's
so dark tonight, nobody in his right mind would want to be out riding. Let me walk
you back to the house—"

"No!" she said, hurrying past him to the
stall where her snow-white mare was contentedly munching oats. "If you
won't do as I ask, I'll saddle her myself."

"But Mistress Camille—"

"That's all right, Zachary. I'll assist my wife."

Gasping, Susanna spun to find Adam standing just inside
the stable door, his powerful, broad-shouldered form casting a huge shadow
against the planked wall and upwards toward the ceiling.

"You! Don't you dare come near me!" she
demanded, panicked, her eyes darting for anything she might use as a weapon
against him. She spied a pitchfork that had been left propped against a nearby
stall, and grabbing the tool with aching arms, lowered it threateningly.

"Zachary, would you leave us?" Adam suggested
calmly, although he felt anything but calm.

He had never experienced such a scare as when he had
abruptly awoken at the sound of the door clicking shut to find Susanna gone
from their bed. Realizing she had fled, he had followed the sweet scent of her
jasmine perfume downstairs, then had spied her white nightrail through the
trees the moment he stepped outside the back door. He would have caught up with
her sooner if not for his blasted ankle.

The spry stable manager glanced from Susanna back to
Adam, his relieved expression showing he was only too eager to oblige.
"Yes, sir, Master Thornton, I think I will." Setting the lantern on a
bench, he muttered on his way out, "Lucky thing that mare won't be foaling
until tomorrow. Good evening to you."

Too intent upon Susanna to make a reply, Adam saw the
stark fear in her wide, beautiful eyes, and he knew with intense regret that he
had put it there.

He couldn't blame her if she now thought the worse of
him. He certainly hadn't given her any benefit of the doubt since their
marriage. He began to move cautiously toward her, not so much because of the
pitchfork she wielded, but because he didn't want to upset her further. She had
already endured so much at his doing.

"Susanna, I'm not going to try and touch you. I
just want to talk," he said soothingly, noting that she was swaying a
little, obviously still suffering the aftereffects of her fall.

"We have nothing to discuss!" she countered,
backing away a few steps. "I told you before you shoved me from the
balcony that I was leaving for England, and I mean to do it! You can't make me
stay here!"

"Is that what you think . . . that I pushed
you?" Adam asked, cut to the quick and knowing he deserved all his present
misery.

"Yes, and I don't doubt that you'd do it again,
knowing how much you hate me—"

"I don't hate you, Susanna," he said, emotion
swelling in his chest. "I love you."

Stunned, Susanna felt the pitchfork slip in her hands,
and she almost dropped it before quickly recovering herself, although she
couldn't stop hot, bitter tears from springing to her eyes.

"You lie!" she accused him hoarsely, amazed
that he would carry his cruelties so far. It was beyond belief.

"I'm not lying, Susanna. I've known I was in love
with you since the night of your welcome ball—"

"Not me!" she blurted, tears now tumbling
unchecked down her cheeks as she pointed her pronged weapon at him.
"Camille Cary!"

"No, it was you, the warm, enthralling woman
beneath the charade. I fell in love with you, Susanna Jane Guthrie. You!"

Shaking her head, Susanna was trembling so badly she
feared her knees might buckle beneath her. She wanted so desperately to believe
him, to trust the raw emotion blazing in his eyes, but she couldn't bear to
suffer more miserable heartache.

"Why can't you just let me go?" she demanded
in a plaintive whisper. "I'll never trouble you again, and you'll have
everything you ever wanted, even the chance to win your revenge against
Dominick."

"I don't want anything but you, Susanna," he
insisted. "Aren't you listening to me? I said I love you! That's why I
can't allow you to leave. I need you!"

"But the balcony—"

"A terrible accident! When you kicked me, I lost
my balance and fell into you. Oh, God, when I thought that you might be dead .
. ." Adam couldn't seem to finish. He stepped even closer to her and for
the first time, she noticed how badly he was limping. "You said you loved
me, Susanna—"

"I lied," she said, his gaze holding her
captive even while her mind was screaming to run back out into the night while
she still had the chance.