Lost Lady (4 page)

“You'll have to leave the room,” she said weakly, still somewhat frightened by his threat. She hadn't felt the least fear of him until now.

Lifting one eyebrow at her request, he picked her up out of the bed, and stood her naked on the floor. “You don't have anything I haven't seen before, and if you don't want the landlord to see you like that you'd better get dressed.”

As she looked at the clothes Travis tossed to her, she realized there was no underwear. But rather than ask for it, she slipped the velvet gown over her head and had just finished the last button when the landlord knocked. The dress was high-waisted, the deeply cut bodice front filled with sheer silk gauze. Catching a glimpse of herself in the mirror opposite the bed, she was pleased that it wasn't a child's dress. Her hair hanging down her back in a mass of unruly curls, her flushed cheeks, her bright eyes, all went together to present a picture of a woman who had just been made love to—and had enjoyed it.

The landlord's appreciative looks made Travis almost push him out the door.

“Why did you do that?” Regan asked in awe, wondering if Travis was jealous.

“I don't want him to get the wrong idea,” Travis answered, lifting the cover off a piece of roast beef. “I have to leave you alone again tomorrow, and if he thought I wouldn't mind, he just might send someone else up here. The last thing I want is a fight or any other trouble so close to sailing time. Nothing is going to stop me from going home. I've been in this cursed country too long.”

Deflated, Regan took the seat he offered her. After one whiff of the food, she realized how long it had been since she'd eaten. Her last meal—her eyes widened when she remembered—had been with Farrell and her uncle.

“What's wrong?” he asked, filling a plate for her.

“Nothing. I just—.” She put her chin up. “I don't like being held prisoner, that's all.”

“You don't have to tell me if you don't want to. Eat your supper before it gets cold.”

All through the meal, Travis tried to get her to talk, but she wouldn't since she was afraid she would inadvertently give him some clues about where she lived. There was no possibility now that she could go back to the life she once knew; after what had happened this evening, she probably no longer qualified as a lady.

Putting his hand over hers, Travis leaned close to her. “It's a shame Englishwomen are taught that they shouldn't like lovemaking,” he said sympathetically, correctly reading her thoughts. “In America the women are earthier; they like their men and aren't afraid to show it.”

She gave him her sweetest, most insincere smile. “Then why don't you go back to America and the women there?”

Travis's laugh made the dishes rattle, and he planted a hearty kiss on her cheek. “Now, little one, I have some paperwork to do, so you can snuggle up in bed and wait for me or—.”

“Or leave perhaps.”

“You are persistent, if nothing else.”

And you are stubborn, she thought, watching him stack the dishes on the tray and put it outside the door. Later, when she was in her nightgown and in the big bed, she watched the back of him, saw how he ran his hands through his hair as his quill pen flew across the papers before him. She was curious about what he was doing but refused to ask, refused to make their relationship more personal than it was.

As she stretched out in the bed, she began a dream in which Farrell came to rescue her, beating the American in a sword fight. Her Uncle Jonathan would be there begging her forgiveness, saying he was quite lonely without her. The thought of Travis cringing in fear made her smile. In her vision she imagined pulling away from Farrell's arms and going to Travis, giving him her hand and forgiving him, telling him to go back to America and forget her—if he could.

When Travis slipped into bed beside her, she pretended to be asleep, but he just pulled her to him, nuzzled her ear, put his hand on her stomach, and eased into sleep. It was odd, but she felt that now she too could go to sleep.

In the morning, she was alone in the big room, but no sooner had she awakened than the maid let herself in. “Oh, beg pardon, miss. I thought you were still asleep. Mr. Travis said I was to bring you a bath if you'd like one.”

Regan wouldn't humiliate herself by a repeat performance of begging the maid to release her. She told the girl to bring the tub and hot water, and in spite of herself she enjoyed the bath. It was almost a comfort to be able to do something for herself. Always before, a maid had dressed her, and washed her hair, and her uncle had chosen cheap, childish clothes for her. Clean once again, she toweled her hair, ate a big breakfast, and put on the blue silk dress. A delicate scarf embroidered with flowers in several shades of blue filled the deep neckline.

The day was long, and since she had nothing to do, she was bored. It was cool in the room, yet there was no fireplace, so she walked about, rubbing her arms. The early spring sun was weak through the window, but it was still the warmest place in the room. She pulled up a chair, gazed absently out the window, and made up her dreams, ranging from a garden plan to how she would never forgive Travis and would let Farrell run him through.

When the sun was setting and she heard what could only be Travis's voice—deep, golden-toned, filled with humor—she found her heart pounding. Of course it was only because of the sheer loneliness of the long day, but still she had to force herself not to smile when he entered.

His big brown eyes raked her as he smiled in greeting. “The dress looks good on you,” he said, removing his hat and then his jacket. Practically collapsing in a chair, he gave a big sigh. “Working the fields all day would have been less work,” he said. “Your countrymen are a bunch of close-minded snobs. I could hardly get anyone to listen to my questions, much less answer them.”

Running her finger along the edge of the table in a nonchalant way, Regan tried to hide her curiosity. “Perhaps they didn't like your questions.”

Travis wasn't fooled for a moment. “All I wanted to know was if someone had lost a pretty but unreasonable young female.”

Opening her mouth to retort, she closed it, realizing he was baiting her. “And had they?”

Frowning before he answered, Travis seemed to be puzzled by what he'd discovered. “Not only couldn't I find out about a missing girl of your description, but I couldn't find anyone who'd even met a girl looking like you.”

There was no reply Regan could make. There had never been visitors at Weston Manor. All she knew of life was what she'd learned from the stories of her maids and governesses, with their talk of love and gallant gentlemen, of the world outside the grounds of the house. Of course there was no one who knew of her.

Watching her, Travis tried to read what was in her face. All day the question had been haunting him: What was he to do with her when he sailed for America? He didn't tell her, but he'd hired three other men to help make inquiries about her. The night he'd found her she couldn't have run from very far, so she lived in either Liverpool or the surrounding area—or she'd been traveling through. After checking every lodging house in the area, he knew she must live there, but he could find no trace of her. She seemed to have materialized on that dark night near the docks.

“You're a runaway,” he said quietly, watching when her expression confirmed his thoughts. “Only I can't figure out who you're running from and why no one is moving heaven and earth to find you.”

Turning away, Regan tried not to think that it was because the people she thought loved her didn't care where she was.

“The only thing I can figure,” he continued slowly, “is that you did something to make your people pretty damned angry at you. I know for a fact you weren't caught in bed with the gardener's boy, so maybe you refused to do something they wanted you to do. Did you refuse to marry some rich old duffer?”

“Not even close,” she said smugly.

Travis only laughed because her eyes told him he wasn't too far wrong. But his laughter covered his true feelings. It made him very angry to think that anyone could just toss out a pure young girl into the streets, wearing only her nightgown. Perhaps in the heat of passion it could have happened, but how could they have let days go by and not searched for her?

“I was thinking that, since there doesn't seem to be any reason for you to stay in England, maybe you should go with me to America.”

“W
HAT!”
R
EGAN GASPED, ALMOST STAGGERED BY HIS
words. “America is full of boorish, illiterate people who live in log cabins. What is there besides wild Indians and terrible animals, not to mention great, savage people? No, I will not under any circumstances go to that backward place.”

The humor quickly left Travis's eyes as he rose to come toward her. “You damned Englishwoman! I get this all day from your ‘gentlemanly' countrymen. I get snubbed because they don't like the way I talk or dress, or they had a relative killed in a war that happened when I was a boy. I'm getting damned tired of being looked at like something unclean, and I'll sure as hell not take it from you.”

Backing away from him, Regan lifted her hand to her throat as if to protect herself.

“I've tiptoed around you enough, and from now on you're going to do what I say. If I left a child like you alone here, when it's quite clear you haven't a friend in the world, I'd never sleep again. I won't bore you with what America is when you have such clear ideas of your own, but at least in my country we don't toss young girls out just because they're disobedient. When we get to Virginia you'll have choices of what you can do—something more suitable for an English ‘lady' ”—he sneered the word—“than walking the streets as would be your only alternative if I left you here.”

Narrowing his eyes, he glared down at her, pressed against the wall. “Is that clear?” He didn't give her a chance to answer before he slammed from the room, locking the door after him.

“Yes, Travis,” she whispered to the still echoing emptiness.

She was glad when he was gone, since it was quite impossible to think when Travis was around. At least, perhaps, if she made him angry enough, he wouldn't force her to do those horrible things in bed, and he just might possibly release her if she provoked him. Smiling, she sat down and began to imagine her escape, how good it would be to get away from this boorish American. Imagine! she thought. The very idea of her going to America!

Snuggling in the chair, a quilt around her, she fantasized about what a dreadful place America must be, remembered every tale that had been told to her by a maid whose brother had traveled there and returned with horrible, treacherous stories, all of which the maid had told Regan in gory detail. As the candle sputtered and the room grew dark, she began to glance at the door, wondering when Travis was going to return. Sometime deep in the night, she left the chair and climbed into the big, cold bed, placing the pillows so that she could snuggle against them. They weren't as good as a large, warm body, but at least they helped.

In the morning, her head ached, and she was in a foul mood. That the American would leave her alone all night, unprotected, and at the mercy of anyone who could get the key to her room made her furious. One moment he made speeches about how much he was going to care for her, and the next he abandoned her to the mercies of any outside element.

Her sulks were interrupted when the door was given a quick tap and then unlocked. Folding her arms across her chest, she tilted her chin up, preparing to let Travis know she was unaffected by his abandonment of her. But instead of Travis's deep voice came the light laughter of women. Turning, Regan gasped in astonishment at the sight of three women who entered her room carrying great books and several baskets.

“You are Mademoiselle Regan?” asked a pretty little dark woman. “I am Madame Rosa, and these are my assistants. We have come to begin your wardrobe for your journey to America.”

It took Regan several minutes to piece the story together, but it seemed Travis had engaged Madame Rosa, a French emigree and former dressmaker to one of Queen Marie Antoinette's ladies, to create an entire wardrobe for his captive. Too angry at his presumption to speak at first, Regan just sat in the bed and gave a vacant stare to the women. But as she saw the puzzled looks on their faces she knew she could not let them be on the receiving end of her anger. Her quarrel was with Travis Stanford and not these women who were merely doing their jobs.

“Perhaps I will look at your wares,” she said tiredly, thinking of all the other times she'd been allowed to choose clothes. Her uncle had allowed her to wear pink or blue or white, and the only trim was what she and her maids embroidered.

Smiling delightedly, the designer and her assistants began to spread fabric samples out on the bed. There seemed to be an endless array of colors and textures, most of which Regan had never seen before. There were a dozen colors of velvet, more of satin, linen, at least six types of silk, and dozens of colors in each type. Wools took up one corner of the bed, and Regan marveled at the variety: cashmere, tartans, a long-haired softness she was told was mohair. And the muslins! There seemed to be hundreds of colors, stripes, painted, printed, embroidered, pleated.

Eyes wide in wonder, Regan looked up from the beauty of the fabrics to Madame Rosa.

“Of course, there are the trims,” the woman said, signaling for those samples to be brought.

Feathers joined the fabrics, then satin and velvet ribbons, topped by hand-drawn laces mixed with strings of tiny seed pearls, silver cord, jet beads, silk flowers, gold net, and intricately knotted frog fastenings.

Bewildered, Regan didn't move but just looked at the glorious colors.

“Perhaps it is too early for Mademoiselle,” Madame Rosa said gently. “Monsieur Travis said we were to get everything done in one day so the clothes can be cut before you are to sail. He has hired a woman to sail with you to do the sewing so everything will be ready when you reach America.”

As her head began to clear, Regan wondered if Travis knew what he was getting himself into; she doubted if a Colonial had any idea of the cost of women's clothes. Uncle Jonathan had certainly made Regan aware of the exorbitant fees dressmakers charged. “Did Travis ask after the cost of the clothes?”

“No, miss,” the dressmaker said, surprised. “He came to my house late last night, saying he'd heard I was the best in Liverpool and he wanted a complete wardrobe for a young lady. There was no mention of price, but then I got the impression Monsieur Travis didn't need to ask.”

Opening her mouth and then closing it, Regan smiled. So! The big, brawling Colonial thought he was still in the forests of America! It might be fun to play with fabrics and trims for the day, to pretend to order an extensive wardrobe, and then watch Travis's face when he received a bill higher than any sum he'd ever imagined. Of course, she'd have the bill presented before the women began to cut the clothes; she wouldn't want them to lose out when Travis couldn't pay.

“Where shall we start?” Regan asked sweetly, her eyes dancing as she thought of defeating the braggart.

“Perhaps with day dresses,” Madame Rosa suggested, lifting the samples of muslin.

Hours later, Regan was quite wistful about the whole plan. Too bad she wasn't going to get the clothes, because she'd planned a wardrobe a princess would love. There were muslin dresses of every color and trim, ballgowns of satin and velvet, walking dresses, a riding habit which made Regan laugh since she had no idea how to ride a horse, capes, cloaks, redingotes, spencers, as well as many nightgowns, camisoles, and lace-edged petticoats. When she finished, there wasn't a single fabric she hadn't used and very few colors.

The noon meal was brought to them, and Regan was glad the session was over because she was getting tired.

“But we have only started,” Madame Rosa said. “The furrier is coming this afternoon with the milliner, the cobbler, and the glovemaker. And Mademoiselle must be measured for everything.”

“Of course,” Regan whispered. “How could I have forgotten?”

As the afternoon wore on, she ceased to be astonished at anything. The furrier brought pelts of sable, ermine, chinchilla, beaver, lynx, wolf, and angora goat, and she chose linings, collars, and cuffs for the coats she'd already selected. The cobbler took samples of cloth, planning to dye a pair of soft, heelless slippers to match every outfit, and he described the walking boots he would make. The milliner and Madame Rosa coordinated hats and clothes with the glovemaker.

At dark, everyone's energy began to fade, especially Regan's. She felt bad at the thought that the day's work would come to nothing because no American could possibly pay for all the clothes she'd ordered. She told Madame Rosa she was to submit everyone's bills to Travis before a pair of scissors was raised, that she should see the money in her hands before she started filling the order. The dressmaker smiled politely and said she'd have it ready first thing in the morning.

When she was finally alone, Regan slumped into a chair, weary from the long day and the constant feeling of guilt. All day she'd known she was playing a game, but the tradespeople were going to be very angry when they learned that their day's work would go unpaid.

By the time she heard Travis's heavy footsteps on the stairs, she was feeling quite low—and it was all his fault. The moment he opened the door, she threw her shoe at him, hitting him on the shoulder.

“What's this?” he grinned. “I thought tonight you'd at least be a little glad to see me. You're always complaining because you have no clothes.”

“I did not ask you to do anything about my clothes! You have no rights over me whatsoever and especially not to take me to your barbaric country. I will not go, do you hear me? I am English, and I will stay in England.”

“Where all your family and friends are?” he asked sarcastically. “I've just spent another day trying to find where you've spent your life, and I can find nothing. Damn them!” he said, running his hands through his hair. “What kind of people could discard a child like you?”

Perhaps it was the tiredness from not sleeping well and the exhausting day, but her eyes filled with great, crystal tears. She'd been so angry for the last few days that she'd had no time to think about her feelings at hearing Farrell's disgust at the idea of marrying her and her uncle's declaration that he detested her. For days she'd lived in a dreamworld of hoping they would rescue her, but no doubt Travis had gone to their door. Had Farrell and her uncle told him they didn't know her?

Before she could speak, Travis pulled her into his arms. Pushing him away, she tried to protest. “Leave me alone,” she whispered feebly, but even as she attempted to pull away from him, he held her tightly until she buried her face in his chest, and the sobs began tearing through her body.

Travis wasted no time before he lifted her into his arms and then sat in a chair with her, cradling her like a child. “Go ahead and cry, kitten,” he said softly. “I guess if anyone deserves to, it's you.”

His holding of her, this stranger who made love to her and saw that she was cared for, when the people who should care for her denied her existence, made her cry harder. Worse than anything was the end of her dreams of being rescued by Farrell, of once again seeing the man she loved. Now she'd never even have a chance to prove to him that she could be a good wife; now she was going to be dragged off to America, and they'd never even know she'd gone.

As her sobs finally began to quiet, Travis stroked her damp hair. “Want to tell me what you're so unhappy about?”

She couldn't possibly tell him about Farrell. “Because I'm a prisoner!” she said as firmly as possible, pulling away from his shoulder.

Travis continued stroking her hair, and when he spoke his voice was full of patience and understanding. “I think you were a prisoner before I ever met you. If you hadn't been, you wouldn't have been discarded like so much rubbish.”

“Rubbish!” she gasped. “How dare you call me that!”

Bewildered, Travis smiled at her. “I didn't say you were rubbish, only that someone had treated you as such. What I can't understand is why you seem to want to return to someone who treats you like that.”

“I…I…no one….” she sputtered, tears beginning again. He had such a crude way of stating everything.

“It's not so bad being an orphan,” he continued. “I've been one a long time. Maybe we belong together.”

Regan looked up at him, thinking that she couldn't imagine this man belonging to anyone. No doubt, in spite of what he had said, he often kidnapped young girls and held them prisoner.

“I don't think I like what you're thinking,” he warned. “If you're getting any ideas, let me warn you that I take care of what belongs to me.”

“Belongs to you!” she exclaimed. “I hardly know you!”

He smiled just before he brought his lips down on hers and kissed her with such tenderness, such longing, that Regan found her arms going about his neck. “You know me well enough,” he said huskily. “And get it through your head that you are mine.”

“I'm not yours! I'm….” she trailed off as he began to kiss her neck with little nibbling bites, and Regan sighed as she bent her head to one side.

“You are a temptress,” he laughed, “and you're playing havoc with my work schedule.” Firmly, he pushed her out of his lap. “As much as I'd like to stay with you, I have business to attend to, and I'm afraid it will take me most of the night. Did you know we sail day after tomorrow?”