Ransomed Jewels (5 page)

“At least I am able to live with myself. Can you?”

“And if I told you . . . I didn’t . . . have the necklace?”

“Then I would call you a liar and be right in doing so.”

She glared at him through vision that was blurred. “What makes you so sure?”

Claire saw the scowl on his face deepen. Heard the disgust in his voice when he spoke. And his words were as painful as if he were driving a knife through her.

“Because your husband told me you did. Those were his dying words. He wanted to make sure you were safe. He thought he’d failed you. And he wanted you to know he loved you.” He spun away and slammed his fist against the wall.

Claire wanted him to stop. She wanted him to take back his words. But he didn’t. Instead, he repeated his damning accusation.

“
You
are the reason he took the necklace. And now he’s dead!”

“Samuel. That’s enough.”

The room seemed to close in around her. She was barely aware of Bronnely’s appearance in the doorway or his reproach. Barely aware of the hands touching her, or the water raised to her lips, or the cool cloth pressed to her forehead.

What the major had said consumed her thoughts. His words tore at her heart. How could she believe him—that her husband had loved her? That he’d stolen the necklace for her? Both were blatant lies.

Hunt didn’t love her. He never had.

Chapter 6

“What the hell is going on, Sam?” Bronnely said, bending over Claire’s pale, limp form. “If you want her dead, just take out your gun and put a bullet through her head. It will be more humane.”

Bronnely held one hand over her brow and pressed the fingers of his other hand against her neck. Sam could see the rapid beating of her pulse at the small indent at the base of her throat. Her face was as white as it had ever been, and she struggled to catch her breath.

Sam walked over to the dying embers in the fireplace and slammed his fist against the mantel. Guilt ate away at him, gnawing deep inside his chest. He’d gone after her with all the accusatory bitterness he’d lived with since Hunt had been gunned down. And he was no closer to getting the necklace now than he’d been before.

He leaned down and threw two more logs on the ebbing fire. The room had taken on a chill. Why hadn’t he noticed it before? He turned back to the bed and watched Bronnely toss another cover over Claire’s trembling body. Then the doctor raised her shoulders and pressed a glass to her lips. Sam was glad it was the wine laced with laudanum.

“Has she taken any of Maude’s broth?”

“A little. Not much.”

Bronnely replaced the glass with the broth and lifted a spoonful to her mouth. “Just four spoonfuls,” he said, sliding the first one between her lips. She swallowed, then coughed, but Bronnely didn’t give up. He slid another into her mouth. Then several more.

“That’s more than . . . four,” she whispered on a gasp.

“So it is,” Bronnely said, not bothering to hide his smile of satisfaction. “Now, let’s see to your shoulder. You just close your eyes and I’ll try not to bother you.”

Sam watched Bronnely unbutton her gown and slide it over her shoulder. He tried not to look, but couldn’t help but notice the rise of her breast that was partially exposed. She was a beautiful woman. Even if she was spoiled and greedy and unscrupulous. And she was brave.

Though he didn’t want to, he had to admire her strength. Not too many men would have had the courage to stand up to his interrogation like she had. Not too many men would have been strong enough to fight off her attacker like she had. Not too many would have been able to withstand the pain she’d endured when Bronnely sewed her flesh together.

He didn’t want to admire her. But he did.

He watched Bronnely remove the bandage and put a smelly salve on the wound before binding it in clean wrapping. She lay still and unmoving, her eyes clenched tight and her small, white teeth biting into her lower lip the whole while as Bronnely applied the salve. Even though she tried not to show it, it was obvious she was still in a great deal of pain.

Sam leaned his forearm against the wood at the side of the window and looked out at nothing in particular. He tried to forget the accusations he’d hurled at her, yet some of her answers came back to haunt him.
It must be wonderful to be so self-righteous.

Is that truly what she thought of him? A wave of unease washed over him, yet he couldn’t let her opinion of him matter. He couldn’t let anything matter until he had the necklace. And yet . . .

. . . What if she doesn’t have the necklace?

He turned his head and studied her. Didn’t she know she wasn’t safe as long as she had the necklace? Didn’t she realize the Russians would only send someone else? Then someone else after that?

Sam raked his fingers through his hair. She could have died. She almost had because she wouldn’t give it up. Could she possibly be that greedy? And yet . . .

. . . What if she doesn’t have the necklace?

Sam tamped down the niggling doubt that reared its ugly head. Of course she had the necklace. Hunt’s dying words confirmed she did.

He walked across the room and threw open the door. He had to get out of there. Had to escape the confusion warring inside his head. Had to come to terms with the possibility that things were not what he thought they were.

He walked out into the hallway and braced his hands on the oak railing overlooking the foyer below. He stood without moving until he heard the soft click of the door behind him. He knew Bronnely was there.

“Is she asleep?”

“Yes. Finally.”

Bronnely walked up behind him and put his hand on Sam’s shoulder. “Come down with me. I think we could both use a drink. I’ll send Maude up to sit with her for a while.”

Sam followed Bronnely down the stairs and went into the study while the doctor went to find Maude. Sam’s first glass of brandy was half gone before Bronnely joined him.

“What was that all about, Sam?” Bronnely accepted the other glass from Sam and took a swallow.

“Nothing. I just—” Sam stopped, partly because he couldn’t trust even Bronnely with anything concerning the necklace. And partly because he didn’t know what he’d say if he could.

Bronnely lifted his glass and took a slow sip. “Perhaps she’s not the villain you think she is.”

“That remains to be seen.”

“She’s been through a great deal. More than anyone with her upbringing would have been able to handle. At least give her time to heal before you interrogate her like I just witnessed.”

“I didn’t mean to—”

“I know,” Bronnely said, dismissing Sam’s excuses with a wave of his hand. “Now . . .”

Bronnely gave Sam more instructions on the care of his patient, then left with the promise that he’d be back again tomorrow.

After he was gone, Sam went to his room to wash and shave and change his clothes. Then he walked down the hall to her room. He’d be better with her. Calmer. Not so intimidating.

But the minute he opened the door, he knew the damage was already done.

She was asleep, but her slumber was not restful. She was agitated. Maude stood over her, brushing her fingers across her skin and crooning soft whispers in an attempt to calm her.

Sam walked to the bed and caught Maude’s worried glance before he focused on the small figure lying on the bed.

“She’s terribly fitful,” Maude said, shushing the marchioness as she thrashed her head from side to side. “She’s been calling for Alex.”

“Who’s Alex?”

“Her brother. Alexander Linscott, Marquess of Halverston.”

Sam stepped closer to the bed and took Maude’s place holding Claire down. “Lady Huntingdon,” he said, clasping her trembling shoulders. “Claire. Everything’s all right. I’m here with you.”

“Alex.”

“No. It’s Sam.”

“No. Oh, Alex. I’m so sorry.”

“Sh. It’s all right. I’m right here. You’re safe now.”

She thrashed her head back and forth and flailed her arms as if trying to fight off the demons that haunted her. Her injured arm hit his shoulder, and he pinned her down when she cried out in pain.

Her movements became more agitated, and to keep her from harming herself, he picked her up in his arms, covers and all, and held her close.

“It’s all right now, Claire. I’ve got you. No one can hurt you now.”

“Alex.”

“Yes. It’s Alex.”

“Are you all right?”

“Yes. I’m fine.”

She cried out a small, helpless whimper and nestled against him, burying her face into his chest. Sam held her tight, then sat in the chair with her on his lap.

Maude pulled the drapes, shrouding the room in early darkness. She closed the door behind her when she left.

Sam kept Claire in his arms, watching her breathing slow and the worry lines on her forehead ease. Then she slept.

He held her far longer than necessary. But a part of him didn’t want to put her down. A part of him wanted to hold her until she came to trust him.

So that when she woke, she’d tell him where she’d hidden the papers and the necklace, and this whole mess would be over.

Sam held her through the night and in the morning placed her back in her bed.

He sat back down in the chair and watched her, his arms feeling strangely empty.

Chapter 7

Claire swung her legs over the edge of the mattress and stood. It had been a week since she’d been attacked. A week of fighting the pain and weakness. Seven whole days in which she’d done little else but sleep and struggle with the nightmares that haunted her.

For the first few days, Major Bennett hadn’t left her side. He was either stretched out in the chair at her bedside or standing quietly at the window, watching for any movement below. Then, three days ago, after Doctor Bronnely announced she was out of danger from a fever, he’d left. In his place, two burly officers stood guard outside her door.

Claire was thankful for the reprieve. Thankful he wasn’t there to interrogate her. Thankful for the freedom to regain her strength away from his watchful eye. But most of all, she was thankful for the solitude so she could build up her endurance to fight the frightening emotions raging through her without his dominating presence there to confuse her even more.

Maybe the reason for her perplexity was due to all she’d endured since Hunt had been killed. Maybe it was her fear for Alex and the impossibility of her situation. Maybe it was her desperation to find the necklace everyone was convinced she had.

From somewhere inside her, a voice cried out a warning that it wasn’t any of those things. It was him—the major. Without a doubt, she knew she had more to fear from
him
than she did from anyone Roseneau sent.

Not physically. Oh, no, he’d never harm her physically. The damage he could do would be much more devastating.

A strange and undeniable pressure wrapped around her heart, squeezing almost painfully until she sucked in a gasp of air. At first she’d refused to face it, this all-consuming mixture of need and desire and want and . . . fear that spread downward to the pit of her stomach and lower.

She’d never confronted such confusing emotions in her life. But ignoring them would only lead to disaster, or mask the threat until it was too late for her to defend herself. Because, whether she wanted to admit it or not, she had to fight herself as desperately as she had to fight the major. She had to fight with all the tenacity of a mother protecting her young.

She could never consider giving him the necklace. Even if it meant the war would continue. She had to be strong in her resolve. The desire to give in to him was overwhelming. One moment of weakness and she was doomed. And so was Alex.

She sucked in a fortifying breath and steadied herself against the bedpost, then pushed off, placing one foot in front of the other. Her progress was slow, but she was relentless in her attempt to recover before the major returned. It was the only chance she stood of saving Alex.

She made her way across the room, keeping her gaze focused on the far wall. She reached out and felt an immense sense of gratification the minute she touched it. She’d placed a chair there earlier so she could rest before making the trek back, but this time she wouldn’t sit down.

She turned around when she reached her goal and took the first step back across the room. Then her second. And her third. She was halfway there.

“What the hell!”

Claire spun around in shock. He stood in the doorway, wearing a scowl as threatening as a black thundercloud.

She lost her balance and stumbled, her uninjured arm reaching out to break her fall. But before she hit the floor, his arms wrapped around her and pulled her close.

She wanted to push herself away from him, but she wasn’t strong enough. Instead, she sagged against him. Her chest heaved from exhaustion.

He held her next to him, her head resting beneath his chin, her breasts pressed against his chest, her thighs touching his thighs. The feel of his body startled her.

She didn’t want him to touch her. Didn’t want to feel his arms around her, his strength envelop her. Such intimacy was totally alien to her, and more frightening than if he held a knife to her throat.

She rebelled against the strangeness of such closeness by placing her palms flat against his chest and pushing. He stopped her efforts by scooping her into his arms and carrying her to the bed.

“What do you think you’re doing?” he asked, laying her down, then pulling the covers up around her. “You’re hardly well enough to dangle your feet over the side of the bed, let alone be up and walking without anyone here to watch over you.”

Claire sagged back into the pillow and closed her eyes. “I didn’t expect you back.”

“Today? Or ever?”

Claire’s eyes snapped open and she stared up at him. “I hardly thought I would be so fortunate.”

The scowl on his face darkened.

“Is it too much to hope that you’ve only returned to tell me good-bye? That you realize I don’t want you here and have come to tell me you’re leaving?”

“I’ve returned to get the necklace.” He stood close to the bed and leveled her an intimidating glare. “You’re running out of time.”

An untenable chasm widened between them. He was the first to break the tension.

“Are you thirsty?”

“Please, leave me alone.”

He ignored her request and propped a pillow behind her back, then filled a glass with water and handed it to her.

The water tasted good, and she drank nearly all of it before handing it back.

He reached for the clean bandages and salve Maude kept ready on the table beneath the window. “Bronnely sent word he can’t come this afternoon to change your bandages.”

“Then Maude can do it later.”

“I’ll do it now.”

Claire felt a hitch in her breathing. She didn’t want him to change the bandage. She didn’t want him anywhere near her. “It can wait until—”

He didn’t give her the opportunity to argue but sat on the edge of the bed. With deft movements, he unfastened the top buttons on her gown and pushed the material over her shoulder.

Although only her shoulder was uncovered, she felt strangely exposed and looked away. Ministering to her did not seem to bother him in the slightest. Not like it bothered her.

He removed the bandage from her shoulder with the same nonchalance as he might use to remove his hat.

Claire kept her gaze focused on the ceiling, making an effort not to look at the way his broad shoulders stretched the material of his white lawn shirt. Her blood thundered in her veins and bubbled like boiling water trapped in a kettle. Her face flamed with a searing heat, and she chastised herself again for letting him affect her like he did.

What was wrong with her? What more would it take to convince her that
he
was her most dangerous enemy? That to protect herself, the wall she’d so expertly erected must be firmly in place?

He’d removed his jacket and rolled up his shirt sleeves. She made the mistake of focusing on the bronzed skin of his exposed forearms. A strange swirling churned low in her belly that warmed her all over, and she squeezed her eyes shut. Oh, how she prayed he’d hurry.

“Bronnely did a good job. You’re healing fine,” he said, cleaning the wounds with a soft woolen cloth. “Has the pain lessened?”

“Yes. It’s much better.”

When he was satisfied the cuts on her shoulder and arm were clean, he opened the jar of salve Bronnely said was best for preventing infection.

“What do you suppose this is?” he said, lifting the jar and smelling it. “Or would you rather not know?”

The strong odor permeated the room and she wrinkled her nose. “I think I’d rather not know. In fact, I’m certain of it.”

He concentrated on finishing, and Claire thought she saw a hint of a smile cross his face. She wished he hadn’t smiled. It made him seem almost human. She preferred he remain cold and hard. And distant. That made it easier to remember that he was the enemy.

He finished in silence, then placed the salve and cloth on the bedside table and stood. He walked to the window and pulled the drapery open. His stance was rigid, his legs braced wide and his hands clasped behind his back.

Claire waited, knowing he had something on his mind.

“Do you know where I was before returning?”

He didn’t wait for her to answer.

“I went to talk to your brother, the Marquess of Halverston.”

Her heart stuttered. “Why?”

He slowly turned his head and glanced at her over his shoulder. “Because you called out for him in your fever. I thought perhaps you wanted to see him.”

Claire’s heart raced faster, each thud pounding against her ribs. “Did you find him?”

“No. No one’s seen him for more than a week. Not even his friends at his clubs.”

“You went to his clubs?”

He lifted the corners of his mouth in a grin that even in her wildest imagination could not be considered a smile. “Yes. Did you think they wouldn’t allow me entrance?”

Claire felt her cheeks grow hot. “No. It’s not that. I . . .”

“I imposed on my uncle’s good name.”

She stared at him, waiting for him to explain.

“The Marquess of Rainforth is my uncle. I’m the only son of his younger brother. Not titled—nor ever likely to be because of my cousin, Ross Bennett, Earl of Cardmall—but a relative nevertheless. Does that surprise you?”

“A little.”

“The relationship is not widely known. I find it easier if few people know of my ties to nobility. It avoids talk and speculation concerning my political activities.”

“Are you and your cousin close?”

“As close as I can get to anyone without risking exposing myself. My uncle and I share a certain closeness. Perhaps because he took me in after my parents died and assumed the only role of parent I knew growing up. Or, perhaps because I am not heir to the Rainforth dynasty. Therefore, nothing out of the ordinary is expected of me.”

“The Earl of Cardmall and his father do not get along?”

“I’m sure in time they will. As soon as Ross assumes the maturity his father demands, and the sense of responsibility he will need to carry on the Rainforth name. What about you and your brother?”

“Alex?”

“Yes.”

Claire sighed. “We are very close.”

“Are there just the two of you?”

“No, I have another brother. But he’s away at the moment.”

Claire felt a wave of unease. She didn’t want to talk about either of her brothers. The less the major knew of her family, the better.

“So Alex is the family you rely on most. I can see why you are so close.”

Claire smiled. “As much as a sister can be. He was the heir and raised accordingly. His world growing up was much more diverse than mine.”

“Did you resent that?”

“A little. It must be fascinating to have the experiences men take for granted.”

“For example?”

“The freedom.”

“You don’t think you are free?”

“Not like you are, Major. I cannot come and go unescorted like you do. I cannot walk through the door of any establishment like you can. I am not expected to be able to carry on a serious conversation or express . . .” Claire dropped her head back on the pillow. “Well, there are many things a woman cannot do without causing a scandal.”

“What mutinous thoughts. And all this time I thought you were the compliant daughter the nobility expects.”

“None of us is exactly as we seem. You more than anyone should realize that.”

“Yes, I should, shouldn’t I? And it was quite shallow of me to assume you were nothing but an ever-so-docile wife to Hunt.”

“I am hardly perfect, Major. If Hunt were here he’d tell you—”

She stopped short, then closed her eyes to conceal a multitude of emotions. Hunt wasn’t here. Would never be again. She’d been far from the perfect wife. As he’d been far from the perfect husband.

“If Hunt were here, he’d tell me what?”

“Nothing,” she whispered, trying to keep the regrets she lived with hidden. What good would it do now to wish things had been different? Or reveal the secrets Hunt had taken to his grave?

Claire squeezed her eyes tight and fought the confusion that haunted her.

“I hope you don’t mind,” he said, his velvety voice now coming from the other side of the room near the fireplace.

She hadn’t heard him move, but that didn’t surprise her. She could imagine him with his elbow propped casually against the mantel.

“I’ve made myself quite at home here. I took the liberty of spending a few hours in your morning room.”

Claire’s eyes shot open, her heart’s rhythm increasing steadily.

“Why?”

“When I asked, one of your servants informed me that room is your favorite. The one in which you plan your busy schedule and do your correspondence. I thought perhaps I could find the necklace and this whole mess would be over.”

“Did you find it?”

“No.”

She wanted to cry out in relief. Instead she willed her breathing to slow and her nerves to calm.

“Do you know what I did find, though?”

She paused. Her heart thudded harder in her breast.

“I found your social calendar.”

“Did you find it interesting?”

“There was nothing in it. Not one entry since the day your husband died.”

“I am in mourning, sir. What did you expect? That I’d fill my days and nights making merry and attending every ball of the Season in celebration?”

“No. But it wouldn’t be unseemly for close friends to call to share your loss. Or for you to attend a small, informal dinner with family after four months have passed. There isn’t even mention of that. And the silver tray on the hall table is overflowing with cards and condolences that haven’t been answered, my lady. Why is that?”

“I’ve been busy.”

“Busy doing what?”

“That is hardly your concern, Major.”

He turned to face her. “In your delirium you told Alex you were sorry.”

Her heart fluttered. “Did I?”

“Yes.” He stepped toward the bed until he towered over her. “What are you sorry for, Lady Huntingdon?”

Perspiration beaded on her forehead, and she willed herself to keep from wiping it away. She hated the way he interrogated her. Hated the scowl that deepened on his face when he talked to her, made even more obvious by the intensity in his voice and manners.

“For what do you have reason to be sorry, my lady?”

She swallowed hard and gasped for air. “I don’t know. It must have been for some prank I played on Alex when we were children. Otherwise, I can’t imagine what it might be.”