Samantha James (6 page)

“No,” she told him, her voice very low. The last thing she wanted was to make a scene.

He persisted. “But it works miracles, I tell ye.” He tugged at her arm, his fingers biting deep into her flesh. “Come, just let me show ye.”

Panic swelled in her breast. Heather shook her head and tried to twist away, but he was too strong.

Before her there was a flash of movement. A lean, dark hand curled around the man’s wrist. “The lady declined,” said a quiet male voice. “Leave her be.”

It was he—Damien Lewis. The vendor needed no further urging. His fingers fell away from her arm.

“Just tryin’ to help the lady,” he muttered gruffly. “If she doesn’t mind bein’ a cripple, so be it.” He hunched his shoulders, then spun away toward his cart and began loading his goods inside.

Heather stood motionless.
Lame. Crippled
. The words stabbed at her. Her face burned painfully. Her heart cried out.
I’m not lame. I’m not a cripple
. But you are, whispered a voice in her head.

Damien had yet to move as well. Mortified beyond words, she could feel the weight of his regard. Sheer dint of will made her square her shoulders and tip her chin upward. She was suddenly smarting. What was he waiting for? Did he expect her to gush like a simpering, helpless female? Well, she was not. She had relied on no one but herself for a number of years. That was how she wanted it, and how it would stay.

“Thank you, Mr. Lewis.” Her tone was as frigid as her gaze. “But I assure you, that wasn’t necessary. I was hardly in need of rescuing.”

A dark brow slashed high. “Indeed,” he said, and his voice was as cold as a winter wind. “My apologies, then.”

They each turned away and marched in opposite directions, unaware that the scene had been witnessed by someone else. Damien hadn’t gone more than several footsteps before a hand claimed his arm. He whirled around, his eyes flaming as if he expected to do battle.

He faced Miles and Victoria Grayson.

Victoria spoke first, in obvious distress. “Mr. Lewis. May we have a word with you?”

Damien hesitated.

Miles glanced at Victoria, his expression uncomfortable. “Victoria, I’m not certain this is wise—”

“Perhaps not, dear. But I—I believe this should be said.” Her plea quelled her husband’s objection. A silent message passed between them; then he shifted his gaze to Damien. “A moment of your time, if you please, Mr. Lewis.” The earl’s tone was very quiet.

Damien decided there was little point in arguing. He followed them around the corner of the butcher’s shop, where it was quieter.

“We truly do not mean to interfere in your affairs, either yours or Heather’s.” Victoria spoke quickly. “But we saw what just happened and…oh, Heather would never forgive us if she knew we championed her right now, but I should like to—to explain, if you will.”

Damien shook his head. “There’s no need,” he began.

“Oh, but there is! Heather should not have spoken as she did. It truly is not like her to be so—so biting, I assure you. And I should like to explain, only…I’m not certain that I can!” Wringing her hands, she cast a pleading glance at her husband.

“I believe what my wife is trying to say is this, Mr. Lewis. Heather has always been very self-conscious about her limp, though I daresay she would be the first to deny it.”

“That’s understandable.”

“We have tried not to let it handicap her in any way, but none of us must live with what Heather must live with. Please try not to take this incident as an affront against you, Mr. Lewis.”

Damien gave the pair a long, searching look. “Why does it matter to you?”

Victoria answered straightaway. “Because we think you are an exceptional young man, and we should hate for you to leave your employment because of this unfortunate incident.”

He quelled a bitter laugh.
Oh, I’m not going anywhere
, he thought.
Not just yet
.

“Because of her limp, Heather was always different from other children,” Victoria went on. “But we did not want her to feel that she was inferior—for indeed she is not!—and so we raised her to think for herself, to
do
for herself.”

“No doubt you considered it odd that an estate the size of Lockhaven should be in the hands of an unmarried woman,” Miles said.

Damien hesitated. What was he to say to that? His thoughts must have shown, for Miles smiled briefly and clapped him on the shoulder. “Don’t be ashamed of it, lad.”

Lad
. Some strange emotion squeezed his heart. His father had called him that, so long ago the memory was nearly forgotten. A part of him argued that Miles Grayson had no right to assume such familiarity; he didn’t even want to like Miles and Victoria Grayson. Yet, God help him, he did.

The ghost of a smile lifted his mouth. “I admit it crossed my mind.”

Miles nodded. “From the time she was very young, we knew Heather did not want to be a burden on us—or anyone. That’s what led us to purchase Lockhaven for her on her twenty-first birthday. It was a way of assuring her future—”

“And a way of preserving her pride and dignity, while allowing her to fend for herself.” Not
until it was out did Damien realize what he’d said.

Victoria flashed a smile. “You do understand,” she said happily. She slipped her hand into her husband’s elbow.

The look he gave the pair was unflinchingly direct. “You care for her very much, don’t you?”

Miles and Victoria glanced at each other. “You know she wasn’t born to us.” It was a statement, not a question.

He nodded. “She said she was your ward, that her parents were killed in a carriage accident—that her father was a French aristocrat married to an Englishwoman.” Damien held his breath, his entire being suddenly awash in anticipation. A dozen questions whirled through his mind.

Would Miles contradict Heather? Was he aware that James Elliot was her father? That he’d spent the last twenty years in Newgate? Was that why he’d raised Heather as his ward? Did he know Elliot was still alive? Did he know where he was?

If he did, he gave no sign of it. “Yes,” he said, his features grave. His voice echoed his fervent intensity. “But that has never made any difference, not to either of us. I loved Heather the moment she came into my home, so young and helpless, barely alive. Victoria felt the same the instant she set eyes on her, when Heather was just a child of eight. We held her in our arms when she was sick. We nurtured her and watched her grow into the beautiful young woman she is today, and that is a bond that can never be taken from us.”

His hand came out to cover his wife’s; he gave it a little squeeze.

“Heather is no different than our other children. She is our eldest daughter, and that is something that will never change.”

It was a moment before Damien said anything. “I think Heather is very lucky to have you,” he said quietly. “And you have my word this conversation will go no further.”

Victoria’s smile was blinding. She surprised him by taking his hand within hers. “I knew you were a good man,” she said simply.

They parted company then. Damien didn’t linger in the village, but found Zeus and started for home.

Home
. The word left a bitter taste on his tongue. He had no home, not at the moment. He couldn’t return to Yorkshire, nor could he return to Bayberry.

His thoughts were a mad jumble. God, why couldn’t this be easier? He had so many questions—and no answers. That business about Heather’s father being a French aristocrat…where had that come from? It was a lie; it had to be, yet Miles—and Heather, too—were so sincere! He felt almost guilty for deceiving them, yet he couldn’t reveal himself. Not yet. It was far too soon. No, he thought. He must do as he’d planned. He must bide his time and wait….

He wanted to gnash his teeth in fury and frustration.

So engrossed in his musings was he that he was almost upon the low-slung fence that fronted his
house before he realized someone was sitting on the vine-covered porch….

It was Heather.

The night was clear and bright and warm, the sky brilliantly studded with dozens of stars. She heard the sound of his horse long before she saw him.

When he came into view, her heart tumbled in her chest, as if in slow motion. Through the silvery moonlight, his shoulders seemed wider than ever. Seated as he was, high upon his saddle, his form immensely strong and powerful, it was as if he were some ancient god sent from on high.

She couldn’t see his face, yet she knew the instant he sensed her presence. The hoofbeats stopped. All was silent, as if the very heavens held their breath.

Then he nudged his horse forward, halted a dozen paces from the house and dismounted. There was a wooden bench next to the door, and it was there she’d been sitting until she now pushed herself clumsily to her feet. Her palms
were damp; she wiped them on her skirt as he approached.

He stopped before her. Through the darkness his eyes were but a glimmer of silver.

“Well,” he said softly. “Have you come to send me on my way?”

She shook her head and tried to smile, but failed abominably. “I should never have snapped at you as I did, Mr. Lewis. I knew as soon as I left how rude I’d been.”

“You were,” he agreed.

Her eyes clung to his. “I—I do hope you’ll accept my apology.”

“Done,” he said lightly. He swept a hand toward the bench. “May I suggest we sit down?”

Heather glanced at the small bench and shuddered inwardly as they sat. Their shoulders touched; there was no way to avoid it.

“I owe you an apology as well, Miss Duval. I was quite forward when I saw you sketching the other day.”

Heather smothered a pang of distress. Did he trifle with her? She was unused to such directness—and such attention. She didn’t know what to say, and so she said nothing.

“Why did you tell me your name was Alice?”

It was disconcerting to be so close to him. He was so big, he made her feel small in a way she wasn’t quite sure she liked.

She quelled an irrational panic. He unnerved her…he disturbed her.

He also fascinated her.

“We don’t have many strangers pass through
this area of Lancashire.” It was the only excuse she could think of at the moment.

“Were you afraid of me?”

If only he would stop looking at her! “A—a little.”

Mercy, she still was!—though not in the way he thought. Never in her life had she been so aware of a man as she was of Damien Lewis. Little wonder, that—for indeed, her experience with men was nil. She had convinced Mama and Papa she didn’t want—or need—a London Season. Thus, most of the men she had known were aging farmers, beaming new husbands or fathers, or men she’d known throughout most of her life.

His tone was as soft as velvet. “There was no reason to be frightened.”

The silence ripened. She stared up where the stars filled the heavens. She was not as composed as he; her thoughts skipped wildly from one to another. Whatever had possessed her to come here? She should leave, this instant.

“Yes”—her laugh was a trifle breathless—“I suppose you’re right.”

His regard had yet to leave her. It was as if he sought to commit her every feature to memory…but that was ridiculous.

“May I ask you something?”

“Certainly.”

“The accident you mentioned, the one in which your parents were killed? Is that when your leg was injured?”

Everything seemed to freeze inside her. She had to stop her hand from moving to the knotted, misshapen lump of flesh that was her knee.

Wordlessly she shook her head.

“I see,” he murmured. “So it was something you were born with?”

The silence dragged on endlessly. More than ever, she wished she had never come.

What was he thinking? Did he pity her? Did he secretly scorn her and hold her in disdain?

Darkness stole through her. He couldn’t know, she thought painfully. He couldn’t know the ache hidden deep in her heart. She hated the whispers she had always endured, the shocked stares…. Scarcely a day had gone by that she hadn’t wished she weren’t lame, that she hadn’t wished she could change what she was—a cripple. She wanted to be like everyone else. To run. To jump. When Mama and Papa had sent her away to that horrid school—Miss Havesham’s School for Young Ladies—she’d never been judged for her manners or her looks, her decorum or her wit.

Her mind spun, and all at once she felt herself hurtling back in time. She cringed, for once again she could heard those terrible taunts….

Did you really think we liked you, Heather? Well, no one does. No one wants to be near you
.

There was more childish laughter tinged with malice.

You’re not like us, Heather Duval. You can’t run. You can’t walk like the rest of us. You can’t dance. You can’t even ride—and every lady of good breeding can ride. You’re lame. A cripple
.

Always, she thought with a pang. Always she was judged by something she could never change…

Her limp.

The breath she drew was deep and uneven. “Must we talk about this?”

He had turned to face her. “It makes you uncomfortable?”

“Yes. Yes, it does.”

His tone was very quiet. “I don’t mean to embarrass you.”

Then don’t ask me such questions!
The retort nearly sprang from her lips. Somehow she stopped it.

With one hand she made a vague, short gesture. “May we talk of something else?”

“Of course.”

With relief she expelled a long, pent-up breath. “Good,” she murmured, “because it occurs to me we’ve done a good bit of talking about me and very little about you.”

Beside her, he tensed…or did she only imagine it?

“I find I’m curious as well, Mr. Lewis. Why did you wish to stay in Lancashire?”

His brows shot upward. “Do you think there’s a reason other than what I’ve stated?”

“Ah,” she said lightly, “but you did not state why you chose to remain in Lancashire.”

He said nothing; Heather had the strangest sensation that this time she was the one who’d caught him off guard.

“I dislike London,” he said at last. “I prefer the country.”

She smiled. “So do I. My father feels the same. He doesn’t care for the city, but my mother adores it, and so they visit their town house there
several times a year. My sister Beatrice is like Mama—she thrives on it. But Christina is more like me, a country girl at heart, I think.”

“And Arthur?”

His tone was cool, almost detached, as if he posed the question out of politeness.

“Arthur has yet to make up his mind, I fear. He is happy wherever he is.”

Through the darkness, she searched his face. “Do you have family? Brothers and sisters, perhaps?”

A mask seemed to descend over his features. Every muscle in his face tightened. His features were taut, almost harsh. “No.” A single word was all he voiced.

In one swift movement, he rose and strode forward. The pasture yawned before the cottage, and it was there near the fence that he stopped, some ten paces distant. She was certain she’d said something very, very wrong….

She moved toward him, quite without knowing it. She stood slightly behind him, her lips parted, almost too afraid to speak.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Lewis. I didn’t mean to offend you, or to remind you of something you would obviously prefer not to discuss.”

He said nothing. The set of his shoulders was tense, so very tense. The need to stretch out a hand, to touch him, to comfort him was almost overwhelming…why it was so, Heather didn’t know. She only knew in that moment, he seemed so very alone…as she had so often been alone….

There was a low whinny at his elbow. Heather saw that his horse had come up to the fence to nudge his master’s shoulder. Slowly Damien brought his hand up. With his knuckles he rubbed the sleek black skin of the huge beast’s finely muscled neck. The animal responded by dipping his nose into Damien’s hand.

His profile was etched in the silver glow of the moon. Her eyes moved slowly over his features, one by one—the wicked slash of heavy, dark brows, the slant of his cheekbones, the chiseled squareness of his jaw, the sensuous smoothness of his mouth…

“He’s beautiful,” she heard herself say. Her stomach quivered oddly. And she knew it wasn’t just the horse she meant, but his master….

“His name is Zeus,” he said softly.

Heather smiled slightly. “He’s beautiful,” she said again.

Softer still, so soft she had to strain to hear him, he said, “He belonged to my brother.”

Heather knew then…she
knew
.

His brother was dead.

It was what had drawn her to him…she had found in him a secret torment that matched her own. A kindred spirit…

Her fingertips were on his forearm; it happened unthinkingly. It was but a touch—a fleeting touch, at that—to convey her sympathy. Silence drifted between them, yet it was not as before. She needed no words…

…nor did he.

Withdrawing her hand, she smiled slightly.
“Odd that his name is Zeus. My father has a stallion named Apollo whom he plans to put out to pasture soon.” She paused. “Indeed, since Papa’s birthday is in just over a fortnight, I’d thought of buying him another as his gift. Robin often spoke of a breeder in Cumberland named Ferguson, and I’d hoped to travel there to look.” She gave a little laugh. “Unfortunately, I know very little about horses, and I should hate to bring home a nag.”

White teeth flashed in the darkness. “Oh, I doubt you’d do that,” he teased. “But at the risk of sounding quite arrogant, I do happen to know a prime bit of horseflesh when I see it. If you’d like, I’d be happy to accompany you.”

Heather’s eyes lit up. “You would? Oh, that would be wonderful! I would so love to surprise Papa.”

“Then so be it. How near to the Scottish border is it?”

Heather was thrilled. She’d been at a loss as to what gift to make her father, but this was perfect! She nodded. “Not far. ’Tis a journey that will take a day each way by carriage, I believe.”

“When would you like to leave?”

It took but an instant to decide. “The Friday after next, I think, provided that meets with Mr. Ferguson’s approval.” She searched the hazy outline of his features. “Tell me true, Mr. Lewis. You really don’t mind?”

“Not in the least.”

Happiness bubbled all through her. She smiled…and their eyes collided. Then some
thing changed…
everything
changed. He held her gaze in what was surely the longest moment in all her days. His hand came up. And it was as if something passed between them. Her breath caught raggedly. Heather was certain he would touch her—her cheek, her hair…God, but it didn’t matter, for shivers of excitement leaped in her breast. She didn’t know if Bea was right—if Damien Lewis was the handsomest man in all England. But he was certainly the most handsome man
she
had ever seen….

But suddenly she
was
afraid. Oh, not of him, but of the confused longing that swelled within her like a raging tide. And all at once the silence was no longer dark and intimate, but glaring and awkward.

She was a fool, she realized. A fool to allow her emotions to run away with her so. Damien Lewis would want nothing to do with a woman like her. Of course he would never think of her in…in
that
way. To him, she was his employer. No more, no less.

Besides
, whispered a hated little voice in her mind.
He could have any woman he wanted, a woman who is whole and hearty and beautiful. He would never look twice at a woman who is maimed….

She grabbed at her skirts. “It’s late. I—I must go.” Her voice was shaky and tremulous; it sounded nothing at all like her own.

“Let me take you back to the house.”

“No.” Her denial was breathless but firm. “It’s not necessary. It’s quite safe, really.”

Nonetheless, he was there beside her as she turned and moved toward her cart. Without a by-your-leave, he set his hands upon her waist. She drew a sharp breath; her spine went utterly straight. If he noticed, he gave no sign of it as he lifted her into the cart. Her lips feeling wooden, she thanked him and bid him good night.

Later…later she would wonder whatever possessed her to stop the cart and twist around to face him.

“Mr. Lewis?”

He hadn’t moved from where she’d left him. Booted feet braced wide apart, his form was a stark, powerful outline in the moonlight.

“Yes?” His eyes glimmered like silver.

“I—I limp because of my knee. It’s…I’m…I’m maimed.” God, how she hated that word! “I—I don’t know how it happened. It’s been like this as long as I can remember.”

Heather didn’t await his response. Her feeble courage deserted her. With a jangle of the harness, she disappeared into the darkness.

It was Damien who remained unmoving for the longest time. Oddly, he knew what her admission cost her; she had bared a part of herself she guarded closely, a secret she would not divulge to just anyone. She had released to him a corner of her soul….

Guilt ate into him like acid. He didn’t deserve it. She would never have confided in him if she knew who he really was—why he was really here. Yet even while he despised himself for his deceit, he knew there was no other way.

A scathing curse blistered the air. He didn’t want to feel this way about her. He didn’t want to feel anything! Not sympathy. Not compassion. Most certainly not this damnable attraction to her—most especially not that!

He was drawn to her as strongly as ever; that was something that had not waned, not since that very first day. He wanted her as much as ever.
More
. His little gypsy…

He had to grit his teeth to keep from going after her. From dragging her into his arms, smothering that rose-hued mouth with his own—and to hell with the world.

But he couldn’t. He
wouldn’t
, for those were feelings that had no part in his mission here.

His jaw clenched tight, he spun around and strode toward the house, but one thought high in his mind.

He must find a way to conquer this hellish desire for her…and soon.

Heather spent the next week feeling torn as never before. Something was happening. Something she could not stop. Something she could not control. It was as if all the composure she’d ever known were spinning away, beyond reach, and she knew not how to recapture it. Her well-ordered life had been tipped on end….