The Secret Lover (33 page)

Sophie's fury was quickly giving way to a full-bodied rage. "Let me assure you I have most certainly
not
followed you. I am in search of Honorine—"

"A bloody waste of time. I'll see that madwoman imprisoned before the week—"

"Not if I find her first," Sophie said low.

"I beg your pardon—"

"And secondly," she continued, not allowing him so much as a breath,

"asking a woman if she would like to marry is not a formality—"

"A formality, please! It is not as if you are dripping with suitors, Sophie.

It's not as if you have any prospects at
all
, save me. In this instance, I would suggest that yes, it is a
formality
," he snapped.

The insult literally stole her breath. Sophie stared at him, watched the smirk grow in his eyes. "Perhaps you are right," she said slowly, marveling at the cruel smile that turned the corners of his lips. "But you have my solemn vow I shall die an old and penniless spinster before I will ever consent to marry you, Trevor Hamilton."

For an instant it seemed as if the air were sucked from the room—the din around them was suddenly gone, the smell of ale and flesh gone. For an instant, there was nothing but Trevor and her, and in that instant, Sophie feared for her life.

The look on Trevor's face was one of vicious rage, a look so intense and piercing that she could feel it through her bones. The sickening heat of anticipation spread rapidly through her, the anticipation of being struck, again and again, until she vomited. She lurched backward, knocking up against the chair back, almost unconsciously prepared to curl into a ball like she had with William.

But miraculously, his expression faded to raw anger. "
Bitch
," he said low. "I offer you a chance to save your tattered reputation, and you would throw it back in my face? You will regret what you have done here tonight, mark me! Your childish temper will not spare you from my offer!"

"But
why
?" she exclaimed incredulously. "Why do you want me as your wife when I so obviously despise the idea?"

Oddly enough, the question seemed to confuse him. He frowned, twisted a cuff link as he considered her. "I have my reasons—and I am quite certain your brother will convince you of your good fortune in such a match. He's as encouraging of it as anyone."

Sophie's rage was on the verge of spiraling out of control. Did they
all
think to barter her away like some old cow? "Well look around you, Trevor.

Julian is not here.
I
am here."

His jaw bulging with his anger, Trevor suddenly shoved up from the table, then leaned down so that his face was mere inches from hers, his eyes burning with resentment. "I'll forgive you your stupidity once, Sophie, but not again," he breathed angrily, and slowly straightened. He sneered with disgust as he looked down at her. "Go to your room—you look like a whore sitting there. You'll ride with me on the morrow."

With that all too superior pronouncement, Trevor stalked across the room, practically pushing the serving girl aside as he disappeared into the connecting rooms.

Only when he had stepped through the dark opening did Sophie breathe again. She looked down; she was gripping the table so tightly that her knuckles were stark white. Slowly, she let go, drew a ragged breath, but could not stop her hands from shaking.

She had done it
. She had, for once in her bloody life, stood up to someone, to a
man
, to the
ton
, the world, and everyone in it. It left her feeling wobbly and giddy all at once. With both hands, she held the tankard, lifted it to her lips, felt the warm liquid sluice down her throat.

She lowered the thing, and with a small inward smile of victory, watched an old man put a fiddle to his chin and begin to play a festive old Gaelic tune.

The fiddler's music drifted out into the courtyard of the Hawk and Dove as Caleb handed the reins to the hostler's young son. "There's a crown for you if you'll rub her down and feed her," he said, rubbing the slender neck of his Arabian. The boy's eyes lit up; he nodded eagerly and instantly began murmuring to the horse.

Caleb watched him lead the mare toward the stables, then turned to look at the inn. Light streamed from the small bay window; the strains of a Scottish jig pulled at his heartstrings, reminding him of home.

Home.
Scotland
. How he longed to be there, particularly those moments when he felt adrift and rudderless in this world. Moments like now.

Fatigue and hunger made him question his sanity as he moved slowly toward the inn. He had ridden like a madman across England after the woman who had broken his heart. And for what? She was in there now, he was certain of it, and he hadn't the vaguest idea what he would say.

That he loved her, would always love her.

As he moved across the courtyard, the confusing sense of betrayal and longing muddled what was left of his brain—he could make no sense of his actions now, other than an overwhelming need to see her, to touch her hair, to kiss her.

Hardly noticed as he stepped across the threshold, Caleb found the common room exceedingly familiar, having been in dozens just like it across England in the course of building the railroad. At one end, a fiddler stroked a lively tune; a dozen or more folk danced a jig, their heels kicking higher with each refrain. The darkened door to his left undoubtedly led to the gaming room; a tail of smoke streamed from it into the common room. The stale air was thick and heavy—there were at least four dozen souls stuffed inside, their tankards held high, their voices rising above the music.

His gaze swept the crowd; he did not see her. Was it possible the coach had gone on? Was she perhaps trying to sleep above the racket?

Then he saw her.

A lump swelled in his throat as he gazed at her slender back. Seated at a tiny little table in the corner of the room, he watched her lift the tankard, lower it again, her knee moving in time to the music, almost unnoticed beneath her voluminous skirts. He was moving before he knew it, moving toward her, the desire to touch her overwhelming the fear of further humiliation and the need to hide his heart from her. He had to touch her, had to breathe her in, assure himself no harm had come to her. Then he would determine what he would say.

Sophie felt him before she saw him. The feeling came over her like a rush of cool air, sharpening her senses, waking her from her ruminations. How she knew was impossible to fathom, but she
knew
it, knew Caleb had come into the room, was coming to her.

The tankard slipped from her grasp; she shoved to her feet, uncertain what she should do with herself, which way she should turn, what she should
say
. But she could feel him approaching her, feel him almost at her back, and all thoughts of reason or propriety or even common sense flew out of her head.

She whirled about, saw him standing ragged before her, his clothes dirtied with the grime of the road, the shadows of fatigue on his face. She had never seen a more beautiful man in all her life—the smile, the shining of his green eyes, sent her reeling. She had thought she would never see him or touch him again. Without thinking, Sophie lurched forward, threw her arms around his neck, buried her face in his collar, and inhaled the scent of him. His arms surrounded her, squeezed her tightly to him.

"
Caleb
," she murmured tearfully onto his shoulder.

"Don't. Don't say anything," he whispered into her hair. "Just let me hold you, let me breathe you, let me fill my soul with you once more."

The tears spilled from the corners of her eyes as he squeezed her to him.

"I'm sorry!" she rasped. "I'm so very sorry!"

"Don't cry, please don't cry."

"How very wretched I have been! I have thought only of you, have dreamed only of you, have prayed and begged God to let me take it all back! Caleb, Caleb, I thought I'd never see you again, that you were lost to me forever! I didn't know where you lived, and you didn't come back to the park, and I thought you had left—"

"I am here now," he said, and she felt herself being lowered into a chair.

"Don't cry, darling—I am here."

She fumbled for his hand, afraid to let go, lest he disappear.

Reluctantly, she opened her eyes.

He
was
here.

In a curious state of shock, she looked at him seated across the table from her, almost afraid to believe this miracle. She shakily wiped the tears from her cheeks, unable to tear her gaze from him. Caleb put a kerchief into one of her hands; the other he clasped tightly in his own. Sophie wiped her nose with the kerchief, looked up, and smiled at the several people around them who were watching with considerable interest.

Caleb took the kerchief from her and smiled warmly. "How good it is to lay eyes on you. I thought… I thought…" He expelled his breath harshly.

"I've been trying to imagine what I might possibly do without you," he said awkwardly. "And I confess, I could not very well imagine anything a'tall."

After what she had done, he would say something so sweet? "How can you be so kind after what I did?"

He smiled sheepishly. "I love you."

The explanation was so simple and heartfelt that Sophie felt her entire being lift to some preternatural realm, one where she felt instantly comforted and safe.
Loved
. If only they could keep going, deeper into that realm, away from here and England… but they were here, in the middle of England. Nothing had changed. "W-what are you doing here?"

"I came for you. I heard you had left after Madame Fortier and I could not rest knowing you were out here somewhere, alone."

Sophie's heart constricted. "Oh Caleb," she whispered, looking down at her lap as tears spilled. "I would give the moon and the stars to take it all back if I could! I was so foolish, so terribly vain to refuse you—"

"Let's not speak of it now," he said, grimacing as if her words had pained him. "I just want to behold you."

"How can I not speak of it?" she muttered miserably.

"Sophie, darling, you are upsetting yourself," he said gently, motioning to the serving girl. "Two ales," he called to her.

The music was louder now; several around them had lost interest in Caleb and Sophie and had turned toward the dancing, a few more deciding to join in. But Sophie was almost oblivious to the noise around them. Caleb's appearance had given her a chance she had not thought she would have again, and she was suddenly desperate for it. "Caleb, I—"

He squeezed her hand, silencing her with a broad smile. "My darling, there is much we would say to one another. But at this particular moment, I am so very grateful to have found you well that I feel a bit like dancing."

"What?" she asked, incredulous, and looked at the dancers, then back to Caleb. "
Dancing
?" He nodded. "But I don't know how!" she quickly protested as Caleb stood.

"Ah, certainly you do," he said, and pulled her up. "Just kick up your heels. Come on, then, dance with me… make me sway." He threw his arm around her shoulder, kissed her hard and long, then just as abruptly lifted his head and caught her hand, pulling her behind him, wading into the fray of dancing with an ebullient grin.

"Come on,
kick
!" he shouted to her over the noise, and with the grace of a swan, folded his arms across his chest and kicked up his heels.

Frozen, Sophie stood in the middle of the crowded floor, watching Caleb and everyone else dance a jig around her. It was surely a dream… after days of wretched misery, it seemed so unreal, this crowded room, the dancing, and Caleb, his feet moving so quickly that he seemed to float.

Something about that made her laugh; Sophie grabbed her skirts, watched Caleb for a moment, and then kicked up her heels, mimicking him.

They danced for hours, kicking and spinning away what had gone on between them, fortified by long draws of ale. They laughed, kissed long and deep, then laughed again, as if nothing had happened between them, as if they were old and married and had danced a thousand jigs together.

They spun round the room over and over again, their heels going higher and higher, their spinning more frenzied with the increasing tempo of the music.

In the early hours of the morning, they stumbled outside, hand in hand, for fresh air. The moon was full, spilling gray-white light over them and the courtyard. Sophie looked up at Caleb standing beside her, at the fine lines around his eyes, the square cut of his jaw. He must have felt her gaze; he looked down, his smile so heartwarming. "I have exhausted you, I am afraid," he said.

Funny, but she felt more alive and vibrant than she had in days.

"I should be a gentleman and insist that you retire for the night, or what is left of it."

Ah, but her blood was stirring as it always did when she was near him, and Sophie smiled coyly. "Perhaps you should be a gentleman and
see
that I retire for the night… and what is left of it." It didn't even sound like her—

but a light sparked deep in Caleb's eye and Sophie flashed him a terribly wanton smile. "I mean, there are so many people about…"

He leaned down, nibbled her earlobe. "You should think twice before inviting me to your bed, madam, for I am the greatest threat to your virtue." His lips moved from her earlobe to her neck, sending a rain of sparks down her spine.

"Perhaps you should think twice before accepting, sir," she murmured, bending her head so that he might have better access to her neck, "for I may very well be the greatest threat to
your
virtue."

Caleb laughed softly against her neck, pulled her into a strong embrace.

"You may have my bloody virtue, madam. You already possess my heart."

More seductive words were never uttered, and Sophie melted into his chest, kissed his chin as she grasped his hand. And just like that, with the touch of his fingers, the old Sophie disappeared. Gone was the cowardly, timid sister of the Earl of Kettering, and in her place, the new Sophie—the one who had traveled the world over, the one who knew the man she loved and wanted to show him just how much that was so.