The Secret Rose (9 page)

He ground his teeth. He knew damn well why. He couldn’t give over the deed, knowing in a year’s time she would be struggling to keep her family estate solvent. Or forced to wed someone as repulsive as Longsbey to save it. Without the ships, she would lack a dowry enticing enough to make an advantageous match, and would end up with someone who was not worthy of her.

He thought of himself. What made him think he was worthy of her? He wasn’t titled. He had nothing to give her. Neither a safe home nor a secure future. Especially with Stafford’s men so close to finding him. Such a selfish act would only put her in danger.

He snatched Edward Langdon’s letter from the table and reread the words, words that had plagued him since the first time he’d read the dying man’s plea.

Be assured, I alone am responsible for the tragedy. My daughter Abigail is completely blameless, but unless I confess what happened, she will be the one left to suffer for what happened.

It didn’t make sense. What confession did he have to make?

Even though Abigail had no part in the tragedy, she does have something of the greatest importance that belongs to Stephen. I know she will never give it up willingly, but she must.

What did Abigail Langdon have to hide? If not the jewels, what did she have that she must give up?

Ethan’s thoughts turned to Stephen, and he uttered a vile curse. Of all the irresponsible things his brother had ever done, leaving the young girl he could have had as his wife was the most unforgivable. Leaving her to face his mother’s viperous tongue and Society’s vicious gossip was beyond cruel. Leaving her to shoulder her mother’s and father’s deaths without anyone to stand at her side was worse yet. He knew it would take time for her to trust him with even a small part of her heart. He feared it might take forever.

A disturbing noise that shattered the peaceful silence of a house long ago gone to sleep rudely halted his contemplation. He listened, an unsettling confusion alerting his senses.

For a moment, the sound was nothing more than a childlike whimper, a small, pathetic moan not loud enough for him to be certain he’d actually heard it. But it grew louder. A cry for help. An agonizing plea of desperation. Then a scream of terror.

Ethan tore across the room, flinging open the door and racing down the hall. Her scream raged through the silence again, then settled to soft whimpers. He threw open the door to her room. She lay on the bed, her hair of fiery copper fanning out across the pillow, her hands fisted in terror at her side, her bedclothes twisted and bunched as if she waged the battle of her life. Then he looked at her face. Her features were frozen in the most frightened look he’d ever seen. A look no one so young and innocent should have reason to wear.

“Shh, Abby.” He sat on the bed beside her and placed his hands on her shoulders.

She slapped at him, struggling to push his hands from her.

“It’s all right. It’s only a dream. A dream.”

“No!”

Her voice raged, ragged and raw. The desperation in her pleas tore at something deep inside him.

“Abby. Wake up. It’s me. Ethan.”

She threw her head from one side to the other. “No. Stephen!”

A heavy lump fell to the pit of his stomach when she called out his brother’s name.

He pulled her into his arms, holding her tight, calming her struggles. “Wake up, Abby. You’re all right now. I’m here.”

Ethan rocked back and forth with her in his arms. He held her close and pushed the coppery strands from her face. Her eyes fluttered, then opened. Huge wet tears streamed down her cheeks, soaking into the white lawn shirt he still wore. Recognition dawned and she pulled away.

“No. It’s all right,” he comforted. “I won’t hurt you.”

Her chest heaved in and out as if she had just finished a long, hard battle. Her breaths came in painful, quick gasps.

Ethan rubbed his hand over her shoulders, soothing the tense muscles wound so tightly they quivered. “Shh. You’re safe. It was only a dream.”

She looked up at him, her huge green eyes brimming with indecision, then she gave in and sank against him.

He sat with her in his arms. The bright moonlight streamed through the window. The sleeping household remained as silent as before.

Eventually, her eyelids closed and her breathing calmed, even though the grip with which she clutched his shirt did not ease. Ethan did not move, but sat with her cradled in his arms.

As if a voice warned him they were not alone, he turned to the doorway. Palmsworth stood there, a look of concern on his face.

“She had a nightmare,” Ethan whispered.

“I should have expected she would,” Palmsworth answered, his words an admission. “Today was not easy for her.”

“She has had these before?”

“Yes. Often.”

Palmsworth’s admission was damning.

Ethan looked down at her pale face, made even more translucent in the moonlight.
Bloody hell. What did Stephen do to her?

Ethan took a deep breath and held her in his embrace. He studied her for a long time while she slept, and let the warmth that blanketed his heart consume him. “She will be all right now, Palmsworth. You may go back to bed. I’ll wake you if she needs you.”

“Very good, sir. I will send Stella in to sit with you and leave my door open in case you call.”

Ethan nodded in understanding, then laid her down on the bed and straightened the covers.

Abigail Langdon had more than one secret she was hiding. He would not rest until he discovered each one of them. She’d suddenly become too important for him to ignore them.

He placed his hand against the soft, smooth skin of her cheek and watched as she slept peacefully in the warm downy covers. His fingertips tingled long after he’d pulled his hand away from her. In that one instant, he knew why he would marry her.

He could not bear the thought of her belonging to anyone else.

. . .

Abigail was desperate to reach the convent. Ethan Cambridge was going to take her to London, and it would be weeks before she could return.

Abigail stared out into the frosty, overcast sky, silently wanting the driver to urge the horses to travel over the frozen ground at a faster pace, yet knowing going faster wasn’t safe. Frigid air stung her cheeks as she leaned her head near the side window in search of her destination. The trip to the Convent of Mary the Immaculate had never taken so long.

She sat back against the seat and folded her hands in prayer. For the last two months and more she had done very little except pray, even though God had not once seen fit to answer her. And now He’d chosen to send her another cross to bear.

How many crosses would it take before she could no longer stand up under the weight? Where would she find the strength to fight Ethan Cambridge?

The carriage finally came to a halt near the convent doors, and before the driver had time to dismount, Abigail jumped to the ground. She raced to the thick oak door that barred the outside world from intruding on the peaceful serenity the sisters guarded with such care, and pounded on the wood using the large brass knocker.

The door didn’t open immediately, and she pounded again, then again. She didn’t give up until Sister Angela timidly peeked her head through the small opening.

“Miss Langdon? Is that you?” The soft-spoken nun pulled the door open a little wider.

“Yes, Sister Angela. Please, may I come in?”

“Of course. Of course.”

Sister Angela opened the door and Abigail rushed inside. After a few words of greeting, she raced down the long, familiar corridor that took her to the stairs that led to a private chamber above.

“Is something wrong?” the sister said, following her.

“No,” Abigail answered. “I just needed to come.”

“But it is so early. The sisters have barely begun to sing the morning Lauds!”

“I know,” Abigail answered. “But I just got word I have to leave for several days. I needed to come before I left.”

“Of course,” Sister Angela said.

Abigail’s heart beat faster. She was almost there. It wouldn’t be long now.

She ran up the stairs, then down another hallway, then stopped before the third door on the right and opened the door.

A small gasp caught in her throat as she raced across the room. “Hello, my precious,” Abigail whispered, kneeling before the small babe who stood on two chubby legs that wobbled as she grasped a chair to hold herself upright.

The babe turned her head and squealed with delight. Then she let go of the chair and fell into Abigail’s arms.

Abigail clutched the babe to her breast and held her tight. Tears she couldn’t stop flowed down her cheeks as she sank to the floor and held the babe on her lap. Abigail pressed a kiss to the child’s chubby cheek and brushed away a strand of the same burnt copper hair as her own.

“She wants so badly to walk, miss,” Sister Angela said.

“Do you really, my Mary Rose? So soon?” Abigail lifted her in the air, and the babe gave a gleeful laugh.

“She does, and you should see her pull herself up on anything she can find,” the sister said. “She gets the biggest grin on her face, as if she knows it’s beyond her, but she’s going to try anyway. Then she just plops down on her backside.”

Abigail couldn’t help but laugh.

“The other sisters and I always think she might cry, but instead, she just makes the most awkward attempt to pull herself up again. It won’t be long before she’ll be running across the room.”

Abigail lowered Mary Rose into her arms and rocked her back and forth. The babe was growing so fast. Abigail gave her another squeeze, and Mary Rose wrapped her stout little arms around Abigail’s neck and held tight.

This was the reason she could never lose Fallen Oaks. The reason she would do whatever it took to protect the convent.

She would never let Ethan Cambridge take her away.

Ethan woke with a start, blinked twice, then closed his eyes again to the blinding sunlight shining through the window. It was late. The sun had risen far above the horizon. He considered the sleepless night he’d had and contemplated closing his eyes again. But he knew that wasn’t an option. Not if they were to get to London before nightfall.

He listened for any sound that might come from her room down the hall but heard nothing. She was probably still asleep. Even though she’d eventually fallen to sleep, her night had been no more restful than his own. It would do her good to stay abed longer.

He threw back the covers and walked to the basin to wash. A servant had left a razor and a brush with a cup of soap on the square table before a large oval mirror. As Ethan slid the sharp-edged blade over his skin, he relived Abigail’s nightmare, her cries for help. If his brother was responsible for those screams, he didn’t want to think about what he’d do to Stephen.

Ethan washed, using the bayberry soap and the clean cloths that lay on the stand next to a pitcher of warm water. His chest tightened when he thought of the way she’d clung to him in her sleep.

He scrubbed his skin harder, hoping it would erase the effects of her touch. When he finished, he combed his hair and readied himself for the long trip they would make to London.

He checked the knot of his cravat a final time before walking down the stairs to eat a hearty breakfast. He would at least start the day with a full stomach.

“Good morning, Stella,” he said, greeting the maid as she was exiting the breakfast room. Stella was Miss Langdon’s maid and would be coming with them. “Is your mistress packed and ready to travel?”

Stella gave him a quick curtsy, then answered with a shy smile. “Yes, sir. George and Freddie are loading the trunks in the carriage right now. This is a hamper Cook packed in case we feel peckish while we’re traveling.”

“Good. Thank Cook for me.”

Stella smiled. “I will.”

“Is Miss Langdon still asleep?”

“Oh, no, Mr. Cambridge.”

“She is up?”

A hint of red colored Stella’s cheeks. “For hours, sir.”

Ethan looked around, checking to see any sign that she’d already come down and broken her fast. There were no used plates or cups sitting on the table, and none of the breadstuff or dishes of eggs or kidneys on the sideboard had been touched. “Has your mistress already eaten?”

Stella looked at the floor and shuffled her feet nervously. “No, sir. Not yet.”

“Good.” Ethan was anxious to talk to her before they left. There were many details he wanted to discuss with her before they reached London, and not everything could wait until later.

Ethan picked up a plate and scooped a large helping of eggs and a warm muffin onto his plate. “Would you go upstairs and ask Miss Langdon to come down and join me for breakfast?”

“I…” Stella twisted the corners of her crisp white apron between her fingers. “I’m afraid I can’t, sir.”

Ethan lifted a brow. “Can’t? Why not?”

The maid lowered her head, her cheeks turning a deep red.

“Is there something wrong with your mistress, Stella?”

“No, sir. Nothing is wrong.”

“Then why can’t she come down?”

The maid shuffled her feet again, then cleared her throat. “She’s not here, sir,” she whispered.

Ethan placed his plate on the corner of the sideboard and braced his hand against the top rung of the nearest chair. “What did you say?” he asked, certain he had misheard her.

“Miss Langdon has already gone out.”

“Gone? Where?”

“I really can’t say, sir.”

Ethan stared at her, unable to believe what he was hearing. “Are you telling me she left the house? Alone?”

“Oh no, sir. She wouldn’t go alone. Bundy took her.”

“Where did they go?”

“Out,” Abigail answered from the doorway.

Ethan turned to look at the woman whose nearness had kept him awake almost all night. The woman who was the catalyst for the turmoil that raged through his body.

She stood in the open doorway with her chin elevated, her shoulders raised in proud defiance, and her hands clasped calmly in front of her at her waist. She made the most elegant picture he had ever seen.

Even though she was clad in funereal black from head to toe, she could not have been more stunning had she been wearing a brightly colored gown in the latest London fashion.