The Windflower (49 page)

"Yes. Recently." As though he had observed Cathcart's unwilling interest, Devon looked in the girl's direction and said, "Come here, Windflower. The good marquis would like to see what you are."

Her back, encased in cloak and hood, was toward Cathcart. He watched the slim shoulders square. The weightily resettling fabric of her cloak snagged the dark hood at its base, spilling it backward to release a thrilling dance of cherried honey curls. She turned where she stood, her gaze flying defiantly to Devon's.

Lord Cathcart was not a man who gaped at women. He had spent the better portion of his adult life in a deep if chaste love for Devon's mother, Aline; for ten years he had enjoyed a more intimate and discreet liaison with a lovely and sophisticated woman whom he supported generously. Nor was he a lad in first flush who felt his body stir to every lure, but wish it or not, Lord Cathcart knew he had begun to stare at this young girl. Half his reaction certainly was admiration, but the other half was pure fascination with her incredible similarity to the Italianate oval-faced ideal. She might have stepped from a sea-flecked shell. Beneath deep, fantastic eyelids, her gentian eyes were bright as a wren's, their vision outwardly directed and unself-aware. The chin was small and solid, made as though to fit in a man's hand. Only the nose was not meticulously proportioned to its setting, though the very delicacy of the fragile teardrop nostrils added to rather than detracted from the charm of her features, lessening the classic severity. She carried herself with more dignity than her years warranted, though the face was a study in sensitivity. You wanted to smell the fragrance of her hair. What in the world was this solemn fairy princess doing with a man of Devon's reputation?

"Good evening, Miss—?" Cathcart tried kindly.

"Her name is Merry," Devon said, his tone matter-of-fact. "It may not suit your notions of politesse, but you'll have to call her that; I don't know her last name."

The young girl's show of spirit was dying into wan bewilderment as she looked from Devon to Cathcart, and it appeared to the marquis as though the cautious blue eyes were having trouble assessing him. It came to him then that she was tired, very tired. The radiant skin had disguised that at first. Gratefully Cathcart experienced the dissolution of his instinctive male reaction into something reassuringly paternal. She was, after all, hardly more than a child, and from the glances that had passed between her and Devon, it was evident he had used her like a vandal. Admitting wryly to himself that only a moment ago he had been planning not to acknowledge her, Cathcart approached the girl, gentling his expression because she seemed ready to cringe from him. Good Lord, what had Devon been doing to her? He had never seen a woman look upon him with fright before, and it distressed him. At something of a loss and growing increasingly angry with Devon for placing him in this situation, he said, "Welcome to my home, Merry. It must be hot for you in front of the fire in your traveling garments. If you'll allow me . ?" She stared at him in a stunned way, though she made no protest as he loosened the clasp underneath her chin and drew the cloak from her shoulders.

Her hands, small even for a woman of her refined bone structure, were folded neatly into the lap of her skirts. In a second's horror Cathcart saw that she was bound.

"What the devil!" He took her wrists together and examined the deft bindings. The flesh beneath the rope was scraped and cold. Intense anger strained his words as he rapped out at his extraordinary godson. "Have you taken leave of your senses?" To his annoyance Devon showed no shame; in fact, he appeared to be a little amused.

"I'm sorry. I knew you'd be shocked. But she keeps trying to run away from me."

"I should think so, if this is a testament to the style of your conduct with her." It had hardly been Cathcart's intention to make the young duke laugh, and when Devon did so, the ruthlessly insouciant attitude outraged the older man. "This is abominable! Even for you!" he continued. "How long—" He glanced at the girl, who was beginning to blush. "How long has she been under your protection?"

"Oh, my protection, is it? A vastly ill-suited euphemism." Devon twirled the brandy in his glass and took a long sip. His eyes went to the girl's face. "She's been with me on the
Joke."

"Devon, no! Surely you haven't allowed those devils of Rand Morgan's to have access to her?"

"Rand Morgan's 'devils' would eat soot if she fed it to them with her baby fingers. She was ill once, and they spent so much time weeping into their shirtsleeves that there wasn't a dry bicep in the fo'c'sle. I couldn't have talked them into forcing her if I'd wanted to. Don't let your imaginings run into the morbid, Brian. And I don't know why you profess to be so shocked. I've had the distinct impression from certain past lectures that you thought I was capable oi anything," Devon said dryly, coming closer to take the dark woolen cloak from Lord Catheart's arm, throwing it over a library chair. "She's not the pippin she looks. I took her out of Michael Granville's bed."

Understanding struck Lord Cathcart like a leaded glove. Ominously calm with one eyebrow sharply lifted he asked, "And a man of your breeding would use a woman for revenge?"

For the first time since his arrival Cathcart saw his godson's eyes gleam with unclouded temper. "Why not? It's precious little I've had of
that,
thanks to you and Rand. Anyway, I have other reasons for keeping her. She has a certain gift that some irresponsible idiot—Granville, one supposes—encouraged her to put to the wrong use, and now Cochrane would like her disposed of. She's fortunate that she's too fetching a little monkey to butcher." The final words were spoken more gently. "There's nothing you can do about it, Brian. She's not your burden."

But Cathcart faced back toward the lovely haggard girl, taking her hands, strapped together as they were, and holding them sustainingly in his own. Letting his sincerity show fully in his features, he said, "I'm very sorry, and I intend to do what I can to ease your situation. For the moment all I can do is make you comfortable. Please tell me how I can best serve you."

Rather than comforting her, the sympathy seemed to confuse her, and Cathcart began to wonder if she had become so accustomed to having her wishes unregarded that she'd forgotten it could be otherwise. The gaze she turned on Devon was one of heartrending doubt.

Devon managed to look perfectly composed, even entertained, under her pathetic scrutiny. He said, "If you want to do something for her, Brian, perhaps you could have a cover brought so she could lie on a couch? I've brought her in two days from our landing in Cornwall, and she's half-unconscious for want of rest."

"For goodness' sake, then, let me give her to the housekeeper," Cathcart snapped. "The guest room is prepared. At least let her sleep in a bed."

"Absolutely not," Devon said. "I don't trust her. She's already nearly drowned, contracted malaria, and fallen through a roof into a goose trough trying to get away from me. There's no telling what new way she'll find to kill herself in London."

From that position Devon was not to be moved. Cathcart himself brought a woven cover of dyed lamb's wool and a dish of the herring salad that had lately formed a part of his own supper as well as a compote of nectarines, some biscuits, and milk. It was better for the servants to see him rummaging distractedly in the kitchen than to come into the library and find Devon had tied up a young girl. Aline, at least, would be spared being regaled with that tale over tea.

The girl herself said nothing through it all, nodding or shaking her head when asked a direct question, the determined set of her shoulders disclaiming his pity even while exciting it. It did not seem to occur to her that Cathcart might really be able to help her. She made no appeal to him, and it became increasingly obvious to Cathcart that she had come to accept as the natural state of affairs that any man she met would collude in her internment. It said much about the impropriety of the conditions under which she had been living that she was able to accept with aplomb the indignity of having to lie down on a couch before two men, one a stranger, and try to sleep fully clothed. But when the time came, and the couch had been prepared for her, she stood by it uncertainly, seeming unable to do it after all.

Devon came to her and physically laid her back against the cushions, removing her pattens, handling her as if she were a doll.

"Have no qualms," he said to her. "Lord Cathcart is a gentleman." As if he was answering a mute appeal in her eyes, Devon drew a thin dagger from his boot. Quite unsurprised by this unorthodox and alarming action, she accepted unflinchingly the passage of the shining blade between her wrists as Devon sliced open her bonds. He tossed a blanket over her and said, "Go to sleep, brat."

The fluid ease with which Devon handled the dagger ought to have been enough to throw most young ladies into hysterics, but the amazing creature on the couch merely blinked twice, said thank you to Devon in a soft, cultured voice, and went immediately to sleep.

Scarves of blue and violet flame twisted on the black hearth logs as Devon delivered to Lord Cathcart the letter that came, disappointingly, from Rand Morgan and not the disinterested son Cathcart longed for. The first part of Cathcart's conversation centered on that boy, the young pirate, scarred and braided, whose image resided like a burr in Lord Cathcart's heart. And when he reached the point where, as always, the pain in his voice grew too great to expose even to Devon's articulate sympathy, the talk became general, reviewing systematically the events of the last year, the affairs, both public and private, that had taken place in Devon's absence. An interested, always intelligent listener, Devon drew from Cathcart a comprehensive account of English life during the past ten months, save one important development that Cathcart was steeling himself to reveal. As so often happened with Devon, Cathcart found himself expressing thoughts that had existed before only as experiments in the quiet of his own mind. Considerations of time became secondary. The hour was past two when the conversation turned to the Bourbon government in France, to Devon's lack of confidence in the peace with that country as long as Whitehall refused to blockade Elba, and to the soon-to-be-convened Congress of Vienna.

Lord Cathcart made silent note of the frequency with which Devon's gaze strayed to the sleeping girl. Several times the Duke of St. Cyr walked to the couch and stood looking down at her, seemingly unaware that he was doing so, though once, when the girl's petal lips fell apart and she began to snore lightly in breathy, feminine gasps of utter exhaustion, Devon had leaned over the back of the couch smiling at her with an absorbed tenderness. The cover had fallen from her shoulder, and he gently pulled it up with hardly a break in thought, while Cathcart, watching them, was hard put to remember what in the world they'd been talking about. Clearly this relationship was not simple.

The conversation moved logically from Napoleon to Devon's grandmother. Rather suddenly Devon said, "Twice I've asked you what mischief Grandmother has been about. Twice you've altered the subject. If it's going to be that bad, shall I pour myself another brandy?"

Cathcart smiled reluctantly. "I don't mean to be overdramatic. But I'm afraid she's been plotting again on your behalf."

The narrow green bottle in Devon's hand paused halfway to the glass. In the ensuing silence Cathcart saw the girl open her eyes and lie quietly, staring without focus at the bust of Homer in a wall niche.

The brandy bottle clattered briefly against the rim of Devon's glass. Setting the bottle down, Devon said mildly, "Well?"

"She's back to her worries over the succession."

"That's hardly a surprise." Laughter softened the golden eyes that were fixed upon Lord Cathcart. "God forbid we shouldn't pass on the dynasty. Someone ought to let her know I can breed without her help. She must have presented me with two hundred hapless prospects. I didn't know there was another eligible woman in England left unsurveyed."

Sharply aware of the young girl knuckling her eyes on the couch, Cathcart said, "Precisely. As far as I can follow her train of thought this time, she seems to have the added notion that a wife and heir would keep you in England. She's old and lonely and—" Cathcart broke off, watching Devon walk restlessly to the mantel. This clearly was a poor moment to mend fences. More loath than ever to reveal the whole of the fruitless debacle, he forced himself to begin again. "Anyway, she's taken a new tack in finding you a bride."

"Useless," Devon said. "The slot stands to be filled shortly."

Staggered as much by the flat dispassion of the announcement as by its content, Cathcart waited for his godson to say more. When nothing was forthcoming, he disciplined his composure and said, "Not being privileged with that information, she's attempted to produce for you a girl. One can't be sure what she has in mind. A notion, perhaps, that through it she might somehow win back your esteem."

"Damn," Devon said succinctly. "What girl?"

"To wit, a well-bred American maiden."

Devon eased one lean shoulder against the mantel. "I wasn't aware she knew any."

Cathcart wasted no time trying to figure out whether Devon was referring to Americans or virtuous girls, "She doesn't. The young girl in question is one Rand Morgan has an interest in."

"I can assure you," Devon said, giving his godfather a hard look, "that Rand Morgan isn't interested in young girls."

A man of profoundly conservative instincts, Lord Cathcart had worked hard, particularly in the last several years, to keep himself from becoming a prig. Still, there were certain things he would never be able to hear with equanimity, and among them were references to Morgan's broad-based decadence. Morgan's morals were no matter of indifference to Cathcart, and could never become so as long as his son remained one of the pirate captain's most famous disciples. Cathcart flushed, glancing at Merry, who was beginning to look disorientedly around the room. To Devon he said, "Does the name Wilding mean anything to you?"