Time After Time (229 page)

Tristan couldn’t help himself. He grinned back. “Hello, sweetheart.”

The girl giggled and scampered down the remaining steps. She looked at him with the biggest, bluest eyes he’d ever seen. “Who are you?”

“My name is Tristan.” He bowed before her, completely enchanted. If he and Caralyn were ever to have a daughter, this was what she would look like. He crouched down to be eye level with her. “And what is your name?”

“Elizabeth Caralyn McCreigh.”

His heart pounded in his chest as he looked at her. He could see Caralyn in her sparkling blue eyes, her mass of bouncing curls, her mischievous grin, and assumed she was either niece or sister.

“How old are you, Elizabeth?”

“Four and a half. Almost five,” she told him, her voice full of pride then showed him the doll she carried. “This is Apple Annie. She’s almost five too.”

Delighted by this little elfin creature, charmed by those flashing blue eyes, Tristan asked, “Do you know where Caralyn is?”

“Aunt Cara?”

“Young man!”

Tristan turned at the sound of a woman’s commanding voice and stared, his mouth open. Except for the whiteness of her hair piled high upon her head, the resemblance to Caralyn astounded him. Her mother, perhaps?

He rose from his crouched position and watched the woman come closer. Spots of color highlighted her pale cheeks as she crossed the marble floor, her cane tapping with each step she took. The butler walked several steps behind her, back rigid, thin lips pressed together in anger.

“Betsy, go and find your grandmother. Ask her to meet me in the salon,” she ordered. Once the girl scurried back up the stairs, she turned to the butler. “It’s all right, Crandall. You may go.”

The butler hesitated for a moment then bowed. “Yes, Your Grace.”

Your Grace
?

Crandall left the great hall, but not before scowling at Tristan, his intent clear. He didn’t go far, either. Tristan almost grinned, realizing the butler’s footsteps ceased once the man was out of sight.

The woman faced him once again and Tristan found himself the subject of the boldest assessment of his person he’d ever experienced. Disconcerted, surprised, he returned her frank stare with one of his own.

An eyebrow lifted and her head tilted to the side. “Now, young man, what is the meaning of this? Who are you? Why have you come barging into my home, bellowing at the top of your lungs like a fishwife hawking her wares?” she demanded, her voice full of authority, an authority he recognized.

“My apologies, Your Grace.” He bowed before her, recognition finally dawning. Of course. Hawthorne House. The lions crouching beside the gate. The lion’s head knockers. The woman before him was the dowager duchess of Lion’s Mead.

“I sometimes forget my manners. As captain of the
Adventurer
, I am accustomed to giving orders, not taking them. I want—” he began then changed his mind when he caught her expression. “Pardon me, Your Grace. I am Tristan Youngblood, Lord Ravensley. With your permission, I would like to speak with Caralyn.”

The duchess continued to scrutinize him, her eyes missing nothing. She let out a sigh and the hint of a smile crossed her lips. “So you are Cara’s captain.” She hooked her hand into the crook of his arm. “There is much we need to discuss, young man, beginning with what happened between you and my granddaughter. Crandall, please bring a bottle of our finest cognac.”

Granddaughter? Caralyn McCreigh was the duchess’s granddaughter? His heart sank. No matter what he and Caralyn felt about each other, he knew he’d never be able to convince her father to allow her out of her impending marriage . . . unless he had this formidable woman on his side, and he wasn’t sure he could be successful. On legs as heavy as wooden blocks, Tristan allowed himself to be escorted into a very lovely salon, the duchess still holding his arm.

“Please, sit down, Lord Ravensley.” She pointed to a chair upholstered in red, green, and gold as she took the one opposite.

Tristan sat on the edge and looked around the room. The portrait over the fireplace caught his eye and he stared as he spoke. “Tristan, please. I’ve been away for a long time. The title of lord does not sit easily on my shoulders.”

The grand lady bowed her head as the door opened. Crandall entered, carrying cognac and crystal snifters on a silver tray. Another woman followed, younger than the duchess, but bearing the same resemblance to the woman sitting across from him, the woman in the portrait and Caralyn. She must be Caralyn’s mother. Tristan rose to his feet. The woman stopped and simply stared, her mouth open as the butler responded to the duchess’s summons.

After a word or two with Crandall, the duchess turned to Elizabeth and said, “May I present my daughter, Elizabeth, Caralyn’s mother. Elizabeth, this is Cara’s captain.” One brow cocked over a blue eye as she smiled.

“Oh! But she’s—Oh!” Her paralysis broken, Elizabeth stepped forward and extended her hand. “A pleasure, Captain. Caralyn has told us so much about you.”

“If I may, I’d like your permission to speak with Caralyn then her father,” he insisted as the duchess poured cognac into a crystal snifter and handed it to him. He remained on his feet, anxious, every nerve in his body poised to search the manse from top to bottom until he found her.

“You have my permission, my dear man; however, neither one of them is here at the moment.” The duchess took a sip of her cognac but her eyes never left him. “Caralyn left about an hour ago.”

“Where did she go?” He put his glass on the tray, the cognac untouched. “Will she be back soon? It is of the utmost importance that I see her, Your Grace. Please.”

“I remember you, Tristan,” the duchess said, her voice full of fondness. “The last time we met, you were about ten. You were in a hurry then, too.” The duchess leaned forward and pierced him with her stare. “Do you love my granddaughter?”

“Do you love my daughter?”

Both women spoke in unison then grinned at each other, as if they shared a secret, a secret that somehow concerned him. And Caralyn.

Startled by the question, Tristan opened his mouth then closed it. The circumstances he found himself in were the most unusual. Uncomfortable, his uneasiness and suspicion growing, he knew honesty would be best. “Yes, I love Caralyn. More than life itself. More than I ever thought possible.”

“And do you promise to cherish her for the rest of your days?” The question came from Elizabeth.

Puzzled and confounded, Tristan nodded. “Of course. It is my deepest wish.”

“Good.” The duchess rose and walked to the door. Elizabeth followed. Crandall waited outside, a note in his hand, which he passed to her.

Stunned by the unexpected reaction to his honesty, his declaration of love for Caralyn, Tristan rushed toward the door. “But I . . . I don’t understand. Please, I must see Caralyn. You must tell me where she is.”

The duchess winked at him and handed him the paper. “This is the address where you will find Caralyn. Crandall has had my fastest horse saddled. Go. Now.” She winked at him again.

Confused, bewildered, feeling as if too much liquor addled his thinking, though he hadn’t touched the brandy she’d offered, Tristan opened the folded paper. Tears misted his eyes and his throat constricted in an instant. Joy filled his soul and made his heart thunder in his chest. The address was his own. Or rather, his father’s London townhouse.

“I am the man Cara is promised to marry?”

• • •

The front door of the earl’s home was almost as impressive as the massive portals to her grandmother’s town house. The duchess’s carriage had broken all records for slowness as it rolled through the streets of London, but now waited in the drive along with the maid and footman her grandmother had insisted accompany her. Caralyn quashed the tide of nausea twisting her stomach and let the iron knocker fall. The sound carried through the manse.

Dogs barked in the background as the door opened to reveal an older, slightly stooped man, his ginger hair liberally streaked with grey. He looked at her and tried to straighten, but age had done its damage. “Yes, Miss?”

“I’d like to see the earl.” Despite her fear, despite the urge to cry or run away, her voice remained strong.

“Of course.” He opened the door wider and allowed her to enter. Caralyn tightened her grip on the handle of the valise. Heavy with gold coins and various pieces of gem-encrusted jewelry to replace her dowry, its weight pulled at her shoulder. “Please wait while I see if his lordship is receiving visitors. May I tell him who is calling?”

“Caralyn McCreigh,” she said. Her voice echoed in the great hall as did the butler’s footsteps, reminding her of the cave where they’d found the statue of the Blessed Mother. Caralyn gazed around the large room where she waited. Unlike her grandmother’s great hall, which was light and airy, the earl’s hall seemed dark. Unable to help herself, she strode to the window and opened the heavy draperies, allowing weak sunlight to flood the area where she stood. She shivered but didn’t know if she did so because of her fear or the dampness seeping into her bones. Oh, how she missed the warm bright sunshine of the islands.

The butler touched her arm. “This way, Miss.”

Caralyn jumped, startled, and followed the man into a massive library. He closed the door behind him, leaving her alone in the room.

Two stories high, bookshelves and curio cabinets lined the walls. A spiral staircase rose to the second floor where, in a corner flooded with pale sunlight, a grouping of deep, comfortable chairs flanked the wide window. She saw someone’s foot bobbing, but the person sitting in the chair, his back toward her, did not rise.

“Well, this is certainly a surprise,” the earl greeted her warmly. He came down another set of spiral stairs to her left, a book in one hand, his other hand gliding along the railing. “I didn’t expect to see you until tomorrow when you married my son.”

Her stomach clenched as he reached the bottom step and came toward her. She clutched the handle of her valise tighter, gripping the wooden rings with fingers that had suddenly turned to stone.

“I am Rayne Youngblood, Earl of Winterbourne.” He kissed the tips of her fingers then stood back. “Ah, you are lovelier than I hoped. Your father said you were, but you know how fathers can exaggerate.” He chuckled lightly. “Please.” He gestured to a chair while he seated himself behind a mahogany desk.

Caralyn sat on the edge of the chair, placed her valise on the floor beside her, and fidgeted with the pleats in her skirt. Now that she was here, words failed her. She didn’t know how to begin, didn’t know how to say what she needed to say. She glanced at him and decided he had a kind face. Perhaps he would understand.

“Though this is a pleasant surprise, my dear, I am curious about the reason for your visit.” He looked at her, his bushy white brows raised as he twisted the onyx signet ring around and around on his finger. “I feel you have something important on your mind.”

As she watched him, Caralyn’s heart beat triple time in her chest. She had the strangest feeling she knew this man, but for the life of her, she didn’t know how.

“Forgive my boldness, milord,” she said before she lost her nerve, “but I’ve come to ask that you release me from my father’s promise. I do not wish to marry your son.”

“I see.” He twisted the ring a little more then, as if trying to break his own habit, stopped, leaned forward, and folded his hands on the desktop. “May I ask why?”

Caralyn swallowed hard. Her father had always instilled in her the valor of honesty. “I’ve met someone.”

“This man you’ve met,” he said as he took off his glasses and held them by the earpiece.

Those eyes! She knew those eyes! But . . .

“Are you in love with him?”

Caralyn forced her attention away from his sherry-colored gaze and sighed. “Yes. I am in love with him, and I want to marry him if he’ll have me.”

“I see.” He drew a deep breath. “And what of my son, the man you’re promised to?”

She rose from the seat unable to sit still and began to pace. “I apologize, sir, but I cannot, will not, marry your son. I will meet with him and offer my apologies in person but nothing will change my mind.” She stopped before his desk, her direct gaze meeting his. “Do you not want your son to be happy? Do you not want him to have a successful, loving marriage?”

He didn’t answer. Instead, he returned her stare, unrelenting, unblinking. “What if I insist? What if I hold you to the promises made on your behalf?”

“I would beg you to reconsider.” Oh, how she hated the pleading tone in her voice, and yet she couldn’t help it. “I can replace the dowry my father agreed upon.” She lifted the valise from the floor, opened it, and shook the contents onto the shiny surface of his desk. The earl jumped and gasped, whether from the thundering explosion of sound as the treasure hit the desktop or the surprise of seeing such a fortune, she didn’t know. And didn’t care.

His eyes opened wide as he picked up a gold crucifix. The emeralds embedded in the gold twinkled in the weak light coming in the window. “Is this what I think it is?”

“Izzy’s Fortune,” Caralyn said. “It’s yours if you will release me from my father’s promise.”

The earl sighed and shook his head. He inspected the piece in his hand. “Let me think on this for a moment.”

Caralyn sat, her eyes boring into him, her heart pounding. She twisted her hands in her lap and resisted the urge to run her damp palms on her gown. She didn’t blink, didn’t take her gaze from him for one moment. And she prayed. Oh, how she prayed.

Again, the earl sighed. “Very well, Miss McCreigh. You’ve shown a great deal of courage coming to see me as you have. I will—”

He never finished the sentence, never said the words she so wanted to hear. Instead, she heard the door behind her open and close and the earl grinned as someone walked into the room. “Son, you’re just in time.”

Caralyn cringed. Her stomach, already twisted with fear and unease, clenched, as did her jaw. Finding whatever dregs of courage she could, she rose from her seat and turned to face the earl’s son, hopefully, for the first and the last time.