Edward had always hated her, just as he had hated her mother. His sisters, Lilian and Charlotte, hated her too. No matter that she was their half sister. They bitterly resented the bond of blood that tied her to them, and never let her forget that her mother had been, of all things,
on the stage,
and a “scheming, immoral creature” who had caught the eye of their widowed father when he was in his dotage. No matter that the fifth duke had adored Isabelle, his beautiful young second wife, and their child, Amanda, who was Isabelle’s mirror image. No matter that he had never fully recovered from his grief when Isabelle died when Amanda was only ten. No matter that he had loved Amanda dearly until his own death three years later.
The fifth duke had scarcely been cold in his grave when Edward, a ponderous frown on his face, had summoned Amanda to his study—her father’s study—and told her that she was to be sent away to school. She had been pampered and indulged beyond belief all her life, he said, and there was to be no more of it. She was to learn humility and obedience and respect for her elders and betters. Amanda, still in shock from the loss of her beloved father, had born Edward’s tirade in drooping silence until he had dared to call her mother a painted whore. Even at the tender age of thirteen she had recognized fighting words when she heard them. Flooded with the fiery temper that went with the color of her hair, she had flown at Edward, kicking him soundly in the shins. The next morning she had been packed off to Our Lady of the Sorrows Convent, where the sisters of the Order of the Magdalene operated a school for young ladies from some of England’s best families who for one reason or another needed to be gotten out of the way. Amanda had heard only occasionally from Edward in the almost five years since, and every one of his communications had been unpleasant. But his letter of the night before was the worst yet.
Engrossed in her thoughts, Amanda had moved some distance along the beach without realizing it. Her feet had somehow managed to pick their way through the debris thrown up by the storm that had come upon them just before midnight. Now, in the hour before dawn, the rain had stopped, but the wind still blew strongly, sending angry-looking waves rushing across the small bay to knock themselves against the shore. Heavy black clouds rolled above the cliffs, partially obscuring the moon from time to time and giving the silhouetted convent the eerie look of a medieval castle. There was just enough silvery moonlight to see by; in the darkness every rock and piece of driftwood took on a menacing appearance that bothered Amanda a little, although she would have died sooner than admit it. She had always prided herself on her courage, and she had weathered too much in her short life to let a niggling little fear of the dark chase her away from the one place she had always sought solitude—and solace.
Then she heard the moan. Amanda stopped in her tracks, straining her ears, eyes wide as she assured herself that it was only the wind whistling through the caves with which the cliffs were honeycombed. But the sound came again, unmistakable this time. Throat suddenly dry, she stiffened, holding her hair out of her face while she looked warily around. She saw nothing out of the ordinary, but there were countless large rocks, scattered near the base of the cliffs, which could have hidden someone who cared to hide. If there were someone, which there probably was not. More than likely it was an animal, hurt or trapped. Of course it was.
She had been poised to run, but that idea stopped her in her tracks. She could not bear the thought of an animal out here, alone and possibly trapped, surely injured, from the sounds it was making. Perhaps it was a raccoon or even a dog. At the third moan, she knew she had to see if she could find it, help it.
She moved slowly in the direction of the sounds, looking carefully about her. The chances were high that it was an animal, but just in case … She picked up a sturdy chunk of driftwood from the shale, hefting it in her right hand while her left kept her hair out of her eyes. She would have no compunction about braining someone if it turned out to be necessary.
As she cautiously approached a large rock nestled near the foot of the cliffs, she heard another sound, this time more of a whimper than a moan. It clearly came from behind the rock. Edging forward, her makeshift club raised threateningly, she could just make out a large, dark shape lying against the shale. It was too large for a raccoon or a dog … Was it a man? It
was.
Shock made Amanda jump backward, a startled cry rising to her throat. The piece of driftwood dropped from her nerveless hand.
He made no move to come after her. Amanda relaxed a little, her hand pressing against her heart, which was pumping double time. Gradually it occurred to her that the man must be hurt: that would explain the sounds she had heard. Perhaps he was a local farmer, fallen from the cliffs while looking for a strayed animal, or even a sailor whose boat had sunk in last night’s seas. She couldn’t leave him there. She had to help him if she could.
Still, her movements were cautious as she took a step closer, and then another. When the man continued to sprawl, unmoving, in the shale, she concluded that he was probably only semiconscious at best, and breathed a little easier. Hesitantly she bent to touch him, first his shoulder, then his averted face. He was soaking wet, his clothing half frozen to his body, his hair dripping water, and yet his skin was fiery hot. Clearly he was ill. That realization made her feel much better, and she was almost at ease as she knelt down beside him, her hand firmer on his shoulder as she attempted to shake him to his senses. His only response was a groan as he tried to pull his shoulder away from her importunate hand.
“Can you hear me?” she asked insistently. “Sir?”
Whether in response to her hand or to her voice she didn’t know, but he rolled over, lying now on his back, motionless, his eyes closed. His body looked long and large against the shale; it would be impossible for her to shift him without help. She started to get to her feet, knowing she had to summon assistance even if it meant that the sisters would find out about her nightly perambulations. Then the moon came out from behind a cloud to shine its light directly on his face. Amanda stayed where she was, crouched beside him, staring at his face, transfixed.
His hair was as black as coal and curling, and she guessed that his skin would be dark, too, without the twin influences of illness and moonlight. His brows were thick and as black as his hair, and his lashes curled with incongruous and oddly disarming innocence against his lean cheeks. The rest of his face was hard, aggressively masculine though he was unconscious, with chiseled cheekbones, an arrogant blade of a nose, and a jaw covered with thick black bristles that effectively obscured the lower third of his face. But it was not all this that arrested Amanda’s attention, causing her eyes to widen with slowly dawning horror. It was the scar.
It was a long, thin sear, faintly raised and paler than the skin around it, which descended from the outer corner of his left eyebrow down across his cheek to disappear in the stubble at the side of his mouth. Amanda could not tear her eyes away from it. Not that the sear was horrible in itself; it wasn’t, not at all. But Amanda had heard tell of a scar like that only once before, just recently, when one of the girls at the school had received a letter from her married Londonite sister. In the letter, the scar, as well as the man who bore it, was described thoroughly. And he was identified, too—as Matthew Grayson, the escaped murderer who had the whole country in a quake.
Thank the Lord he was unconscious. That was the first thought that went through Amanda’s head as she made the connection. Her heart hammered against her breast as she imagined what would have happened to her if she had come upon him on this deserted stretch of beach when he was in possession of all his faculties. He would undoubtedly have killed her, to keep her from telling what she had seen … Dear God. At the thought of what could have happened, she quivered from head to toe. For once the nuns had been right. She should never have ventured out alone at night—and would never do so again. But now she had to get away, get to the authorities …
Amanda started to scramble to her feet. As she did so her unconfined hair fell forward to brush against his face. To her horror he lifted his hand a little, trying to push her hair away. Amanda jumped back—but it was too late. His hand closed painfully on the trailing ends of her hair, jerking her back to her knees beside him. Frozen with fear, Amanda could only stare dumbly into that dark face as his eyes slowly opened. They were light, she noted distractedly, almost silver in the faint moonlight, and as cold as death. They fixed on her face for a long moment before moving on to stare at the silken length of hair wound so tightly around his fist. The expression in his eyes made her tremble; she shrank back as he lifted his other hand to touch the imprisoned skein of hair.
“An angel,” he muttered dazedly, turning his head so that his cheek nuzzled against her captured tresses. “An angel with red hair.”
And then he began to shiver violently.
He was delirious from fever, Amanda realized, and breathed a little easier. Plainly weakened by whatever it was that afflicted him, he surely couldn’t do her any harm. All she had to do was to disengage her hair—gently—and run to fetch the authorities. She doubted that he would try to escape before she was able to lead them back here. He was clearly in no condition to run away; he probably couldn’t even stand.
Those silvery eyes were still fixed on her. She could feel the hand that trapped her hair shaking convulsively. Her eyes never leaving his, she reached out tentatively to touch that hand. Her movements were as gentle and unalarming as she could make them as she sought to unclench the fist that held her prisoner. His flesh was burning hot to the touch; his long limbs were racked by tremors. Unfortunately he seemed to have no intention of letting her go—if he even knew he was holding her. From the glassy blankness of his eyes, she questioned whether he did.
Amanda was afraid to be too forceful in her attempts to free herself, afraid that any careless movement on her part might provoke him into violence: he had already killed half a dozen people that she knew of.
“I’m cold,” he said suddenly, conversationally, sounding so normal that Amanda jumped. Inching a little farther away from him, as far as she could get without snapping her neck, she eyed him nervously. Was it her imagination, or did his eyes seem more aware than they had a moment ago?
“If you let me go, I’ll … I’ll fetch you a blanket,” she promised with sudden cunning. He frowned, seeming to understand and consider her words.
“Will you?” He sounded doubtful.
“Y-yes.” Amanda was willing to promise anything that might induce him to let her go. “I promise.”
“They were going to hang me, you know.”
Now, what on earth could she say to that? If he was even the least bit aware, and she let on that she recognized him, her fate was as good as sealed. He would kill her. He certainly couldn’t let her go; even she could see that. She would immediately run to the authorities, as he must realize as soon as he regained his senses. She said nothing, her eyes wide in the pale oval of her face as she stared at him.
“But I escaped.” He chuckled hollowly. “By God, I
escaped.
But they shot me, and then that damned horse went lame and I had to walk, and I fell, and then it rained. God, it rained. Does the sun never shine on this wretched country?” He lapsed momentarily into incoherent muttering. With his black hair straggling in wet curls all around his face, his thick beard bristling at her, and his eyes wild and staring, he looked out of his mind. And not just with fever. Amanda tugged despairingly at her hair, wishing vainly that she had a pair of scissors with her. She would gladly have cut the whole mane off if it would have freed her from this madman.
“Who are you?” His eyes were suddenly sharp on her face, and his voice was demanding. Amanda swallowed. He looked extremely fearsome, glaring at her as he was. And she was very much afraid that he had just regained his senses, if in fact he had ever lost them.
“My … my name’s Amanda. Amanda Rose Culver.” Then, desperately, she added in what she hoped was a confidence-inspiring voice, “And I’m going to help you.”
“You know who I am.” It was not a question. The words rang like a doomsday bell in her ears. She felt her muscles tense in horrible anticipation. Denial would be useless, she saw, staring wretchedly down into his set face, even if she could have found the right words and forced them from her lips.
“I—I can help you,” she said again, weakly. His mouth twisted into a bitter grimace; his hand tightened painfully on her hair. Amanda cringed away from him.
“Don’t lie to me,” he said, his voice harsh. His fingers, embedded in her hair, dragged her closer, so that her face was just inches from his. “I’m not stupid.”
“I’m sorry,” she murmured frantically as he glared at her. His teeth were bared in what she could only think of as a snarl, and he looked like a dreadful beast bent on devouring her. Amanda shuddered. He must have seen the convulsive movement or correctly interpreted the fear in her eyes, because he relaxed his grip a little, a faintly satisfied expression flitting across his face.
For a moment neither said anything, the man seemingly bent on recouping his strength and his senses at the same time, and Amanda thinking furiously.
“Could you please let me go?” she ventured at last in a small voice. “You’re hurting.”
It wasn’t much, but this appeal to any latent chivalry he might still possess was all she could come up with. As she had expected, it won her nothing but a grunt and a scornful look. But after a moment, to her surprise, his hand did readjust itself so that it was not pulling quite so hard on her hair.
“Thank you.” Amanda couldn’t quite keep the surprise out of her voice. He made no reply, only stared up at her in a considering way that chilled her more than the wind. He was probably wondering how, with his small store of strength, he could kill her, and where he could hide the body …