Patricia Rice (16 page)

He jerked back to the moment and poured wine into a glass, sipping at it hastily. “I believe you see things others cannot,” he admitted cautiously. “And I apologize for doubting you. I have not been myself lately.”

“That is an understatement,” she murmured wryly, hiding her inward dance of joy at his admission. How many other men would willingly agree that she might see beyond the material? She did so adore Harry. “So just who have you been?”

“A duke. Climb into bed. I’ll add coals to the fire.”

She thought his admission might be a sign that he actually loved her and took her seriously. Perhaps it was also a good time to give in to his desires.

She wanted him to kiss her again to ease her fears, but he seemed preoccupied. Perhaps he would remember where they were once they were between the sheets. Dropping the blanket, she climbed into the enormous bed and pulled all the covers up around her while Harry stirred the fire.

“Can’t you be Harry and a duke at the same time?” she asked.

“Harry had no responsibilities except to himself. Harry paid his debts and had money left to do with as he pleased.” He jabbed harshly at the coals, tumbling ashes and sending a billow of smoke up the chimney.

Christina watched him with growing unease. The bad colors were returning, but there was a spike of honesty along with the anger, so she held her tongue, waiting for his explanation to continue. When he remained silent, she asked, “And the duke?”

“The duke is apparently a penniless bankrupt who owes everyone in the entire kingdom and has mortgaged his estate away.” Harry flung the poker back in its rack and began to pace.

Christina blinked. She didn’t know how else to react. She came from a family of great wealth and privilege. She’d never had to waste a precious moment worrying about the roof over her head or the food on her table. She had a family who wrapped her so thoroughly in cotton batting that she’d had to fight her way out.

Was Harry telling her she had married a penniless man? She stared at his broad back as he strode back and forth, not looking at her. He didn’t look penniless. He looked like a prince, as he always had. His golden hair might be disheveled, but it gleamed with health and vigor. At this hour, he needed a shave, but his jaw was as firm as she remembered. He carried himself like a man who could command thousands with a wave of his arm.

As he could actually. Dukes had that kind of power.

“Your father did all that?” she whispered in awe and horror. She and her sisters had often made fun of their father’s money-grubbing ways, but she had a sudden understanding of the marquess’s motives. He had sons who would inherit his estate. He had to provide ample dowries so his many daughters could live comfortably with the men they chose to marry.

Harry’s father had frittered away his inheritance rather than leave it with his sons. Wide-eyed, Christina carried that thought one step further.

“You paid your father’s debts with my dowry?”

“I paid a
quarter
of his debts with your dowry,” he answered grimly. “Which leaves naught to earn more unless I uncover buried treasure.”

“The chalice.” Christina stared at Harry’s broad back in horror. “You wouldn’t sell the chalice?”

“I married you for your money,” he stated flatly. “Of course I’d sell the chalice.” Heaving a candlestick at the wall, Harry strode from the room.

Learning she was penniless was a shattering experience for Christina. She had always taken wealth for granted. Like the spoiled child that Harry thought she was, she’d never considered how one earned money and achieved the security which she’d taken for granted. She needed time to ruminate.

Even though she’d just about decided to be the wife Harry wanted, she was almost glad Harry hadn’t returned to their bed last night. Her incessant questions would have driven him mad. When she discovered he’d already ridden out before breakfast, she took her toast and sausage out to the grove of trees she’d admired from afar, climbed onto the branch that was easiest to reach, and meditated.

From her perch high on top of the hill, she realized she could see over much of Harry’s estate. Farmers tended the fields. Sheep roamed the pastures. Although the village and house had been in sorry state, she didn’t see evidence of penury on the lands. But what did she know of financial matters? Nothing.

What she
did
know was that Harry hadn’t married her for her money. The Harry she knew had agreed to their betrothal because they got along well, were attracted to each other, and neither of them wished to be married until they were done adventuring. He’d married her sooner than he wished because of the money, perhaps, but Harry hadn’t changed
that
much. He still wanted her. He might pretend it was her money that made her
valuable
, but that was Harry being proud. The knowledge that he valued her warmed her heart and forced her to concentrate on helping him instead of worrying about herself.

Being penniless bothered Harry enormously, she could tell. His nature was to provide and protect, and penury couldn’t allow that. That was the reason for his dismal aura, not his marriage to her. Once she gave it proper thought, she knew Harry was a very noble man, and she should never have been wary of his motives.

In the distance, she saw a rider who had to be her husband. Harry had always possessed an excellent seat. She’d love to gallop with him over the hills, explore the ruins he spoke about so often, picnic in the woods, teach him to laugh again.

And
learn
to
be
a
wife.

She chewed her thumbnail at that thought. Learning to be a wife meant children. Children cost money. A dukedom, even a penniless one, required an heir. None of this added up to anything sensible.

Meditation wasn’t really one of her strong points.

Harry halted his horse to speak with someone in the field. The worker kept hoeing his row. Christina thought that showed serious disrespect to Harry’s title. Instead of shouting with anger or riding off, Harry climbed down from his horse, tied it to a post, and walked through the field on his own. The worker stopped hoeing to stare as Harry stooped to roll a large boulder out of the vegetable row and down the hill.

Admiring the strength of Harry’s muscles, Christina didn’t quite catch on that the farmer still hadn’t said anything to him until Harry walked back to his horse without a word exchanged.

Why would anyone
not
speak with Harry? Harry was the kindest, most considerate… Well, sometimes he was. He’d developed an obstinate streak lately. Still, all London knew Harry was a genial fellow. She couldn’t think of a soul who would speak badly of him.

How had she been so blind to Harry’s problems? She knew nothing of money and finances, but she knew a great deal about people.

In excitement at the thought that she might be able to help Harry in some way, she climbed from the tree and ran down the hill back to the house. How difficult could it be to persuade tenants to converse with a duke?

Of what benefit was her gift if she didn’t put it to good use? She should have known Harry hadn’t lost his lovely aura because he didn’t like being a duke or didn’t like being married. She should have asked questions instead of blithely going her own way and expecting Harry to go his as they’d always done. They must learn to work
together
.

Finding Meg counting linen with the new housekeeper, Christina pulled her aside. “Are the tenants not talking to Harry?” she demanded in a whisper.

Meg looked startled. “He’s only just got here. Why shouldn’t they?”

Rounding on the newly hired housekeeper, Christina tried again. “Do you know anything of the tenants snubbing the duke?”

The housekeeper looked nervous, and Christina could see a spike of red anger in her aura that did not bode well.

“No, Your Grace,” the older woman answered stiffly, folding a sheet into a tight square.

She was lying. Glaring at the housekeeper even though she understood the woman was merely protecting her position—as possibly all the tenants were—Christina gathered her skirts and hurried to her chamber. She’d been lollygagging around, reading old books and chasing ghosts like an indolent dreamer when Harry needed her help. Not that the stubborn man would admit it.

She would visit the village first. If Harry was bankrupt, it stood to reason that the village wasn’t faring well either. Perhaps she should start by learning the depth of their difficulties.

She donned a plain walking dress and, with directions from Meg, walked into the village. Locating the vicar’s cottage, she strode up a brick walk between rows of a neatly tilled vegetable garden.

No one answered her rap. Watching the lace-trimmed windows, Christina caught a flicker of movement in one. Setting her lips, she pounded harder.

When still no one responded, she tested the latch. It was locked. Remembering Harry’s unpleasant encounter with the vicar’s daughter, Christina thought it was time to be equally rude. She marched around the cottage to the kitchen door and rapped on the windowpane. Without further warning, she shoved open the kitchen door.

A stout old woman with her hands buried in dough stared at her in dismay. A much younger woman countered Christina’s entrance with a defiant glance that she quickly hid behind lowered lashes. With her dark red hair slicked back in tight braids and wrapped under a lace cap, she set her face without expression. Only a glance of her long-lashed eyes and the unbending stance of her slender frame offered a hint of her character. That, and the flaring red spike of anger through the otherwise lovely purple and rose of her aura.

“I am Christina Winchester, Harry’s wife,” she announced without formality. Given her entrance, formality seemed foolish. “I am looking for the vicar or his wife. I assume you are the Mora Abbott of whom I have heard so much. It’s a pleasure to meet you at last.”

If she judged people at all well, Christina thought Mora’s aura reflected shock followed by suspicion and a curiosity as great as her own.

“I suppose you have heard of me from Meg,” Mora said stiffly, indicating a kitchen chair. “We are not accustomed to entertaining duchesses, much less ones who come in the back way. Would you like a seat?” With polite evasion, neither of them mentioned the reason Christina had not entered through the front.

“Thank you. I would like some tea, if you have it. The day is brisk, and the walk was longer than I expected.” Christina took the chair offered with a minimum of fuss. She knew she’d been insulted at not being offered the best chair in the house, but she didn’t care. She’d come for information and wouldn’t leave until she had it.

Rather than disturb the cook, Mora measured tea from the tin and poured hot water from the fire over it. “I will assume from your entrance that you are not one to mince words, so I will return the favor. You had some purpose in seeking us out?”

“So many purposes I cannot begin to list them all, or even list them in order of importance,” Christina admitted once the table was set. “Harry told me he remembers you as direct and trustworthy.” Actually, Harry hadn’t said any such thing, but Christina didn’t have any compunction about twisting the truth to cover knowledge gained from reading auras.

Mora offered cream and sugar from chipped containers of once fine china, then poured the tea from a pot with a lid that didn’t match. “His Grace barely knows I exist,” Mora corrected. “I daresay it’s Peter who told you that.”

The woman certainly didn’t intend to make this easy, Christina reflected, sipping her tea. “Harry has not lived at home much in over a decade. His duty was to his government. He assumed his brother would inherit the estate.”

Mora bent her head in acknowledgment of that truth but said nothing.

Gritting her teeth, Christina let her gaze wander around the kitchen. The wooden counter had been scrubbed to a gleam; every dish and pan had been neatly stored in its place. A vase of jonquils added a splash of color to a worn window ledge. Despite the care with which it had been tended, the kitchen reflected poverty. The pots were dented and blackened beyond repair, the china nicked and faded, the chairs so old they tilted on worn legs.

“What the late duke and his son did here does not reflect my husband’s beliefs and behavior.” If no one would tell her what was wrong, then she would surmise it for herself.

“The late duke was maddened by grief, and as his heir, Lord Winchester coped as best as he could with the lot given him,” Mora replied.

Check and checkmate. Christina studied the other woman’s aura, but Mora seemed to have perfect control over it now. Christina could divine nothing but a curious streak of rose that she seldom found in anyone but her fair-haired family. Odd, but not outlandish. “Harry is doing all within his power to return the estate to profit. I would like to help him.”

“How lovely,” Mora murmured into her teacup, her gaze again hidden beneath dark lowered lashes.

“Dash it all!” Unable to contain her impatience any longer, Christina stood. “If you do not wish to help me or your neighbors, then send me to someone with more compassion than you have. I can see the poverty here, and I would see it corrected, if I could, but I do not have magical solutions to problems I do not understand.”

Mora rose with more grace and poise than Christina had ever possessed in her life. “It’s a pity titles do not come with magical powers. I wish you well of your marriage. I bid you good day, Your Grace.”

Beyond insulted by this regal dismissal, Christina glared at the other woman. “I do not give up, Miss Abbott. And right now I’m angry enough to believe that anyone who isn’t helping me, is against me. I suggest you give some thought as to whether you really wish to oppose me.”

She’d never said anything so outrageous in her life, but she was beyond furious. She needed to find out more about this self-contained Mora Abbott.

***

Dejectedly walking from the village some hours later, Christina located a lovely streambed where she could cool her tired feet. She had many things to think about, more than her head could hold.

She had received no more satisfaction from the women of the village than from Mora. None were brave enough to talk with her directly. Most scurried away to their private lives when she appeared. When she cornered a captive audience in the mercantile and spoke of how hardworking and brave Harry was, the customers nodded their heads and hurried to leave.

If no one would talk with her, how could she find out what was wrong? And something was definitely wrong if no one would talk to her. Or Harry.

The stream beckoned. Perhaps the tree faeries would guide her. She took off her pattens, shoes, and stockings, pulled her skirt and petticoats up to her knees, and dipped her feet into the cool water.

The tree faeries tempted her with the sensuous rush of liquid over her bare toes, the gentle whisper of spring leaves, and the sweet scent of violets—all reminding her of her duty to be Harry’s wife, to offer him the comfort and support he deserved.

She had been a child to insist on love when what Harry needed most was a wife and helpmeet. How lonely he must be with no one to talk with! She wished she could give him the love and understanding her sisters shared with their husbands, but she shouldn’t demand love if she didn’t have it to return.

She wasn’t at all certain that she knew how to love. She admired Harry. She enjoyed his company—when he wasn’t being pigheaded. She would love to love him, if she only knew how. But if she couldn’t give him love, she had to offer what she could.

She knew the one thing Harry really wanted was heirs, except she didn’t think she could give him one.

The faeries whispered of rowans and ancient rites. The trees whispered, the water rippled, and her Malcolm nature stirred, responding with urges not easily denied. Her romantic nature longed for love. But she yearned to make Harry happy as well.

It was time for her to be a woman, forego the dreams of childhood, and learn the mysteries of life. Perhaps then she would know how to help Harry.

***

Harry found Christina sitting beside a stream, her bare feet dangling in the water. Reining in his gelding on the bridge, he admired the pastoral image of his wife in rich blue silk, her golden hair partially tumbled from its pins, and her lovely limbs exposed to the sun.

“Need a ride?” he called.

Startled, she almost fell into the water. What the devil had she been thinking about so intensely that she hadn’t heard him arrive? Harry swung down to join her.

“I’d enjoy a good gallop,” she agreed, reaching for her stockings, “but I’m not precisely dressed for it.”

He loved watching her dress but wished he could be undressing her instead. Diverting his thoughts from that direction, Harry studied her warily. After last night’s revelation, he was surprised she wasn’t hastening back to London. He’d kept a close watch on the road all morning just in case, but naturally, Christina never did as expected.

“We can ride before breakfast tomorrow, if you’ll still be here then. I haven’t meant to neglect you.” He hated how stiff he sounded, but he wasn’t entirely certain who he was anymore. The Harry who had courted Christina had been a man cocksure of his place in the world. The Harry who had married her had had his world shattered.

“Of course I’ll be here.” She sent him a puzzled look as she pulled on a shoe. “Did you think to send me elsewhere?”