Maverick Heart (2 page)

He raked his whip across her shoulders once, twice.

She screamed in agony and terror, and Leah came running.

“My lord! My lord!” Leah cried. “What is wrong?”

Verity waited for the upraised whip to fall again, but her husband lowered it slowly until she could see his trembling hand, the whip clutched between his white-knuckled fingers.

“Get out,” he said to Leah.

“But, my lord—”

“Get out and close the door.”

Verity didn’t dare make eye contact with Leah for fear Chester would turn his violence on the older woman, as well. “Go, Leah,” she said.

Leah backed out of the room, closing the door with a quiet
snick
behind her.

Verity’s heart leapt to her throat and pounded there, preventing her from begging for mercy.

How had he known the babe was not his? What had he seen?

She looked at the child again and gasped when she saw what had been hidden at first by the swaddling clothes.

The soft down on her newborn son’s head was black.

She was blond, as was her husband. Miles had hair as black as night.

What had made Chester suspect the truth? She had said nothing, done nothing. Except she had not come virgin to his bed. She had wondered that he said nothing on their wedding night and been relieved when she believed her deceit had not been discovered.

He must have doubted all along. And waited, like the gambler he was, to see whether the child was undeniably his son. Or female, which would not have affected the succession. But he had lost his gamble.

She looked up at him, at the perfect features turned ugly by malice. “What will you do?” she asked.

“What would you have me do, my dear? Announce to the world that my enemy has cuckolded me? No thank you.”

“But … How will you explain …?”

“The dark hair on my son’s head?” he said. “If anyone should be so rude as to ask, I shall blame it on my uncle, the Black Sheep of the family.” He laughed, a harsh, unpleasant sound. “Now that I think of it, you will name the child Randal, after my uncle. Of course, I shall make certain there are
no other blond-headed children with whom to compare my heir.”

He used the butt of the whip to force her chin up. “I’ll not take the chance of getting another son on you. I may have to acknowledge another man’s brat as my heir, but I must draw the line at putting my own blood second to that of my enemy.”

“But—”

“You need not worry that I will bother you further. I will find what comfort I may in other beds. Unless, of course, the boy should die …”

Verity clutched the babe close. “You wouldn’t dare—” Her mind raced. What would she—could she—do if he tried to take the child from her?

“There is no need to resort to murder … in this case,” he drawled. “I am quite sure there are other ways to make the son of Miles Broderick pay for the sins of his father.”

Verity stared at her husband in horrified disbelief. “If you dare touch a hair on this child’s head, I’ll leave you. I’ll run away—”

He grasped her hair and yanked until she cried out with pain. She grabbed at his wrist, but there was nothing she could do to save herself while protecting the child in her arms.

“You will stay exactly where I put you,” he said. “Otherwise I will cry your perfidy to the heavens and make your precious son a bastard. Do not mistake me. I will betray your shame—and mine—if you force me to it.

“Enjoy your son, madam. At least I have the
satisfaction of knowing he is all you will ever have of Miles Broderick.”

“Why did you insist on marrying me? Why won’t you let me go?”

“I like to win,” he said, releasing her hair and taking a step backward. “I think we must call this round a draw. I have robbed Miles of his firstborn son, as he has robbed me of my heir. However, I am still ahead in the game. So long as Miles is alive, I have the pleasure of knowing he dies a little every day at the thought of the woman he loves lying with her legs spread beneath me.”

Verity gasped at his crudity, then remembered what Miles had told her about Chester.
It is the pain and fear of his victims he enjoys most
.

She forced the expression of revulsion from her face as Chester leaned close enough to whisper, “We will be the only ones who know the truth, won’t we, my dear? Frankly, I don’t care to have an icy fish like you in my bed. It is enough that I keep you from him.”

Verity lowered her eyes. She would not give Chester the satisfaction of knowing how sick it made her feel to think she had coupled with such a beast.

She also saw no reason to inform Chester that he was wrong about the heartache Miles was enduring at the moment. Miles had suffered, to be sure. She had gone to see him the day the announcement she was breaking her engagement to him appeared in the
Times
and told him a string of lies to make him believe that she no longer loved
him. She had explained how she was revolted by the horrible wound on his face and could never bear a lifetime of seeing him across the breakfast table. She had then announced that, since Chester had the most money and best title to offer her if Miles was no longer an eligible suitor, she had accepted the earl’s proposal. In fact, they were to be married within the month, as soon as the banns were read.

She shivered as she remembered how the blood had drained from Miles’s face, leaving the livid red scar outlined against his flesh. It hurt even now to think of the contempt in his voice as he ordered her to leave Linden’s Folly, where he had gone to recuperate from his awful wound. He hadn’t made a single argument to win her back that day. He hadn’t once pleaded with her to change her mind before she turned and walked away. She didn’t think she would ever forgive him for having so little faith in her love for him.

She knew it was foolishly unreasonable to have expected Miles to divine the terrible trouble she was in—that she was being coerced into a marriage she found abhorrent. If he had shown the least little bit of trust in her love, she knew she would have transferred her burden onto his shoulders that day at Linden’s Folly and let him cope with Chester’s threats in his own way. But in a moment of pique at his abrupt dismissal of her, she had turned and left him.

And sealed her own fate, and his, and that of their son.

She was certain Miles hated her now far more than he could ever despise his nemesis, Chester Talbot. It was very little comfort to know that because Miles believed she had betrayed him, Chester would be thwarted in his plan of lifelong revenge.

Verity focused once more on the handsome Talbot features before her but saw only evil. She spoke the first thoughts that came into her mind.

“I hate you. I find you an utterly revolting human being.”

Chester slapped her hard with his open palm.

She resisted the urge to reach for her stinging cheek. She stared defiantly at her husband, blinking away the tears of pain that formed in her eyes.

I will not cry. I will not give him the satisfaction of seeing me cry
.

“I cannot control what you think, my dear,” he said in an acid voice. “But, by God, you will hold that shrew’s tongue of yours when you are in my presence.

“Now I’m afraid I must bid you good-bye. I trust you will keep that brat of yours out of my way in the future.”

Verity watched with relief and revulsion as the devil walked out her bedroom door, closing it with a
snick
behind him. She heard him speak briefly to Leah and listened to the muffled sounds of Leah’s frantic reply. She waited, and when Leah did not come in, she knew her husband had forbidden her old nurse to attend her.

Miles, my love, I am so alone. How will I live the
long years chained by law to this animal? How will I live the rest of my life without your love?

It was a bitter bargain she had made to save Miles. And an even worse one she must endure to keep her son from being named a bastard. It was easy to hate Chester for his role in all of this. But she refused to let hate consume her.

Verity felt the babe nuzzling at her breast and looked down at the miracle in her arms. Here was a blessing among all her woes. Here was someone she could love wholeheartedly. She drew a forefinger across the babe’s cheek. He turned instinctively toward her finger, rooting until she moved aside her gown and he found what he sought. She was surprised at how vigorously he took suck.

“You shall be strong, Randal Talbot, and clever and good. I shall not let the Earl of Rushland make of you a mean-spirited and bitter man. On my love for your father, I swear it.”

She stared at the closed door. Chester’s threats had worked. For her child’s sake, she would stay. And because her child’s future depended upon it, she would do nothing to reveal the secret of her son’s birth to anyone.

Not even his father.

“Rand and I are going to ride ahead, Lady Talbot.”

Verity, Lady Talbot, Countess of Rushland, shifted to a more comfortable position in her sidesaddle, wishing she could race across the vast Wyoming plains herself instead of plodding along beside a wagon pulled by oxen. Experience had stolen her freedom to do impulsive things. “Is it really wise to ride off without knowing what’s ahead of you, Winnifred? You might get lost.”

“How could we possibly get lost? You can see for miles and miles in every direction.”

“Freddy is right, Mother,” Rand said. “Besides, I promise to take good care of her.”

“And I’ll take good care of Rand,” Freddy added with an impish grin.

Rand laughed. “Oh, I do hope so, minx. In every
way. And very soon. Our wedding isn’t far off now.”

Freddy, bless her heart, blushed a fiery red. She always did when Rand teased her about their wedding night.

It was easy to see why her son had chosen Lady Winnifred Worth as his bride. Freddy had stunning red hair, and her figure made an eloquent statement in a dark green habit trimmed in military braid. But Verity wasn’t sure Rand knew what he was getting. Freddy—imagine a young Englishwoman preferring such a name—was as wild and brazen a young lady of seventeen as the Countess of Rushland had ever met.

Verity smiled inwardly. That was probably why she liked Freddy so much. The girl reminded her of herself at the same vulnerable age. Verity had grown up, grown staid, grown careful. Mistakes, she had learned to her regret, could be costly.

Verity dabbed at the perspiration on her forehead with a lace-trimmed handkerchief. It came away smudged with dirt. “I know the wagon is awfully slow—”

“And an utter dustbucket!” Rand said, brushing at kerseymere trousers that would have appalled his valet, if that man could have been persuaded to leave the hallowed shores of England and journey to the American West. The toes of his Hessians sported a layer of fine dust. “It’s a good thing Robert can’t see me now. He’d have apoplexy.”

“You folks better stay close to the wagon,” the teamster driving the wagon warned. “There’s Injuns
hereabouts. Sioux ain’t all sittin’ on the reservation eatin’ agency beef, no sirree Bob. Chances are we’ll butt heads with some hostiles.”

“You’ve been threatening us with Indians ever since we left Cheyenne two days ago,” Freddy said. “I haven’t seen so much as an eagle feather, let alone a band of murdering savages. Just grass, grass, and more grass. I think you’re making it all up!”

“Ain’t no joke, lady. Usually don’t see Injuns till it’s too late,” the teamster said. “Show ’em, Rufus.”

The man riding shotgun for the teamster lifted his hat.

Freddy gasped. “What happened to your head?”

“Scalped,” the man said flatly.

Freddy reached up to smooth the thick bun of auburn hair gathered into a net at her nape, then snugged the brim of her Spanish leghorn hat, brushing at the jaunty golden plume that skimmed her cheek. “They wouldn’t dare touch one hair on a lady’s head!”

“Ain’t no ladies come this way much.” The teamster spat a glob of tobacco juice onto the dusty trail that led north from Cheyenne to Fort Laramie. “You ain’t safe just ’cause you’re female, if that’s what you’re thinkin’. That red hair of yourn is sure to catch some Sioux buck’s eye. He’d take your scalp same as ol’ Rufus here.”

“He’d have to catch me first!” Freddy kicked her Thoroughbred mare into a gallop, and with a shout of excitement, Rand spurred his stallion after her.

Verity barely managed to keep her dainty chestnut
mare, the best of the three Thoroughbreds she had brought all the way from England as breeding stock, from bolting after them.

“Plumb crazy,” the teamster said to no one in particular. “Giddyap there, Belle, you lazy good-for-nothing. Move it out, Henry, you dumb sonofabitch.”

Verity winced at the bullwhacker’s language, but forbore to correct him. Things were different in America. There was no social structure as she knew it. Even the lowliest bullwhacker considered himself the equal of an English lady. The fact that she was a countess, the widow of an earl, mattered not at all, only whether she had enough in her purse to pay the fare. Which, in her case, was becoming more and more questionable.