The Love Affair of an English Lord (8 page)

He had the indignity to laugh at her. “Of course it wasn't. Do you remember his name?”

“Whose name?”

“You've already forgotten.”

“When are you going to leave?” she asked, twisting her hands behind her back before she strangled him.

“In a day or so.”

“A day or so!” she burst out in a half shriek of horror.

He scowled. “Unless you are known to shout in your sleep, I suggest you keep your voice down. Might I borrow a blanket for the night? For propriety's sake I shall sleep in here.”

“For propriety's sake,” she muttered. As if there was even a shred of propriety in this man's life. Well, it was a good thing she had been brought up with Boscastle boys, or she might have fallen into a swoon and not recovered.

“Do you intend to sleep on the floor?” she asked.

“Unless you're offering to share your bed.”

“I wouldn't share a box with you.”

“I didn't ask you to.”

Chloe studied his inert form, uncertain what to do. “You ought to put a fresh bandage on your shoulder.”

“If you want to be helpful, stop jabbering like a maiden aunt and leave me alone.” He felt behind him on the floor with his good arm. Chloe guessed the headstrong monster did not want her to see him in pain. “I don't suppose that wild brother of yours drank any brandy during his visits?”

“I am not running a coaching inn for uncouth men, sir.”

“What the devil is this?” His composure was deteriorating; he scowled as he tugged a brass naval telescope out from beneath his backside. “Is this yours?”

“It belongs to my uncle's cousin. I borrowed it.” She hoped he could not see the guilty embarrassment in her eyes. The truth was that she and Pamela had smuggled the telescope up here to watch the woods for Devon's arrival.

And to entertain themselves by observing Stratfield's house for his notorious ghost.

“You borrowed a telescope,” he said blankly. “Why?”

“For, er, bird-watching.”

“Bird-watching?”

“That's what I said.”

He gritted his teeth. “Just go to bed. Pull the covers over your head. Please. Leave me alone to be miserable. If I'm dead in the morning, you have my permission to start screaming and pretend to faint. If I'm not dead and you tell anyone—well, I think you know what will happen, don't you?”

Chloe didn't respond to his threat. Somewhere in the last twenty minutes the situation had taken a drastic turn. He was no longer in control. She was. She could stroll out of her room and summon help. She could even tie her captor up in her stockings and humiliate him to her heart's content.

His eyes were sagging shut. He did not look well at all. She backed away from him, her hand lifting to the doorknob. Blustering brute of a man. Poor wretched beast, roaring in misery. Whether he realized it or not, she wasn't his prisoner now. He was hers.

Chapter 7

Chloe stared at the changing shadows on the ceiling until the night lightened into dawn. What
would
happen if she refused to help him? Not only to her, but to him? The possibilities, all distressing, kept her awake. While she resented his bullying and threat of blackmail, she couldn't turn her back on a peer who had suffered as he had. Even if he'd brought it on himself.

Not long ago he had been a respectable member of the human race. He'd befriended her brothers. He had rescued her from a mud puddle, and if he hadn't behaved like a perfect gentlemen that afternoon, he certainly had not acted like a desperate man who would throw a woman across a bed at gunpoint.

She sat up in that same bed. No wonder she couldn't sleep. He hadn't slept either. This she knew from peeking in on him at least a dozen times. Each time she checked, she hoped he'd disappeared, saving her from making any decisions. The sight of that large male body sprawled out on her underclothes gave her a powerful flutter in her stomach.

Part of her wanted to run downstairs like a hysterical young lady while she could. A stronger part, the part that always got her into trouble, wanted to shelter him.

Until he opened his eyes. His gaze seemed to pierce the dark. Then what Chloe felt was not straightforward or easy to control. What was it about the way he looked at her that set her on fire from the inside out?

She walked quietly to the closet and opened the door, preparing herself for anything.

“Chloe.” He beckoned her to him with a wave of his elegant hand.

She hesitated. She felt no safer obeying that summons than any normal female would have when called to the side of a wounded wolf. She didn't want to be his last meal.

“What?” she whispered from the door, staring down at his bare chest. At some point during his restless night he'd removed his shirt and thrown off the blanket that she had draped over him.

The right side of his upper torso was a tribute to the perfect male form, a lean plane delineated with well-toned muscle. But the left side, that mangle of healing flesh and scar tissue. How could one person do that to another? Had he done something horrible himself to deserve it?

He frowned. “What time is it?”

“Almost five.” She glanced at the window. “If you're hoping to leave, you had better do so in the next few minutes. Danny exercises the horses early, and—”

She broke off. The faint
clop
ping of hooves from the pasture echoed across the sleeping estate. There was no way now until nightfall that he could escape without being seen.

“What am I supposed to do with you now?” she muttered.

His mouth tightened into a grim smile as he struggled to sit up against the trunk. The telescope lay across his lap. “You can start by bringing me fresh water. Later in the day, if there is an opportunity, you can shave me and bring me all the materials I need. I've made a list.”

She started at him, aghast. “Shave you?”

“Yes, shave me. Properly, and by that I don't mean slit my throat at the first opportunity. Please close your dressing robe.”

“My—” Stricken, distracted by the heat in his eyes, she was mortified when she looked down and saw how much of her own flesh she had on display. An entire bare breast, the rim of pink nipple exposed. And by the hungry gleam in his eyes when he'd mentioned it, she ought to be grateful he was incapacitated. At least she assumed he had lost his strength. It wasn't a theory she felt brave enough to test.

“It's not that I mind,” he added in a low voice. “It's actually a pleasant sight for a man to view first thing in the morning.”

“A gentleman wouldn't have noticed.”

“Well, isn't it a good thing I left those silly pretensions buried in the grave?”

“It certainly isn't good for me,” Chloe said, frowning.

He looked her over before leaning his head back on the trunk. “Perhaps, when the times comes, you would like to stage my resurrection?”

Chloe bit back a retort. Even with her limited knowledge of injuries, she sensed he felt far worse than he would admit. On impulse she knelt and touched his forehead. As she suspected his skin was hot. Too hot.

He groaned and surprised her by turning his face into her palm. “Soft hands,” he murmured. “Have you ever hurt anyone in your life?”

Chloe thought of the countless times she had attacked her brothers with her soft hands, whacked them on the behinds with her wooden sword, made rude finger gestures with her delicate white fingers. “No,” she lied. “Not on purpose.”

He stared at her with his soulful gray eyes, glassy now, yet so intense her belly clenched. “I didn't think so. A woman with hands like yours, Lady Chloe, gives pleasure not pain. I'm glad you've decided to do as I ask.”

“I never agreed to anything of the kind.” Her expression grim, Chloe eased back onto her feet and glanced around the closet. Dominic's big sprawling body occupied half the space. The other half looked as if a full-scale orgy had taken place during the night. Muffs, shawls, gloves, and shoes were tossed willy-nilly. Her aunt would expire of shock if she saw this.

Chloe wasn't certain she would survive herself. The sooner she got her ghost back on his feet and gone, the better.

“Well, go,” he said in a grumpy voice. “Don't stand there staring at me.” Then, “Wait. Are you usually up at this hour?”

“Goodness, no. I sleep until noon, take three pots of chocolate in bed, answer love letters for another hour or two. Sometimes I have my hair dressed, or take a soak in a rose-oil bath while my maid massages my toes.”

“All that in one day? Poor thing. It must exhaust you.”

Chloe narrowed her eyes. “I daresay it is not a good idea to insult the person who has control over one's life.”

“Excellent advice,” he retorted, flashing her a rude grin. “Keep it in mind when you are tempted to betray me because if you do, I'll come back for you, soaking in rose oil or not. Now busy yourself in some other frivolous pursuit until it is safe for you to go about your affairs.”

Chloe ventured a nervous look at her window. “Safe? You don't think the killer will come after me, do you?”

“By safe,” he answered, arching his brow at her, “I mean I do not wish you to attract attention by any unusual behavior. And you might avoid taking walks in the woods or talking to any dangerous men you meet.”

Why? Chloe wondered in chagrin as she backed into the door. The most dangerous man she had ever met was hiding in her bedroom. Could a young woman have found herself in greater peril?

Chapter 8

Chloe stared at the sumptuous array of breakfast dishes on the sideboard, her stomach churning with anxiety. The smell of kippered herrings made her feel slightly ill. The bite of hot buttered toast she'd taken wedged in her throat like sawdust.

Stratfield might be hungry though; being a surly beast probably worked up a good appetite. She ought to sneak some of those sausages up to him. No. On second thought she ought to let him starve, drive him out like the wolf he was at heart. Heaven forbid she should encourage his insane behavior by feeding him buttered toast. Heaven forbid he regain any weight and grow stronger.

“Dear, dear Chloe, you have hardly eaten a crumb,” her aunt chided, expelling a dramatic sigh. “You must have heard the awful news. It has affected my appetite, too.”

Uncle Humphrey glanced at Chloe over the top of his newspaper and gave a subtle shake of his head. Presumably he was reassuring her that the awful news did not involve Devon.

“What news?” Chloe asked in a casual voice as she folded her napkin into tiny squares. In Chistlebury a chimney catching fire was liable to be viewed as an earth-shattering event.

Her aunt paused to make sure she had everyone's attention. “The Stratfield Ghost struck again last night.”

Chloe put down the mangled napkin, her heart giving a loud thump. “Oh?”

Aunt Gwendolyn nodded. “He seduced another young innocent as she slept.”

Chloe caught her uncle rolling his eyes heavenward. “Seduced—”

“Oh, for the love of God, Gwennie,” Humphrey said. “Don't fill her head with these lurid tales so early in the morning.”

Aunt Gwendolyn looked offended for a full three seconds before continuing her tale. “Rebecca Plumley was seduced last night in bed by the Stratfield Ghost,” she announced.

Chloe blinked. “Say it isn't so.”

Her aunt nodded. “There was a witness to the deed.”

“A married woman in her forties is hardly a young innocent,” Uncle Humphrey mumbled into his newspaper. “Besides, Rebecca looks like a scarecrow. I should think even a ghost would show better taste.”

Pamela grinned at Chloe over the rim of her teacup. “I wonder what her husband makes of this.”

“He is understandably mortified,” Aunt Gwendolyn said. “In fact, he was the one to witness the act.”

Humphrey lowered his newspaper in exasperation. “Are you telling us that Oswald actually
saw
the ghost having relations with his wife?”

“Well.” Gwendolyn paused again. “The ghost was apparently invisible as spirits so often are. But Oswald distinctly heard Rebecca cry out, ‘Oh, Stratfield, Stratfield! Do stop that, you daring devil! It tickles so!' And, for your information, the bedcovers flew into the air.”

A deep silence swept across the room. Through the crack in the door Chloe saw the maid come to a skidding halt in the hall; her duster was frozen in midair above the bust of Sir Francis Drake, her uncle's personal hero.

Humphrey shook his head in chagrin. “Stop repeating this hysterical nonsense, Gwennie, do you hear me? Stratfield was an honorable man in his prime when he was viciously murdered. I imagine the poor fellow is turning over in his grave at the very mention of—of tickling Rebecca Plumley.”

Chloe looked down at the table, suffering a sharp pang of guilty concern. The viscount's wounds had indeed been vicious. He might yet not survive them, and his death would indirectly be on her conscience. He really must have medicine. And sustenance. He had put her in the most precarious position. To think she had longed for some excitement to enliven her exile. Not to turn it upside down. She stared at the steam rising from her tea cup as if the wispy vapors could provide an answer. Could he really hold the key to Brandon's death? She wondered what her brothers would do in her place.

Of course, being young men with a penchant for reckless behavior, they would probably join Stratfield's crusade for revenge. A young woman hardly had that option. What would her older sister, Emma, do? Instruct the viscount in the gentle art of retaliation? Insist he knock before breaking into a lady's bedchamber?

She unfolded her napkin on her lap to catch the sausages and slice of toast she was nonchalantly sliding off her plate. “Does anyone have an idea as to who might have killed him? I should think catching him would be a priority.”

Her uncle set aside his paper. “That is the first intelligent thing anyone has said today.”

“And inappropriate.” Aunt Gwendolyn huffed. “Murder at this hour of the morning.”

No one said anything. No one was brave enough to point out that her ladyship had brought up the unnerving subject. Only after Uncle Humphrey raised the paper back to his face did he glance at Chloe to mouth, “It's all most peculiar.”

Chloe wanted very much to know what he thought, but even her liberal-minded uncle would be horrified if he discovered what she was doing.

That she had virtually spent the night with a man who was so controversial that someone had intended to stab him to death. A man so strong willed he had risen from his grave to seek revenge.

What was she to make of him? The village of Chistlebury seemed to be divided into those who revered and those who despised him. Neither camp would be surprised to discover that his “ghost” had visited Lady Chloe Boscastle in the middle of the night.

Like attracts like, they would say.

Perhaps they would even be right.

 

After breakfast, in order to avoid giving her secret away, Chloe excused herself to hide her stolen breakfast in the Chinese vase in the hall and to take a walk in the rambling garden. Without realizing it she found herself standing beneath the scene of her latest crime, her own bedchamber window. The thought of Dominic hiding inside her room sent her into a fresh panic. Prisoner or not, she had to get rid of him.

How precisely was she to bring this about? He needed help. Yet he had forbidden her to fetch a physician, and she could hardly sneak one upstairs without alerting the entire house, if not the village. She considered the wisdom of asking her uncle's advice. But to do so would risk ruining the viscount's plans for revenge, breaking her word to him. Better to get him back on his feet and out of her life.

She turned in hesitation toward the stables. Perhaps she should go to the apothecary's. But a scandalous young lady asking for a salve to treat a stab wound would definitely arouse suspicion. There was little time to waste. She had to exorcise the ghost who had taken over her life.

“Good mornin', Lady Chloe,” the undergroom said politely as he noticed her at the door. “Would you like to take an early ride today?”

Chloe stirred from her trance. The brawny young man was diligently currying Pamela's chestnut gelding. She drew a breath and remembered the angry gash the animal had received a week or so ago from kicking at the fence. The horse's hind leg had healed beautifully.

“What was that stuff you put on her leg when she got hurt, Danny?”

“A salve of herbs and oils I buy every year from the gypsies, my lady.”

She watched him a few seconds longer. “It certainly appears to have worked.”

“'Tain't nothing better. I used it myself when I got cut up in a boxfight at the fair.” He wiped his cheek with his sinewy forearm, motioning with the currycomb to the earthenware jar and green bottle on the rough shelf above. “The ointment and that tonic there'll fix about anything, I reckon.”

Chloe stared in fascination at the dark glass bottle. She wondered if she dare. Had Dominic left her with any other choice? Did the arrogant man actually believe that having escaped death once, he could continue to do so?

She waited several minutes until Danny went out into the paddock before helping herself to his gypsy cures. Her mouth was dry as she returned to the house and retrieved the hidden meal from the vase. If anyone asked why she was in possession of breakfast sausages and a disgusting Romany potion, she supposed she could say that she had found a wounded animal and wanted to save it.

It was not, after all, that far from the truth. Dominic Breckland was as wild and dangerous as any untamed animal she would ever encounter.