She shook her head.
“Nine times.” He changed the number of fingers, and Hannah noted they were steady as a rock. “Nine times I rode the train down to the City. I visited whore-houses looking for you, fearing you’d been forced into that dreadful life. In my torment, I imagined you’d become some man’s mistress.”
He would think that. “As always, my lord, you imagine me to be nothing but a lock of hair and a female form. I am more than that.”
“Oh, yes, you remind me of the dress shops! I visited thirty dress shops, Hannah. I thought that certainly you would be working in a dress shop or at a milliner’s. You weren’t. You weren’t anywhere.”
“No, I was—”
“Abroad.” He smiled, a showing of white teeth that mocked himself and his fruitless search. “Now I know. You worked as a companion for Lady Temperly, an inveterate traveler, and when she grew too ill and old, you returned to London and quietly cared for her until she died.”
“Yes.” Yes, he would know everything now. This was the Dougald she remembered—thorough, ruthless in his investigation, determined to know everything, for he always said knowledge was power.
“Then you started the Distinguished Academy of Governesses with your two friends. They married quickly, but you didn’t.” He crossed his legs and straightened the knife-sharp crease on his trousers. “Of course not, you were already married. How distressing for you.”
She hated him like this, all withering sarcasm and cold judgment. Flinging herself back into her chair, she said, “I didn’t want to marry. Once was more than enough.”
She had the satisfaction of seeing his hands spasm. Then he placed them on the arms of his chair and leaned forward, and in slow, deliberate tones, said, “Be careful what you say, my dear. There were parts of our marriage you enjoyed very much.”
Heated color rose from her toes to her forehead. But she found herself glaring into his green eyes with defiance. “Apparently, pleasure wasn’t enough for me, was it?”
“Apparently not. But it would be enough for me—now.”
4
In the measured cadence of Dougald’s speech, Hannah heard his warning and found herself pressing her spine tightly against the back of her chair. Her lips felt stiff as she said, “I do not appreciate threats.”
“Then don’t taunt me unless you wish a demonstration of my current state of carnal frustration.”
Did that mean he hadn’t been availing himself of the women on the estate? Or was it simply a threat to keep her in line? Because as a threat…it worked very well.
He concentrated on her, and she suspected that beneath his coat, his muscles were bunched, ready for action. Would he take her regardless of her protests…and how long did she think she could continue to protest? Seeing him brought back memories she had steadfastly ignored. Memories of nights when he had braced himself above her, his eyes hot with passion, his muscles rippling…
She took care to remain still, to barely breathe, until at last he relaxed back into his seat.
Then she swallowed and, intent on surviving this dreadful interview with her virtue intact, she said, “I sent the payment almost a year ago. So why…?”
“I received your money at the same time I was told of my cousin’s death. I had no choice. I came to Raeburn Castle and assumed the title, and did what I could to relieve the retainers’ distress that another lord had died in such an untimely manner.”
Now this was the Dougald she remembered, and she mocked him. “As always, duty came first.”
His dark eyebrows lowered. “Be grateful that I did not have time to come for you at once, or I would have done you a violence.”
Which, she surmised, meant he didn’t intend to do her violence tonight.
“Instead, I sent Charles to the City to watch over you.”
She went cold. “Charles spied on me?”
“Intermittently for the last ten months.”
“Ten months.” The tale grew worse.
A tap sounded on the door, and Dougald called, “Come.”
It was Charles, of course, like an evil gnome responding to his name. He carried a silver tray in his withered, rheumatic hands, not trusting his master’s food to anyone but himself. A footman hovered behind him, holding a bottle of wine and two glass goblets as if they might explode—obviously he had already been trained to fear Charles and his caustic tongue.
“Bring that table. Put it between the master and the”—Charles glanced at Hannah, his chilly gaze acknowledging her—“the lady.”
Tucking the bottle beneath his arm and both glasses in one hand, the footman leaped to obey. While Charles closed his eyes in displeasure at so gauche a behavior, the youth lugged the low, round table to the fire. He deposited the wine and the glasses on the edge, then bowed and backed away.
Charles set the tray down, and as he fussed about, uncovering the dishes, Hannah observed this man who had served the Pippard family for so many years. His limp had been acquired during the Peninsular Wars, when he’d been a wounded French soldier saved by Dougald’s grandfather. That act had secured Charles’s undying loyalty, and he held each and every proper member of the family in reverence.
But Hannah had not been a proper member of the family—or at least not by Charles’s definition. Now he stood before her, the short, stooped man who had been her judge and gaoler. The years had not been unkind, but then, he had always been ill-favored by nature. He was not noticeably older, nor was his nose any longer, nor did the skin under his chin sag with any more wrinkles. Yet his eyes still darted about, scrutinizing everything critically, identifying every imperfection and ignoring the ideal. How it must grate on him to wait upon her once more. She who had been so imperfect.
Or perhaps he relished this, seeing her reduced to caretaker. She didn’t know. She’d never understood him, and even now all she could do was wonder why he had assisted in her capture.
Perhaps it was nothing more than a just desire to see his master released from their wedding vows.
She looked into the flames.
Maybe that was why Dougald had brought her here. To secure a divorce—after he had sufficiently tormented her.
But a divorce was messy and expensive, and she couldn’t ever see Dougald giving up in so public a manner. So what did he intend to do with her?
Charles handed the covers to the footman and flipped his hand to indicate that the youth should go, which he did, scuttling away like someone who had barely escaped execution. Stepping back from the artistically arranged tray, Charles said in his nasal, French-slurred voice, “I had Cook prepare my own recipe of coq au vin with a soupçon of bread crumbs for the top. May I serve you both?”
Hannah’s stomach betrayed her with a grumble she hoped no one heard. Certainly Charles seemed oblivious as he ladled her old favorite into a large bowl, sprinkled it with bread crumbs and fresh parsley, and placed it on the table by her side. With a crack of the wrist, he placed a snowy white napkin in her lap and brought the table around in front of her. He placed the well-polished spoon close by her right hand, then hovered as she took her first bite.
What could she do? The chicken was tender, the broth well seasoned with thyme, the stew tasty with a bite of red wine and the vegetables the best to be had so early in the spring. “It’s delicious,” she murmured without quite looking him. “Thank you.”
Mouth pinched, he bowed.
“I like a woman with a good appetite,” Dougald said. “I learned very early that a woman who has an appetite for good food will have a similar appetite for…other indulgences.”
Her head jerked up, and she glared at him.
With a twist of the corkscrew, Charles popped the cork and poured her a sparkling goblet of burgundy.
She picked it up by the stem and carefully felt the edges of the cut glass. They were perfect; cut to catch the light, yet smooth to the touch of the finger. And they were real. They were now. They were not slick like a bottle of wine passed back and forth be
tween a man and a girl.
Taking a sip, she smiled, tight-lipped, at Charles. “Thank you.”
Whatever else she could say about the man, he had directed the kitchen with such tyrantlike qualities that the cooking had always been perfection. In fact, he directed the whole household that way, leaving her with nothing to do but sew a fine seam. That had been a good part of the problem. Not all of it, but much of it.
“Will you eat, also, my lord?” Charles asked. Dougald looked as if he might refuse, and Charles rushed on, “You have barely eaten today. You need sustenance, and you heard Madame say the stew is delicious.”
She saw Dougald flash Charles such a glare as would have withered a lesser man, but Charles withstood it nobly.
She didn’t even know why she said it, but the words were out before she had thought. “I would feel more comfortable if you joined me, Dougald.”
Dougald grunted, and Charles took that as assent, rushing to pull the big table closer to his master, prepare a bowl, and pour a goblet to the brim.
As Charles served him, Dougald said, “Hannah was wondering why you were so assiduous in your surveillance of her in London.”
Hannah closed her eyes. Damn Dougald for telling him that!
Yet she waited anxiously to hear the reply.
“How could I not, my lord?” In a voice devoid of interest, Charles added, “You wanted her.”
Charles, she reflected, had always best been able to put her in her place.
“That will do, Charles,” Dougald said. “I’ll ring if I need anything else.”
Charles backed out of the room as if Dougald were royalty, pausing only to adjust a flower in the arrangement by the door. Then with a final bow, he left.
The door barely shut when Hannah burst out, “Why did you tell him I thought he would lie to you about my identity? Now he has another reason to dislike me.”
Dougald raised his eyebrows. “What do you care? Charles is only a servant.”
She stared at him. It was true. Dougald had dismissed his valet politely, as had been his wont, but without the fraternal byplay she’d so often observed. Always before, they had been comrades-in-arms, men against the world, friends forever. Now Charles seemed to be…just Charles. Just a minion. “Have you had a falling-out?”
Dougald settled back in his chair, ignoring his meal. “His behavior has not always pleased me.”
“Oh.” She took another, thoughtful bite. “That doesn’t sound like Charles. I always thought he would build your railroad by hand, should you wish it.”
“No doubt he would, but he mistook his place in a very important matter and failed to redeem himself. He will not get another chance.”
Appetite gone, she put her spoon down. If Dougald were so unforgiving of Charles, what must he be thinking of doing to her? Divorce seemed almost too good for a wife who had fled and left a man to face the suspicion of murder for so many years.
Not, she reminded herself, that he had had to allow the whispers to continue. He could have told the world she’d left him…
“Why aren’t you eating?” he asked. “You’re too thin.”
“Why aren’t you eating?” she countered. “You’re too thin.”
He wasn’t, really. A man so large-boned could carry a stone more or less without noticing, but she thought that constant, grim cast to his face might soften with a bit more weight…and besides, a hungry man was an irritable man.
What he thought, she didn’t know. She couldn’t read his face anymore, but she stared back as he stared at her, challenging him with the tilt of her chin and the set of her mouth. Finally, he picked up the spoon and leaned over the table, and she realized she’d won.
She won one round. Perhaps she could win another. “Are you going to divorce me?”
He swallowed, glanced up at his long lost bride, and stared at her with the cold and still fury that marked all of his days. The mere fact she dared speak of divorce told him how utterly she misunderstood the situation. Divorce was difficult, expensive and a disgrace that followed one throughout the rest of one’s life. As lord of these estates he would not jeopardize his new position by divorcing his wife, however erring she was. But that was not the real reason.
No, his plans for her were utterly different. In a tone as indifferent as he could make it, he said, “No divorce.”
Her eyes widened. She searched his visage, frowning, worried, seeking the old Dougald, the man who had saved her from the depths of poverty, the man who had sheltered her in her youth and cherished her during their marriage.
He could have told her that man was dead, as dead as his wife was reputed to be. Killed by Hannah’s own hand. But somehow he still protected her.
She turned her attention to her bowl. She ate silently, as did he, long enough for Hannah to fill her belly and empty the bowl.
As soon as she set her spoon down, he said, “You haven’t changed. You can still eat, regardless of the situation.”
“It’s a trick I learned when I was little, and seldom knew where my next meal would come from.” Cradling the goblet in one hand, she swirled the ruby liquid and watched as the firelight sparkled in the cut glass.
Avoiding his gaze, as she had sought to do all evening. So he would taunt her with those remembrances she so desperately sought to avoid. Dear God, how long he had waited to taunt her! “My dear, I asked especially that burgundy be served, since I know you like it so well. Is it…to your liking?”
She didn’t look at him. She knew why he asked, but she clung to her pretense of ignorance like a shipwreck victim clings to the last vestige of the timbers. “The burgundy is excellent, but as I recall, your cellar was always superior.”
If he remembered how to smile, he would have. Her evasion was masterful, but he knew it was only an evasion. That day on the train had changed her from a girl into a woman, and regardless of any misplaced effort she might make at modesty, he would remind her at every opportunity.
For he could never forget.
He grabbed the young street thief by the throat and shook him like a terrier with a rat. “Where is she?”
The lad clawed at Dougald’s hands until Dougald loosened his grip. “There,” he croaked. “She ran there.”
He pointed at Liverpool’s teeming train yard, confirming Dougald’s worst fears. Young Hannah was leaving him the most direct way possible—the most dangerous way possible—on a train carrying freight to Birmingham. His betrothed was a little fool…The thief’s struggles attracted his attention, and Dougald tightened his grip again. “Did you hurt her?”
“No, sir, I swear! Dressed like a lad, she was, an’ carryin’ a sissy pocketbook. I just laughed at ’er, an’ she flung it at me!” The young thief swallowed. “No money in it, sir, but I didn’t take no grudge. I wouldn’t hurt th’ lady, sir. I wouldn’t hurt one o’ th’ touched ones.” He pointed a grubbed finger toward his forehead.
Yes, the boy thought Hannah was insane. Perhaps everyone would think her insane and avoid her. Perhaps her own impetuosity would be her salvation.
Releasing the lad, Dougald raced through the crowds of men who worked loading American cotton onto English railcars. Occasionally one would glance at him, then grin and point further into the railyard, directing him after the girl who imagined herself in disguise. Each gesture confirmed Dougald’s hope—his fear—that Hannah had not passed unnoticed. For while most of the men were hard-working, family men, some knaves would sneak away to take advantage of her plight. Dougald followed directions, hurrying, breathless, imagining the worst and fearing he would be too late. The men pointed him toward a train that puffed and chugged. Standing in the shadows, he hunted for her with his gaze as the train slowly pulled away.
And he saw her. Sitting in the open door of a car, dressed in one of his boyhood outfits, her feet swinging, her eyes wide and excited.
Beautiful, silly girl. He had sheltered her for five years, knowing she would be his one day, pleased with her intelligence, obedience, and f
emininity. Now the child had vanished, replaced by a woman whose curves no amount of schoolboy clothing could disguise. Errant strands of blonde hair dangled beside her face. A brilliant smile lifted her lips, as though the thought of escaping from him and from her obligations brought her joy.
Proof positive that she didn’t comprehend the dangers that faced a young runaway.
Breaking into a run, he raced for the back of the train. He barely caught a handhold on the last car. He hefted himself up onto the platform. Balancing on the narrow, shaking boards, he studied his predicament. Hannah’s car was the third from the end. The train was gaining speed. Metal rungs were fastened on the side of the car. He could climb up, crawl along the roof, jump between…
Standing there, he laughed aloud. He hadn’t done anything so dangerous, so impetuous, in all the years since his father’s death. These types of feats should have been performed by the much younger Dougald…he laughed again. Perhaps, after all, Hannah would prove his salvation.
The train rattled and puffed as he climbed the ladder straight up the side. The metal rungs jiggled in his palms and beneath his feet. Yet better the shaking rungs than the roof where he had no handholds…he crawled up onto the heated metal flat. The wind blew in his hair. The top of the car gave him a good view of Liverpool and the approaching countryside…and of his height about the ground.
He laughed again. Madness. This was madness.
Yet he couldn’t let Hannah go. He had held her when she cried for her mother.
He crawled along the roof of the car, right down the center. At the junction between that end car and the next, he stood and eyed the distance between them. Below, the connector rattled and shook. The rails whisked away behind him.
He’d been a wild lad, and in those days he would have considered this a lark. Now he was a respectable businessman, and he understood consequences. If he missed this jump…Taking a breath, he leaped. He landed on all fours, the metal roof shuddering beneath his weight. But he made it.