Captive Scoundrel Page 8

  Her first morning at Killashandra, Justin opened his eyes. Then she’d wanted to see them again. When she did, she wanted his smile, to hear his voice, his laugh.

  She’d wanted him to awaken. And he did.

  Then she wanted him to get well. And by all appearances, that wish was being granted as well.

  Now she wanted him to love her. She drew a heart in the sand, and erased it. Why could she never be satisfied? In those first weeks, had she known the progress Justin would make, she would have been the happiest of women. Which is exactly what she would be…happy…and his nurse.

  But she would never, ever, forget what they’d shared today.

  Justin would recover and she would go home. Jimmy Kennedy would come down from Oxford. He’d begged her for kisses two years ago. At Christmas, she would see if he still felt the same…if Justin recovered enough for her to leave by then.

  After a trek down the beach, Faith climbed the sloped path through shoulder-high oat grass toward the trim lawns and formal gardens of Killashandra.

  “Miss Wickham? Wait, please.” Hemsted, Vincent’s man, strode toward her. Then the cat from the library charged, making her lose her footing.

  With a shout, her pursuer caught her. She shrieked, and even after he regained his balance, Faith was so shaken, she kept her arms around his neck.

  Hemsted grinned. “I confess I wanted to get your attention, but it was not my plan to knock you off your feet.” He carried her up the path. “Though to be honest, I cannot have asked for a more fortuitous outcome.” He set her down and bowed.

  Faith couldn’t help smiling. He had an engaging manner. But she must remember to whom his loyalty belonged. “Did you want me, Mr. Hemsted?”

  He indicated the path back to the house. “Shall we?”

  She nodded and they strolled side by side.

  “I wondered how your patient is.” He shook his head. “Rather, I should say that his brother, my employer, wishes to know.”

  The sun caught his hair just so and the wind played with a gold lock tossing it against his brow and away. Though he seemed kind and easy to look upon, she must remain wary. “My patient is the same.”

  “Has he recovered from the fever? His Grace is anxious to know, as this was a first downward turn since the accident.”

  Faith grimaced inwardly. “I can imagine his agitation at the news.” Elation more like.

  “Yes,” Hemsted said soberly, hands behind his back, face to the wind.

  Faith examined his expression to see if he knew of Vincent’s malevolence, but his look appeared free of guile. Lord, she liked him.

  He stepped on uneven ground and caught himself. “Blast.” He examined the grass. “Ah. The culprit.” He retrieved and offered said culprit for her inspection.

  With a start, Faith saw the familiar amber vial. They stood beneath the elm, of course, and Justin’s window two floors above. Oh God.

  Hemsted measured its weight, tossed it up and caught it. “What could it be? I know. A fairy bottle with three wishes.”

  Faith forced a smile. “What shall we wish for, then?”

  Hemsted flashed a grin. “I would be no gentleman if I answered. And call me Max.” He unstopped the vial and sniffed. “Ugh.” In a flash he held it away. “Whatever it was, it’s gone brackish.” He dropped the cruet but pocketed the stopper.

  Faith’s heart beat so loudly, it was a wonder he didn’t hear. What had they been thinking to throw the things out the window? But her gallant said no more as he walked her to her door. “Might you be free to dine with me tonight?”

  Tonight she would be searching in the dark for evidence of Justin’s recovery, every bottle of it. “I’m sorry. My patient will need me. This was the first time I’ve wandered and I’m not likely to do so again. Thank you for your rescue and your company. Good day.”

  Faith washed and changed before returning to Justin. He slept like a babe and hadn’t even known she’d gone. She would recover the evidence and see him well. Then she would leave him.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Justin sat by the window, a book in his lap, dusk covering the world in smoky gray, Faith driving him crazy. He wanted his happy, smiling nurse back. He wanted to hear her laugh until he silenced her with his kiss. He ached to court her and wake beside her every morning, to make her cry his name in ecstasy.

  He wanted everything he could not have.

  Damn it. He did not want her. He did not want any of it.

  It mattered not, because, since he broke her heart, when couldn’t respond to her, Justin knew he would never be intimate with a woman again. Never father another child. Faith deserved better. Besides, he had no right to contemplate a future with Faith. Not when Catherine remained his wife.

  He regarded her portrait. How angry he’d been at her for having it painted. He had excluded her from the family portrait he commissioned. By her own admission, she wanted no family. Yet out of spite, she’d had her own portrait painted and hung beside him and Beth.

  Knowing its history, Vincent must have enjoyed ordering its placement here. Or, perhaps Catherine did, and he supposed this was as good a time as any to ask.

  He touched Faith’s arm, caught her attention, and removed her sewing from her lap. “Tell me. Is Catherine here at Killashandra?”

  Faith paled visibly. “No, Catherine’s not here…exactly. Are you sure you wouldn’t rather wait till another day when—”

  “What do you mean, not exactly?”

  Faith rose and poured tea. “I suppose since you’re well enough to ask the question, you must be well enough to hear the answer.”

  “If she’s not here, the answer can’t be that bad, believe me.”

  The woman who faced his demons beside him looked as if she’d like to flee.

  “Justin.” Faith took his hand. “You remember the carriage accident in which you were injured?”

  Pain shot through him. “Just say it, Faith.”

  She took a deep breath. “I shall…in a minute. Would you rather a cup of chocolate?”

  “Faith.”

  She rose and went to the bed to gaze at Catherine’s portrait above it. “She was beautiful.”

  “Not on the inside…what do you mean was?”

  “Catherine was…not as fortunate as you in that accident.”

  Justin could do nothing but stare. Faith’s words made no sense. She touched his arm. When had she approached? “When I said not here, exactly, I meant…she rests in the family vault not a quarter mile distant.” She examined his expression and shook her head. “Catherine is dead, Justin.”

  “What?”

  “I know you’re confused about the carriage accident, but Catherine was killed.”

  Justin took a shuddering breath. “That’s the one answer for which I was unprepared.” He should feel sorrow or regret—he’d fancied himself in love with Cat once.

  Faith’s worry showed. He’d been silent too long. He squeezed her hand and gave her a smile meant to reassure. “I’m all right. Just stunned. Are you sure? I mean, could you be mistaken?”

  “Vincent said she died in that carriage accident. I assumed you’d been travelling together.”

  “I don’t believe so. I wish to God I could remember. My head aches for trying. Though my memories of the accident are vague, I didn’t think Catherine could have been killed.”

  Faith tugged her hand away, her fury as clear as her worry a minute before. “How can you hear your wife is dead and remain perfectly calm? Have you no heart?”

  “None that I know of. It would serve you well to remember that, Faith. I didn’t need Catherine, and I don’t need you.”

  Justin ignored Faith’s pain. He’d needed to remind himself of her kinship to Catherine and his mother. Women. Vipers all. “I’m nearly as well as I can be. Soon enough you’ll go home and marry the squire’s son, Sir something, and have a dozen brats.”

  “Sir James Kennedy. And we plan on having six.” With that, she was gone.

 
Faith sneaked out the servants’ entrance. She must go around the house by the back, or risk being seen.

  If only she knew how many vials they threw. She’d counted the remainder today. Half a dozen. It was likely they’d thrown only three, or four. Or ten. She groaned in frustration.

  The wind off the salt-sharp sea whipped her skirts, flapping them so loud, she fancied someone must hear. She knelt under the elm, its denuded branches looking ready to snatch her in their grip. Her dress, wet through in a blink, she wandered on all fours, searching through slimy leaves for any number of pear-shaped bottles. If Hemsted or Vincent saw her….

  A high-pitched cry sat Faith up. A near shriek. Leaves rustled. Cries grew shrill. Fast. Furious. Something skittered over her knees. Faith screamed and clambered to her feet.

  A flying weight hit her, felled her. Fighting it, she stood, but it hung from her skirts for a beat, howled and ran.

  A cat, that bloody damn black cat that frightened her in the library and nearly knocked her down yesterday. Faith held her heart so it would not fall from her chest, silent sobs shaking her.

  There had been several cats. Tom cats on the prowl. Fighting over a female, no doubt. Lord. Oh, Lord. Shaking, Faith returned to her task, clinging to the ground for support, and calmed enough to return to her search. She found a break in the turf, recognized the path. She touched something, cold, wet, snatched her hand back. Reached again. She had one! She held her trophy against her, but she wasn’t finished…not by any means.

  Justin swore. The evening had been long. Lonely. Where the devil was Faith? He’d think her in danger, such fear dogged him.

  He shook it off, but trepidation tormented him until she came in at midnight. He had never been so relieved. “Sit with me,” he said, hating to show how much he missed her, unable to keep from it.

  She lifted a spoon to his lips. “Take this laudanum. It will help you sleep.” She was all business and apparently still angry.

  He opened his mouth to protest and she dosed him. Bitter liquid gagged him. He was furious and sick. “Don’t ever do that again!” he said, when he stopped heaving. “Do you hear me?”

  “All of England hears you.”

  He touched his stomach. “I’ve been dosed enough to last till my dying day, which, at this moment, I wish would come soon.”

  Faith slammed the bed stand drawer, then a window.

  He wished she’d say something, but when she didn’t, he did. “I’m a beast. A cad. A brute. An ill-tempered, ungrateful wretch. A useless—”

  She crossed her arms and raised a brow. “Yes. You are.”

  “I’m sick and it’s your fault.” He pouted and knew it, but he couldn’t stop. “I’m going to be awake all night again. How many days has it been? Never mind. It’ll be worse if I know.”

  “Will you try some Chamomile tea?”

  “I’ll try anything.” He raised a hand. “Almost anything.”

  An hour later, Justin realized the tea had relaxed him. Yet he was still awake, and Faith had fallen asleep. He touched a lone curl near his pillow. She would be angry when she woke, for she tried never to desert him when he lay wakeful. But she needed to rest, even if he couldn’t.

  She was not like Catherine. No matter how tired, she tended him without complaint. Times he couldn’t bear himself, she remained and took his abuse. Sometimes she gave as good as she got, sometimes better. At others, she was skittish as a new colt. How could he blame her? He wanted her, and it made him angry. He couldn’t have her, and it made him angry.

  Faith stood by the window staring at the blue-green sea, worried about the vials waiting to reveal their secret. Autumn shivered rusty-leafed trees and purple thistle, and for the first time in her life, Faith prayed for winter. Snow would hide the evidence, if they got lucky this winter.

  The devil slept in his chair. A good man, as Harris said. She only wished her heart did not leap when he looked at her. Daily, he improved, yet she feared one morning he would be gone. And she could not bear it.

  How cosy he looked, though with a crimp in his position. Fearing he might become stiff and sore, she decided to put him back to bed. Asleep, he would be easy to handle.

  She wheeled him to the bed, hoisted his unresisting body as Harris had taught her…and dropped him. He looked so surprised, Faith laughed down at him. “You should have relaxed.”

  “This might come as a surprise, but I’m not used to being carried by ladies. Waking from sleep to find it so, muddled me.”

  “That may be, but now how do I get you up here and into this bed?”

  Sprawled on the floor, he leaned on an elbow, head in hand. “A few years ago, I would have given my fortune to hear you say those words.”

  With the toe of her slipper, Faith tapped his elbow out from under him, but he regained his balance. Pulling on her skirts, he tugged her to the floor and kissed her. “I could pull myself along the floor to the bed. Then if…excuse me…when you lift me, there won’t be so far to go.”

  “Go ahead, but if you find it painful, stop.”

  Justin managed to get to the bed, as pleased as her by his success. He even pulled himself up by the bedpost. She helped him the rest of the way. “You must be tired after that,” she said.

  “We’ll both be tired and we’ll sleep better. Go to your own bed tonight. It’s best.”

  Looking at her hands to hide her disappointment, Faith agreed.

  “Stay first, talk to me for a while before you go.” He reached for her, but changed his mind. “Why did you believe I would die if I didn’t take that medicine? Really?”

  “That’s what his gr…what I was told when I came here.

  “Who told you that?”

  “The man who hired me.”

  “Vincent.”

  “Justin, I—”

  “I think you had better finish your sentence. His what?”

  “His grace.”

  “And his grace is….”

  “The Duke of Ainsley.”

  Justin furrowed his brows. “I thought I was the Duke of Ainsley. Yes. I’m sure of it. Explain, please.”

  “You were ill for so long—”

  “Just get it out, damn it.”

  “Your brother, Vincent, is the sixth Duke of Ainsley.”

  “But I didn’t bloody well die.”

  “Your condition was not expected to change. The House allowed him to inherit. He’s your guardian. You were in that bed a month when I arrived. You had been described as neither alive nor dead. And, Justin, that was not an exaggerated description.”

  “My tenants will be left to flounder.”

  “They have been seeking your brother, or so Mrs. Tucker says.”

  “God help them. He isn’t here, is he? No, of course not. With money at his disposal, I’d hardly expect him to rusticate.”

  “He’s in France…courting a lady.”

  Justin raised a brow. “A lady? Hardly likely.”

  “He led me to believe he planned to marry while in France.”

  “My poor tenants.” Justin threw off the covers as if he would jump from the bed, and Faith shared his frustration when he could not. “Damn it to hell. No one, matters more to Vincent than money. Lord, I wish I knew how Catherine died. She was his mistress. They might even have cared for each other. A match made in hell, you might say.” Justin laughed. Crudely, mockingly.

  Faith sat. “Your brother and your wife? No wonder you didn’t mourn her.” If Vincent loved Catherine, it didn’t show when he mentioned her death, Faith thought, and her fears trebled. “Justin, Vincent could come back any time. If he sees you’re getting well—”

  “Come here.” He pulled her down till she rested against his pillow. “I didn’t mean to distress you. No need to worry.”

  “There is every reason to worry, and well you know it.”

  “You told me that in time we’d face all of it…together. Did you mean it?”

  A few days ago, she’d vowed to leave him, but when he put it that way�
�“I meant it.”

  He took her lovingly into his arms, a possession she thrilled to, and he kissed her. Thoroughly. Dizzy thorough. She needed to hold him or lose her balance.

  He pulled the least bit away, her lips still pulsing for his, and he grinned.

  She touched her fingers to his, to hers. She had been boldly and bracingly kissed, so their lips were left warm, pulsing, hers aching for more. “That was not the kiss of a sick man!”