Elizabeth Thornton - [Special Branch 02] (6 page)

She was crossing to the other door when it suddenly swung open. Startled, she stumbled back and cried out when her hip struck a table.

“Gwyneth? I know it’s you.”

For one awful moment, she thought it was one of her pupil’s fathers, but he wouldn’t call her by her first name. Then he said her name again, and she recognized his voice.

“Jason?” she whispered.

“Of course. Who else?”

Tears of relief burned her eyes. Her throat felt unbearably tight. She had never been more glad to see anyone in her life. She let out a shaken sob. “I’m glad you found me.”

When he was only an arm’s length away, she sensed that he was angry. No, angry wasn’t strong enough. Livid.

She cried out when he moved and grasped her by the shoulders. “What in hell’s name are you doing here?” he demanded.

“I came to play the piano,” she cried out. “It was all a mistake. Sackville must have got his dates mixed up! You can’t think I’m here by choice?”

“Hardly.”

She swayed slightly and put a hand to her temples. “I feel dizzy. Do you think they put something in the wine?”

“It wouldn’t surprise me.” His tone softened considerably. “You’re too innocent for your own good. Haven’t you heard of Sackville and his notorious parties?”

“No. Who would tell me? I only know him as the woolly-headed guardian of one of my pupils.”

That startled a laugh out of Jason. He shook his head. “Gwyn,” he said, “ah, Gwyn.”

She was more shaken than she realized, because when he put his arms around her, she didn’t push him away. She did the opposite. She nestled closer. She felt as limp as a silk scarf. If he hadn’t been holding her, she would have slipped to the floor.

His arms around her stirred a thousand memories, some childish, others not so childish. All she knew in that moment was that it felt so right to be held by him.
Jason
, her mind whispered, and the echo of his name inside her head made her throat thicken. After she’d left Haddo, she had never wept for what might have been, not once. She came very close to weeping now.

She closed her eyes and felt herself swaying, floating, falling, but Jason’s arms were there to support
her. When she opened her eyes, she found herself in his lap, and he was slouched in one of the armchairs.

The hands that cupped her face were trembling. She looked up with a question in her eyes, but there were too many shadows to read his expression. There was a heartbeat of silence, then he kissed her.

It was time to put a stop to this, her mind told her, but in defiance of her mind, her hands slid over his shoulders and her fingers tangled in his hair. He was the only man who had ever made her ache like this, the only man she had ever wanted. But this was madness. This could only lead to disaster. Why couldn’t she push him away?

She told herself that the wine she drank had clouded her judgment. But there was more to it than that. He wanted
her
, Gwyneth. All the pain she had so carefully locked inside her seemed to drain away.

Another thought tried to force its way into her mind. She had to leave this place at once, because … because … because …

The hands that should have pushed him away drew him closer. She opened her mouth to the urging of his. When he brushed her skirts aside and his hand began a slow sweep from ankle to calf to thigh, a thread of sanity tried to intrude, but he kissed her again. Warm sensation flowed over her, filling the well of emptiness inside. She felt alive again.

She gasped when he suddenly rose and deposited her in the chair. Then he turned away and positioned himself in front of her, facing the door into the main house, feet braced as though to spring. Someone was at the door. Then the door opened and Jason’s posture relaxed.

“Oh, it’s you, Brandon,” he said.

Brandon was out of breath and it took a moment for him to answer. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere.
There must be a hundred rooms in this blasted house.”

“Looking for
me?
I can’t think why.”

“Can’t you? Why is it dark in here?”

Brandon strode to the mantelpiece and lit a candle from the embers in the grate. After he’d replaced it in its holder, he turned slowly to face Jason. “Stand aside, Jason. I want to see who you’ve invited to this private party.”

“Brandon,” said Jason, dangerously quiet, “don’t say another word. Just go away and mind your own business. I’ll take the lady home.”

Brandon ignored the threat. “It’s Gwyneth, isn’t it? You saw her on the stairs and you couldn’t believe your luck.” He made a slashing motion with one hand when Jason tried to interrupt. “Don’t try to gammon me. You’ve lusted after her half your life. It suited your purposes to think the worst of her.”

“I? Think the worst of Gwyn? Are you mad? I came to rescue her.”

“It’s all right, Jason.” Gwyn rose slowly to her feet. “I can speak for myself.”

There was a moment of hesitation, then, with a muttered oath, Jason stepped to the side, giving Brandon a clear view of Gwyn. Color was high on her cheeks, but she forced herself to look into Brandon’s eyes. She was deeply mortified to be discovered like this, especially by a cousin she had not seen in years. The usual exchange of greetings would be ludicrous in this situation. She was also confused by a conversation she didn’t understand. None of that mattered right now. Brandon had the wrong idea about Jason, and she had to put him right.

Brandon spoke first. In a curiously gentle voice, he said, “Gwyn, are you all right?”

“Of course.” She flicked a glance at Jason. He was standing with his back to the fireplace, one arm
propped on the mantelpiece. His stance was relaxed, but she sensed that his temper was on a tight leash. She looked at Brandon again. “Jason came to my rescue. I don’t know how he knew I was here. Maybe he saw me enter the house …”

Her voice trailed away as her brain made connections. She looked at Jason, then Brandon. She’d never thought to question
their
presence here. She hadn’t been thinking at all.

She drew in a sharp breath. “You’re Sackville’s guests, aren’t you? That’s why you’re here. And you think I’m a guest, too?”

Jason came away from the fireplace. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“You’re not a guest?”

“Yes, I’m a guest,” he flung at her defiantly, “but I swear it never once entered my head that you had any idea what kind of party this was.”

She felt as though a vice was squeezing her chest. She was so angry, she couldn’t think straight; she was so ashamed, she couldn’t look anyone in the eye. It was sheer pride that kept her head up and her spine straight.

She looked vaguely in Brandon’s direction. “Brandon, will you take me home? I left my coat upstairs in the music room.”

Brandon was no longer bristling with outrage. He looked miserable. “Um, of course. If you just wait here, Gwyn, I’ll get it for you.”

“No,” said Gwyn. “I prefer to wait anywhere but here.”

She left the room on Brandon’s arm.

“Bloody hell!” was all Jason said.

W
hen the door closed, Jason felt in his pocket, found a cheroot, and lit it with the candle on the mantelpiece. He couldn’t remember when he’d been so angry. If Brandon hadn’t left when he did, he would have strangled him. As for Gwyn, she was due for a good shaking.

The smoke he inhaled billowed out of his mouth like dragon fire. It was inconceivable that they could imagine it had entered his mind that Gwyn was the kind of woman who would knowingly attend one of Sackville’s orgies. It didn’t say much for his character or Gwyn’s.

The worst that could be said of him was that when he’d taken Gwyn in his arms, he’d lost his head. No, the worst that could be said of him was that he’d lost his head when Gwyn melted for him.

They weren’t themselves. They’d both ingested some kind of narcotic that had been added to the drinks.

You’ve been lusting after her half your life
.

That was a damn lie.

He’d lusted after her a long time ago, but Gwyn had eyes only for George. She’d made no secret of the fact that she was far too good for the likes of him,
Jason. So he’d dubbed her Princess Charming, just to take her down a peg or two, then he’d tumbled into bed with one pretty woman after another to erase her from his mind.

And it worked.

Except, of course, it wasn’t that simple.

His feelings for Gwyn had wavered between anger and guilt ever since she’d run off with her soldier boy shortly after George died. He’d never been sure whether she was just another fickle woman after all, or whether she couldn’t bear to live at Haddo now that he was master there, and had seized the first chance that offered her escape. If only George had lived, he’d reasoned, if only he’d saved him, none of this would have happened.

It was too late to go after her. She was already married. He had enough to do just keeping Haddo afloat. So he immersed himself in work, but sometimes, when he least expected it, a picture of her would form in his mind. Then his imagination would take over, and he would see the surrender in her eyes, feel her soft, satiny flesh beneath his fingertips, hear the little cries of arousal as he moved inside her.

And he was appalled. Gwyn was only a boyhood fancy. He’d got over her years ago. The trouble was, there were just too many cursed memories to be entirely free of her. She’d been part of the fabric of his life since he was a boy.

The legacy had brought them together again. He would never have sought her out on his own. And he couldn’t deny that he’d looked forward with anticipation to having some say in how Mrs. Gwyneth Barrie conducted her life.

But the woman he’d met that morning wasn’t the woman he’d expected to meet. Trish had kept him informed of Gwyn’s life with Nigel Barrie. Gwyn was supremely happy, Trish said. Everything had worked
out for the best. There weren’t many letters from Gwyn, but that was to be expected when she was in Portugal while her husband served with Wellington. The letters were amusing and full of anecdotes about parties and balls and riding to hounds.

He’d been caustic, of course. While he could hardly get his head out of ledgers and books, Gwyn was having the time of her life.

Then Barrie was seriously wounded at Vitoria. They returned to England and went to live with Barrie’s older brother. Once again, Gwyn landed on her feet. It was a sizable estate on the edge of the village of Lambourn in Buckinghamshire.

After that the letters slowed to a trickle, but one thing was abundantly clear. Gwyn hadn’t wanted any of her Radley relations to visit her. The excuse was that her husband was deathly ill and needed all her attention. And they’d all let it go at that.

A woman who had to support her son by giving piano lessons to other people’s children hadn’t landed on her feet. He didn’t know what to make of it, unless there had been an estrangement with Barrie’s relatives as well.

Maybe the legacy came from her husband’s side of the family. Maybe this was their way of making up for a quarrel that had made Gwyn pack her bags and start over in London. It would have to be anonymous, of course, because Gwyn was too proud for her own good. It wasn’t conceit. It was the opposite. She hated to be indebted to anyone.

He’d thought about the donor of that legacy for a long time. It couldn’t be just anyone. It had to be someone who knew both him and Gwyn, someone who either wanted to bring them together, or who trusted him to do right by her.

The logical person was himself! The thought made him smile.

But Gwyn wouldn’t want to be rescued by him, or anyone. Her son, Mark, however, must make a difference now. He didn’t think there was much Gwyn wouldn’t do for her son. She might not like it, but she would swallow her pride for Mark’s sake.

It was guilt that nagged at him, not pride. Mark was a Radley as much as a Barrie. He should have done right by him long before now. But it wasn’t too late. He was Gwyn’s trustee. He would play a part in their lives whether she liked it or not, even if he had to shake some sense into her.

Why was he always thinking of shaking her? He didn’t want to hurt Gwyn, he just wanted to make sure she was all right.

His cheroot had gone out. After lighting it again, he inhaled slowly and watched the smoke spiral in front of his face. When he’d caught sight of her on the stairs, he’d been shocked. His first thought was that Bertie Sackville had lured her here under false pretenses. His next thought was that she should have known better. But he wanted only to protect her.

He’d seen her enter the servants’ staircase and had known at once that she would make for the ground floor, so he’d turned himself around and fought his way clear of the crush till he came to the green baize door to the servants’ quarters. When he walked into that room, he was on edge, afraid of what might have happened to her. Then he’d seen her safe and sound, and all he’d wanted was to lay his hands on her and shake her for the terrors she’d made him suffer. So he’d laid his hands on her and …

Now he knew his drink had been doctored, because he was beginning to feel sorry for himself.

He was exhaling another stream of smoke when the house erupted with sound: a whistle going off, glass breaking, shouts, shrieks, and screams. He stared at the ceiling. It sounded as though an army
was on the move, or the house was on fire. Maybe excitement was just around the corner. He inhaled another draw on his cheroot and threw the stub into the grate.

The door suddenly burst open.

“Brandon?”

It wasn’t Brandon who entered but somebody else, someone Jason recognized. “Officer Rankin.” He smiled with genuine warmth. “What brings you here? Uh-oh, don’t tell me this is a raid?”

Officer Rankin lowered the truncheon he was waving about. He took a few steps into the room and squinted up at Jason. “Well, well, well,” he said. “This is just like old times. I thought you’d outgrown these capers, Mr. Radley, sir.”

“And I thought you’d be retired by now.”

Rankin chuckled. “Seems we was both wrong.”

Two other men whom Jason had never seen before crowded into the room. They were young, in their early twenties, and looked as friendly as marauding Huns. They, too, were carrying truncheons.