The Stranger She Married (12 page)

Mr. Braxton had left the country without making an offer, and Alicia's relief overshadowed any curiosity of the reason. But Colonel Westin, despite the set-down Lord Amesbury gave him at the races, had agreed to pay Uncle Willard's debts and provide a respectable dowry for Hannah in exchange for marriage to Alicia and her dowered plot of land bordering his own. No one else could afford her. Or had the desire.

Alicia made a vow to stop running away from her troubles. She would encourage Colonel Westin, and when his offer came, tell him she'd be honored to be his bride. And hope the sick feeling in her stomach would fade in time.

Hoof beats reached her ears. A stunning white horse cantered into view and rode up to the house. Alicia could not clearly see the rider from this distance, but knew Colonel Westin never rode horseback. Perhaps the visitor sought Robert or Uncle. She turned her attention to Hannah, accepted the next flower, and laid it in her basket with the others.

They spoke of inconsequential matters, enjoying each other's company while Alicia tried to shake off her melancholy. A chill breeze began, blowing in a large, dark cloud. Alicia looked up to determine if the cloud looked dark enough to threaten rain.

Hannah began humming. She seemed so content that Alicia did not wish to spoil the afternoon by suggesting they return inside merely because of a few clouds. She said nothing.

"Miss Palmer,” a male voice called.

She looked up. At that moment, the clouds parted and shone down on the most devastatingly handsome man that ever lived. She gaped at him, undone by the sheer power and masculinity of that man. His long, muscular legs brought his marvelous form toward her in space-devouring strides. Again, the graceful, predatory way he moved reminded her of a great cat. His immaculately tailored clothing included a creamy cravat, rich green frockcoat, striped waistcoat, fawn breeches, and black Hessians. He casually carried his top coat over his arm and his hat in his hand, but there was nothing casual about his purposeful stride. Sunlight shimmered off his sable hair. How could such a heartless man be encased in such beauty!

"Lord Amesbury,” she all but stammered.

She and Hannah both sank into curtseys while Alicia's heart pounded so noisily she expected Hannah to stare. The clouds darkened, covering the sun.

"Forgive me for interrupting. May we walk?” He bestowed that familiar, heart-thumping smile. Clearly, any conscience he might have possessed at birth no longer resided within him.

Alicia glanced at Hannah who could have lit up a large room with the intensity of her blush. Alicia wanted to run, to escape the unrelenting power of his magnetism. Her mouth dried and her palms grew moist, but she could hardly refuse. Fiend!

She reminded herself of her vow to stop running and drew herself up. “Of course."

The coolness of her voice brought Hannah's head up in surprise. Lord Amesbury sobered and glanced back the direction he'd come, as if second-guessing his mission. Alicia wondered if it were the first time any lady had been less than enthusiastic at the honor of spending time in his presence. Perhaps this would be good for his humility.

He solemnly offered them each an arm. He slowed his pace to match their smaller strides, and they strolled down the garden paths, commenting on the gardens, the weather, and everyone's health. He smiled down at her, his eyes almost a tangible caress. Again, gentleness shone there. Alicia wished heartily he would leave and take her swirling, chaotic emotions with him.

Finally, realizing that he would never mention the reason for his visit with Hannah next to them, she turned to her sister. “Hannah, dearest, I see O'Leary up ahead. Would you ask him when he plans to dig up the bulbs?"

Hannah blinked at the odd request, glanced at Lord Amesbury and murmured an assent. She curtsied prettily to the viscount, before trotting to the gardener out of hearing.

The look of gratitude he gave her might have softened her heart if it had come from anyone but Lord Amesbury.

"Is there something you wished to discuss, Lord Amesbury, or is this merely a social call?” Alicia could not decipher his sideways glance.

"I know it's bold of me to pry, but I must ask, whom are you considering for a husband?"

She pressed her lips together. “You're correct. You are both bold and prying."

"Please oblige me."

Alicia looked over the horizon. “Colonel Westin."

"The cretin who spoke so rudely to you at the race?"

She stared down at the ground. “I have no choice."

"Everyone has a choice."

She shook her head, trying to steady her voice. “I don't. This will save us all from debtor's prison. It's the only way."

He nodded. “I understand."

Alicia stared at him. How dare he think he understood her! A surge of anger loosened her tongue as she jerked her hand from his arm and whirled on him. “It's all your fault. If you hadn't shot my twin in that ridiculous duel in London, he would be alive and I would not be subjected to my uncle's problems."

A brief pause followed her outburst and his features settled into a puzzled frown. “I only shot him in the arm."

"He developed an infection from the wound and the surgeon had to amputate his arm at the shoulder. They gave him opium for the pain. It became an addiction. He faded further and further away. One night...” her voice caught and she tried to swallow. “One night he took too much. Whether he could no longer face life without an arm, or it was accidental, I will never know. I found him late that night...” A sob tore through the lump in her throat. “You killed him just as surely as if you had put a bullet through his heart!” Her whole body shook, and her fingernails dug into her palms.

Though she could not see him clearly through her tears, he remained motionless, without a word of defense.

"After my parents died, Armand would have inherited and I would be safe with him. But he died three months after they did and now I am at the mercy of my uncle who has ruined us!"

His voice hushed. “I'm so sorry. I truly did not know."

Alicia turned away. She began walking faster and faster until she was running back to her home. Drowning in grief, she stumbled to her room and collapsed upon her bed.

What was Lord Amesbury's game? Why did he act with kindness toward her when he was so clearly a man of depravity?

It did not matter. His handsome face harbored her brother's killer and no amount of wishing would change that truth.

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Cole heard Alicia's retreating footsteps. He felt nothing but emptiness as he stumbled to a stone bench and sank his face into his hands.

He had killed that boy.

He had killed him over a lightskirt in lady's guise who demanded he defend her honor. After all the carnage of the war, the last thing Cole wanted was more blood on his hands. For that reason, he hadn't lasted more than a year as a pirate. It was bad enough to kill in war; fighting over a bit of treasure seemed shallow, even for a hard-hearted cad like him. But like the fool he was, he'd challenge the duel and had watched, recoiling, as Armand groaned in pain, clutching a bleeding arm.

Cole went to the Palmers townhouse to inquire about his opponent. The servants told Cole that the bleeding had stopped and Armand would make a recovery. Instead, he had lost his arm. And then he had died. Alicia had watched him suffer.

And now, one of the few truly genuine ladies he had ever met was alone, doomed to marry a man who would look upon her as an object and mistreat her.

It was his fault.

Rain began to fall, gently at first, but gradually increasing in ferocity. Alone in the garden now, Cole raised up and stared into the gloom and blinked as water hit his eyes.

She hated him. He couldn't blame her.

Cole stumbled toward André, mounted, and urged the horse to a reckless gallop along the dark highway.

Alicia would marry another. He should not care. She was nothing to him.

But his actions directly affected her fate. Because of him she was alone, and that made her his responsibility. He had to act. The shame in her eyes as Colonel Westin publicly humiliated her angered him. The terror as she fled from Mr. Braxton at the ball enraged him. He had to do something to protect her. His honor, annoying thing that it was, demanded action. His heart had nothing to do with it.

He was also turning into a liar.

The only way he could save her would be to marry her himself. But she would never marry him, not even to escape a worse fate at another man's hands. If only he could find another to marry her, someone who would treat her well and protect her from harm.

He ground his teeth. The thought of another man touching her made him ill.

The rain had progressed to a howling storm by the time he got back to Uncle Andrew's house.

"Cole! Good heavens, what has happened to you?” Uncle Andrew said as Cole burst through the doors. “Go and change at once. Here, you need this.” He thrust a brandy into Cole's hand.

Cole downed it in one gulp and handed the empty glass back. He strode up stairs to endure Stephens’ ministrations.

Stephens held his tongue longer than usual as he peeled off the wet clothing and helped him dry. “Met with the devil today?"

"Yes. His name is Cole Amesbury."

"Ah. Skeletons out of the closet?"

"One I didn't know I had.” Fearing Stephens would suffer a breakdown owing to his curiosity, Cole sighed. “Remember Armand Palmer from London?"

"The insolent boy who needed a lesson in manners?"

"The same. He died."

Stephens whistled slowly. “And you just found out?"

Cole nodded glumly.

"Why wasn't there an inquiry?"

"He died from an opium addiction. After they amputated his arm. The arm I shot."

Stephens shook his head and swore like a sailor. “Incompetent English doctors. They probably just bled him and then puzzled over why his wound sickened.” He helped him into dry clothing. “Any relation to the Palmers here?"

"Alicia Palmer's twin brother."

Stephens paused. “Ooooh. The scuttlebutt among the servants’ circle is that she needs a rich husband."

"Don't they all!” Her fate wasn't his problem. Dozens of young ladies shared her predicament and he had never been tempted to rescue any of them. Thank heavens.

And yet, he killed her brother, however unwittingly, which made him responsible for her.

Cole clenched his jaw. He thought he had silenced his conscience years ago. If the war hadn't done it, his year as a pirate with his brother Jared should have. A conscience had proved a bothersome thing, and honor, even worse.

"She's an orphan, isn't she?” Stephens asked.

"Yes. So what? Another sad tale. Women love them."

Stephens remained silent, but on days like today, Cole wished his valet would give him an excuse to thrash him. Or maybe he did not need one. “Let's go box."

Stephens looked appropriately horrified. “In the mood you are in? Do you think I've suddenly gone barking mad?"

"Drop the valet guise for a few hours and fight with me like the prize pugilist you were meant to be."

Stephens considered. “Does your uncle have any gear?"

"Do we need any?"

Stephens grinned. “Don't hit me in the face. One of the cook's assistants is pretty, and she thinks I'm a handsome fellow.” With his striking Romany looks, Cole knew Stephens seldom lacked for feminine company when he desired it.

Cole snorted. “She must be near-sighted. And if I hit your face, it will be because you were too slow to block me."

They found an empty room and cleared away the furniture. After stripping down to their breeches, they began. If they were in a civilized club in London, they would have sparred in their shirt sleeves, but today they fought pirate-style in a way that tapped into the beast inside.

It soon became obvious that his former comrade-at-arms did not have his heart in it; he did not exploit obvious openings and remained mostly defensive to let Cole work through his self-recrimination. The pity tactic only fueled Cole's anger.

"Come on, don't go soft. My sister fights better than you."

Stephens humored him. His valet excelled in fisticuffs, but tonight Cole's frustration made him reckless, which made them evenly matched. By the time they were both too tired to stand, Cole felt like he'd been beaten with a tree trunk. Hurting in places he forgot he owned, he lay gasping on the floor and turned his head toward Stephens. The other man lay with his eyes closed and dabbed at his lip, not looking any better than Cole felt. Their breath sounded harsh in the quiet room.

A servant cautiously opened the door. “My Lord?"

Cole raised his head.

The footman moistened his lips nervously as he eyed them. “If you're finished, the missus would have a word with you."

Perfect. Aunt Livy's tongue lashing would hurt as bad as Stephens's fists. He should hand her a horsewhip and let her do her worst. He deserved it. He rolled over on the floor.

Stephens opened his eyes and grinned at him. “I haven't had that much fun since we left your brother's ship. It isn't everyday a valet gets to hit his master."

"Don't become too comfortable doing it."

"Shall I draw you a bath, sir?” Stephens asked in his formal, valet voice.

"Indeed."

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Alicia took the familiar path through the gardens on her favorite circuit. She stopped in the formal garden to chat with the head gardener, who likely couldn't remember whether or not he'd been paid, as he talked to and nurtured his ‘lovelies.'

Alicia wondered how peaceful the wizened man's simple life must be who gave no thought for anything other than caring for things that grew. Did he have hopes, fears, regrets? Did anyone alive not have those?

He turned back to his ‘lovelies’ and promptly forgot her. She moved on to the herb garden laid out in an order only cook would understand. Its smells of rosemary, sage, thyme, onions and other herbs made her think of savory dinners. She passed the stables which now only housed one horse, but still carried the sweet, musty smell of a full stable of horses.