Rogue's Destiny, page 23
And, yes! Geoff was scrambling up the bank, running for the house.
They were going to make it. They were. She would not let this child die. And when she could stop hanging on, stop kicking, stop praying so desperately, she would take the time to analyze what had just happened. And why.
Jack made an effort not to limp as he walked down the gangway in Bristol, even as common sense jeered at his false pride. One look at his head swathed in bandages and his right arm in a sling, and no onlooker could doubt he’d been in a pitched battle. The Hellions had won, of course, but it hadn’t been pretty. And the whole sorry scene had left him in a sour mood. He should have known Terence had the right of it—there was no negotiating with this particular group of stubborn Irishmen.
Both bandage and sling were coming off before he reached London, Jack vowed. Even a look of I-told-you-so on Terence’s face and—
“Mr. Harding, Mr. Harding.” One of the clerks from the Bristol office came dashing up. “Message for you, sir. Urgent. I was told to give it to you as soon as you docked.”
Hell and the devil, what now? “Open it,” he ordered, not wanting to be seen scrambling to break a simple seal.
A few lines from Terence—Jack recognized the handwriting—and another folded letter inside. Keeping the second letter, the clerk handed him the message from O’Rourke, stark in its simplicity. Tarleton’s courier says the enclosed message is urgent, so I’m sending it on to you in Bristol. Take whatever time you need to attend to it. T
Jack had faced death so many times he’d lost count, but the emotions that flooded him now were worse. Victoire, Julia, Nick—what had happened? Fear, guilt, love smashed through him. For the first time in his life, his hand shook as he accepted the second letter the clerk had opened for him.
Ah, God, they were all safe, but at what cost. The children, the children. For a moment Jack feared his knees might buckle. He’d brought danger into his friends’ lives. Their children nearly drowned. As for Victoire, he’d failed his mission, left her exposed to danger, no matter how unintentionally. Hell and the devil confound it, he was a useless idiot!
He took a series of post chaises across the width of England, pushing each until the postboys were so exhausted they nearly fell off the horses. On the long journey he had far too much time to think. Each twinge from his leg, his head, his arm he considered a well-deserved sting of the lash. Fool, fool, fool! How could he have thought Victoire would be safe in Lincolnshire?
He had underestimated the Darrincotes, had not thought them up to the task of following Victoire that far, when all it took was money enough to hire the right people to keep watch around the clock. Yet his trusted outriders had sworn they were not followed. And they hadn’t been . . . it had taken the Darrincotes a while to find her. Someone astute enough to ask the right questions, perhaps examine Jack’s own background . . .
He groaned out loud. Ask the right questions in Grantley, where strangers were rare, and of course Victoire had been found.
Devil a bit, how could he have let the Darrincotes out-think him?
Which meant that one or more of them—or possibly that weasel Pilkington, Launsdale’s man of business—was far more clever than he had supposed.
By the time the last post chaise pulled up in front of The Willows at close to nine at night, Jack’s temper had rung all the changes from fear, guilt, frustration, and fury to the sneaking suspicion the other emotion pounding its way through the tumultuous mix was love. But as he strode past Peters, not bothering to shed his coat or hat, he felt only guilt, warring with fury.
Victoire glared at the fire burning so merrily in the Tarleton’s drawing room grate. Ten days of being confined to the house, ten days of agonizing guilt. Ten days of begging to be allowed to leave, to take ship for Lower Canada, never to return.
The answer? An unequivocal No! No matter that two of the Tarleton’s three children had nearly drowned—because of her. She would stay at The Willows, the Tarletons decreed, until Jack Harding returned. So here she was, going slowly mad. Her only salvation, spending long hours in the nursery with Geoffrey, Serena, and baby Andrew. Dear Geoff, who seemed to think the whole incident a grand adventure, relishing his role in bringing help as Victoire, numb with cold, struggled those last few yards to shore.
It had not been an accident, of course. Holes had been drilled in the bottom of the boat, Tarleton told her, and likely filled with some substance like salt or sugar that would gradually melt away, allowing the boat time to get into deep water before it sank. He had immediately sent a courier to London, but not a word from Mr. Harding, whom Victoire no longer thought of as “Jack.” Miserable man! To abandon her here. A prisoner . . . for all the Tarletons were the finest people she had ever known.
Enfin, what was to become of her? Tarleton had only scowled when she suggested it might be put about that she had, in truth, drowned. Which seemed a perfectly logical suggestion, for then she could go home with no one the wiser, the Darrincotes could have her money, and this whole miserable contretemps would be over.
Of course she would never see Jack again. Mr. Harding, she corrected, her glare contorting into a mask of pain. Harding, the hard-hearted leader of the Hellions. Oh, yes, that had a ring to it. Harding. Hard-hearted. Hellions. The litany rolled through her mind. He had shucked responsibility for her, leaving her here to rot. Harding, the hard-hearted Hellion. Blast him!
A great pounding on the front door brought her head around, her eyes meeting Julia’s, whose hands were paused over her embroidery frame. A visitor at nine o’clock at night? Surely not good news.
Nicholas Tarleton appeared in the doorway that led to his bookroom, where he had been studying the estate’s account books. At the moment, Victoire thought, he looked as he must have when aide-de-camp to Julia’s father, every bit the soldier ready to spring into action. Yet not at all surprised, she noted, when Jack Harding strode into the room.
“Nick, I have no words . . .” Jack wrung his friend’s hand. “Forgive me.” Abruptly turning to Julia, he dropped to his knees in front of her. “How can you ever forgive me? I never dreamed such a thing could happen. I would give my life for your children, you know that.”
“Of course we know that, Jack,” Julia murmured, taking his hands in hers. “No one could have anticipated such a heinous attack.”
“Believe her, Jack,” Nick added, laying a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “We don’t blame you. We’re just very glad all ended well. Though it appears we must now find a way out of this coil in short order.”
Jack, looking down, shook his head. “I was in Belfast or I would have been here much sooner. Again, my apologies.”
Julia reached out, lifted up his chin. “Let me look at you. Ah,” she murmured, as she scanned his cuts and bruises, “you always were a fool, Jack, never knowing when to quit. It appears you are charging about the country when you should be tucked up in your bed. And was that a limp I saw when you crossed the room?”
“Souvenirs of Belfast,” he returned, coming to his feet. “Nothing of consequence.” For the first time he looked past Julia to Victoire, who was sitting very straight and tall in her chair, her hands clenched so tightly in her lap, her bones ached. How was it possible to feel so many different emotions at the same time? she wondered. Joy, when she’d seen him enter the room. Concern, when she saw his limp. The inevitable rush of anger when she recalled his abandonment, the length of time with no word. Humiliation expanding to anger, when he had not so much as acknowledged her existence. Chagrin, when she realized he’d been in Ireland. A longing to offer sympathy, when she realized he’d been hurt.
And back to joy, warmth . . . and something more when he looked at her at last, and in that moment she knew he felt guilt for her as well. He had failed to protect her, leaving him more hurt inside than out. Of course apologies for endangering the children had to come first. But the agony he felt over nearly losing her . . . oh yes, it was there in his eyes. Along with a grim determination that should have been heartening, but wasn’t. Did he truly care about her, or was he merely agonizing over failing to keep her safe, as he had promised? Was he determined to settle this matter for her? For the sake of his friends? Or for Jack Harding’s pride?
“Miss duBois, I believe we need to talk.” His face suddenly cold and stern, Jack held out his hand.
“There’s a fire in the bookroom,” Nick offered.
“Come,” Jack said, his gaze never wavering from hers. “We settle this here and now.”
A shiver slid up her spine. Victoire ignored it. This, the moment of battle, was no time for a faint heart.
Chapter Twenty-one
Gloom enveloped them the moment Jack closed the door. Shadowed walls of books surrounded them, the scent of leather strong. The only light came from the soft glow of the fireplace and a brace of candles on Nicholas Tarleton’s desk—both at the far end of the spacious room. Victoire balked, planting her feet to the carpet. A shiver rippled up her spine. No matter how unsuitable Jack Harding was, she had allowed herself to hope. But now all hope was gone. Choice denied. For both of them. Honor allowed her but one option.
“Victoire!”
There he stood, hands on hips, glaring at her. As if she were a stubborn child and he the nanny. An image incongruous enough to unfreeze her feet and allow Jack to lead her toward the warmth of the fire and seat her in a comfortable reading chair set close to the hearth. He remained standing, folding his arms across his chest, and staring at her, his eyes accusing and not a little grim.
Silence as the storm brewed, the air between them as taut as a slingshot. If he thought towering over her would intimidate her . . .
“I thought we were friends,” he declared, “yet you look as if you’ve just swallowed a lemon.”
“I beg your pardon,” Victoire responded trifle testily, “but I fear I know what you are going to say, and I simply cannot—”
“Enlighten me,” Jack interrupted. “I should like to know what am I about to say as I have had considerable difficulty ascertaining that myself.”
Horrified, Victoire clamped her jaw tight, her gaze fixed on the carpet. Never, ever, in Jack Harding’s presence would she allow the word marriage to pass her lips.
“Victoire?”
Stubbornly refusing to look at him, she remained silent.
Jack grabbed the back of a side chair and dragged it around until it was facing her instead of the fireplace. He sat down with enough momentum Victoire could hear the thump in spite of the thickly upholstered seat. Startled, she looked up into green eyes blazing with a mix of emotions. “Play no games with me, my girl. There’s but one solution to your problems. Marriage. And unless you plan on taking Julius, I am all you’ve got.”
Fists clenched, Victoire glared at her supposed savior. “I dragged you into my problems, you know I did. I was alone, terrified, with nowhere to turn, and you saved me. There is no way I can thank you except to refuse you. You have a life that suits you, a life that would never suit me. You deserve your freedom.” When he said nothing, she added rather plaintively, “You know you do not wish to be married, Jack. And after all you have done for me, I cannot let you sacrifice yourself.”
The fire in his eyes faded, leaving the green depths merely thoughtful. “And what if you’re wrong? What if I actually want to marry you?”
“I would say you prove yourself an accomplished liar.”
“Answer my question.” His gaze never wavered.
“Then I would tell you I could not bear to be married to a man who left me for the delights of the caves of West Wycombe. Or a succession of mistresses. A man who constantly abandoned me to chase about the kingdom and who-knows-how-many foreign countries at the whim of Tobias Brockman.” Victoire fisted her hands in her lap, tilted her chin up, and waited to hear what he had to say to that.
Jack leaned back in his chair, his eyes roaming over her from head to toe. Assessing whether or not his latest acquisition was worth the sacrifice? “The caves of West Wycombe lost their allure some time ago,” he told her. “Nor am I in the habit of keeping a mistress, though if I were, I would most certainly abandon all thought of her upon my marriage. As for Brockman”—Jack’s face hardened, eyes narrowing, lips thinning—“he gave me a job when I was in danger of being hanged. To say I owe him is putting it mildly. Nonetheless, I suffer at times from the conflict of what is right for Brockman and Company and what I myself believe. Therefore, if some other opportunity should arise, I would consider it.” Jack raised his eyebrows. “Will that do, my dear?”
“Brockman must rely on you as much for your golden tongue as for your army,” Victoire returned with considerable sarcasm.
“Ah, no,” Jack purred. “It’s my friend Terence O’Rourke who has the golden tongue. I’m just a poor, tongue-tied soldier, or policeman, if you will. ’Tis all black and white with me, not a deceitful bone in my body.”
“Hah!” If she hadn’t been so exasperated, she would have laughed. “Deceitful indeed! You know you do not wish to marry me!”
“My dear girl,” Jack drawled, “you know quite well I have been attempting to get into your bed since the night we met.”
“Lust is a quite different matter,” Victoire huffed.
“Ah . . . then you claim lust is all you feel? Why not add that you’d never marry a bastard, a man who works for his daily bread, a man of violence.”
“Ja-ack . . . you know that isn’t—”
“It must be. Why else refuse me?”
A hiss from the fire broke the sudden silence. Victoire steepled her hands before her face, her mind in a whirl. “Truly,” she said at last, “I will be eternally grateful for what you have done for me, but the only honorable course is for me to return to Québec and leave everything behind. Which, necessarily, includes you.”
Jack nodded, his face wiped of all emotion. “I am beneath your touch.”
“No! Of course not.”
“You do not care for me, not even enough for a marriage of convenience.”
“Stop it! You know that’s not true.”
“Do I?” Even firelight failed to warm the ice of his eyes.
Clasping a hand over her mouth, Victoire gazed into the red-hot coals. This was absurd. Self-sacrifice went only so far. She had offered him a simple solution, yet he had not leaped at it. It seemed likely Jack Harding was as stubborn as she . . . but what if he really wanted to change? Perhaps even Granpère might have been a different person if his wife had lived. And Jack had suffered a severe setback when he lost Julia, enough to propel him into debauchery. All of which meant . . .
There might be a ray of hope in there somewhere. He had freed her sense of honor, allowing her head to follow her heart. But it was a decision she might well rue. Would the heartbreak of betrayal be worse than the heartbreak of never knowing if joy could be theirs? Never knowing if they could have what Julia and Tarleton had? Never knowing . . . love?
Victoire drew herself up, doing her best to look down her nose at Jack who, even seated, topped her by several inches. “Yours has to be the worst marriage proposal a female ever received,” she pronounced. “In fact, I do not believe there was any offer at all . . .” In time-honored female fashion, she peeped at Jack from beneath lowered lashes. Ah, but the look on his face was worth suffering all that had gone before. For a moment she almost believed he had meant every word he’d said.
Jack, quickly recovering his cool façade, gazed at her as if he suspected she had taken leave of her senses. “I learned the term ‘volte face’ many years ago, my dear girl, but never before have I seen it so aptly demonstrated.”
Victoire folded her hands in her lap. “I am waiting,” she announced. Did his lips twitch? She wasn’t sure.
Jack sat up straight in his chair, ran a hand through his already tousled dark hair. “Miss du Bois,” he declared, enunciating each syllable with care. “Will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”
Ah, Dieu! What had she done? But no, she could see her papa smiling, Grandpère as well. Even as the distant screams of the Darrincotes echoed through the night air.
“I will,” Victoire said. And felt the burn as Jack reached out, clasping her hand in his.
Glumly, Victoire stared at her reflection in the mirror. Even the lovely circlet of dried flowers and ribbons fashioned by the women of Willow Herbals did little to turn her oft-worn day gown of blue kerseymere into fashionable wedding attire. The gown drooped, positively drooped, appearing as doubtful about the wedding as Victoire herself. Yet it was the least worn of the few gowns she had brought with her, and a gown borrowed from her statuesque hostess was out of the question.
Tant pis! She was too much a Frenchwoman to be so missish. The English had an expression which covered the situation quite nicely. Needs must when the devil rides. Victoire winced. In this case the saying a bit too apt.
“It could be worse,” Julia offered, straightening one of the ribbons dangling from the circlet. “When I was married, I was kneeling on a stone floor, my gown covered in blood, much of it Nicholas’s.”
“Forgive me!” Victoire cried, clasping her new friend’s hand. “I am a beast, an ingrate, a disgrace to my family.”
“Ah, no, my dear! Every bride wishes to look her best on her wedding day. I only wished to indicate that I understand how you feel. Hasty weddings never allow us the beautiful memories we would like to take into the future. But, rest assured, you and Jack will create better memories to hold in your hearts.”
Victoire, speechless, could only stare at the great love of her betrothed’s life. How could she possibly compete with such a woman?
“Here, my dear,” said Sophie Upton, handing Victoire a bouquet straight out of the Tarleton’s garden, a bright array of tulips and daffodils, interspersed with delicate greenery.
