When the Earl of Deverill leaves London to return to his
family home in Yorkshire, he becomes very ill and stops at
an inn. As he lay dying, the innkeeper sends James Elliot
to attend him. Just as the Earl draws his last breath, he
begs James to return a jewel case to his wife. He tells
James that hidden within the jewel case is his legacy to his
wife and a treasure beyond price. James Elliot is a vicious
evil man and he plans to keep the jewel case for himself.
When James takes the case home and shows his wife Justine,
she makes plans of her own to keep it.
Heather Duval is the beautiful orphaned ward of the Earl of
Stonehurst. Her adoptive parents always told Heather that
she might not be the daughter from their bodies but she has
always been the daughter of their heart. She has grown up
believing that her parents were friends of the Earl and that
they were on their way to visit him when their deadly
carriage accident occurred. Although Heather has a lame
leg, the damage was not the result of the carriage accident.
Heather's real "last" name is Elliot. And, James Elliot is
her father. He has just been released from prison after
serving twenty years for killing two men in a bar fight and
his one goal in life is to find the jewel case. James goes
to the home of the new Earl of Deverill, Giles Treymayne to
recover the case but when Giles has no idea what he is
talking about he kills Giles in a fit of rage.
Damien Treymayne has promised to kill the man who murdered
his brother. Through a private investigator, he learns
about James Elliot and Heather. Damien plans to get close
to her to find out what she knows about her father and use
her to find him.
EVERY WISH FUFILLED was originally published in 1997 and was
the sequel to Ms. James Anthology Married at Midnight,
Scandals Bride. I read this book when it first came out
and loved it then. When I received it to review I thought,
great, I will skim through it to refresh my memory and get
the review done quickly. After reading the prologue -- I
was hooked and had to re-read every word. The love story
between Heather and Damien is so heart warming it makes you
believe that love can conqueror all. Ms. James has written
Heather as a strong woman who runs her own estate and does
not let her disability control her life. The book was even
better the second time around. There are times that you
want to take Damien by the neck and shake him for being an
idiot and causing Heather pain. She has endured more in her
short life than most people have had to endure in a lifetime
and he doesn't have the right to hurt her more. In the end,
Damien redeems himself.
Ms. James makes you feel the abuse that Heather suffered
because of James Elliot. I wish she would have expanded the
confrontation between them even more. It would have done my
heart good to see Heather slap the spit out of Elliot. She
also never explained why Elliot resented Heather's birth so
much. Heather's relationship with Justine was also unclear
-- Justine cared nothing for Heather, yet when she left, she
took Heather with her but she never protected Heather from
Elliot's abuse.
These issues aside, if you want to curl up with a good book
on a cold day this is the one!
Damien Tremayne, earl of Deverell, has sworn he'll find—and
avenge—his brother's murderer. Never does he plan on
falling in love with the fiend's daughter. Damien Tremayne,
earl of Deverell, has sworn he'll find—and avenge—his
brother's murderer. Never does he plan on falling in love
with the fiend's daughter. Heather Duval knows Damien
harbors a secret, a secret that could destroy her life—and
their love—forever. knows Damien harbors a secret, a secret
that could destroy her life—and their love—forever.
Excerpt
PROLOGUEThe Outskirts of London, 1815, Hawksgrove Inn
Little by little the haze of twilight seeped between the
shutters. The gloom of darkness floated into the room ...
along with the twisting specter of death.
A man lay feeble and spent within the inn's finest bed--
Charles Tremayne, Earl of Deverell, his long, noble fingers
curled around the silk counterpane. Once Charles Tremayne
had been hearty and robust, the stoutest of men. But
infection had ravaged his lungs; his illness had stolen his
strength, weakened his muscles to mush, leaving but a
remnant of all he'd been before. And now what breath
remained in his body rattled like that of a sickly old man.
From the corner, a hovering figure surveyed the Earl of
Deverell. James Elliot watched with impassive indifference,
his legs stretched out before him, arms across a beefy
chest. A restless impatience dwelled deep in his eyes; his
mouth thinned. Die, he willed venomously of the earl. Hurry
and die, man. He was sorely tempted to snatch up a pillow,
smother the wretch and put him out of his misery, for he
was anxious to get home to his supper--not that a surfeit
of comfort awaited him in that sliver of a cottage he
called home. But at least he was his own man. Master of his
house and all he surveyed.
And he gave the orders there.
Across from him, Charles Tremayne raised his head. "James,"
came his raspy whisper. "You have been good to me, James."
Good to him? James Elliot scoffed. He'd done what he'd been
told to do--take care of the man during his illness. He'd
dribbled gruel into the earl's mouth and mopped his chin.
He'd fetched and emptied smelly chamber pots countless
times over the last fortnight. Indeed, James thought
blackly, Henry Foster, the innkeeper, would have his hide--
and his job--if he hadn't done what he was told.
For an instant sheer malice flamed in James Elliot's eyes.
Lord, but he'd like to kick Foster's fat, waddling arse
down the nearest stairway.
But he bore the burden of a wife, and--more the pity--a
daughter.
His daughter. His mouth flattened as he thought of her.
Sniveling little nuisance. 'Twas because of her he'd lost
his left thumb--and 'twas a moment forever burned into his
memory.
He'd been on his knees chopping kindling in the fall of
last year; the brat had come up beside him and pushed at
his arm. That was all it had taken ... A howl of rage and
pain erupted from his mouth. He'd seized a stump of wood
and whirled on her. The little bitch! She had maimed him ...
And now she was maimed, too, he thought with satisfaction.
"James. Come closer, James."
Elliot clamped back a vehement refusal. Instead he arose
and did as he was bade.
"The date, James. What is the date?"
"The eleventh of March, my lord."
Charles Tremayne rolled his head on the pillow. "I've been
here nearly a fortnight. I was to have returned home by mid-
month." A wispy sigh escaped lips that were dried and
cracked. "The physician was right. I should have sent for
my wife, my Sylvia. But I thought this stubborn infection
would pass, that I would soon be well and on my way home to
my family in Yorkshire. Never did I dream it would worsen
so quickly... I was too stubborn, for never again will I
see my boys, Giles and Damien. Never again will I hold my
sweet wife in my arms." His eyes filled with tears. "I see
it now, now that it is too late ... "
James Elliot rolled his eyes and sneered. How long must he
be subjected to the prattling of this dratted man?
The earl coughed, a shivering, wracking sound that seemed
to encompass his whole body. Long moments passed before he
was able to speak again.
"You have taken good care of me, James. My Sylvia will
reward you for your efforts, I promise. But now I must ask
more favors of you, for I have no one else to turn to, no
one but you." The earl raised a trembling hand toward the
bureau. "There alongside the bureau, James. There is a
cloth sack. Look inside, and in it you will find a jewel
case."
Elliot swiveled his head to his left. With narrowed eyes he
peered through the shadows. There was indeed a small cloth
sack tipped against the side of the bureau. He did as the
earl bade him, withdrawing a long silver case.
"This is it? This is the jewel case?"
"Yes, that's it, James." The earl's voice thinned. "James,
I shall never see the dawn of another day. But I must ask
you to take the jewel case to my wife Sylvia in Yorkshire.
The coin within will pay for your journey, though I regret
it will take some days. I beg of you, please do this for
me, for hidden within the case is my legacy to my wife, a
treasure I pray she will find beyond price ... She will
know how to find it, for she alone knows the secret ..."
Those were the Earl of Deverell's last words.
The man in the bed was forgotten. For a never-ending moment
James stared at the silver jewel case, his mind buzzing.
With a reverent fingertip he traced the scrolled silver
edging upon the lid of the case, yet his expression could
only be called greedy. There was a word engraved into a
small oval in the center of the lid; having never learned
to read, it meant little to him.
His cruel lips pulled into a wolfish smile. He erupted into
laughter, a cackling sound that--had another been present--
might have raised the very hackles of their spine.
"'Tis so easy," he said between bursts of mirth. "So bloody
easy ... "
He felt no pity for the man who had just died, nor his
widow nor family. No shame for what he was about to do.
For James Elliot was a man without pity. A man without
shame.
A man without scruples.
An hour later he burst into a tiny cottage that squatted
alongside a rutted, muddy lane. His wife Justine glanced up
from where she sat before the warmth of a meager fire. She
rose, tugging a dirty shawl around her shoulders.
"What kept you?" she snapped. "Your supper is fair burned
and no doubt you'll blame me. Well, 'tis your own fault if
you go hungry this night, James Elliot, for I'll be damned
if I'll trouble myself further!"
Elliot's feral smile displayed a row of uneven, yellow
teeth. "Supper be damned," he said baldly. In his hands he
held a cloth sack; now he raised it high. "We'll be
feasting by the end of tomorrow, or my name is not James
Elliot."
Justine had squared her hands against her hips and braced
herself as if for battle, as if she expected such from her
husband. At his words, she looked him up and down, as if
her ears had deceived her. Her eyes narrowed.
"What is this?" she asked snidely. "Feasting on the
pittance you make? Or have you been out hunting instead of
working, James Elliot?"
In answer he pulled out the silver jewel case, holding it
up triumphantly.
Justine's expression changed abruptly as he sat it upon a
crooked-legged table. A small, black-haired child had
toddled up as well, next to her father's leg. Curiously she
stretched out a tiny finger toward the smooth metal.
Her father whirled on her. "Don't touch that, brat!" he
snarled. With the back of his hand, he dealt her a blow
across her cheek that sent her tumbling to the floor. Her
lips trembled, but she made not a sound.
Elliot glared at his daughter. Loathsome little bitch! he
thought furiously. God, but he wished the brat had never
been born!
Justine paid little heed. "Find your bed," she ordered
brusquely, "and don't come out till morning."
The child crawled to a straw pallet in the corner.
Shivering, she curled into a tight little ball.
Both mother and father had forgotten her. Justine nodded at
the box. "That's a fine piece, indeed, James. How did you
come by it?"
"You know the earl I've been tending? Let us just say that
I relieved him of his belongings just a little early."
Elliot grinned his satisfaction at his cleverness. "'Tis a
jewel case."
Justine came alive. "A jewel case!" She scrambled to open
it, only to see that in the top layer compartments were
empty, and those beneath as well. She spun around in
furious dismay. "Why, you lout, 'tis empty!"
Elliot clamped his jaw together. "Watch your tongue," he
warned tightly.
Justine looked as if she longed to argue. She must have
decided against it, for she said grudgingly, "Well, no
matter. It'll fetch a good price, I suppose."
"Oh, we'll not be selling it." Elliot's tone was smug. "Not
just yet anyway."
Justine's sunken eyes blazed. "And why not? 'Tis not
terribly fancy--I'd have expected a jewel-encrusted box of
an earl--but 'tis no doubt worth half a year's earnings at
least!"
Elliot's smile vanished. "If you'd stop your whining, I'd
tell you why. Here is what the earl said before he
died. 'Hidden within is my legacy,'" he quoted, "'a
treasure beyond price."
Justine stared first at him, then the case. "What," she
said blankly. "You mean there is a treasure hidden inside?"
"I mean exactly that!"
"What do you think it is? Gold? Jewels?" She could scarcely
contain her excitement.
Elliot's eyes shone. "What does it matter? 'Tis a treasure
beyond price! Oh, what plans I have for that treasure!" He
gloated. "We'll be rich, Justine. Just think of it. We'll
be rich!"
Her eyes flew wide. "Oh," she breathed. "Oh, my."
"Oh, my, indeed." Elliot gave a guttural laugh. When his
wife stretched out covetous arms toward the jewel case, her
intention obvious, he grabbed her hands. "No. Time enough
to find it later," he growled. He yanked her body against
his. "For now I've something else in mind."
Justine obliged him, tugging his head down to hers. "Ah,"
she murmured. "You've not had your supper yet, have you?"
Elliot ground the bulge in his breeches against her
hips. "To the devil with supper," he muttered. "I've a
hunger of a different sort."
But all at once Justine stepped away. "Wait," she
commanded. From a cupboard across the room, she reached far
inside and retrieved a dark, dusty bottle. When it was
opened, she splashed the ruby liquid into a dingy mug.
Smiling, she returned to her husband and held it out.
Elliot curled his fingers around the mug, his left thumb
but a stub against the dull metal. His humor was well
restored. "So you've been hidin' it from me, eh? A pity,
wife, for now I'll have it all for myself." He pressed wet
lips against the rim of the mug and drank gustily.
Justine surveyed him lazily as he downed most of the
bottle. But just before he would have drained the last
dregs from the mug, she reached for it.
Two of her fingers slipped into the mug, dipping into the
liquid. Parting the front of her gown, she bared naked,
jutting breasts. Her eyes never leaving his burning gaze,
she swirled the tips of her fingers around and around huge
brown nipples, leaving them dark and wet with wine.
A seductive smile curved her lips. "Your supper, James,"
she purred.
Elliot bared his teeth. A coarse oath escaped. His hand
fumbled with his breeches. He released his manhood into his
hand even as he reached for his wife.
In seconds she lay flattened beneath him on their lumpy
mattress. His mouth ravaged hers fiercely. With a grunt he
plunged savagely into her body.
The air was filled with noisy snores when Justine eased
herself from beneath his weight. Naked, she walked toward
the silver jewel case. She spared nary a glance toward her
child sleeping in the corner, her thin cheeks streaked with
tears.
She rubbed a hand across the smooth metal. So James had
plans for his newfound treasure, did he?
A sly smile crept across her lips. Ah, but so did she.
By morning she was gone, the jewel case--and the little
girl--along with her.
James Elliot fell into a rage that lasted days. In his cups
one night, he destroyed the inside of a tavern and killed
two men who tried to stop him.
Little wonder he was sentenced to twenty years in Newgate.
As for Justine, poor soul, she did not live beyond a
fortnight. So it was that the poor little mite who was
their daughter was left with neither father nor mother.
Many would have said 'twas a blessing indeed.
But alas, in time ... in time destiny would twine their
fates together anew ...
Father and daughter had not seen the last of each other.
Chapter 1Lancashire, Twenty Years Later
He wished he could say it was good to be back in England.
Nearly four years had passed since his last visit. Of
course he'd expected to return. Indeed, he'd been on his
way back ...
Never in his life had he expected to find his brother dead.
His wrath rose within him like a cloud of blackest rage.
The very curses of hell swirled within him, fighting to be
free. No, he thought. Not just dead ...
Murdered.
High atop a glossy black steed, Damien Lewis Tremayne moved
not a muscle. 'Twas as if both man and steed were carved in
stone. Yet even as a wracking pain squeezed his heart, he
was bled with a weary despair. He stared across the distant
valley, but one thought crowding his mind ... his very
being.
He was the last of the Tremaynes.
First his father, he thought bitterly, gone those many
years ago. His mother had followed but a few short years
thereafter. And now Giles ...
His heart squeezed. It was a vibrant spring morning--warm
for the month of April--rich with the colors of life. The
sky was a vivid, endless expanse of blue. Across the
meadow, masses of buttercup yellow daffodils crowned the
slope, like a sea of golden sunshine. The air was sweet
with the scent of country air and morning dew ... But if
the cold of winter ran in his veins, the darkest shadows of
night dwelled in his expression. And it was the blazing
winds of a tempest that fired his soul.
It was to him--to Damien Lewis Tremayne--that the
responsibility fell ... no, not as the new Earl of Deverell-
-but as the brother of a man who died violently, for no
reason, at the hands of another...
He would find his brother's murderer.
And he would see Giles' death avenged, for he must not fail.
He would not fail.
It was as that very resolve crossed his mind that at last
he turned his mount to ride away. 'Twas then that he saw
her--a woman watching him from beneath the shade of a
gnarled oak tree. She was seated upon a coverlet spread
upon the ground, her legs tucked beneath her skirts. In one
arm a large sketch pad lay propped; in her hand was a piece
of charcoal.
Their eyes caught. As she realized she'd been discovered,
her hand stilled. She hugged the pad to her breast,
somewhat guiltily, he decided.
Damien approached. He stopped within several paces of her,
then dismounted and crossed to her. The girl remained where
she was, the slender column of her neck arching as she
watched him come to a halt. Her wide, unwavering regard
made him feel as if he were the very devil himself come to
life. Why he should cause such a reaction, he didn't know.
Though he was well aware he was taller than many a man, he
was garbed in a loose, white shirt, dark breeches and boots-
-surely such a picture as he presented should not frighten
the chit.
"Hello," he murmured.
Her lips parted. For an instant he thought she would refuse
to speak. But speak she did, in a low, musical voice that
made him realize she was not frightened at all, perhaps
merely wary.
"Good morning, sir."
One corner of his mouth tipped upward. He sought to further
put her at ease. "I couldn't help but notice you watching
me. Were you sketching me?"
There was just the slightest hesitation before she
replied. "Yes. Yes, I was. I do hope you don't mind."
"Not at all," he returned smoothly. He dropped down to his
haunches. "May I see?"
She hesitated, her distress obvious--her reticence even
more so--but finally she relinquished the drawing.
Damien studied it. Though it was not yet finished, with
bold, stark lines she had managed to capture every facet of
his dark mood--his rage, his utter bleakness.
He disliked it. He disliked it intensely.
Slowly his gaze returned to her. "I should very much like
to have it." He wasted no time conveying his wishes.
"Oh, but such a hastily done piece is hardly worth
keeping." With a shake of her head, she objected just as
staunchly. "I should be embarrassed to part with such a
mediocre effort."
He remained pleasant, but adamant. "On the contrary, miss.
It's really quite good, and I wish to have it. The price is
of no consequence."
"Oh, but it's not money I'm interested in, sir. 'Tis-'tis
simply not for sale."
A fleeting solution buzzed through his mind. He considered
keeping it, withholding it from her, for he was not a man
to display his emotions for all and sundry to see; it was
as if this girl had glimpsed a part of him he would far
rather keep hidden. He felt--oh, as if he'd been caught in
some illicit act.
From the corner of his eye he saw a small cart and pony
grazing nearby. It would be simple indeed to whirl and
mount his stallion, then ride off; if he were on horseback,
she would never catch him.
One dark brow arched. "You're very modest," he observed.
Small white teeth caught the fullness of her lower
lip. "Modest?" she repeated, her tone light. "Nay, sir,
simply honest. 'Twould be robbery were you to part with
money for this piece--and it not yet finished!"
Damien struggled for patience. Why was she being so
stubborn? For the first time then he looked at her ...
really looked at her.
Her beauty was like a blow to the belly.
She was exquisite, though in a quite unfashionable way. Her
gown was rather faded and old, the laces of the bodice
undone against the heat; the rounded neckline revealed
smooth, unblemished skin that had acquired a light tan.
Clearly she was not a London miss who never faced daylight
without bonnet or parasol. Nor was her hair a riot of
curls, as was the current vogue. It tumbled down her back,
sleek and straight, so dark it was almost black. Her feet
were bare, small, pink toes peeping out from the hem of her
dress, reminding him of a gypsy.
But it was her eyes which held him spellbound, and his own
narrowed in unguarded appreciation. In all his days he'd
never seen eyes the color of these. They were
extraordinary, their hue of deepest violet-blue.
The color of heather in full, vibrant bloom ...
Who was she? he wondered. A girl from the village? And
where had she learned to sketch so well? A natural talent?
Surely it was so, he mused. But she was well spoken.
Perhaps she was a maid at Lockhaven Park, whose owner he
was to visit that very afternoon. At the thought, something
knotted within him. He was not looking forward to his
meeting with Miss Heather Duval, mistress of Lockhaven. He
had a very good idea what he would encounter--a shrewish,
calculating virago whose looks would undoubtedly match her
disposition. No wonder the chit had yet to find a husband.
Ruthlessly he pushed the thought aside. He would much
rather not think about Heather Duval. Indeed, what he
wanted was to take this vision of loveliness back to his
room at the inn and make love to her until the very instant
he had to leave.
Ah, yes, he thought, feeling desire stir his loins and
tighten his middle. If this lass were willing, he would
strip away every last stitch of clothing from her, bury his
heartache--and his hardness--in the depths of her body.
Indeed, he could think of no better way to banish the
darkness from his heart.
"Do you have a name, lass?"
Again that hesitation, as she surveyed him from beneath the
cast of long, thick lashes. "Alice," she murmured at
last. "Well, Alice, are you certain I cannot convince you
to part with it?" In truth, the sketch no longer mattered.
Oddly, he found himself reluctant to leave. He even wished
she would invite him to stay and sit with her.
A hint of rose had come to her cheeks. "I think not, sir,"
she said softly.
"Then it seems I have no choice."
He returned it to her, dimly speculating that she would be
small in stature, for her shoulders were narrow, her waist
slim, her hands scarcely larger than a child's. He wished
she would rise, for he had a sudden urge to see her move.
She would be all lithe, perfect grace as she walked--and he
could almost feel her beneath him in passion's dance, her
limbs slim and curved and wildly erotic.
As if to tempt him further, a sudden breeze arose, molding
her gown to her body, revealing the thrust of firm, young
breasts.
Her color deepened as she discerned his gaze on her bosom.
Her free hand fluttered upward as she sought to shield
herself from his perusal.
"Come now, Alice. There's no need to hide such loveliness."
She was clearly distressed, though for the life of him,
Damien could not imagine why. Surely he was not the first
man to pay her such attention. "You, sir," she said
breathlessly, "are quite forward."
And alas, he was quite regretful, for he was not a man to
shower his attentions where they were not wanted.
He smiled slightly. "Perhaps," he agreed. "But I shall
trouble you no further, Alice, and I shall bid you good
day. 'Tis my hope we'll meet again, and perhaps you will
let me make amends."
He rose, and with a low bow, he left her. It was but a
short ride back to the Eppingstone Inn, where he'd taken
lodgings. Built of brick and timber and stone a hundred
years earlier, the inn was a resting place for travelers, a
gathering place for villagers who sought respite from their
drudgery in the idle hours of the evening. Wide, rough-hewn
planks covered the floors, pitted and gouged and showing
the signs of many a guest and many a year. The smell of ale
lingered in the air, even in morning's earliest hours, yet
it was not unpleasant, for it mingled with the scent of
meats roasting in the kitchen.
A fire blazed in the huge stone fireplace in the common
room; the trestled tables placed adjacent to its warmth
were deserted as Damien strode toward his room on the
second floor. He was glad, for he was suddenly in the mood
to talk to no one. Still, a peculiar restlessness plagued
him throughout the next few hours.
He couldn't put her out of his mind--Alice, the girl with
the violet eyes. She possessed a sweet, bewitching beauty,
a beauty that lured and enticed him in a way he'd not felt
for a long, long time. He was sorely tempted to leave, to
go out and search until he found her ...
"Enough!" Cursing himself roundly, he vaulted off the bed
and snatched up his coat. He was here for a reason--and it
was not to bed a wench named Alice, comely as she was. It
was time, he reminded himself blackly, to get to the
business at hand.
The business of catching a murderer.
Indeed, it was this very vow which had brought him to
Lancashire ... which hardened his mouth and stiffened his
shoulders. His feet fell like blows as he descended the
smooth, worn steps of the narrow staircase.
"Goin' out, Mr. Lewis?"
The voice came from the corner of the common room. Damien
glanced up and saw the innkeeper, Mr. Simpson, polishing
silver at one of the tables. He tipped his hat to the
portly bewhiskered gentleman, leashing his impatience.
"Indeed, I am, Mr. Simpson. I am meeting Miss Heather Duval
at Lockhaven Park this afternoon to speak with her about
filling the position of estate manager."
"Ah, yes. Robin passed on quite suddenly, y'know."
A pity, that--but also a stroke of luck. It was Cameron,
the investigator Damien had hired to help him find Giles'
murderer, who had learned the Lockhaven estate manager had
passed away, and Heather Duval was anxious to find a
replacement. Damien had seized on the opportunity as
heavensent and dispatched a note to her immediately. Should
he secure the position, he would have the perfect
opportunity to quietly observe Miss Heather Duval ... and
thus await his quarry.
He tipped his head slightly. "So I'm told," he murmured. "A
pity, his death, but I confess, I'm eager to stay on in
Lancashire."
Mr. Simpson's head bobbed up and down. "The Lord's pocket,
m'wife calls it." He laid down a serving fork. "You'll find
no better woman than Miss Heather. She's fair and always
does well by her people. Why, a veritable saint, m'wife
calls her. But that's little wonder, considering she was
raised by the Earl and Countess of Stonehurst. The earl
took her in after the carriage accident that killed her
parents, y'know."
Damien nodded. Cameron had told him that was the story
everyone believed--but it was not true. No, the man with
the woman in the carriage was not her husband--nor the
father of the girl ...
For the husband still lived, blast his rotten, dirty soul!
A fleeting shadow crossed Mr. Simpson's features. He
sighed. "'Tis really such a shame ... " His voice trailed
off and he shook his head.
Everything inside Damien seemed to stand at attention. He
waited for Mr. Simpson to say more, but the old man did
not. He caught his pocket watch in hand, and glanced at
it. "Well," he said lightly, "I'd best be off. It wouldn't
do to be late."
"Good luck," Mr. Simpson called after him.
Outside, he mounted Zeus, a towering black that had been
Giles's favorite mount ... There was a faint catch in his
heart. God, but he would give anything--anything!--if Giles
were still alive ...
His mood darkened, like a black cloud across the moon.
Faces flashed before him as he guided Zeus down the narrow
lane that wound through the village. The glances cast his
way were curious, yet not unfriendly. He passed two dark-
haired woman selling baskets at a market stand; the pair
were engaged in vivacious discussion, interspersed with
laughter.
He envied them their carefreeness.
Outside the milliner's cottage, two young boys wrestled in
the dirt, rolling wildly. Damien couldn't help but remember
how he and Giles had often indulged in such play, rough and
tumbling and reckless. As children, they had been nearly
inseparable, for scarcely more than a year separated them
in age. They had shared the same bed chamber. Bedeviled
their tutor and plotted antics far into the night.
Whispered of grand, future plans when at last they left
their youth behind.
The glimmer of a smile curved Damien's lips, even as a pang
shot through him. Giles had often boasted how he would
someday be the illustrious captain of a vast seagoing
vessel with a crew of a hundred men, charting his course
across the seas and making a name for himself in the far-
reaching ports of the world. As for himself, he had been no
less daring and grandiose. He had dreamed of acquiring fame
and fortune, of building an empire of land and wealth the
likes of which no man had ever seen...
But they were the dreams of children, for nothing had
turned out as planned ... Both father and mother had died,
and their care was given over to their mother's sister
Gertrude; it was under Aunt Gertrude's guidance that he and
Giles had grown to manhood. So it was that with their
father's death, Giles's dreams had ended, for he was the
new Earl of Deverell. Instead he--Damien--was the one who
had sailed the seas while Giles went off to Cambridge; he
had traveled to America and left the business of the
earldom in the hands of his elder brother Giles.
His mouth a grim, straight line, Damien spurred his mount
onward. He ducked beneath the low-slung branch of an oak
tree, then veered around the bottom of a grassy knoll. His
jaw was clenched tight, as if to do battle. Indeed, he had
to remind himself his battle was not with Miss Heather
Duval ...
She was but the means to her father.
It was then that Lockhaven Park came into view. Without
realizing it, Damien reined in his mount and came to a
halt. As he'd been when he'd first seen it, he couldn't
help but admire such an impressive sight. Towering, stately
trees paved the lane that swept in a wide half-circle
toward the manor house. Green verdant lawn surrounded the
house in every direction. With a red brick facade and
gleaming white portico, the house itself was simple yet
aristocratic. Indeed, he reflected almost reluctantly,
Lockhaven reminded him more than a little of Bayberry, his
home in Virginia.
With a touch of his heel, once again he urged Zeus forward.
Within a few short minutes, he stood before the huge double
doors. An ornately carved brass knocker in hand, he rapped
sharply on the paneled facade.
The sound of footsteps echoed within. A stoop-shouldered
butler opened the door wide; there was an air of shabby
capability about him as he fixed inquiring eyes upon the
visitor.
"May I help you, sir?"
"You may indeed." Damien's tone was brisk. "I am Damien
Lewis. I have an appointment to see Miss Heather Duval."
"Ah, yes, Mr. Lewis." The butler's gaze swept the length of
him as he spoke. He must have passed muster, for the
butler's lined face relaxed into a warm smile. "Miss
Heather is expecting you. Please, come in."
Damien stepped into the foyer. The butler closed the
portal, then gestured down a long corridor. "I am Marcus,
by the way. Please, follow me. Miss Heather is in her
study."
Damien fell into step beside him, slowing his stride to
match that of the elderly man beside him. They passed the
drawing room and the music room; he caught a glimpse of
glossy floors, tall paneled walls lined with windows, awash
with sunlight and filled with soft, inviting divans and
chairs. Some strange emotion seized hold of him, something
that bordered on anger, for he was reminded once again of
Bayberry--yet he didn't want to like anything whatsoever
about Lockhaven Park. Not the grounds. Not the furnishings.
Most certainly not its mistress ...
"Here we are, sir," Marcus said cheerfully. He opened the
last door on the right and stood aside so Damien could pass
through. "Perhaps we'll be seeing you again soon."
Damien caught his eyes. "One can only hope," he murmured.
Smiling slightly, he moved past the old man into the study.
Marcus gave him a wink, then withdrew. As the door closed
behind him, Damien raised his head. His every nerve coiled
tight within him as he prepared to confront Miss Heather
Duval, daughter of his brother's murderer ...
But it was a painting on the wall that captured his
attention. It was dark and ominous--a hunchback stood upon
a hilltop. Above his head, across the bleak horizon, he was
surrounded by masses of black, seething clouds.
The hunchback had no face.
"Mr. Lewis?"
His gaze veered. His mind registered a massive mahogany
desk that dominated the far corner. A diminutive figure was
seated behind it, her hands folded just so before her.
He reeled.
It was her. His gypsy from this morning. There could be no
mistake. Her worn faded dress had been exchanged for one of
crisp gray muslin; she'd caught her hair up in a prim
little bun atop her crown. Oh, she looked older, to be
sure. But those exquisitely sculpted features were the
same. And those huge violet eyes gazed mutely into his.
He allowed the merest trace of a smile to curl his lips,
for he must reveal no hint of the turmoil that roiled
within him.
"So, Alice," he murmured, "we meet again."
She didn't return his smile. "So we do," she observed, "a
meeting I suspect neither of us expected." Her voice was
quiet and calm, yet her regard had once again turned wary.
He gave a slight shrug. "You may well be right."
He watched as she gestured across from her. "Please," she
said, her tone coolly formal, "sit down."
So. This is how it would be. Damien's manner grew chill.
He battled an acid hatred. She should have been ugly.
Grotesque. God, but he wished she were! After all, she
carried the same blood as a murderer. Stop it, reproved a
voice in his head. You judge too harshly and too soon.
His stride unfaltering, he crossed the room. "Forgive me,"
he said. "I am not only rude, I've been remiss." He now
stood before her. "I am Damien Lewis."
Boldly he reached for her hand; his own, deeply bronzed and
much larger, seemed to swallow hers up. As he released her
fingers, he saw her looking down at his hands. He was
suddenly very glad his palm was calloused and rough, for he
often worked alongside his own men in the fields. If the
lady believed he were a city dandy, the game might well
have been lost before it was even begun.
He seated himself in a burgundy leather wing chair directly
across from her; there was a wooden cane propped against
the side of her desk, with a handle of beaten, engraved
silver. In some far distant corner of his mind, he
registered the feeling that it seemed a bit out of place ...
He crossed his booted feet at the ankles and slanted her an
easy smile. "I confess, this is a bit awkward. Will your
husband be joining us?"
"I have no husband, sir. You see before you the sole
mistress of Lockhaven Park."
If he'd hoped to discomfit her, he failed abominably, for
her reply was swift, her manner as unruffled as his own.
What devil had seized hold of him, Damien couldn't say, for
he already knew what her answer would be even before she
spoke. The lady had no husband. Indeed, he knew quite a lot
about Miss Heather Duval--that she'd been raised under the
wardship of Miles Grayson, Earl of Stonehurst, who lived
not five kilometers distant. He didn't know why--perhaps
because her father had spent the last twenty years in
Newgate.
But now it was she who regarded him with keen aplomb. "I
trust this poses no problem for you, Mr. Lewis? I know
there are some who might consider it an affront to be in
the employ of a woman. So I will understand if you wish to
discontinue the interview--"
"On the contrary, Miss Duval. Please, let us proceed."
There was a glint in his eye; he had the feeling that was
what she wanted.
Slim, supple fingers seemed to tense, then visibly relax.
Yet her words were the complete antithesis of what he
expected. "Then let us get down to business," she said
softly. She reached for a small sheaf of papers on the
corner of the desktop. "I must admit, Mr. Lewis, I was
quite impressed with the letter you sent. It seems you have
a good deal of experience to commend you."
His tobacco holdings in Virginia had prospered greatly over
the last ten years; ego notwithstanding, Damien liked to
think it was because he involved himself in every aspect of
the business. "At the risk of sounding rather arrogant,
Miss Duval, I believe I do."
She contemplated him, her head tipped to the side. A faint
frown flashed across her features. "Your accent," she
murmured. "'Tis rather unfamiliar."
He chuckled, striving to be at his most charming. "No doubt
it's a bit of a mixture. You see, I was born in Yorkshire
and spent most of my youth there." Notably absent was the
fact that he'd been born the second son of an earl. He must
tread carefully, lest his true identity be revealed. Oh,
no, he was not about to disclose who he really was, for he
could trust no one ...
Especially not her.
"When I was sixteen," he went on, "I decided to go in
search of fame and fortune, and landed in America."
"Sixteen!" She was clearly aghast. "But that's so young to
be on your own! Surely someone traveled with you?"
He shook his head. "No," he said lightly. "But I was big
for a lad and pretended to know quite well the ways of the
world. I settled in Virginia and went to work for a
plantation owner. Eventually I came to be in charge of the
daily operations there." A roundabout way of putting it,
but true nonetheless.
"I see." Her gaze was fixed on his face. He could almost
see her mind working, gauging him, weighing and
measuring. "Could you describe your duties in more detail?"
"Certainly, Miss Duval. I was the sole keeper of the books
and I was responsible for supervising the planting and
harvest of the plantation's chief crop--tobacco. I bought
and ordered supplies, and saw to the housing and welfare of
those who worked in the fields."
She nodded. "I'm curious, however, Mr. Lewis. What brought
you back to England?"
He gestured vaguely, pretending to ponder. "Despite the
years I spent in America, this is home," he said at
last. "It doesn't matter whether it's Lancashire or
Yorkshire. I returned for a visit and ... 'twas a
precipitous decision, I admit. Thus I fear I carry no
letters of recommendation with me." He held his breath and
waited.
She nodded, yet he sensed her hesitancy. "I must be honest,
Mr. Lewis," she said slowly. "I need a man who is not an
ogre, for I will not have an estate manager whom my tenants
fear. At the same time, I require someone who is able to
perform his duties with a firm, capable hand. Thus far I've
had precious little luck finding a suitable replacement for
Robin, and time grows short. But we are not growing tobacco
here in Lancashire, Mr. Lewis. We raise sheep and cattle,
and grow what crops are needed to sustain the estate and
its tenants."
"I am hardly ignorant of such matters," he said
quickly. "My aunt's farm in Yorkshire is very similar to
your estate, and it was there I spent much of my youth."
She gave a tiny shake of her head. "'Tis not that I doubt
your ability--"
"Then I have an offer, Miss Duval. If you will engage me as
your estate manager, I shall work without wages for the
first month." He was driven by desperate purpose, but he
dare not let her know it. "Should you be dissatisfied with
me, or should my work prove inadequate in any way, you may
dismiss me at the end of that time. With all respect, Miss
Duval, it would seem to me you have nothing to lose."
She was tempted; hope flared within him, yet he didn't dare
risk pushing her further. With naught but the hold of his
eyes, he sought to convince her. Time stretched out
endlessly. But just when he thought his plan futile, she
rose to her feet behind the desk. For the first time, that
lovely mouth softened in a faint smile.
Damien felt he'd been punched in the belly. He'd thought
her lovely before, but God above, now she stole the very
breath from his lungs
"You are a persuasive man, Mr. Lewis. I agree to your
proposal--but on one condition. I will not cheat you by
withholding wages for services given me. In addition to
your salary" --she named a figure that was more than
generous-- "the estate manager is entitled to the use of
the house near the east pasture. 'Tis a modest dwelling,
but I hope you'll find it adequate. Is this agreeable to
you, sir?"
Damien stood as well. "It is indeed, Miss Duval."
"Good," she pronounced. "When would you like to move your
things?"
"Tomorrow would be fine, Miss Duval. I can begin after
that."
"Excellent, then. If you'll meet me at the stable at ten
o'clock, I should like to show you the estate."
"I shall look forward to it." He reached around to retrieve
his hat. When he glanced back, he saw that she was still
standing. But he had the sensation there was more she
wanted to say.
He arched a brow. "Was there something else, Miss Duval?"
"Yes. Yes, actually there is." For the first time since
this morning, she seemed almost flustered. "Mr. Lewis,
you're quite certain this is what you want? I ask
because ... well, it occurs to me you may find Lancashire
quite tedious. Our village is small and--"
He cut her off, yet there was no sting in his tone. "If I
were in search of city life, Miss Duval, I'd have gone to
London."
His gaze was unrelenting, yet those unusual violet eyes
never left his. "You take my meaning well, Mr. Lewis."
A single step brought him directly across from her.
Reaching out, he took her hand. It was small and dainty and
feminine, and all at once he found himself torn by
conflicting emotions. He fought the urge to crush her hand
in his, the way her father had surely crushed his brother.
Yet even as he wanted to conquer and defeat all that she
was, he longed to rip the pins from her hair, to feel it
tumble over his fingers, all warm, dark silk as he urged
her rose-tinted mouth to his. He wanted her to come to him.
He wanted to see her walk to him, her form all fluid,
perfect and agile gracefulness ...
"I wish to make my home in a quiet restful place such as
this, Miss Duval, so please, trouble yourself no further."
His tone was soft. He brought her fingers to his lips, a
fleeting touch that was over almost as soon as it was
begun. "I promise you, I shall be quite satisfied here at
Lockhaven, for I am just a common, hard-working man like
any other."
With that, he bid her farewell and strode from the study.
His plan had been set into motion.
Now all he could do was wait.
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