Man Of My Dreams: Secrets Of Midnight Part 14

Corisande swatted at the blue velvet draperies when another glance outside proved fruitless; with another ten minutes to kill, she needed something to clear her mind.

One bright spot in the week had been a letter from Lindsay, posted the very day Corisande had written to her about Donovan, so Lindsay had known nothing yet about her temporary marriage. Held over in Helston because of the storm and delivered to the parsonage on Friday, the letter had been raced over to her at the church, where she was working on the accounts, by a breathless and giggling Estelle, an indignant Linette, and Marguerite hard on her heels.

"A letter, Corie! From Lindsay!"

"I had it first, too, but Estelle took it from me," Linette had groused, scowling at her younger sister only to glance back pleadingly at Corisande. "Remember, Corie? You said we would read it together-"

"And me!" Estelle had chimed.

"Me too!" Appearing as eager as the others, Marguerite had looked expectantly at the letter, her lovely brown eyes alight. "I want to hear about London, Corie. Go on, open it!"

So Corisande had done so, perusing the letter very quickly to make sure there was no reference to Donovan and their sham marriage before she'd read it aloud, delighting in every word. She went to the writing desk now and retrieved that same letter, smiling to herself as she plopped onto the bed.

Suddenly it felt as if Lindsay were there in the room with her, breathlessly recounting everything she'd seen since she'd gone to London, her somewhat reckless handwriting spilling forth in an animated tumble as lively as her speech . . .

Oh, Corie, I can hardly believe I'm here! So many things to tell you-where to begin? London is so very, very grand, and so much bigger than I'd expected! I've never seen so many people-ah, but more of that later!

Aunt Winifred is a dear, though terribly cowed by Olympia, poor thing. It seems she received reams of instructions on where I'm to go, how I'm to deport myself, how I'm to dress, the people I must meet-what silly rubbish! You know I hope to strike out on my own, but Aunt Winnie is quite excitable, even more than I remember-Lord, her lady's maid, Matilda, doesn't dare leave the house without smelling salts in hand! So I must take care-oh, Corie, you won't believe what I've to tell you!

Some things here are so strange. I've seen gentlemen in corsets! Yes, corsets, their waists cinched so tight they look like plump-breasted pigeons, and their collars so starched they can no easier look to the left and right than if their necks were encased in plaster . . .

Corisande let the letter drop to her lap, imagining what it must be like to see such startling things.

Of course, she didn't regret that she hadn't gone to London; she would never have met Donovan and . . . and for heaven's sake, that wasn't the point either! She wouldn't have been able to help the tinners on such a vast scale if not for Donovan, and that was virtually the only thing for which she had to be thankful about meeting him!

Corisande focused once more on Lindsay's letter, but she felt all bothered again and hardly in the mood to read. And she still had five minutes to go, she saw irritably as she glanced at the clock. Lord, if that signal didn't come tonight- "Corie, may I come in?"

She froze, her gaze flying to the sitting room door, a door she'd left pointedly closed all week as a clear sign that Donovan was not welcome. He hadn't made any move to disturb her until now-b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l, why tonight of all nights? It was almost ten o'clock and, oh dear, she'd retired early, claiming a headache, and here she was dressed in her st.u.r.diest clothes and ready to go out at the first sign . . .

Corisande had only a moment to leap into bed, still holding Lindsay's letter, fully clothed, shoes and all, and yank the covers under her chin before she heard Donovan enter the room. Her eyes were squeezed shut, and her heart raced. She made no move at all as he crossed to the bed, but she knew at once he didn't believe she was sleeping when she heard him sigh heavily.

"You haven't bothered to douse the lamps, Corie, and I heard you pacing just a few moments ago. You can't have fallen asleep that fast."

She didn't readily open her eyes, moaning instead. "Of . . . of course I was pacing. My head hurts so . . ."

"Then I should have Ellen Biddle bring you a pinch of laudanum in some tea-"

"No, no, I don't want any laudanum!" Realizing that she'd half shouted, Corisande tried to control her annoyance as she stared up at Donovan. "I mean, my headache isn't all that terrible, but it does hurt. I-I'm sure I'll be fine if you'd allow me to sleep. Would you please turn out the lamps for me, Donovan?"

He seemed taken aback by her docile request although quite reluctant, too, to leave her side, the tension in his body plain to see. "Actually, Corie, I thought we should talk-"

"Please, Donovan, not tonight." Her gaze skipped to the clock-oh, Lord, it was almost ten!-and then back again to his face. His expression had hardened. "It's so late, and I'm so tired. Tomorrow would be better."

"Very well, very well, tomorrow."

He didn't sound at all as if he wanted to leave, sighing with exasperation, but finally he went to douse the lamps, plunging the room into darkness but for the low red glow of the fire. She could sense his barely restrained agitation as he came back around to stand beside the bed, but she gave as audible and as wide a yawn as she could summon, rolling over onto her side and snuggling her head into the pillow.

"Thank you, Donovan. Good night."

No answer came but for the sitting room door closing behind him a long moment later, even the dull thud sounding disgruntled.

Somehow Corisande managed to wait another moment, just to make certain he didn't come back in again, then she could stand it no longer as the clock began to chime ten. She was on her feet and over to the windows in a flash, taking care to move silently, her breath stopping as she spied a lantern's yellow glow far off in the distance, the light swinging back and forth in an arc.

Thank G.o.d. Thank G.o.d.

She was cloaked and heading to the door in the next moment, her every thought concentrated upon getting to the stable as quickly as possible.

The men who had signaled her wouldn't be waiting for her, but on their way already to crisscross the parish and alert the others that the Fair Betty was anch.o.r.ed near to sh.o.r.e and waiting to be unloaded. Trusted tinners, farmers, fishermen in Porthleven, and even a few gentry would be converging at the prearranged cove by midnight with scores of hardy ponies, small boats, and willing hands ready to a.s.sist in an endeavor that had lined some pockets with coin, true, but brought hope to many lives too.

And thank G.o.d Ellen Biddle and she had gone exploring about the house, Corisande thought as she moved stealthily into the hall and closed the door silently behind her. She had only to creep a few feet to find the panel on the opposite wall that wasn't solid at all but a concealed doorway opening into a servants' staircase that led to the bas.e.m.e.nt.

With a low exhalation of relief she hurried down the narrow wooden steps, hoping, though, that she wouldn't run into anyone. The huge spotless kitchen was silent and empty, Grace Twickenham having retired to her room.

Cautiously Corisande stepped past the cook's door, light streaming beneath it, only to freeze against the wall when Grace called out, "Is that you out there, Ogden? Well, if you're planning to make yourself some tea, I'll not have you leaving a mess. Mind now, I worked my knuckles raw to polish that kitchen. I want it to stay that way!"

Corisande didn't wait to see if the woman popped her head out the door, but fled to the servants' exit leading out the back of the house. With a prayer of thanks she plunged outside into the balmy night air, smiling to herself, too, at the thought of somber-faced Ogden being ruled by a houseful of women servants. Well, there were the two young footmen who'd joined the household last week, the main reason why Corisande had opted not to use the front door.

She couldn't relax, either, for there was still the obstacle of the stable. But fortunately Will Brighton, the stocky, amiable coachman, was nowhere in sight, making it easy for her to saddle the big brown gelding whose name she'd learned from Henry Gilbert was Pete. A plain, una.s.suming name for a wonderful animal, but she'd scarcely had much chance to ride him, having deferred to Donovan's request that she take the carriage.

But that had been not so much to oblige him as that she was still puzzled by what had happened last week; she had no idea who could have raced across the heath like a swooping bat to catch her.

She shivered at the unsettling memory; well, she might have an idea, but that made her shiver too. She didn't want to think about it and right now she didn't have the time. No, not even to wonder why Donovan, oddly enough, had wanted to talk to her after a week of brooding silence. Quickly she led Pete from the stable and mounted.

"Shh now, Pete, not a sound." Corisande drew up the reins and squeezed her knees together to get the gelding moving, but only at a walk at first. "Easy now, until we're far enough away from the house . . ."

The horse tossed his head and chewed at the bit, clearly eager to stretch his legs, and made Corisande wince when he gave a full-throated whinny just before they cut through the tall copse of elms lining the drive. But there was no help for it, and she urged the animal into a gallop, hoping that no one would think anything was amiss.

At least they wouldn't be seen, the night so pitch-black that if she hadn't known the rough surrounding countryside since childhood, she might have been reluctant to venture forth. She veered the gelding to the southwest and rode hard, astonished to see the familiar lantern light some way off in the distance.

Had the men decided to wait for her after all? They weren't standing where they'd been before but were heading toward the coast, which made sense. She cut to the left a little and rode straight for the light, Pete's hooves thundering so hard that she didn't hear her name being roared from the house.

Chapter 21.

"Corie!"

Good G.o.d, it was useless! Cursing to himself, Donovan ran for the stable, his lungs already afire from sprinting so hard to get outside.

h.e.l.l and d.a.m.nation, where was she going? He'd just stepped out onto the balcony when that whinny had cut through the night, and he'd watched in disbelief as a cloaked rider was swallowed up by the dark. He hadn't needed to check Corisande's room to know it was her-the wily chit! She must have been fully clothed under those covers, pleading a headache and then meekly as a dove asking him to douse the lamps, when all the while she'd simply been waiting for him to leave so she could . . .

"Go where?" Donovan growled under his breath as he dashed inside the stable and made for Samson's stall, his horse throwing back his head and snorting a greeting.

The last time Corisande had ridden anywhere by herself had been a full week ago; Donovan had never before seen her so flushed and exhilarated as when she'd galloped in from the dark. She'd glanced behind her as if looking for someone-b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l, he hadn't really considered it before now. Might she have gone to meet a lov- Donovan didn't finish the thought, telling himself fiercely as he saddled Samson and vaulted onto the animal's back that it mattered nothing to him where she was going, just that she had ridden out alone.

He hadn't been concerned as long as she seemed willing to use the carriage, but now-dammit, he didn't trust Jack Pascoe to stay away from Corisande no matter the dire threats he'd made the man. He hadn't wanted to alarm her but he could see now that he should have given her some warning about the potential danger. He should have known she'd eventually do something like this.

"My-my lord? Is there some trouble?"

"Out of my way, man!"

A sleepy-eyed Will Brighton nearly toppled backward in his long white sleeping gown in his haste to stand clear of the stable doors as Donovan rode past him out into the night. But he had barely left the lights of the house behind him when he heard a high-pitched whinny from somewhere out on the heath that froze his blood.

A terrified horse. How many times had he heard that sound on the battlefield? Heard it from his own mounts as musket and cannon fire hit and thundered all around him, some of the poor animals even cut down beneath him?

Oh, G.o.d. Corisande.

"No, no, leave him alone! Who are you? Who are you?"

Corisande's piercing shrieks rent the air as her hooded attacker swung the lantern a second time at her horse's head, the stricken animal rearing out of the way and pawing the air in fright. She clutched at the reins, fighting for control, but when the lantern made a third blinding arc, the gelding reared so high that Corisande went tumbling from his back and hit the ground with a painful thud, knocking the breath from her body.

She was so stunned that she could only lie there on her stomach, the taste of dirt in her mouth, while poor Pete, whinnying shrilly, galloped away. The world around her had suddenly been plunged into darkness.

Dear G.o.d, what was happening? She'd ridden toward the light, catching up with the solitary man swinging the lantern, only to have him turn upon her, and then . . . and then- Corisande screamed as she was suddenly hauled to her feet by someone with such immense physical strength that she felt nearly weightless. She began to fight, flailing her limbs, but she might have been a child's doll for how easily her attacker spun her around. The next thing she knew, an arm went round her neck to half strangle her while a harsh voice whispered in her ear, "You will hear me, woman. You will hear me . . ."

Corisande scarcely could hear, the sharp ringing had grown so deafening in her ears as she fought to breathe, the man's arm pressing like a cruel vise against her throat. She began to claw at him, wildly, desperately, when suddenly she was shoved to the ground, and receding footfalls plunged through the thick gorse as hooves came thundering toward her.

Dragging in huge gulps of air that stung her lungs, an instant later she felt someone drop to his knees beside her, turn her over gently, and lift her into a pair of strong arms.

"Corie . . . dear G.o.d, woman, are you all right? I saw a man running away, but he disappeared into the dark. Did you see his face? Did you recognize him?"

She flickered open her eyes, astonished as much to find Donovan holding her close as that she could see him, the lantern uprighted and spilling light upon them from only a few feet away. So it hadn't gone out. Her attacker must have dropped the lantern in the gra.s.s just before he dragged her to her feet. Her attacker . . .

"You! You arranged this, didn't you?" Corisande croaked, irrational fury filling her as she tried to twist free of Donovan's arms. "You've hired someone to frighten me . . . to kill me!"

Donovan could only stare, wondering incredulously as she squirmed and wriggled if she might have hit her head again for the utter nonsense she'd just spewed.

"So you don't deny it! You think it's going to be too much trouble to annul me so you're going to see me done away with instead! Let me go! Get away from-"

"Of course I didn't hire someone- Good G.o.d, woman, will you never cease to think the worst of me?"

That seemed to quiet her, but she was still looking at him with such mistrust that Donovan sighed heavily and released her. Corisande scrambled to her feet and spun to face him.

"Those barrels," she accused, swiping hair out of her eyes. "I-I never thought of it until now, but you had someone push them over so they might hit me, didn't you? On our wedding day!"

Deeply stung that she was persisting in her preposterous tirade, Donovan rose to stand in front of her. "Do you truly think me so diabolical, Corie? I had nothing to do with those b.l.o.o.d.y barrels, but I suspected that Jack Pascoe might so I went to see him last week. He denied any involvement, but I'm certain, especially now, that it was no accident."

She didn't say anything for a moment, her dark eyes having grown wide as saucers. It was very clear she'd been frightened terribly by the attack; he almost couldn't blame her for lashing out at him. But it still hurt . . .

"You saw Jack Pascoe?"

He nodded, and Corisande looked at him uncertainly now. "Saw him, threatened him, told him to stay d.a.m.ned well away from you and your family. But it looks as if he's due another visit-the b.a.s.t.a.r.d. I'm going to break-"

"It wasn't Jack."

"Who? The man tonight?"

Corisande bobbed her head, trembling so visibly that Donovan was tempted to pull her into his arms. But he held his ground; she was talking to him now at least, more rationally, as calmly as could be expected. He didn't want to upset her again so he prodded gently. "Who was it, then, Corie? Did you see his face?"

"No, no, he wore a hood. But he was much bigger than Jack, taller. Then the lantern fell, and I couldn't see anything when he grabbed me around the neck-"

"He grabbed you around the neck?"

"Y-yes, and tried to choke me. He was strong, so strong."

When she winced, her hand moving to her throat, Donovan felt such rage that he could have killed at the moment, if he'd only found the man. He looked around them but he knew he'd never find the culprit in this inky blackness. Yet if he did . . .

"I-I was followed too. Last week when I rode home through the storm-"

"You were followed?" Donovan shouted, and Corisande took a nervous step backward. He couldn't believe she hadn't said anything to him until now. "Good G.o.d, Corie, why didn't you tell me?"

"Y-you looked so angry with me-for taking the horse, being late for supper, being your wife, I don't know! I didn't think you'd want to hear . . ."

Donovan cursed to himself as Corisande lapsed into indignant silence, knowing he shouldn't be surprised she hadn't confided in him. It was b.l.o.o.d.y true. He'd hardly made things easy for her this past week, which was why he had finally abandoned his resolve to have little to do with her and gone to her room, his infernal attraction for the woman be d.a.m.ned!

He'd wanted to apologize for his surly behavior, for trying to kiss her and upsetting her-h.e.l.l, not that he'd meant to upset her. But now that she'd tricked him, he didn't exactly feel like apologizing although he was glad, he couldn't deny it, that that night she hadn't been looking behind her for a lover. Yet where then, tonight . . . ?

Later, man, later, Donovan told himself as Corisande sighed brokenly, rubbing her temples. Again resisting the overwhelming urge to take her in his arms, he asked quietly, "Do you feel well enough to ride? If you'd like, we can walk a short way first-"

"No, no, I'm fine." Actually Corisande felt as if she were coming out of some overwrought haze.

Oh, Lord, had she really accused Donovan of hiring someone to kill her? She felt chagrined suddenly, but tried to justify herself too. He'd been so hostile since the wedding, and then there was that night with the knife when he'd said something about murdering her, which had probably given her the idea in the first place. How was she to know? Someone who'd clearly meant her harm had been swinging that lantern, luring her like a ship onto the rocks when she had thought it was Oliver's signal-oh, G.o.d. Oliver.

"I have to go," she said shakily, realizing now that she had no idea if the Fair Betty had arrived safely or not.

"Go?"

Corisande heard Donovan's astonishment, but ignored him as she peered into the dark, looking for Pete. "Yes, I have to go-"

"I hope you mean back to the house."

Now what was she going to say? she thought crazily, wondering how she could possibly convince him to let her continue on her way, and alone.

"No, no, not the house. One, uh, one of the tinners' wives is expecting her third babe tonight. Peggy Robberts-she lives not more than a quarter mile away," Corisande explained hastily, concocting a fanciful story that would have done Lindsay's wild imagination proud as she named a woman whom she knew to be only a week or so away from giving birth. "She asked me to help and sent her husband, Morton, to throw stones at my window-"

"Stones at your window."

Trying not to be daunted by the skepticism in Donovan's voice, Corisande rushed on. "Yes, to let me know when it was time, we'd arranged it just that way. But he went on ahead so poor Peggy wouldn't be alone and-and I was just about to leave when you knocked on the door. I didn't know what you'd say so-oh, Lord, I can't fail her, Donovan! Peggy needs me."

"So we'll ride there together. You've no horse after all."

"Yes I do! Look!" Corisande couldn't believe her good fortune as Pete suddenly wandered into the wide arc of light cast by the lantern, the gelding looking none the worse for the night's events. "There's Pete now, Donovan, so everything's fine. You don't have to trouble yourself-"