A Kiss to Remember Page 13

  "Don't you fret, Mr. Nick," Cookie said. "There's no need to fetch some fancy sawbones who'll do nothin' but slap some leeches on Miss Laura's pretty arms. Why, I've been tendin' to her since she was a mere slip of a girl. Nursed her through a nasty bout of scarlet fever, I did, just after her parents died." Bathing Laura's brow with a damp rag, Cookie shook her head. "Even as a young thing, the girl never did give a care for herself. She was too busy worryin' about that brother and sister of hers." She began to loosen the ribbons at the bodice of Laura's gown, then hesitated, giving Nicholas a pointed look. "Most men aren't of any use in the sickroom. If you'd like, you can wait downstairs."

  "No," he said, meeting her steady gaze with a helpless one of his own. "I can't."

  Cookie had good reason to be thankful he stayed. When Laura's stomach began to rebel against the purgative tea being spooned down her throat, he was the one who insisted on steadying her head over the washbasin. When she collapsed against the sheets, shivering and spent, he was the one who smoothed the sweat-soaked strands of hair from her face and tucked the chintz coverlet around her. And when she awoke from her exhausted stupor long after dark had fallen, he was the one stretched out in the chair next to the bed.

  It took Laura a foggy moment to realize that she wasn't in her own bed. She gazed up at the graceful half-tester, breathing deeply of the clean masculine musk that seemed to surround her, then slowly turned her head to find Nicholas napping in the chair.

  Even with his hair hanging loose in his face and smudges of fatigue beneath his eyes, he still looked every inch the prince. If anything, he was more alluring to her now than he had been the day she found him in the wood. Then he had been nothing more than a pretty stranger. Now it wasn't just his fine looks she admired but his intelligence, his keen wit, and those tantalizing flashes of temper and tenderness.

  As if sensing her thoughtful gaze, his eyes fluttered open.

  "What happened to me?" she asked, surprised by the hoarseness of her voice.

  He sat up and leaned over the bed, squeezing her hand. "Let's just say that your sister's culinary skills leave a little to be desired."

  "I could have warned you about that," Laura croaked. "Did I ever tell you about the time she baked a dozen worms into a mud pie and served it to Reverend Tilsbury for tea?"

  "No," he replied with a crooked smile. "If you had, I might have declined the bride cake she made for me."

  Laura groaned as her memory came flooding back. "Oh, I wish I had."

  "So do I. The next time I catch you coveting my sweets, I'll simply have to find the strength to deny you." He stroked her tousled hair away from her face, his eyes sobering. "Although I have to confess that at the moment, I'm not sure I could deny you anything."

  Laura touched a hand to his cheek, wondering how his face could have become so dear to her in so short a time. He was offering her the world while she was denying him his most fundamental right—his own identity. She knew in that moment what she ought to do. She should tell him everything, even if that meant exposing her own deceit. But then he would never again look at her with that beguiling blend of bemusement and tenderness. Never again draw her into his arms or lavish her mouth with his kisses.

  Laura turned her face toward the pillow, hiding the tears she could feel welling in her eyes.

  Mistaking her sorrow for exhaustion, Nicholas blew out the candle and pressed a tender kiss to her brow. "Sleep, darling. I'll go tell the others you're going to be fine."

  "I only wish I was," Laura whispered to the darkness after he was gone.

  When Nicholas first slipped into the barn, he thought it was empty. Then he heard a furtive movement from the loft above, as if a small, frightened animal was burrowing deeper into its nest.

  He climbed the ladder to the loft and stood peering through the musty gloom, finally locating a glimmer of gold beneath the eaves. Lottie huddled in the hay, her arms wrapped around her knees, her hair hanging in sodden hanks around her face. She stared straight ahead without looking at him, dried tear tracks streaking her cheeks.

  "Laura's dead, isn't she?" she said before he could speak. "That's why you've come. To tell me she's dead."

  Nicholas leaned against a splintery post. "I came to tell you that your sister is awake."

  Lottie's incredulous gaze flew to his face.

  He nodded. "She's going to be just fine. She should be up and about by tomorrow morning."

  Fresh tears welled up in Lottie's eyes, but before they could cleanse her face of its misery, she dashed them away. "How will I ever face her? She'll never forgive me for what I've done. How could she?"

  "She doesn't know she has anything to forgive except a bout of bad cooking. I didn't tell her."

  Lottie's tears stopped as abruptly as they'd begun. "Why? Why would you do such a thing?"

  He shrugged. "Although I can't seem to remember it, I suspect I was ten once, too. But make no mistake," he added, narrowing his eyes, "it was a nasty little bit of mischief you tried to play on me and I wouldn't suggest you try it again."

  Lottie climbed to her feet with a sullen sniff. "The cake wouldn't have done a big brute like you nearly as much harm."

  She moved to brush past him on her way to the ladder, but he caught her arm in a firm grip, drawing her around to face him. "I know you don't care for me, Lottie, and I think I can guess why."

  He felt a faint tremor run through her small body. "You can?"

  He nodded, softening both his voice and his grip. "No matter what you may believe, I have no intention of replacing you in your sister's heart. As long you desire it, there will always be a place for both you and George in our home."

  For a minute she looked torn, as if she would have liked nothing better than to throw her arms around his neck. But instead, she wrenched herself from his grasp and went scrambling down the ladder without another word.

  Nicholas had to wander much farther afield to find George. By the time he reached the burned-out ruin at the edge of Arden's property, the rain had stopped completely, leaving a light mist hanging like smoke over the land. He ducked beneath a broken beam to find George exactly where Cookie had said he would—sitting on a collapsed chimney in what must have once been the parlor of the modest rectory. The boy sat gazing up at the sky through the gaping hole that had been the roof.

  Nicholas didn't wait for him to assume the worst. "Your sister is awake. She's going to be fine."

  "I know that." George spared him a cool, contemptuous glance. "I wouldn't have left her alone with you if I didn't."

  Nicholas drew nearer, narrowly avoiding plunging his foot through a rotting board. "This place is dangerous. I'm surprised it wasn't torn down long ago."

  "Lady Eleanor and Laura wanted to tear it down, but I wouldn't hear of it. Every time they brought it up, I would throw a tantrum that made Lottie look like a perfect angel." George continued to search the sky, as if hoping to find a single star shining through the clouds. "I was the one who left the lamp burning that night, you know. In all these years, Laura's never once reproached me for it."

  Nicholas frowned. "You were only a child. It was an accident. A terrible tragedy."

  George picked up a piece of charred rubble and tossed it into the air. "I remember them, you know. My parents."

  "Then you're very fortunate," Nicholas said softly, feeling an empty pang in his own chest.

  George shook his head. "Sometimes I'm not so sure." Dusting off his hands, he stood, his narrow shoulders slumped. "If you've come to fetch me for my beating, I'll go quietly."

  Nicholas put up a hand to stay him. "I don't know whether you did or didn't have anything to do with Lottie's mischief and I don't really need to know. That's not why I'm here."

  "Then why are you here?" George demanded, no longer making any attempt to hide his belligerence.

  "Since it appears your sister is going to live long enough to become my bride next Wednesday morning, I find myself in need of a groomsman. I was hoping you would consider d
oing me the honor."

  George's jaw dropped in surprise. "I can't be a groomsman," he said bitterly. "Haven't you heard? I'm just a boy."

  Nicholas shook his head. "The true measure of a man has nothing to do with years and everything to do with how well he looks after those who depend upon him. I've seen how much you do around here—how you chop wood and help Dower tend to the flocks and take care of your sisters. And Laura assures me that a groomsman need have only two qualities—he should be a bachelor and he should be my friend." Nicholas held out his hand. "I like to think you could qualify on both counts."

  George stared at Nicholas's outstretched hand as if he'd never seen one before. Although his eyes remained wary, he finally reached out and caught it in a firm grasp, shoulders back and head held high. "If you need someone to stand up with you at the wedding, I suppose I'm your man."

  As they picked their way over the rubble, Nicholas draped an arm lightly over the boy's shoulders. "You haven't had any supper, have you? I'm famished. Maybe we could get Lottie to whip us up something sweet."

  Although it took visible effort, George somehow managed to keep a straight face. "That won't be necessary, sir. I do believe Cookie made a fresh batch of crumpets just for you."

  As the days passed with no word from Dower, Laura grew increasingly jumpy. The old man had never learned to write, but she'd sent him off with a purseful of coins and instructions to hire someone to pen a note if he discovered anything at all about a missing gentleman that required investigation. In some small shameless corner of her heart, she was hoping he wouldn't return before the wedding. That he would stay gone until Nicholas was bound to her forever—or at least for as long as they both should live.

  The wedding preparations continued at a frantic pace, as relentlessly as the ticking of the longcase clock in the foyer. Every time Laura turned around, Cookie was waiting to drape a length of lace over her shoulders or jab another pin into her hip. Although the old woman kept up a cheery stream of chatter, especially when Nicholas was around, Laura knew that Cookie was just as worried about Dower's whereabouts as she was. Even Lottie seemed to have lost her exuberance and had taken to moping listlessly about the house or disappearing for hours at a time.

  On Sunday morning, the banns were read for the third and final time. As Reverend Tilsbury asked if anyone knew of any just impediment to the two of them being joined together, Laura sat stiffly at Nicholas's side, terrified she would leap to her feet and shout that the bride was a fraud and a liar. The only thing that stopped her was imagining the look of loathing that would spread across Nicholas's face—a look she endured every night in her tortured dreams.

  They were gathered around the dining room table that evening for supper when the jingling of a harness fractured the tense silence. Dropping her spoon in her soup, Laura jumped out of her chair and ran to the window. She was searching for any hint of movement in the shadowy drive when George pointedly cleared his throat.

  She slowly turned to find a black-and-white kitten dragging a bell attached to a scarlet ribbon across the floor. As Laura sank back into her seat with a dispirited sigh, Lottie retrieved both bell and kitten, muting the merry tones.

  While Cookie emerged from the kitchen with the next course, Nicholas surveyed the circle of their gloomy faces. "I know you've been trying to hide it, but I can tell you're all worried sick about Dower. Would you like me to ride to London and search for him?"

  "No!" all four of them shouted in unison.

  He leaned back in his chair, plainly nonplussed by their reaction.

  Laura dabbed at her mouth with her napkin, hoping he wouldn't notice the trembling of her hands. "I appreciate your offer, dear, but I don't think my nerves could stand the strain. We've only three more days before we're to be married. I can have a wedding without Dower, but I can't very well have one without a bridegroom."

  "Don't you fret on our account, Mr. Nick." Although Cookie was patting his shoulder, she was looking directly at Laura. "That old rascal of mine's probably holed up at some tavern somewhere. He'll come draggin' in here the night before the weddin', reekin' of spirits and beggin' my forgiveness. Just see if he don't!"

  Jeremiah Dower sat at a grimy table in a shadowy corner of the Boar's Snout, tossing back his third gin of the night. The tavern was one of the seediest on the waterfront and more than one body had been found floating in the Thames after a night spent partaking of its dubious pleasures. It was whispered that if one of the patrons didn't kill you, the cheap gin would. Or you could stagger upstairs with one of the blowsy whores who haunted the docks and die a slow, festering death of the French pox. Several slumming young cubs had lost their innocence, their purses, and eventually their lives between those plump, accommodating thighs.

  Dower's mother had been one of those whores. He'd spent his boyhood scrubbing tobacco stains and emptying slop buckets in a tavern just like this one. After his ma had been strangled by one of her own customers, he'd been only too eager to trade the choking clouds of smoke and drunken shouting for the sweet, pure air of a Hertfordshire morning and Cookie's smile.

  It was that smile he was longing to see as he slumped in his chair and surveyed the motley crowd. He'd spent the past week combing the streets and docks for any rumors of a missing gent. He'd even visited Newgate and Bedlam, hoping to hear news of a recent escape. But thus far, his search had yielded nothing and his time was running out.

  If he didn't return to Arden by Tuesday night with proof that Miss Laura's mysterious gent was pledged to another, she would go through with the wedding. The young missie had always been sweet natured, but there was no standing in her way once she had her heart set on something. And she definitely had her heart set on that handsome young buck of hers.

  Dower scowled. The man might not be a fugitive from the law or an escaped lunatic, but that didn't make him any less dangerous to an innocent girl.

  He was about to settle up his tab and take his leave when a lad with a shock of red hair and a mouthful of crooked, yellowing teeth came wending his way through the crowd. He leaned over Dower's table and jerked his thumb toward the back entrance. "There's a bloke out in the alley says 'e wants to talk to you. Says 'e may 'ave somethin' you'd loik to 'ear."

  Dower nodded, sending the boy on his way with one of the coins Miss Laura had given him. Not wanting to appear too eager, he took his time polishing off the gin, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. As he rose, he took care to shove up the sleeves of his shirt, enjoying the wide-eyed reaction of the whore straddling the lap of a bearded man at the next table. He knew from experience that any cutpurse thinking to rob a frail old man would think again when they saw the thick ropes of muscle that banded his arms.

  The fog had come rolling in with the night. As the door fell shut behind him, muffling the drunken din inside the tavern, a man materialized from the shadows. Dower had expected to find some gibbering beggar seeking to earn an easy coin, but it was quickly apparent that this man had no need of his shillings.

  He wore a tall felt hat and balanced a marble-headed walking cane in his gloved hands. He had the sort of round, bland face that might be mistaken for a hundred others. "I do hope you'll forgive me for interrupting your evening libations, Mr… ?"

  Dower folded his arms over his chest. "Dower. And I ain't no mister."

  "Very well, then, Dower. I wouldn't have troubled you, but it's come to my attention that you've been making certain inquiries along the waterfront."

  "I ain't done no such thing," Dower protested. "I just asked a few questions."

  The man had a crocodile's smile. "According to my associates, you've been asking about a tall man with golden hair, well spoken and well formed, who might have gone missing over a fortnight ago."

  Dower's nape was beginning to prickle with foreboding. It had been his intention to save Miss Laura from a stranger's clutches, not get her arrested for kidnapping. "Them 'sociates o' yours may not know as much as they think they do."

  "Oh,
I can assure you that they're very thorough. Which is why I've come to the conclusion that we may be looking for the same man."

  Dower's curiosity nearly got the best of him, but something in the man's flat brown eyes put him off his feed. "Sorry, mate," he said. "You've got the wrong bloke. All I'm lookin' for tonight is a bottle o' gin and a willin' bit o' skirt to warm me bed."

  "With the reward my employers are offering, you could buy all the gin and whores a man could ever want."

  Despite the dank chill in the air, Dower could feel beads of sweat pop out along his brow. "Just wot makes this fellow you're lookin' for worth so bloody much?"

  The man shifted his cane from one hand to the other. "If you'll come with me, I'll show you."

  Dower never had taken kindly to bullying. Especially when it came disguised beneath a brittle veneer of cultured speech and polished manners. He bared his teeth in a rusty smile. "I'm afraid I'll 'ave to decline. I got a much better invitation from a little bit o' redheaded fluff at the table next to mine."

  He turned, reaching for the tavern door.

  "That's a pity, Mr. Dower, for I'm afraid I really must insist."

  Before Dower could whirl around, the marble head of the cane came down on the back of his skull, sending him spilling to the ground. He barely had time to admire the glossy leather of the man's expensive boots before one of them slammed into his face, plunging him into a pool of darkness.

  * * *

  Chapter 13

  « ^ »

  Sometimes she tends to act before she thinks

  without counting the cost…

  It should have been the happiest night of Laura's life.

  Tomorrow morning at ten o'clock, she would stand before the altar of St. Michael's and pledge her heart and her life to the man she had wanted before she even knew he existed. He would tenderly take her hand, gaze deep into her eyes, and vow to keep himself only unto her for as long as they both should live.