Head down, no longer aware of where he was or where he was going, Lucian strode with frantic urgency. He sought only to outpace memories and images the nightmare had unleashed.
The cacophony that was London had coalesced into silence beneath the burden of overwhelming guilt. The face of every woman became his long dead fiancée’s, every child bore Magelhaes’ bloody visage.
Blinded by his inner turmoil Lucian brushed and bumped his way down crowded Great Queen Street unaware of any physical contact. In unseeing midstride something struck Lucian down the full length of his body. For the blink of a second he thought he had been hit by a musket ball.
Lucian latched a hold of what had struck him as he staggered backward under the force of the blow. With steps that stuttered he scrambled to keep on his feet. Before he could gain a solid footing his back thudded into a shop’s brick wall. The next instant his head snapped back against it.
The string of Spanish curses evoked by the explosion of pain in his head evaporated the moment Lucian opened his eyes. Inches from his face a riot of curls the russets and golds of a hot Spanish sunset framed a very English face liberally sprinkled with freckles. Eyes the green of storm-tossed seas bore into his, flared with what he took as recognition.
Damning the strange thought, Lucian drew in a deep breath. The scent of woman mingled with a light floral awoke him to the soft female flesh pressed against him. Her eyes drew him deeper. He fanned a hand across her back and bent his head to hers.
Lucian feathered a kiss across her lips. Shock skittered along his nerves at their tantalizing taste. A raggedly drawn breath only drew her scent to his depths. With a groan he claimed her lips and found innocent sweetness intertwined with a tentative response.
Longing sizzled through Lucian’s veins. It threatened his hardened and shielded heart. The depth of need gnawing at his soul stunned him. He freed her lips as if scorched.
Something betwixt alarm and anger widened eyes now emerald green as he gazed into them. Her very being glittered in their depths, drew him, weakened Lucian’s knees.
* * *
Time arched in slow motion for Ruth Clayton from the moment she realized there was no way to halt. She tried to put her hands up but even that thought came too late. Ruth was first conscious of her face against the linen of the man’s cravat. Her body pressed against his length before it began to arch back.
Bands of steel caught her, held her fast. She stumbled forward as he staggered back. Then seconds later an abrupt halt bounced her against that lean hard body
For a moment Ruth was aware of only the man, of a sense of harbour from the storm-tossed seas she had been sailing. She abstractly marvelled how her curves melded with his hard planes as if they had been made for one another.
Ruth flattened her hands against his chest. The wild thump of his heart answered her thunderous pulse. Then muscles flexed beneath her hands. Ruth stared in disbelief at the linen on which her fingers rested.
Have you run mad? she wondered, yet could not seem to move or draw a more coherent thought. The breath she had held too long demanded release and then she inhaled a shuddering breath. The man’s scent, some combination of woods, herbs and earthy warmth, inundated her. Though mingled with perspiration and brandy it enticed in a way she had never experienced.
Ruth inched her gaze upward. Over her hands, across the odd loop of cravat. She blinked past a fresh nick in a very masculine chin and paused briefly on firm lips. Her mouth went dry. Ruth forced her gaze upward.
The emotion she encountered in his coffee-brown eyes jolted Ruth. The passion in their depths teased, taunted, and tantalized. It stole her breath and, she feared, her heart.
When the man began to lower his head Ruth realized he meant to kiss her. Anticipation prickled across her skin. Warmth flared deeper and more intense. She closed her eyes as his lips whispered across hers. Their movement begged for she knew not what. Instinct told her to follow their lead, promised unfathomable joy.
Then his lips were gone. Feeling bereft, Ruth opened her eyes. She was shocked by the intense grief in his. He blinked and she saw misery deepen into despair. Its totality startled, stunned, but then summoned a deep primal compassion. Ruth pressed closer to comfort him.
But his expression altered again. Something feral now glinted in his eyes. An alarm clanged in Ruth, severed their intimate connection.
The noise of the street, the catcalls of those who watched burst into her awareness like a shower of icy water. With it came the realization of what she had done. Worse, of what she had forgotten.
Pushing hard against his chest, Ruth jerked back.
* * *
As if from a distance Lucian heard the woman’s strangled gasp. He knew the instant she became ashamed to be in his arms. Frantic fear filled eyes once again sea storm green.
The woman again jerked and pushed hard against his chest.
Lucian arms sprang open on the hinges of his shame.
The young woman lurched back and then began to sag as if her legs would not hold her.
Lucian grabbed her hand and snagged her close with an arm about her waist.
“Thet’s the way, Cap’n,” a familiar high pitched voice hooted. “Ye’ve caught a good’un there.”
“Sure ye know what ta do wit thet armful?” a coarser voice shouted.
Ruth squirmed in his hold, her face ablaze with embarrassment.
“You’ll only make it worse,” Lucian told her. “Walk a short way with me—just until you get your legs under you.” Before she could reply he strode forward bearing her with him.
“Release me,” Ruth protested and tried to pry his hand from her waist.
“I mean you no harm,” Lucian clipped. He cast a quick glance back at the dispersing crowd surprised no one protested or followed. Another glance confirmed just where he was.
Half lifting the woman off her feet Lucian propelled her around the corner and into Broad Court. The few people walking there were intent upon their direction. He drew her into a recessed doorway and halted. “Can you stand?” he asked sharply suddenly too aware of the light sweet fragrance mixed with her scent.
The woman nodded and Lucian loosened his hold. She took an unsteady step back. The door halted her. For a long moment she studied his face and turned very pale. With a small cry, she walked haltingly past him.
Before Lucian could turn he heard the slap of leather on stone as she ran back toward Drury Lane. He could almost smell her fear and panic. They plucked a deep resonating chord in Merristorm reminding him of the women in Spain–their distraught faces and frantic searches. Those they sought, if found at all, were more often than not dead.
“Bloody hell,” Lucian swore. It was beyond foolhardy to have any further contact with a female who affected him like she did. With another oath, he strode after her.
Hoping not to panic her, Lucian slowed his steps when he neared the woman. Her frantic scanning of both sides of the street confirmed his thought that she searched for something.
No. Someone, he corrected. This will bring nothing but trouble. Turn around. Walk away.
And then she was gazing at him with desperate hope in those mesmerizing green eyes. A frisson of trepidation much like that roused when the trumpets sent his regiment into battle danced down Lucian’s spine.
“Can I help you, miss?” he heard himself say before he realized his decision.
Ruth swallowed hard and looked all around but her gaze was compelled back to the tall dark man walking slowly towards her. He was but an arm’s length away before she realized it. “My father—” she blurted. “I had just seen him when . . . when I—when we–” Ruth fell silent, badly rattled by conflicting emotions.
She is beautiful, Lucian abstractly noted. That riot of burnished red hair would drive any man to foolishness. His fingers itch to finger a curl but he knew any sudden move and she would bolt. The warning to escape keened sharper, but Lucian knew he had no choice but to help her.
His piercing gaze sent a shiver through Ruth. She pulled herself together enough to inspect him from worn scuffed Hessians to artlessly knotted cravat. His garments were of good quality but he had paid too little heed to them of late. His hair, black as a raven’s wing, was unfashionably long and Ruth was hard put not to reach out and brush it from his eyes. Brandy was as much his scent as that exotic hint of a world unknown to her.
Prudence urged her to have a care. He is dishevelled— disreputable—dissolute. That kiss–
Her breath hitched.
You must find Father.
Her desperation tweaked Lucian. He gritted his teeth and cursed the forces that had put her in his path. He took a step closer and winced despite himself when she flinched, her eyes wide with fresh alarm.
“I apologize for my, er, response to our encounter. I am Captain—” he grimaced at the error. “Mr. Lucian Merristorm,” he corrected with an awkward bow. “May I assist you in any way?”
Panic swelled. Ruth steeled herself into determination. She clasped her hands before her, looked at them for a moment and then raised her head to meet his gaze.
“I apologize for running into you like that, sir,” Ruth said but flicked her gaze away from his. “It is my father, you see.”
Lucian grew edgy as she again surveyed him from head to foot. He itched to brush back his hair and straighten his cravat. Why the hell hadn’t he taken more care with his dress?
“What about your father, Miss–?” He saw heat flare across her pale cheeks.
“Clayton. Ruth Clayton.”
The barest hint of a smile unreasonably warmed Lucian. What was that floral scent that tinged hers? “Is it that you became separated from your father, Miss Clayton?” The play of emotions across her features told him she struggled with some decision. Before she flicked her gaze back to him Lucian knew she had decided not to trust him. That hurt more than he dared admit. Should he tell her he had fought worse battles? That he had searched for far worse than an old man?
Lucian’s thoughts veered to the French spy who Merristorm had met when the man had worn the disguise of the Prussian officer von Willmar. The one who had other disguises according to that émigré fop de la Croix. The fop who failed to capture the French villain.
“Thank you, sir, but I should not detain you.”
Lucian jerked his mind back to the present problem. “Perhaps I could escort you home?” he asked. His discomfort grew as she surveyed him once again. “I shall bring no harm to you, Miss Clayton.”
His deep voice soothed her jittery nerves. Ruth read his pledge in his eyes. Just as when in his arms, an aura of safety enveloped her. Her indecision fled.
“I must find my father. We travelled from Blewbury on our way to Whitby to–to his new preferment at St. Mary’s.”
Damnation, a vicar’s daughter. The temptation to turn tail tantalized. But her apprehension and her fragrance of sweet spring held him.
“He’s–he is not well and–and tends to amble off without a word.”
“A man of the church,” Lucian muttered, thinking furiously. “Perhaps he’s making for St. Paul’s? It’s not too far. There–you can see the dome.” He pointed it out. “Did he mention a wish to visit the cathedral?”
Ruth studied the magnificent cupola. “We have done so in the past but there was no plan to do so today. Perhaps,” she mused, hope stirring, “that is where he is bound.”
Watching the tip of her tongue as Ruth nervously traced her lower lip with it, Lucian almost didn’t hear her words. But he heard doubt tinged with hopeful urgency and knew what he must do.
Giving a long piercing whistle Lucian loosed a very unaccustomed grin when Miss Clayton looked at him as if he had run mad.
The grin almost turned Lucian’s face boyish. It made his brooding features devilishly, devastatingly handsome. Ruth’s heart lurched, further endangered. She smiled back.
As they stood gazing at one another two lads in patched but clean clothing skidded to a halt before them. On their heels came an army of six more boys of varying ages. When Lucian bent his gaze on them, all snapped to attention as if awaiting orders.
Ruth half expected him to salute back and recalled that captain when he first gave his name. Glancing from the man to the boys she saw respect, even love in their eyes. What other unforeseen depths did the gentleman have?
“Listen up. Miss Clayton shall describe her father. You are to find him for me.” Lucian looked at Ruth with an encouraging half smile.
With a new confidence in success Ruth complied. “My father wears a dull blue frock coat. He is tall–perhaps of even greater height than Mr. Merristorm but slightly stooped. Wide in the shoulder but lean–perhaps you would even think him frail. Most notable perhaps is his thick thatch of white hair. And he doesn’t have a hat,” Ruth added hurriedly.
“From my childhood he could never remember where he left it.” Biting her lip, she lowered her gaze to cover the sorrow the memory summoned.
Lucian flipped a sovereign in the air as she ended. He caught it and held it up for the boys to see. “For the one who finds Mr. Clayton.”
“When you find him, please don’t disturb him,” Ruth said hastily. “Especially if he speaks in . . . in a strange language. "
“Just bring word back to us as to where he is,” Lucian amended. His curiosity rose at these words but he quickly subdued it. “We shall walk along Drury Lane toward Russell Street. Off with you.”
The boys scampered off in all directions.
“Miss Clayton,” Lucian put a hand to Ruth’s elbow. “The lads will find him.”
Startled by the effect of his touch, Ruth met his gaze. She prayed the desire she thought she read in his eyes was not so obvious in hers. When his gaze moved to her hair, she distractedly reached to her bonnet and found it askew.
Strangely embarrassed Ruth kept her gaze firmly away from Lucian as she untied the ribbons, pushed back stray tendrils, and set the bonnet aright. By the time the ribbons were tied once again Ruth’s pulse returned to what she recognized was “normal” in this man’s presence. For distraction she asked, “How do you know those boys?”
“That is unimportant,” Lucian said tersely. He grimaced and said more gently, “They know this area like you know–knew your vicarage. They will find your father.”
Steeled for her touch, he offered his arm. His heart raced as her fingers settled in the crock of his arm and he drew in a slow deep breath filled with the scent of lily of the valley–of spring. Lucian glanced surreptitiously at Ruth to see if she was similarly affected, but the brim of her bonnet now concealed her face.
Walk, he instructed. Right foot forward, left. It’s been an age since you were a green lieutenant. Don’t act a bloody fool. Get yourself in hand.
Please let father be found. Unharmed, Ruth prayed as she followed Lucian’s slow pace. What will Mr. Merristorm think when he meets father? Ruth fretted. That father is mad?
The muscles in Lucian’s arm flexed beneath Ruth’s fingers. His strength comforted as well as disconcerted. She blinked back sudden tears and curbed the impulse to tell this chance-met stranger everything.
Too aware of one another they strolled in silence down Drury Lane. Just as they passed Russell Street one of the boys danced into view.
“Capt’n, capt’n,” he called running toward them.
“Wait here,” Lucian commanded, and half ran to the lad.
“I ‘ave ‘im, sir,” the boy said excitedly.
Lucian put a hand on his shoulder. “Quietly now. Where is he?”
“A mighty queer actin’ toff,” the lad said with a shake of his head. “Spoutin’ the oddest stuff. Down that way a bit,” he gestured, in the t’alley behind them shops.”
“Go to Miss Clayton,” Lucian ordered. “Just tell her all’s well. Nothing more.” He waited until the boy nodded, then continued, “Stay with her until I return.”
“Don’t startle him,” Ruth called when Lucian dashed in the direction she had seen the boy gesture. “His name is Sampson,” she added and would have followed him but the lad stepped in front of her.
“Capt’n says to wait,” he said. “Best to do what he says.”
Ruth gazed into the wide too knowing eyes. She put a hand to her breast to still her fearful heart. “Do you always do as Mr. Merristorm says?”
The boy frowned and then shrugged. “Most oft. If’n ye don’t ye can’t be one o’ Merristorm’s Brats.” He flashed a crocked grin. “That’s what Mr. Scruggs calls us.”
“Mr. Scruggs?” Ruth puzzled.
“Him the Capt’n hired to take care o’ us. There be a right good number.” Mistaking Ruth’s surprise, he confided, “We don’t mind sharin’ beds. Most o’ us ne’er had one afore the Capt’n found us.”
* * *
In the alley, mindful of Ruth’s entreaty, Lucian halted several yards from the old man. The abject slump of the shoulders, bowed head, and wringing hands belied everything Merristorm thought to find in Miss Clayton’s father.
“Mr. Clayton,” Lucian called calmly. To his puzzlement the old man raised his hands to his face and turned away. “Sir–Mr. Clayton.”
The old man ignored Lucian. He lowered his hands and began moving his hands as if washing them while spewing a frantic mumble of nonsensical words. His behaviour reminded Lucian of a trooper he once knew who had gone mad during heavy cannonade after a particularly nasty encounter with the French. Drawing on that experience he walked up to the old man and clasped one of his shaking shoulders.
“Do I have the pleasure of Mr. Sampson Clayton?” Tightening his grip, Lucian cleared his throat and waited.
“I’ve lost them, that’s what I’ve done. Lost them. God help me, lost them,” Sampson said frantically wringing his hands.
“Have you seen them?” Mr. Clayton continued. “My two little girls. Ruth with her mop of red curls and tiny Marietta. Only a babe is she and Ruth barely twelve.”
“Twelve,” repeated Lucian in surprise.
“My wife dead that many years or more,” Sampson babbled. Slowly he raised his head and turned to look at Merristorm. Tears brimmed. “She died too young.”
A second later Lucian saw the tears were gone. The man’s eyes grew puzzled and then there was nothing but emptiness. “Sir,” he said giving the old man’s shoulder a slight shake. “Ruth is very worried about you. Let me take you to her.”
“I don’t know any Ruth,” Sampson whined. He pulled free and backed away.
Lucian whistled two short bursts. While he waited for the lad to bring Miss Clayton he pondered the enigma of the old man and his daughter.
* * *
Ruth halted at the mouth of the alley and motioned the boy back. She approached her father at a sedate walk. In slow and careful fashion she laid a hand on his arm. “Father, you gave us such a start.”
Mr. Clayton’s brow creased in puzzlement. “Yes, miss?”
“You need to come with me, Father. Marietta will be very worried about our long absence.”
Sampson turned wide vacant eyes to her. “Who are you?”
“Come, sir. Your daughter has been worried,” Lucian urged at Ruth’s side.
“Daughter? I have none,” the old man said quizzically.
Ruth flinched but reached for his hand. “Come with me, Father. Marietta is all alone.”
“Marietta?” Sampson slapped at her hand. “Leave me be woman.”
“Sir,” Lucian warned and moved to intervene.
“No,” Ruth pleaded. “He does not always remember things as he should.” She reached again for her father’s hand and this time he let her hold it.
“We are in London, Father, on our way to Whitby. You are to serve at St. Mary’s there.”
Clayton’s eyes narrowed, closed. After a long moment he opened them. “Why do you shout, daughter? Must you bruise my hand thus?”
Ruth sighed with relief. “I am sorry, Father.”
“Who is this young man?” Sampson asked turning a steady gaze on the dark stranger beside his daughter.
“Lucian Merristorm,” he said offering his hand. “Your daughter has been very worried about you, sir.”
“Have you, Ruth? That is too bad of you,” Sampson told her. “You can see that I am hale and hearty.”
“Marietta has been too long alone, Father. We should hurry back to the inn,” Ruth said drawing him forward.
“Let me secure a hackney for you,” Lucian offered.
Discomfited, Ruth said, “Father, we mustn’t impose upon Mr. Merristorm.”
“You can’t deprive me of the opportunity to perform a good deed to save me from perdition?” he teased.
Ruth put a hand over her heart to shield it from the deep velvet timbre of his voice. “We could not,” she began.
“How kind of you, young man,” Sampson said and continued in Greek, “but the lord shall provide.”
Lucian stared at him and then smiled grimly. It came back to him more easily than he thought possible. “The lord has provided me,” he answered in the same language.
Ruth stared from one to the other as the two men smiled at one another.
“Take the young man’s arm,” Mr. Clayton admonished. “We shall accept his kind offer.”
Lucian shot a smile at Ruth.
That and gratitude rendered her tongue-tied and exceedingly warm.
“I did not realize you were so shy, daughter,” Mr. Clayton chuckled. He took Ruth by the hand. “We are at your pleasure, Mr. Merristorm.”
Lucian motioned them to go before him. “We best walk back to Drury Lane.” He turned and found the lad before him. Pressing the expected coin into the boy’s hand, he said, “Go tell the others all is well.”
“Aye, Capt’n,” the boy said with a salute and ran away.
Mr. Clayton eyed Merristorm speculatively. “The cavalry?”
“15th Light Dragoons,” Merristorm begrudged with reluctant pride. “The 14th in Spain after the 15th were sent home.”
“And now you are home?”
Ruth sensed rather than saw Lucian wince. “That hackney, Mr. Merristorm? We really must rejoin my sister.”
He nodded and strode ahead of them. Lucian awaited them beside the open hackney door when they caught up with him.
“Have you read Aristotle in the original,” Sampson asked.
Lucian lip curled. Then he saw Ruth’s startled expression. “Yes, at university.”
“But not much since,” Mr. Clayton said, his eyes sad. He shook Merristorm’s hand and then climbed into the hackney.
Ruth watched him enter, too conscious of Lucian and of his effect on her. She tried not to draw in too deep of a breath–too much of his scent–as she offered her hand. “Thank you, Mr. Merristorm. I am grateful for our precipitous meeting.”
“Don’t hold my bad manners against me,” he said baldly, his nerves on edge at this parting.
“I can forgive much for anyone who is kind to my father,” Ruth said and smiled. Her heart jumped to her throat when he took her hand and raised it to his lips.
I shall throw myself into his arms if he keeps looking at me like that. When he released it with an apologetic grimace, she blinked back a tear. “You have no need of regret,” Ruth whispered.
Far too many regrets, Lucian thought. He pulled himself momentarily back from the black pit yawning before him in his mind’s eye. He offered his hand and helped her step up and into the hackney.
“Safe journey.”
“God be with you,” Mr. Clayton told him.
Lucian bit back a sharp retort and shut the hackney door none too gently. God hadn’t been with him for many years. He still wasn’t.
Ruth watched him stride away. The taut angry line of his body deepened the ache in her heart. Was it Shakespeare, she wondered, who said, parting is such sweet sorrow? Looking at her hands she swallowed the taste of bitterness. There is no sweet to it.