11
How naïve was I! I believed X. Q. was now mine, and we would look forward to a future of happiness. After all, he could not resist me. We played such delightful bedroom games—naughty, delicious games with the judicious use of ropes.
Yet his father disapproved. In face of losing his allowance, X. Q. cooled our relationship once more. By this point, I was so deliriously in love, I would have taken him without a penny to his name. But losing his allowance mattered far more to him than to me. But I had been a fool!
So from love—and its bitter lessons—I toiled onward and upward.
—From an unfinished manuscript entitled A Courtesan Confesses by Anonymous
Couples—and threesomes—actually stopped making love to watch the competition between the Duke of Caradon and the Earl of Stratham.
Before Sophie could speak, Stratham grabbed her wrist and yanked her closer to him, forcing her to stumble. Her back stiffened. The brandy on his breath almost made her eyes water. A lecherous grin twisted his handsome mouth into something horrid.
“I know, my dear, what your answer will be.” Stratham lowered his voice and he gripped both her wrist and her bottom. His squeezing fingers almost crushed her wrist. He pinched her derrière. Hard.
“When you are mine, you will belong to me. Completely. Do not ever cross me; do not ever stray. If you even look at another gentleman, you will know the force of my wrath and you will not forget.”
It was more than possessiveness in his eyes. Sophie read belligerence there—as if she had already done something wrong. It scared her.
This “gentleman” was just like Devars. He felt he owned her, when she had done nothing to encourage him. He’d decided he wanted her, so she was his, and she had no choice and no say.
She struggled to push Stratham’s hand away.
“I am afraid you are mistaken, sirrah. Your offer is most generous, but I must decline. His Grace did make his offer first, and I fear it would not be fair to accept.”
“Fair? Dear lady, in matters of the bedroom, I never play fair.”
Suddenly, a look of pain shot across the man’s angry face.
His hand was yanked away from her, and his entire body jerked and straightened. Cary had grasped his forearm and twisted it, pinning Stratham’s arm behind his back.
She marveled at Cary’s strength as he carelessly captured the earl. Stratham cried out in agony—though he bit it short.
“Keep the hell away from her, Stratham, before I call you out,” the duke growled. “And I would not plan to shoot wide. I’ve killed a lot of men in battle. I don’t miss.”
The Earl of Stratham was pale with pain, shaking. “All right.”
Cary released him. But before Stratham went, he said in a low deadly tone, “I accept your choice, harlot. But I have not been dealt fairly in this matter. Until we next meet.”
Oh, they were never going to meet again.
“There will not be another meeting. If you even see her enter a room you are in, you will leave it immediately. You will keep far away from her. Or I’ll damn well shoot you.” Cary’s chest moved with angry breaths. He looked like he could breathe fire.
Stratham straightened, then tried to salvage his pride by grasping a courtesan who was standing nearby, wearing a harem girl costume. “Come with me,” he snapped. “Let me fuck you.”
“Of course, my lord,” the woman simpered.
Then they were gone.
Sophie’s pulse thundered. She looked up at Cary, up at his pale blue eyes. “You rescued me again.”
His long fingers gently stroked her wrist. Lightning sizzled through her at even the soft, delicate touch he gave. “Does it hurt? He bruised you. I should have called him out.”
“No! Not a duel. I won’t have you shooting at someone. Or getting shot.”
Cary shook his head. “You are trouble, aren’t you, Sophie?”
“I’m not. These gentlemen are,” she declared, indignant. This was hardly her fault. She glanced toward the earl, who was pushing his way through the crowd. A sense of cold washed over her. She shivered. “I fear I’ve made a dangerous enemy.”
Cary studied the earl’s retreating back. “Don’t worry. I’m your protector now.”
“Yes, you are. But how can I let you be my protector if I’m not giving you anything in return?”
“You are,” he said curtly. “And it’s time I take you home, before you get into more trouble.”
“I should tell Nell I am leaving.”
But then she spotted Nell strolling through the crowd, her arm linked with the arm of a tall, extraordinarily handsome gray-haired gentleman. Nell saw her.
And winked.
Soft gray tinged the sky, promising dawn, and Sophie hurried along the carriageway to the door of her room, located at the end, where the gravel drive opened out into a small courtyard. A man passed her, lifting both his cap and his brow as he said, “Good evening, Miss Ashley. Out a bit late, aren’t ye?”
She saw a hint of a teasing smile on the man’s face—he was handsome, had a wife and five young children, but he watched out for her. “Good morning, Ben. You’re right, it is beyond late, and now it’s early.”
She was coming home while many people were leaving their rooms to go to work—bakers, butchers, coopers, laborers.
“As long as ye’re home safe and sound.”
“I am. Not to worry,” she said cheerfully. She was all but bursting with joy. And it was kind of him to be concerned about her.
Strange smells touched her nose as she opened the door to her small room. The building was a rabbit warren of corridors and rooms. Hers was accessed from the outside—from a small carriageway that ran underneath the building. She also had a tiny, dirty window.
Sophie took a deep breath. A mistake—no matter what time of day it was, the stews smelled of coal smoke, chamber pots, smelly fish, cabbage . . . and damp.
She turned the key in the lock, pushed open the door, and stepped inside—into pitch dark, of course, for there wasn’t much light in the sky yet. Even if there were, it wouldn’t penetrate the grime and grease on the miniscule window.
But after several days here, she could make her way in the dark to her table—and her candle—without bumping into things.
She shut the door. Then she spun around. This was to be one of her last days here. Caradon had promised to have a house for her quickly. She might not be a courtesan for real, but she was about to get all the advantages.
And everything was solved!
Sophie closed her eyes, tipped back her head, and squealed with joy. A restrained squeal—so she didn’t wake any sleeping children in the building.
She would bring Belle and the children to London. They would have warm beds. She could thumb her nose at Devars, for she would be under a duke’s protection. She would have money to replace the dratted bracelet, and he would never dare offend a duke by having her arrested.
Even though Cary wasn’t going to be her lover, he was going to protect her.
It just showed what a wonderful and perfect man he was.
But she wanted him. Really wanted him.
She would find a way to heal him. She would turn him into her lover for real.
Spinning around again, she got dizzy. She stumbled and knocked the teapot to the floor. She bumped her one rickety chair with her hip, and the leg finally parted from the seat. It toppled over with a thud. She sank to the bed—rather, the cot—in the dark, and she laughed.
Her son would be safe now. He would have a future—!
A floorboard creaked. The sound didn’t come from under her feet.
Sophie froze. Her heart pounded fast, but that was the only part of her willing to move. Her entire body seemed to have turned to stone in an instant.
It was only a creaking board. It could be coming from the room beside hers. It could be anything—the house groaned at the slightest provocation.
She strained her ears, listening for more. But sound filled the stews. Dogs howled. Carts rattled. So much sound now, with people waking and leaving in the weak dawn light to go to work.
Suddenly, her tiny room felt vast and dangerous. She couldn’t even speak—why ask if anyone was there? There shouldn’t be. Oh heaven, there shouldn’t be.
There couldn’t be.
She thought of the girl huddled on the mucky ground in Cary’s mews, and she wanted to shriek.
Get hold of yourself!
Sophie launched off the cot and stalked with determination toward the table and her candle—and her flint—
She was suddenly thrown to the side and slammed up against her closed door. Her chest hit hard, and all her breath flew out. Then she was shoved harder by ruthless hands and banged repeatedly against the unyielding door. Pain shot through her breasts and her ribs. The weight pressing on her, pushing her against the wooden surface, was crushing.
A gloved hand clamped hard against her mouth. She bit—sank her teeth in desperately—but all that got her was an evil chuckle. Leather was crammed into her mouth. The side of a hand was jammed in there so she couldn’t scream.
That courtesan, Sally, had been killed. The same was going to happen to her.
She bit at his glove, lashed out at him with her feet, her hands. It was useless.
Then his hand moved away. For a moment, she was stunned by her good luck.
Scream, you fool!
She screamed. Screamed and screamed. And fought to push back against him enough to open the door. She managed an inch, then his huge hand slammed it shut again.
Wrapping her hair in his fist, he yanked her head back, and she cried out. Tears blinded her. She should have gone for a weapon, not the stupid candle. The frying pan. The fireplace poker. Anything.
That had been what had saved her with Devars. Why had she been so stupid?
She was propelled back across the room so fast, she almost didn’t touch the ground. She still couldn’t see the man who was going to kill her.
He threw her onto the table, and all she saw was shadow. A feeble shaft of daylight touched the white of his eye and sliced along the ridge of his sharp cheekbone, but there was something black over his face. A mask.
Then she saw a bit of gold. It was blond hair peeking out from under his hat and touched by the light.
“Don’t do this,” she begged. “I’ll give you money. I’ll—”
“I’ve been given more to kill you. But a little fun first wouldn’t go amiss.”
He grasped her skirts, and she fought. She kicked at his hands, but he grabbed her flailing legs and shoved them apart. His bulk pressed on top of her.
His body was all hard muscle, not fat, and weighed a ton. She fought to breathe. He smelled of cologne—an exotic, expensive one.
He backed off and flung her over. The table plowed into the small of her back. She could barely see through the tears of pain.
You have to fight!
His eyes. Go for his eyes.
She desperately poked with her fingers.
The flat of his hand cracked across her face, pounding her head to the side. Pain exploded. Lights burst before her eyes. Like being hit by a board!
He hit her again.
Leaving her dazed. But she must fight against the pain and confusion; she had to fight for her life.
She couldn’t—
Her door flew open, slamming into the wall. Plaster dust puffed out, and another large shape filled her doorway. She screamed, “Help me, please!”
At least that was what she thought she’d said.
Her head swam from the blows, she could barely see, but meager fingers of daylight touched the second man as he strode in. Her attacker backed off her to confront this new intruder.
Silvery light illuminated golden hair on this man. Then light shone on his face, and her heart leapt with hope.
“Bloody hell,” Cary spat, and his fist arced through the air and sent her attacker’s head on an arc of its own.
The man reeled and stumbled to the side; he was off her. Her whole body ached. She slithered off the table and struggled against her binding corset to stand. She stumbled toward the fireplace, trying to find a weapon in the gloom.
Cary fell back, having been hit.
Then the bulky shape of her attacker went back.
Each time they staggered at each other, swinging, then grappling.
Cold metal touched her hand. She hefted the poker and went for the huge bastard who’d planned to kill her. But the iron bar was so heavy and she was so hurting and weak, she stumbled as she lifted it.
Cary hit her attacker in the stomach, then the jaw. The man teetered back, but suddenly laughed, grabbed Cary, and pushed him at her as he ran out of her room.
The poker was on a deadly arc.
“Cary!” she shrieked.
“Bloody hell again!” the duke yelled, and he jumped to the side as the poker came crashing down. The weight pulled her forward, and he caught her.
“Are you all right? Wait here. I’m going after the bastard.”
Wait here? She could barely move. She stood, swaying. She still gripped the end of the poker, but its tip was stuck in the wood floor.
Cary was going after a killer.
Brandishing the poker, she went after the duke. She stopped in the doorway. The carriageway was empty except for Cary, who had reached the main street and stopped. He looked up and down the street. Even from where she was, she knew he was cursing. He turned and sprinted back. He passed her and reached the courtyard beyond the carriageway.
Tentatively, she stepped out and went to him. Dawn was lightening the sky, turning the buildings into planes of slate-gray and giving some form to the things around them.
If Cary hadn’t come, she would have been dead.
The buildings around suddenly took flight around her, twisting and writhing like fanciful things. She reached out to fight them off, and suddenly felt as if she’d fallen off the edge of a precipice—
“I wish I could take this away from you. Make this so it never happened.”
Cary spoke so softly to her, his voice ravaged and raw, but Sophie found she couldn’t stop shaking. In his carriage, he had wrapped a fur throw around her, surrounding her in the warmth of black sable. And in the strength of his powerful arms.
But nothing seemed to stop this awful trembling.
“It is all right,” she whispered. You are safe with him, she told herself. With Cary, you will be safe.
If she could be with him forever, she would always feel safe.
“It’s not all right,” he said softly. “An attack . . . it changes you. It makes you never feel quite safe again.”
She snuggled harder against his chest and felt his heartbeat against her cheek. His heart was pounding terribly fast. “I do with you,” she told him.
“I will keep you safe. That I promise. I know what it is like to be hurt.”
His time as a prisoner of war had hurt him deeply, and that touched her heart. “I want to make you forget about those horrible days when you were captured.” She wriggled up from his chest and cupped his jawline with both of her hands. “Let me do that.”
He hesitated.
She moved in to kiss him.
“No.” He stopped her. “You are vulnerable and you are scared. You’re turning to me out of fear—it’s instinct to want someone to protect you.”
“It’s because—” She stopped. Nell had advised her never to talk about love to a protector. She had already broken that rule. She shouldn’t make it worse by doing it again.
“I know what happens,” he went on. “You start to believe no one can take care of you, and that fear hardens you and makes you cold. But because I know what it is like, I know how to really take care of you.”
She gazed into his eyes. He seemed so strong. “What did you suffer in Ceylon? It must have been horrible to have hurt you so deeply.”
He just shook his head. “It doesn’t matter.”
But it did. If she wanted to heal him, she had to understand what had happened to him, didn’t she?
The carriage stopped.
Cary conferred with his majordomo for only moments, then he led her to his study. She still shivered even though a good fire blazed in the hearth and she was still wrapped in the fur throw.
“I’m going to undress you,” he said softly. He walked behind her, but he kept his hand resting gently on her arm. It was soothing to have him touch her.
Quickly, he worked to undo the fastenings of her gown. Sophie looked down and saw all the tears in the bodice and skirts from where she’d been thrown to the table, shoved against the wall. Even with the heat of the fire filling the room, she felt cold.
She never wanted to wear this dress again.
“I will have this destroyed,” Cary said. “I’ll get you other clothes.”
It was so exactly the answer to her question—if she destroyed the dress, what would she do?—that she whispered, “You do know what this is like.” She met his gaze. “What happened to you in Ceylon? What did they do to you?”
He hesitated. His long lashes shrouded his eyes. “It doesn’t matter. It was a long time ago.”
“Not that long,” she declared. “It was only three years past.”
“Yes, that’s right. It feels like longer.”
Her bodice sagged, and the duke eased it down. She shoved it. She wanted the wretched thing off as fast as possible. When she looked down at her skirts, she remembered the man pushing them up. His laughter. His mockery.
A little bit of fun before he killed her!
Cary helped, pulling the bodice off quickly. He took her hand to help her step out. “Where did he hurt you?” he asked. “What did he do to you?”
“He just pushed me around. You came before he did anything more. I was only bruised.”
Cary unlaced her corset and took it off, over her head. Her shift was thin from many washings, and through it she saw her bruises. Green and purple ones bloomed on her arms, her chest, and her stomach where she had been slammed against the table edge.
“I’m going to find the bastard and kill him.”
She looked up, into Cary’s eyes. So unusually pale, they glittered in the firelight. She saw anger there. The same anger that pulsed when he’d looked at Stratham. Cary’s jaw twitched.
She remembered how much rage he’d shown the four times he’d rescued her—from Halwell, Stratham, her mystery attacker, and from the footpads. But when he had been fighting, he hadn’t been facing those foes, she realized. He was fighting the foes of his past.
“But they hurt you, didn’t they?” she asked.
“Sophie, that was not important. What matters is what happened to you.”
“But—”
“Sophie, stop talking about it.” Impatience vibrated in his husky voice.
She knew she had to stop. She couldn’t make him angry.
He was right—she needed to feel safe, and she only did so with him.
He bade her to sit down, and he took off her dainty shoes and her stockings. They were ravaged beyond repair. Tears sprang to her eyes.
“Are you all right? Damn, I didn’t mean to be so curt with you, Sophie—”
“It’s not that. It’s”—she gulped on tears—“it’s so silly, but it’s my stockings. And not because they were the first nice pair I had. I did so much for the money I used for them, and it was all a waste—”
She broke off. Oh no.
“What did you do?”
“Oh, it was all the labor I had to do to get them,” she murmured. “I managed to get several menial jobs for pennies.” Not entirely a lie. She had tried that at first—she had tried honest work—before Devars went after her, forcing her to need so much more money to keep them all safe. But where she got the money for the stockings was Devars’s bracelet, and she couldn’t tell Cary that.
“Not such a disaster,” he said softly. “You have me now.”
“I do. Then it is all wonderful.” And she meant it.
“Now your shift.” His tone turned matter-of-fact. He stood and looked ahead, not down at her. “Do you need help?”
“I—” She needed him close to her. How else was she to start to heal him? And . . . and she just needed him close.
“I do,” she said.
He crouched down, and together they grasped the hem of her chemise. Their hands brushed. For her, it was like sparks and electricity. For him—his teeth were gritted.
Slowly, she drew up the shift, his hands following. This was the last piece of clothing she wore. She revealed the tops of her legs, the dark curls between her legs—he had seen those. Then her belly, and her breasts bounced as she lifted the shift.
He took the shift away from her. Walked over and tossed it into the fire. Flames flared and ate it.
For the first time, she was completely naked in front of him.
And he wasn’t reacting. He didn’t even look.
“There is a robe and nightdress. You need rest, but there are things I should do first. I’ll return in a moment.”
“Where did you get a woman’s robe and a nightgown?” She knew his majordomo had sent a footman with a bundle of things.
“They belong to my sister Claudia. My majordomo had them brought here as I brought you to this room.”
“I can’t—”
“Yes, you will. Now get dressed, love, before you catch cold.” With that, he walked out.
That wasn’t what she’d hoped for.
But she did feel shaky. Could she really work on seducing him, caressing him, trying to heal him?
A bit of fun before I kill you . . .
Sophie shuddered. She felt sick. A chill went through her, but from the inside out. She hurried to the clothes. The silk nightdress slithered over her fingers, soft as heaven.
She shouldn’t wear his sister’s nightclothes. He was a kind man, but he’d gotten a steely eyed look of determination, and he’d ordered her to do it.
She couldn’t displease him. He was going to be her protector.
The silk nightdress skimmed over her skin, gliding on. Her bosom was a little large for it, as were her hips, so it tugged oddly. But it fit.
And the robe. It was voluminous—an acre of thick, warm velvet.
She’d just gotten the belt tied, snuggling into the warmth that touched her bare toes, when the door opened. Cary came in and shut it.
He set a basin of water on a table near a small sofa. Steam rose.
Someone must have heated the water. She swallowed hard. “Aren’t your servants shocked?” Gentlemen might have mistresses, but there was a reason they provided their ladybirds with houses.
“Probably, though not the servants who were here in my father’s day.” He dipped in a facecloth—a neat, elegant square, not the worn-out things she had used on the farm. She’d always had worn-out things. Lifting it, he wrung it out.
She had a fleeting thought—that the money her mother had given for her upbringing had supported the doctor’s house, had funded her adoptive mother’s dreams to elevate her own children. Sophie had always got the worst. The scraps. The hand-me-downs. The roughest fabrics, the chewiest morsels of food.
She hadn’t really cared. It was only when her son’s fate mattered, that she suddenly cared.
Had her mother deliberately left her to that fate? But if so, why leave so much money for her care? Why give her to a doctor’s family anyway? Did her mother have no other choice? Maybe no one else would take in a courtesan’s bastard?
“Come here and sit on the sofa,” Cary instructed. His voice was gentle, but it held a quiet, irresistible command. Probably a skill he had developed in the army, when he had led men.
She, for example, would follow him anywhere.
Sophie sat, and Cary got on one knee before her. Samuel had done that, to propose marriage—well, at least to promise her they were engaged.
But Cary’s blue eyes were full of concern, and they crackled with anger as he gently cleaned her face. She had no idea she was dirty. Or she was actually cut, until she felt a sharp sting.
“Ow.” She lifted her hand.
“It’s all right. A cut on your cheek. I want to ensure it’s clean. Nor large enough to require stitches.” His eyes darkened. “It will likely mar your cheek though.” He looked furious at the idea.
“You look so angry. But I’m alive! He was going to kill me. A scar on my cheek is nothing—” Or was it? Courtesans were supposed to be beautiful. The more lovely, the better. Maybe the scar ruined things. If he hated it . . .
Suddenly, she remembered something she hadn’t told him. “That man—he said he was paid to kill me. This wasn’t just rape or robbery!” Her voice rose. “Who would do that?”
“Shh.” Cary gently bathed her cheek. With care. Watching her carefully. Sometimes his gaze was so intense, it took her breath. “You need care first. Then we’ll talk about what happened.”
Someone knocked on the door. She jumped, but his hand cupped her cheek for a moment. He gentled her like a horse, took his hand away. “Enter,” he commanded.
His majordomo, in a robe and a nightcap, came in, carrying a tray. On the tray sat a bowl of cut ice. Strips of cloth. A silver pot and a teacup on a saucer. The pot gleamed. The cup was edged in gold.
A fleeting look of disapproval was emitted by the servant as he set the tray down. That was directed at her from behind the duke’s back.
“That will be all,” Cary said. He wrapped the small pieces of ice in cloth and held the wrap against her face. The cool soothed. “This will take down some of the swelling. It’s late, but it will help. Hold it while I pour your chocolate.”
Chocolate?
It was. Dark and thick and so piping hot that coils of steam rose. Placing his hand over hers, he said, “I’ll hold this against your bruises. You take the chocolate.”
“Th-thank you.”
“I thought this would be better than brandy. Hot and soothing, and a bit of a stimulant also.”
She sipped. It was like silken heaven in a cup. Now her insides were as warm as her outsides, which were wrapped in a thick, perfect robe. Well, her outsides were all hot except where Cary gently held the ice.
Wrapping her hands around the cup, Sophie sipped and sipped until she finished the drink. She’d been hungry, and the drink was thick, creamy, delicious.
When she finished, he got her to hold the ice while he refilled her cup.
“What did you see of the man who attacked you?” he asked. And she felt full of warmth and so much calmer. It felt more difficult to grasp on to fear and panic again. She felt . . . sleepy. He was a very smart man. He had known exactly what to do for her.
“Almost nothing. My room was in the dark. He was in there, when I went in—” And danced like an idiot! “And I didn’t even see him.”
“You didn’t hear anything?”
“Oh yes. I heard footsteps in the other rooms and carts rattling and dogs barking at the dawn. I didn’t hear him until he moved out of the shadows. Then he made a board creak behind me. It was too late to run then. If you hadn’t—how did you know?”
“I had waited to ensure you were safely inside, then I heard something crash in your rooms.”
“That was just me at that point, I think.”
He stared at her, confused.
“I was twirling around the room—dancing around it—and I knocked over the teapot and fell on the bed.”
“In the dark, you were dancing around the room?”
“I was happy.” She looked up at his face. “Because of you.”
He didn’t react to that. “You said he told you he had been paid to kill you.”
“That’s what he said,” she explained. “I offered him money to spare me, and he said he’d been given more to kill me.”
“Poor love.” He looked at her so tenderly, she almost melted. Then he asked, “By whom?”
“He didn’t bother to tell me.”
“Sophie, you are remarkable. Any other woman would be sobbing and in a mess.”
“But I’m safe now.”
His gaze lingered on her eyes. “You are.”
“I didn’t see hardly anything of his face. I think he wore a cloth over part of it. In the light—there’s barely any light in that room, even on the middle of the sunniest day—I saw his eye, his cheekbone. Oh, and hair. He had golden hair. Rather like yours.”
“No, he did not.”
“He did. That much I am certain of, because I saw it.”
“You saw this, Sophie.” Cary picked up something from behind him, on a table. At first, she thought he’d picked up a cat. No, it was a handful of blond curls.
“A wig,” he said.
“But why? Why wear a blond wig?” She stared at Cary’s beautiful sculpted face and his golden hair, which was a mess, drifting over his brow.
“A woman was killed—a woman I had been seen pursuing at a Cyprian ball. Last night I was seen with you, and subsequently, you were attacked.”
“But you had nothing to—” Then she understood. “You mean, someone is trying to make you look guilty of this? But why?”
“I don’t know. But you are not going to return to that room. You can spend the night here. Tomorrow, I will have a house rented for you.”
But he said it with a sigh. He did not look particularly happy.
Why would he be happy? He was not going to have any of the pleasure of having a mistress. She felt suddenly nervous. He was rescuing her, but at a huge cost.
She really must become his lover. She must give him something back. “I wish you would . . . come to my bed. I don’t understand you. Why would you buy me a house and give me so much?”
“Apparently, now, my dear, I owe it to you. You were attacked because of me. I don’t why, but that’s what happened.”
“But you will have a mistress and no—no fun. That can’t be enough for you?”
“Yes, love. It is enough for me.”
But she didn’t believe it. “Nell said you used to be wild. She said you were the most wicked of the Wicked Dukes.”
“I had a lot of sex to make me forget. That no longer works. Now, come on. We will get you to your bed.”
He took her to the bedchamber she had used before—just a few nights ago—and she slipped into the bed. The bed was cool, but a fire burned in the grate.
“Try to sleep and remember, you’ll always be safe now.”
“I—Thank you.” It was so sweet, so good of him that she wanted to cry.
As he closed the door, and Sophie closed her eyes, she knew the truth—she was unstoppably in love with the duke.
This was not a love she could forget, or force herself to ignore.
She shut her eyes. Coals in the grate lent a soft red glow that faintly lit up the room. Sophie heard the faint tick of a clock.
Then suddenly she was in a great house, in one of the corridors, and there was no light but eerie silver-blue moonlight. A young boy cried out. Her son, Alex! She began to run down the corridor, but the cries got farther away. Terrified, she turned, but in any direction she ran, she was only going away from her son—
“Alexander!” She gasped, launching up in the bed.
Sitting there, with the covers at her waist, her body drenched in cooling sweat, she knew what had happened.
A dream. Just a dream. “Oh, thank God. Thank God.” She almost sobbed in relief.
Cary was haunted by fear, and so was she. His fears were memories. Hers were for a horrible future that could come true—she could lose her son, maybe even her life.
Would Devars really leave her alone?
She couldn’t think about that now. She must go forward. Cary’s protection had to be the answer; otherwise, what could she do? He would save her, and maybe she could save him. . . .
Sophie frowned.
Cary had said he used sex to forget. She assumed he must mean the awful memories that haunted him. But Nell said he had been a wicked rogue before he was kept as a prisoner of war. It was after that he had changed.
The memories that bothered him couldn’t have been from Ceylon.
They had to be from something that had happened before.