The Mysterious Miss M. Diane GastonЧитать онлайн книгу.
shrugged him away, refusing to let him touch her. ‘What does that signify? It is not the first time he has hit me.’
His hand remained poised in the air, his expression conveying acute sympathy. She should not allow herself to believe he truly cared, no matter how much the fantasy of that very thing had sustained her these few years.
The child squirmed in her arms and pulled away to grasp his fingers. The child giggled. Devlin stepped closer, and the tiny girl tugged on his neckcloth. This time when he touched Madeleine’s bruised cheek, she did not draw away. Could not draw away. Speech became impossible.
‘He will not hurt you again,’ he murmured.
He became the hero of her daydreams again. How could she believe in him? Other young men had vowed to place her under their protection. They never returned, or, if they did return, never spoke such a promise again. Farley had seen to it. Why had Farley allowed this man to take her? Was it some sort of trick?
She glanced at her lieutenant. His eyes were warm and full of a resolve she would at least pretend was real. His face again became the one in her weary daydreams, conjured up after her toils were done and she was free to seek her bed alone. He always smiled at her in her dreams, his dimple winking at her.
Now his manly face filled her with excitement. The memory of his gentle kiss and peace-shattering lovemaking returned and agitated her. It was acceptable to dream and remember, but to let herself feel again? To hope? No, her only hope was to contrive to support Linette and Sophie, two people she could depend upon because they needed her so.
Linette tore out the folds of Devlin’s neckcloth as he leaned down. His lips came closer. Madeleine’s heart thudded against her chest.
‘I settled the lass in my cot.’ The voice of Devlin’s servant, Bart, broke in, full of indignation.
Devlin smiled at the man. ‘In your cot, Bart? Quick work.’
‘I’ll harbour no insults, if you please.’ This man did not speak as servant to master. ‘If you’ve managed to get us any funds, I’ll see about some food. Some milk for the wee one.’
Devlin marched over to the table and emptied his pockets. ‘Good news. We shall eat well.’
Bart picked up a few coins and shoved the rest back to Devlin. ‘See you try to hold on to these for a bit.’ He reached for a coat on a hook and went out the door, closing it silently.
‘He is your servant?’ Madeleine asked, conscious of being alone with him once more.
As if reading her thoughts, Devlin regarded her with smouldering eyes. ‘More than that, I suppose. We managed through Spain and Belgium together.’
‘Belgium,’ she murmured. After news of Waterloo, for days she had pored over the names of the dead, weeping in relief when she finally found him listed among the wounded.
No matter. Now that his servant had absented himself, her lieutenant would soon wish payment for her rescue.
Her heart pounded. She must not feel this excitement at being near him. She must expect him to be as selfish and capricious as other men. Madeleine adjusted her hold on Linette, who rubbed her eyes and flopped her head on Madeleine’s shoulder again.
Devlin came near to her again. ‘The child must be getting heavy for you. Come. It is time for bed.’
Devlin led her into his bedchamber, acutely aware of blood thundering through his veins. By God, she was more desirable than that first, magic time with her.
As she regarded the room with dismay, he saw it through her eyes. A smallish room, furnished with a tall double chest of drawers in a style long out of fashion and a large four-poster bed with faded curtains. His old trunk was tucked in the corner, clothing spilling out.
Her gaze rested on the bed. What might it be like to share that bed with her? To tangle with her in its sheets?
This would not do. She appeared as if she would collapse at any moment. The child was no infant, nearly three years old, he’d guess. A sturdy bundle, and Madeleine had not let go of her for nearly an hour.
‘Where shall Linette sleep?’ she asked nervously.
‘In the bed, where else?’
She straightened, her defiant chin lifting. ‘My lord, I am prepared to repay you for your generosity, but I must insist on privacy for Linette. She must not be in the same room, let alone the same bed.’
He raised his eyebrows. Did she think him unmindful of the child? Did she think him so base as to take advantage of her?
‘And I’m loath to leave her alone in a strange place,’ she continued, her mouth set in firm determination.
He stared into her blue eyes and the breath left his lungs. He let his gaze travel down the length of her. Her red silk dress clung to her form and the weight of her daughter pulled its low neckline down lower. The attire was pure tart, but her bearing regal. The combination set his senses aflame, though he had no intention of acting upon them, ill timed as they were.
A smile not absent of regret spread across his face. ‘I meant for you and the child to share the bed. Did you think I meant otherwise?’
She blushed, bringing a most innocent pink to her cheeks, her eyes downcast. ‘You know very well what I thought.’
He stepped behind her and put his hands on her shoulders. The little girl’s curls tickled his fingers. For a moment he let his fingers caress Madeleine’s soft flesh. He held her against him, inhaling the scent of lavender in her hair. From behind her, he planted a chaste kiss on her cheek and gave her a push toward the bed.
‘Sleep well, Madeleine.’
Chapter Three
T he damp chill seeped through Devlin’s clothing. His twisted limbs would not move. Pain had settled into a constant ache, made worse with each breath, worse still by the rancid stench of blood. Of death. Moans of the dying filled the night. The sounds grew louder and louder, until they merged into one piercing wail. An agonised sound. The sound of fear and horror and pain.
Coming from his mouth.
He woke, his heart pounding, breath panting. His vision cleared, revealing faded red-brocade curtains made moderately brighter by sunlight. What were brocade curtains doing at Waterloo?
He sat up, his mind absorbing the round mahogany table in the corner with its decanter of port, the mantel holding one chipped porcelain vase. His back ached from contorting himself on the settee. It had been the dream. He hung his head between his knees until the disturbing images receded. Had he cried out in his sleep?
The wail again sounded in his ears, coming from the bedchamber this time, not from his own soul.
He leapt from the settee and flung open the door. Madeleine paced the room, clutching her little girl. The child cried and struggled in her arms. Madeleine’s red dress was creased with wrinkles. That she’d not bothered to undress before sleeping moved him to compassion. How exhausted she must have been.
The child gave a loud, anguished cry, and Madeleine quickened her pace.
‘What the devil is going on?’
She spun toward him, her youthful face pinched in worry. ‘She is feverish.’
‘She is ill?’ Devlin’s head throbbed from the previous night’s excess of brandy.
‘Yes. She coughs, too.’ Her voice caught. ‘I have never seen her so ill.’
‘Good God,’ Devlin said. ‘We must do something.’
‘I don’t know what to do!’
Tears glistened in her eyes. The child’s wailing continued unchecked. He had not bargained for a sick child.
‘Bart!’ he yelled, rushing back into the parlour. ‘Bart! Where are you?’
Bart