Speak Only Love Page 7

  Footsteps approached. A lock rattled, a bar slid back. Someone yanked open the door and the light streamed in, blinding her.

  She could not see the face of the man who reached in, grasped her upper arm, and dragged her unceremoni­ously out. Still without a word, he twisted her around, pulled her out headlong, and put his hard shoulder in her middle bruising her ribs.

  Then she was being borne up the steps into a lighted building. Beneath her dazed eyes she could see the dull tiles of a parquet entrance hall

  "This way," came a strangely familiar voice. "Bring her this way."

  Confused, she tried to lift her head, but her captor was carrying her along at such a clip that she could only bob helplessly, her eyes on his flapping greatcoat.

  Up a flight of steps, he carried her, panting now. "How much farther? Gawd almighty. She's gettin' heavy."

  The light here was dimmer. Dark red carpet spread beneath her eyes as the man carried her down the length of a hall, turned right, stepped up two steps and continued. She was being taken into another wing of a house. At least it was not another abbey. No abbey would have dark red carpet on its hallways.

  Her captor halted in front of a door and tilted her farther back, in an effort to reposition her weight. The movement brought him no relief because Vivian's hipbones bruised his shoulder. He cursed again and dragged her forward.

  This time her ribs received the punishment. Her extreme hunger and cold, the traces of the drug still in her system, the painful pressure on her abdomen, and the blood pounding in her head were too much for her to bear. As if someone had blown out a light, all feelings ceased together.

  Her captor removed her body from his shoulder and deposited her on the carpeted floor before a blazing fireplace. She lay on her side, her silver-blond hair a tangled mess, her face pale as the crumpled white cloth about her neck.

  "We’ll, here she is. And I hope she's worth it. Gawd almighty. I'm tired enough to die where I stand."

  "Then go on to bed. You don't need to wait around. Your job's done."

  "Want I should untie her hands?"

  "No," a woman's voice replied. "Just leave her to me and get on your way."

  “Them hands 've been tied up a long time," he suggested.

  "Let her blame him," came the cryptic reply. "She's not my idea anyway."

  Vivian moved slightly. Her hands twitched, the fingers flexed. The voice. She recognized the voice.

  "Remind him that he owes me extra for this job."

  "I'll remind him."

  "An' he better come through." The boots thudded away from her. A door opened and closed.

  Her eyes flickered open and rested on the orange blur that was the fire.

  The man's boots thudded away, and Vivian heard the sound of a door opening and closing. She turned her head, but her eyes refused to stay open long enough to focus.

  Hands gripped her by the shoulders and pulled her over on her back. One arm slid under her shoulders. A glass touched her lips.

  "Here now, Miss Marleigh." A woman's voice, very familiar, sounded next to her ear. "Drink this."

  Brandy trickled its liquid fire down Vivian's raw throat causing her to cough and choke. She struggled feebly, rolling her head from side to side, but the woman was inexorable. "Don't waste it. It's good French brandy." And then under her breath. "Clumsy slut."

  Opening weary anguished eyes, Vivian focused with difficulty on the face of the woman who supported her. Ema Felders.

  Sharp gray eyes stared back at her from a sallow face. The firm jaw and pinch-purse mouth offered no sympathy. "Can you stand?"

  Vivian shook her head. She could not sit up, let alone stand. The brandy was burning in her stomach.

  "Like lying here like a pile of dirty linen, do you? Suits me fine. But his lordship wants you up." She shifted her position, got her legs under her, and lifted with surprising strength. Without a wasted motion Vivian felt herself dragged to her feet and steadied. "Now stand up there and we'll see about getting you loose."

  Once on her feet, Vivian felt the woman's hand at the back of her neck. Again Felders raised the glass to Vivian's lips.

  Vivian swallowed obediently, then again. The fiery liquor spread from her empty stomach to all her parts. She blinked and took a deep breath. The room swam around her, then righted itself.

  Satisfied that her captive would not collapse, the sharp-eyed woman caught Vivian's arm above the elbow and forced her back several stumbling steps. Vivian felt the seat of a chair behind her knees.

  The woman's other hand pressed down on Vivian's shoulder. "Now just sit down here. Don't make any fuss."

  Vivian tried to twist her arms around to remind the woman of the painful strap.

  "Oh, did I forget that? Fancy that." Mrs. Felders allowed herself a humorless grin. "We’ll, all right. So long as those hands have been tied up, you can bet you're going to feel the life coming back into them."

  Vivian bit her lip and twisted still farther around. She would suffer any pain just to get her hands back in front of her again. The frustration and agony of the coach ride would remain with her-she was certain- for the rest of her life. Doubly so, because with her hands tied behind her, she was doubly helpless.

  A couple of efficient twists and the strap came away from Vivian's wrists. As if she were ninety years old, she brought her strained arms around to the front of her body. Immediately, a thousand burning needles attacked each hand. She thrust her hands between her knees and squeezed as hard as she could. But the pain intensified as warmth and circulation returned simul­taneously. Tears spilled down her cheeks.

  Hands tucked beneath her white apron, Emma Felders watched Vivian's efforts. When the pain began to abate, she cleared her throat. "If you're ready, I’ll tell his lordship."

  Vivian swiped the sleeve of her habit across her cheeks. She pushed her snarled hair back over her shoulder and sat upright. With a trembling hand she pointed to the brandy bottle.

  Mrs. Felders snorted. "Best not get too drunk, Miss Marleigh. You'll need all the stray wits you might have about you. Just sit up straight and pay attention to his lordship when he speaks to you."

  With that she left the room. Vivian shot a look of unmitigated fury at the smooth oak panels. Mentally, she recited the various torments she would inflict upon the housekeeper when she would have the opportunity. The exercise did not stave off despair for very long.

  How could she do any of those things? She had just been abducted from one of London's fine hotels. Her abductor had carried her more than halfway across England by coach with about as much ceremony as one would deliver a parcel. She had been drugged and tied up and starved. She was helpless. Helpless. And raging with impotent fury.

  Defiantly, she shot out of the chair and strode to the side table. Jerking the stopper out of the bottle, she poured herself a stiff tot of brandy and drank it down. She was setting the glass down when the door opened.

  A cold draught of air played round her ankles reminding her that she was standing in her stocking feet outside the magic circle of the fire. Still she was determined not to scurry back. She turned to face the earl and the viscount with her chin held high.

  "Ah, my dear, what an ordeal you have been subjected to. Please, come back, sit by the fire." Larnaervon came toward her in his usual black velvet, his white hair spread over his shoulders, his cane tapping.

  She had an insane impulse to throw herself into his arms and burst into tears. A younger Vivian Marleigh might have done just that. An innocent, trusting girl who lived alone with her books and her horses at a country estate called Stone Glenn.

  Ironically, Vivian Marleigh had gone away forever in this very house. She had dissolved into her present frightened self the night the earl had revealed the machinations of Sebastian Dawlish. In doing so he had taught her more than he planned. She did not trust him either. Over his shoulder she saw his son, the viscount, staring at her with a quizzical, calculating look. And behind him Emma Felders closed the door
and planted her body in front of it like a guardsman.

  Heart pounding, breath short, Vivian waited.

  "My dear, please."The earl had softened his rasp to a pleasant purr. "Piers, help the lady to the chair. Felders, I think some refreshments are in order. Perhaps a cold supper."

  "Cook's asleep, sir."

  He swung his white head in her direction. "We’ll, wake him up. Or fix it yourself. I'm sure you can find something that will—”

  Vivian put the glass down so hard it cracked. Her anger, clearly transmitted by the sound, drew their eyes. She shook her head and made a motion as if she were writing.

  The earl shrugged, his smile a little thin. "We’ll, Mrs. Felders, Cook's sleep will remain unbroken. Miss Marleigh does not care for food. Am I correct in this assumption?"

  She nodded and repeated the writing pantomime.

  He ignored her request. "Please sit down. Piers, take her arm and lead her to the chair. The poor child is swaying on her feet."

  "Larne, what sort of nasty game are you playing?" The viscount made no move toward Vivian.

  "How well he knows me," the earl commented. "Please, my dear child, do me the favor of sitting down. You look sick to death. And I have trouble standing for long."

  She touched her fingers to her aching forehead.

  "Please."

  With a sigh she moved to the chair and lowered herself gingerly in it. Her black stockings stuck out from beneath the skirt of her habit.

  The earl's sharp eyes missed nothing. "Why, my dear, no shoes?"

  She shook her head and made again the writing motion.

  His face serious, he took the seat across from her, his own feet and legs stretched out to the fire. "My dear, you shall have everything that you desire in the morning. For right now I want you to listen to me carefully without thinking about anything except what I'm saying to you."

  Her stare was bitter, but she had no choice.

  In the background Piers helped himself to the brandy.

  "You sit there blaming me for your present condition, when in point of fact you brought this all on yourself." When she glared at him, he chuckled. "Oh, I will admit that my dear son helped you to it. For reasons of his own which I have been informed of in an alcohol soaked but nonetheless triumphant voice. To 'put a spoke in my wheel' was I believe the clever way he put it. Right, Piers?"

  No answer came, but Vivian could see the black scowl on the viscount's face. He raised his glass and drank deeply.

  "Consider, if you will that I wanted you to stay here until I had sufficiently recovered from grief at the death of my beloved wife."

  Here he was interrupted by a mocking snort from his son.

  "—my beloved wife," he insisted in a flat voice. "Yes, my beloved wife, Georgina, countess of my heart, is dead."

  "Damn hypocrite," Piers snarled, coming to stand between them and glare down at his father.

  Larnaervon shrugged, a mere twitch of the bent shoulders. "Would you believe that once—? Ah, but no. Suffice it to say, that we had you, Piers." He smiled thinly as the viscount cursed viciously and turned back to the brandy.

  Vivian leaned her head against her hand. She was becoming dizzy with the brandy, and exhaustion was making her a little sick to her stomach.

  The earl observed her drooping. "Now, my dear, try to pay attention for just a few minutes longer. I want you to understand that I am an old man. My hair is white, my skin wrinkled, my shoulders shattered by a riding accident, my spine crooked, one leg shorter than the other."

  As he catalogued his ills, she stared at each one in turn.

  "Not a pretty sight," he mused, "and not a one of them can be changed. No, I'm forced to admit with my wife gone and myself locked within this old body, I must look to others."

  A small silence hung in the room as the earl stared into the fire. Drooping with exhaustion, Vivian had almost ceased to care what he said.

  Then he roused. "If you remember, my dear, I was responsible for rescuing you from your snug Catholic prison. Admittedly, you did not know that you had been imprisoned, but I think only a few more weeks, perhaps days, would have elapsed before you would have begun to suspect that something was not well." Here he looked at her a little contemptuously. "Poor chit."

  She stiffened at the insult.

  "I hope your ill-conceived visit to your solicitor made everything clear to you. Sebastian Dawlish is not nearly clever enough to carry this plot off by himself. He had to have a confederate, and Rowling does like his comforts. You were a coney, my dear, ripe for skinning. And your soft fur would have lined their nests for many long winter nights."

  Vivian shuddered. She could not doubt that the earl spoke the truth. The conversation she had overhead among the three conspirators had told her as much.

  "Had my man not taken you away in the night, you would have found yourself on the morrow in a very private institution where the rather mild drug adminis­tered by the treacherous Mrs. Eads would have seemed like a cup of tea. The fair Frances, by the way, is quite a good hand at slipping those kinds of potions into drinks. She works most of the time for press gangs desperate to acquire bodies to man the ships for His Royal Majesty's fine fleet."

  They could hear the gurgle of brandy as Piers poured another drink. However, instead of drinking it himself, he offered it to Vivian. She accepted it with a flash of gratitude.

  The earl smiled. "So you see, my dear, you really owe me your freedom, your health, and probably your life."

  She swallowed a portion of the brandy and looked him straight in the eye. What he said now was the point of the whole exercise. Instinctively, she knew that he had gone to all this trouble and expense for reasons.

  He tipped his head to one side. "Ah, I can see you are alert enough to ask me the right question with your eyes. Bring me a brandy, Piers, and pour one for yourself. We mustn't keep the lady waiting too long. She wants to know what this is all about so she can retire to her chamber and sleep to rid herself of this harrowing experience."

  Piers came with two brandies and stood between their chairs. A heavy frown creased his brow. Larne never did anything without a very good reason. He much feared that the silent Miss Marleigh was in for a very unhappy time. Perhaps the drugs that she would have been given at the "very private institution" would be preferable to what lay in store for her. Grimly, he stared at his father.

  "My dear." Larnaervon leaned forward. "I really am not such a terrible ogre. I Ve brought you here to ensure your future. To keep you safe from harm. I would like you to become part of my family. In that way I can look out for your interests."

  "My God," the viscount interrupted. "You can't mean it. Larne, she's only nineteen. You can't marry her."

  The older man canted his head up, his smile flashed briefly. "No, Piers, I can't. But you can."

  Chapter 5

  Piers's face whitened. A muscle ticked in his jaw. His eyes widened then narrowed as they looked from his father to Vivian, who stared at Larne as if she could not believe her ears. "Marriage," he gasped. "To her!"

  "Hardly a flattering reaction," Larne remarked dryly.

  "What kind of reaction do you expect?" his son snarled. "How in hell do you expect me to—”

  Like a judge demanding order, Larne struck the floor with his walking stick. "That will do. Your behavior is insulting to your future bride, Piers. And I might say to me as well. I went to a great deal of time, trouble, and expense to arrange this marriage for you both."

  Vivian catapulted herself from her chair, but Larne swung the end of his stick up and drove her back into her seat. "Keep your place, my dear, and listen. You will learn much. And”—he swung the stick back and forth before her outraged eyes—”do not perform that writing pantomime. One of the reasons why you are so suitable for my son is your unfortunate condition."

  "Larne!" Piers cried angrily.

  The stick swung toward him. Like a tamer in a lion's cage the earl kept the two at bay. "One man's meat, as they say. You
will both subside into those comfortable chairs before this warm and pleasant fire and you will listen to what I have to say."

  "Not for my life!" The viscount tossed down his brandy in one gulp and crashed the glass down on the table.

  He strode to the door but found the way barred by Mrs. Felders. When he raised his arm to brush her aside, his father called after him. "The door is locked, Piers. From the outside. And my good and faithful servant, Jack Beddoes, is standing guard behind it. We shall not be disturbed."

  Piers turned back into the room, fists clenched. "You go too far."

  "Sit down." The earl swung the walking stick toward a wing-back chair on the other side of the fire. "Good God, she is the one who has been kidnapped, bound, and brought here against her will. And she behaves better than you."

  The look Piers threw her made Vivian want to cringe. "She has no choice," he grated, contempt palpable in his tone.

  "Sit down!"

  Piers flung himself into the chair, slinging one long leg over the chair arm. His booted foot swung viciously back and forth.

  The earl nodded, a mirthless smile flicking the corner of his pale lips. "I shall remain standing. It gives me a commanding presence." He planted the end of the stick on the floor between them and leaned his upper body weight over it.