Captivating the Scoundrel Page 13

  She exhaled. “You’re quite chivalrous, but then I should have expected nothing less from a descendant of Gareth. He was one of the kindest, most chivalrous of Arthur’s men.”

  “I know.” It was yet another reason Gideon strove to live up to that standard. He took the blankets and went across the room, where he built a makeshift pallet on the other side of the fireplace.

  He removed his coat and hung it next to her hat, but decided he should wait to continue disrobing until she got into bed. He sat in one of the wooden chairs at the table and immediately worried it might collapse beneath him.

  She brought him a pillow and set it on the pallet. “If you’re uncomfortable or you get cold, you can join me in the bed. It will be fine, really.” She smiled at him encouragingly, as if she were trying to coax him to canter for the first time.

  He recalled that memory of his father with a burst of warmth. For all his faults, there had been plenty of moments during which he’d displayed great affection for Gideon. It wasn’t until the last few years that Gideon had come to realize what a prick he’d been to pretty much everyone but him. He wondered if Daphne had the same blindness where her father was concerned. If so, Gideon wasn’t sure he wanted to open her eyes, not because she shouldn’t see, but because how could it be his place to make her do so?

  Gideon stood and blew out the candle on the mantel. “We should get to sleep.”

  With a nod, she turned and removed her coat. Taking her hat from the hook, she hung her coat, then put the hat on top of it. She went to the corner near the bed, and he realized she was going to disrobe.

  Hell.

  He turned the chair away from her and tried to ignore the sound of rustling fabric. When he heard the bed creak, he turned slightly. The candle next to the bed went out, and he decided it was safe to remove his boots, cravat, and waistcoat. He’d sleep in the rest.

  If he could sleep.

  As soon as he crawled onto the pallet, he was acutely aware of the hardness of the floor, as well as the frigidity. The proximity of the fire was a slight help, but he couldn’t help looking longingly at the bed.

  Only because it would be warm and comfortable—at least more comfortable than this. Not because of her.

  Tired as he was, it was still some time before he drifted off. And it was long after he heard her breathing grow even.

  Time ceased to make sense, however, for when the scream awakened him, he shot off the pallet, and it took him a moment to realize where he was—and who had made that sound. Rushing toward the bed, he knocked his head against the ceiling and swore.

  She thrashed in the bedclothes, tearing the bed asunder. He leaned down—more than he already was—and gently shook her. “Daphne, wake up. You’re having a nightmare.”

  It took a long moment, but her eyes finally flew open. She screamed again.

  Then her hands wrapped around his biceps and squeezed. Christ, she was strong.

  “Daphne, it’s me. Gideon. You’re safe.”

  Her eyes were wild, her lips parted. She’d taken her hair down so that a long braid hung over her shoulder, but dark strands had come loose and brushed against her face. He stroked them back with one hand while he cupped her shoulder with the other. “Shhh, you’re safe.”

  She seemed to calm, her grip on his arms loosening and her color returning. But then a pounding on the door startled her again. She dug her fingers into his sleeves, and her face went white again.

  “What the bloody ’ell is going on in there?”

  Gideon gritted his teeth and threw a caustic look at the door. He returned a sympathetic gaze to Daphne. “I’ll be right back. It’s just the idiot innkeeper’s wife.”

  “Did I make noise?” she whispered, looking frightened.

  “Don’t worry about it.” Without thinking, he brushed his lips across her forehead, then went to the door. Opening it a bare inch, he forced a pained smile for the woman who stood outside with her hands on her hips. Her gray-brown hair stuck out in all directions, having almost completely tumbled from whatever style she’d hoped to attain the day before.

  “Ye woke me up,” the woman grumbled. “Why’s she screamin’?”

  “She had a nightmare, I’m afraid,” Gideon said. Inspiration struck. “She was attacked by a dog as a child—that nasty scar—and sometimes the memories wake her at night.”

  Mrs. Downey’s eyes widened, and she jerked back. “Lor, what a terrible thing. Yer poor sister.”

  “She’ll be quiet the rest of the night,” he said. “Thank you for inquiring after us.” He closed the door before she could say another word.

  He heard her retreating footsteps as he turned to go back to Daphne.

  She sat up, her face still pale. “A dog?”

  “You started it with the accident story.” He shrugged. “It made sense.”

  “It did indeed,” she murmured. “But you told her I’ll be quiet the rest of the night.” Her gaze was dark with worry.

  “This will continue?” he asked.

  She winced. “It might.” She ran her thumb and finger down her braid. “Honestly, I don’t usually go back to sleep after it happens because I don’t want to have the dream again.”

  He sat on the edge of the bed. “What dream?”

  She looked down and plucked at a loose thread on the coverlet, which was pulled up to her waist. “Of being alone.”

  Being alone had made her scream? “Why does that frighten you?” He kept his voice low, not because of Mrs. Downey, but because the moment seemed to call for quiet.

  She inhaled rather unevenly and then let the breath out haltingly. “It’s the same dream I’ve had since I was a child. My mother took a trip to Cornwall when I was nine and never came home. I went looking for her once and got lost in the woods overnight.” She slowly lifted her gaze to his.

  The stark fear in her eyes chilled him to the bone. “That had to be terrifying.” He thought of how he’d felt after his mother had left. He’d also been nine. But he’d known his mother wasn’t coming back—she’d sat him down and tearfully told him that she’d see him in the summer. What was worse: knowing your mother was abandoning you or learning your mother would never return? “What happened to your mother?” he asked.

  “No one knows. She simply disappeared.”

  That was definitely worse. Gideon still had his mother. “I’m so sorry, Daphne.”

  “Sometimes I think she’s still out there, waiting to be found. I think of her alone. And then I think of her dying alone.” She shuddered and looked away.

  Gideon couldn’t stand it another moment. He put his arms around her and moved closer, pulling her against his chest. “Terrifying doesn’t begin to describe it.”

  She tucked her head beneath his chin, and he gently stroked her back.

  After a few moments, he asked, “What was she like?”

  “Beautiful. Which sounds superficial, but her face is so clear in my mind, even after all this time. She had the softest smile and the kindest green eyes. She always made me feel so loved and so safe.”

  “It sounds as though her beauty was more than on the outside.”

  She pulled back slightly and looked up at him. “Yes.”

  They stared at each other a moment, and he traced his thumb from the center of her chin to the side of her mouth. “I might describe your smile the same way.”

  Her lips rounded just briefly. “Oh.”

  He dropped his hand from her face and inched backward. “We should go back to sleep. Will you be all right?”

  “I don’t know if I’ll be able to sleep. When I was younger, my father used to watch over me after I had a nightmare.”

  Gideon struggled to reconcile that with the man he knew. In the end, he couldn’t do it, but he was glad to hear Foliot wasn’t entirely horrid. “I’ll watch over you.”

  “Here?” Her gaze drifted over the bed.

  He shouldn’t. But she looked so damn hopeful. And the truth was that he felt a need to protect her. Thi
nking of her alone in a forest all night coupled with the loss of her mother turned him inside out. It was no wonder she had nightmares.

  “If you want me to.” He already knew the answer. She’d invited him to join her earlier, and now it was beyond that—she needed him to stay.

  “Yes, please. If you won’t be too uncomfortable.”

  He stood up and circled the bed, then climbed beneath the covers. A shiver promptly jolted his frame.

  “Cold sheets?” she asked with a small smile.

  “Frightfully.” He grinned at her in return. “Go to sleep, Daphne.”

  She lay down and burrowed beneath the coverlet. “Good night, Gideon.”

  She turned to her side, presenting her back to him. It was a long time before he slept, and his last thought was that she was the only woman besides his mother and wife and Cate to call him Gideon.

  As they turned down the lane toward Brue Cottage, Daphne looked toward Gideon, who was riding to her left. The veil was a nuisance, but it allowed her to stare at him as much as she wanted.

  And she wanted.

  She’d found him attractive and chivalrous before, but after he’d rescued her from the darkness last night, she was ready to recommend him for sainthood.

  Perhaps that was excessive. Knighthood, then. Definitely knighthood.

  He’s already an earl, silly.

  Her father had been absolutely giddy to wed her to a descendant who was also an earl.

  Her father.

  She tried not to think of him. He would be furious when she told him she didn’t want to marry Gideon. The truth was, she would marry him. She liked him. Actually, she was rather smitten with him. Not that she planned to tell him that.

  The lane terminated at the house, a pretty Tudor with a gabled roof and dozens of mullioned windows grouped together throughout the façade. As they rode up to the house, no one came to meet them.

  She peeled the veil back from her face and swept it over her shoulder. “What should we do with our horses?”

  Gideon glanced about. “I’ll tie them to that tree over there.” He dismounted, then helped her do the same. She tried to ignore the spark of heat that flared from where he clasped her waist.

  Once she was on the ground, he tended to the horses while she went to the door. She waited for him to return before knocking, but she didn’t have to. The door opened just as he arrived at her side.

  A very small woman blinked up at them, her dark eyes large in her petite round face. She was older than both of them, but not yet middle-aged. “Good morning.” She sounded hesitant, cautious.

  Gideon stepped forward, but Daphne spoke first. “Good morning. My name is Daphne Guilford, and this is my associate, Gideon Kersey.”

  They’d decided to use their real names. Well, somewhat real. She was using her mother’s name, which she used when she traveled, and they’d decided not to refer to Gideon by his title. They didn’t want anyone at Brue Cottage to have preconceptions about why they were there. The name Foliot was likely too well known to them, and Stratton may have been as well.

  “We’ve come to speak with you about the writer Elidyr.” They’d also decided to start with that and planned to use Rhys Bowen’s manuscript as a point of discussion.

  The woman’s mouth twisted into a slight frown. “I’ll ask my mistress if she wants to see you.”

  She closed the door in their faces, surprising Daphne. She blinked at the wood, then turned her head toward Gideon. “How odd.”

  His mouth quirked into a brief smile. “A bit.”

  The door opened again to reveal a different woman. This one was taller, with dark, upswept hair and sharp gray eyes that reminded Daphne of a bird of prey. She wore a gown that was at least a decade out of style but that flattered her slender frame. Overall, there was something familiar about her, but Daphne couldn’t quite determine what.

  She looked at Daphne. “What did you say your name was?”

  “Daphne Guilford.”

  A deep frown creased the woman’s face, making her look older than she was, which Daphne guessed to be maybe thirty. Like Gideon. Daphne glanced toward him, wondering how old he actually was.

  The woman squinted at Daphne. “Not Daphne Foliot?” She blew out a breath and started to turn.

  Daphne exchanged a look with Gideon, then stepped forward. “Wait! I am Daphne Foliot.”

  The woman pivoted back toward her and narrowed her eyes. “Why did you lie?”

  Undaunted by the woman’s odd behavior, Daphne countered with “How did you know I was Daphne Foliot?”

  “I’ve seen you before—from a distance. I know you’re interested in Morgana. If you were Miss Foliot, I wanted to invite you in.”

  Daphne grinned. “Splendid!”

  The woman frowned again. “But you lied.”

  Wincing, Daphne rushed to say, “Only because I was afraid the name Foliot might actually hinder me. I had no idea it would impress you.”

  A dark brow climbed the woman’s forehead. “It takes a great deal to impress me, Miss Foliot. I am curious about you, and I will let you know if you reach the stage of making an impression.” She abruptly turned her attention to Gideon. “And you are?”

  Gideon inclined his head toward Daphne. “Her associate.”

  “Bodyguard, perhaps? I’d say footman, but you seem too well-bred for that. Probably for a bodyguard too. Is there a chance you’re in love?” She looked between them.

  “No,” they said in unison.

  “Shame. I love love.” She exhaled. “Come in, then.” She turned from the door and bustled through the entry hall.

  Daphne realized the tiny woman was holding the door open. She closed it behind them as they moved inside.

  “Go on,” she urged, gesturing for them to follow the other woman, whose name they had yet to learn.

  Daphne hurried to catch up to the woman and did so as she entered a large room that overlooked the lawn behind the house. In the distance, the blue of the River Brue snaked through the green.

  The room was a combination library and sitting room, reminiscent of Rhys Bowen’s library, but far more cluttered. There were books on shelves, on tables, on chairs. A map was spread over a settee. At least three teacups sat around the room, and they weren’t decoration.

  The woman went to the settee and swept the map from the cushion, folding it quickly and tossing it atop a nearby table. Then she took what had been the only vacant seat—an overstuffed floral armchair with a large blue patch on the cushion.

  Gideon motioned for Daphne to sit, then deposited himself beside her on the settee. He removed his hat and set it on the cushion beside him, noticing Daphne did the same with hers. “You have us at a bit of a disadvantage,” he said. “We don’t know who you are.”

  She laughed, a deep, resonant sound. “You came to visit me, and yet you don’t know who I am. How quaint.”

  “We came to visit Brue Cottage,” Gideon said matter-of-factly. “In fact, we’d hoped to meet a woman who must be older than you.”

  She leaned forward. “How old? There are a half dozen of us living here.” She paused and glanced toward the ceiling. “No, seven. Yes, there are seven of us now.” She smiled briefly. “I forgot that Marianne joined us last month.”

  Daphne blinked, thinking their hostess was rather…eccentric. She glanced toward Gideon. “How old?”

  “At least eighty.”

  Their hostess gave a solemn nod. “That was my grandmother. Oh, I’m Gwyneth. I’m named after her, so if you came looking for Gwyneth Nash-Hughes, I am she. So you needn’t be disappointed.” Her mouth spread in a wide smile.

  “Nash?” Gideon asked. “That is my mother’s name.”

  Miss—Mrs?—Nash-Hughes cocked her head to the side. “Is it? Was Lord Richard Nash your relation?”

  “My grandfather.”

  Miss Nash-Hughes’s eyes widened and then sparkled as she smiled once more. “I thought you looked familiar.”

  “And I thought you
looked familiar.” Daphne was utterly confused.

  “Yes, because I look like him.” Miss Nash-Hughes waved her hand toward Gideon. “Because we’re related.”

  “We are?” Gideon looked and sounded as shocked as Daphne felt. He stared at their hostess, and Daphne did the same. Then she stared at Gideon, who sat to her left. She suddenly saw why Miss Nash-Hughes seemed familiar. She and Gideon looked as though they could be siblings.

  “Oh yes. We are descended from the same person—Sir Gareth.”

  Gideon gaped at her. “Extraordinary.” The single word was heavy with awe.

  Miss Nash-Hughes directed her attention to Daphne. “We are also related to Morgana, but we’ll talk about that in a moment.” She looked back to Gideon, and Daphne felt dismissed. “You must call me Gwyneth. Do you mind if I address you as Gideon?”

  “No.”

  “He’s actually the Earl of Stratton,” Daphne muttered.

  Gwyneth didn’t seem to hear her. Or she was ignoring her. “Did you come to see the Beckery Texts?”

  “We did,” he said, and Daphne was glad to hear him use the word “we.” “I’ll be honest with you, because I feel that I must. I am looking for Arthur’s cloak.”

  “Normally, I would throw you out at this point. Everyone comes here looking for the texts and either the cloak or one of the other treasures.” Gwyneth rolled her eyes. “But you actually have a reason to do so. They belong to you.”

  “Do they not also belong to you?” Daphne asked.

  Gwyneth managed to send her a brief glance. “Somewhat, but they are supposed to pass along the male line. Except for the heart. What wasn’t buried with Gareth, that is.” She held up her hand. “I am getting ahead of myself. Let me start at the beginning.”

  She opened her mouth to continue but then froze for a moment. It was as if she’d forgotten what she was going to say. “I should have offered you refreshment,” she said. “I can summon tea or cakes or something else if you’re really hungry.”

  “No,” they answered in unison again. Daphne was eager to hear the woman’s tale, and apparently, Gideon was too.

  “Thank you,” Gideon added with a smile. “Please continue.”