James’s head jerked up. He scowled blackly at the reminder that he had one enemy who was powerful enough to take his sister’s part.
Cassandra rushed on. ‘The storm caught me. Lucifer bolted. If that man had not appeared from nowhere and stopped us, Lucifer would have bolted straight into the firth. ’Twere better if he had, perhaps. Then you would have been rid of an unwelcome burden.’
James looked unconvinced. But he ignored most of what Cassandra had said, merely replying, ‘You are a burden, indeed. You and your lovers. I warn you. You are likely to seal your own fate. An unmarried sister has a degree of value. But only if she is known to be chaste.’ He rose. Ignoring Cassandra’s gasp of outrage, he bent forward, seizing her chin and forcing her head up so that he could assess her features. ‘You are not so bad looking when you lose that mulish expression. I might be able to get a good price for you.’
‘You would sell me? Like a…a horse?’ Until that moment, Cassandra had dared to hope that she might have at least some say in the choice of a husband. She should have known better. She knew James.
‘Why, sister, what else did you think I would do? I had no intention of keeping ye here much longer in any case. I can easily find another—cheaper—housekeeper. A sister costs too much. But, after this escapade, I must get you safely leg-shackled before the rumours start. Like mother, like daughter, they’ll say, and then you’ll have no value at all.’
Cassandra gasped, then bit her lip. Hard.
‘What? Nothing to say, girl? Don’t you wish to plead with me to find you a handsome young buck for a husband?’
Cassandra said nothing.
‘Well, no. Perhaps you are right to hold your tongue. You know as well as I do that handsome young bucks rarely have the blunt that old men do. So, I fear that your husband is unlikely to be young. Or handsome. Indeed, the man I have in mind is—’ He stopped short, waiting for her question. When she remained stubbornly silent, he strolled to the door. ‘One thing I will promise you, though,’ he drawled, as he opened it. ‘Your husband may be old and cross-eyed, but he will be a gentleman. I do have my position to consider. Good morrow to ye, sister.’
Then he was gone. The door was locked behind him. Cassandra was alone again. And now she was desperately afraid. She must do something to save Ross Graham. She must! She could consider her own predicament later. It was much less important than a man’s life. James intended to use the law to kill Ross Graham. And he was ready to perjure his soul to do it. She must do something. She must! But what?
Cassandra resumed her pacing. The tray of food remained untouched on the table. If she swallowed a bite, it would choke her.
It was still dark. But it must be morning by now, surely? Ross knew he had not been asleep for more than a few hours, at most. Even with his coat wrapped around him, the cold had penetrated his bones. He had woken, shivering. So now he paced the floor of his tiny cell, trying to get some warmth back into his limbs. Three paces, turn about, three paces, turn about, three paces…
He had too much time to think here. That was the real problem of his confinement. He could do nothing more now until the gaoler reappeared. Nothing except pace. And remember. He tried to focus instead on Elliott and that girl. By Jove, she was a handful!
Ross tried to picture what she looked like, but failed. He could see only a mass of dark hair, tangled and dripping, and a white gown that clung to her limbs. He recalled his shock at discovering that her feet and legs were bare. But he could not recall her features. Had he actually seen her face in the darkness? He had had a vague impression of huge dark eyes in a pale face. Nothing more. He was not at all sure he would recognise her if he saw her again.
Still pacing, he grinned into the darkness. See her? How could he? He could not even see his own hand in front of his face!
His decision was already made. When the gaoler returned, he would offer him a bribe in return for pen and ink, and the promise to take a letter to the provost. Ross fingered the hidden pocket and the riches concealed there. It had served him well in France and Spain, and had saved his beloved Julie from many a hardship.
Julie…The memories came flooding in, like the rush of water when the sluice is released. He remembered every detail of her beautiful face, her peach-bloom complexion, her golden hair. The sinuous curves that moved beneath the plain cheap gown she wore, causing his breath to catch in his throat and his body to heat. Her low husky voice, her brilliant smile, the way she worried at her full lower lip when her thoughts were far away—
Enough! He knew now what she had been daydreaming about. Certainly not about Ross Graham, much though she had tried to cozen him into believing that her regard for him might soon turn into love. She had played him for a fool.
A part of him—the gallant, honourable part—attempted to defend her still. Perhaps he had misunderstood her behaviour? Was it not possible that she had intended to show him only gratitude, and friendship? That he had simply seen what he longed to see?
He paused to think back over the months of their escape together, the hundreds of miles they had tramped from Julie’s humble cottage along the French Mediterranean coast and across the north of Spain to find a ship to England. She had been so brave and determined throughout their ordeal, in spite of all the dangers, even when they had so nearly been captured by Bonaparte’s soldiers. Was that what had blinded him to her wiles? For they were just that—wiles. She was a lady, of course, but that had not stopped her from flirting with Ross: those frequent little touches of her fingers, how she insisted he take her hand to help her over uneven ground, the way she looked up at him with those wide trusting eyes, running her tongue over her lips as if inviting him to kiss her. Damn it, she had known he could not. Not while he alone was responsible for bringing her out from under the nose of the enemy and delivering her safely to her relatives in London. She knew he was a man of honour. That was surely why she had agreed to escape with him? Was it necessary to make him love her, too?
He shuddered. Whatever her motives, she had succeeded. Twice—at Perpignan and at Santander—he had tried to declare himself. Twice she had silenced him with a soft finger across his lips. ‘Say nothing now, my dear friend,’ she had said, that last time. ‘We shall be in London soon, and free. There we may both say everything that is in our hearts.’ And then she had smiled her blinding white smile and moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue. Almost as if she were tasting him.
Ross’s body began to harden at the very thought. He cursed aloud at his own weakness. For a woman he had never even kissed!
Fool that he was, he had believed that Julie, the granddaughter of a marquis, would stoop to consider a man with little wealth and no family. He had persuaded himself that once she was free, and safe in London, she would admit that Ross had captured her heart.
It had not happened. They had arrived in London on that strangest of days, when the whole city was rejoicing at the news of the victory at Waterloo. Julie had almost been run down by one of the mail coaches, all hung with oak leaves, racing out of the city to carry the tidings to the furthest corners of the land. Ross had pulled her into his arms to save her, feeling the rapid beating of her heart against his chest, filling his lungs with the scent of her skin and her hair, holding her close as he had been longing to do… For seconds only. And then it was over. She had drawn away from him. With the utmost propriety, they had made their way to Berkeley Square to be welcomed into her noble English family.
There, for one more second—just one—he had smiled, knowing that on the morrow he would finally tell her everything that was in his heart.
And then he had seen it. Julie’s eyes were fixed on that other man. Her face was lighting up with love. As hers blazed brighter, Ross’s hidden flame of love and hope had flickered and sunk to a dull ember. And then to cold and twisted dross.
She had never loved him. Never. She could have been in no