Page 22 of The Passionate One (McClairen’s Isle #1)

Ash saw the spark of uncertainty in her eyes die, snuffed out with Carr’s words. She’d been searching for a reason for his actions; Carr had supplied one. Hatred of his father seethed in him. Carr’s words left him nothing. Nothing but the rattail shreds of pride and Ash refused to lose those here, in front of him.

Rhiannon was lost to him. Her cold, appreciative smile flailed him with its lack of accusation. That was the worst of it. He’d done no less than what she’d expected. He’d almost duped her again.

He looked away. There was still Raine to consider. He would always have Raine.

Carr had sauntered into the room and begun a slow circle around Rhiannon, one perfectly manicured finger raised to his lips in concentration.

“Two thousand pounds, I believe,” Ash said dully.

Carr ignored him, continuing his study of Rhiannon in her borrowed finery.

Fia’s gown, like all the ladies’ gowns at Wanton’s Blush, was designed to titillate and impress, provoke and advertise. Rhiannon wore the borrowed finery with regal disdain for its provocative qualities. Layered over some sort of hoop contraption, the heavy leaf-green silk de Chine shimmered with little gold glass beads. Treble ruffles of lace were gathered at the elbows and cascaded over her forearms.

Under Carr’s dispassionate stare, the faintest blush stained her slender throat and marked the upper curves of breasts uncovered by the low, square décolletage. She’d refused a wig. Her hair was coiled in a thick knot at the crown of her head.

The sight of her and of Carr studying her made Ash’s mouth dry.

“What shall I do with you?” Carr murmured.

In spite of his calm tone, it struck Ash that Carr was upset. The lines fanning the corners of his eyes were pronounced as were the twin grooves bracketing his aquiline nose. His lips had thinned with discontent. Carr, whose life revolved around beauty and appearance, class and status, would never have willingly shown his ire.

He obviously regretted whatever impulse had led him to offer Ash money for his services. He must suspect how close Ash was to realizing Raine’s ransom. Once Raine was out of prison Carr would be deprived of one of his more effective agents. He would hate that.

“Send me back, sir.” Rhiannon’s voice broke Carr’s contemplation and caught him off guard.

Ash smiled. Carr was unused to young women speaking in that tone to him. It was bound to exacerbate an already foul mood, and, indeed, the lines at the corners of his mouth deepened with displeasure but then smoothed.

“My dear,” he said, “you have only just arrived.”

“I have no desire to be here, Lord Carr.” She did not look at Ash and her voice rose as she spoke. “Indeed, I am here much against my will.”

“How is that?” Carr’s brows rose.

“Your son stole me on the eve of my wedding!”

A heartbeat’s pause while Carr absorbed this, then he gasped a melodramatic, “No!”

“Yes, sir!” Rhiannon said, nodding vigorously.

A wave of pity washed over Ash and he met her triumphant gaze wearily. She thought Carr had taken her part. She thought she’d horrified him with this tale of her son’s ruthless perfidy.

“The blackguard!” Carr’s tone rang with indignation and he spun on his boot heels to face Ash. Immediately the horrified indignation on his face was supplanted by indifference. He saw no reason to mask his real reaction from Ash. He looked up and saw Ash regarding him.

“What do you have to say for yourself?” Carr asked in a voice rife with displeasure, but his expression was incurious.

Ash refused to defend himself. It would only amuse Carr, and Rhiannon already thought the very worst of him. “You sent me for her. Here she is. You owe me two thousand pounds.”

Carr composed his face to the proper aggrieved lines and turned back to face Rhiannon. “My dear, please forgive me. Had I known you were about to wed I would, of course, never have dreamt of tearing you from your foster home. I am amazed Ash was so fervent to do my bidding. Believe me, it is most uncharacteristic.”

Ash watched Rhiannon eagerly examine Carr’s benign countenance; saw the instant she perceived the tiny, false note of sympathy; saw her earnestness die and distrust replace it. Carr saw it, too, and for a second his eyes narrowed as he realized she did not wholly buy his act of sorrow, that she would not be, in fact, so easily gulled.

In spite of himself Ash felt proud of her.

“Why did you send your son for me after all these years?” she asked suddenly.

“I did not know where you were until most recently and then only by chance. A man who had come to Wanton’s Blush with a party of my friends, some native son of your little hamlet, mentioned your surname and I recognized it as the same as my own dear wife’s cousin.”

“Which wife was that?” Ash asked sardonically and was rewarded by a lethal glance from his sire.

“My second wife.”

“Why would anyone mention my name?” Rhiannon asked doubtfully.

Carr held up his hands before his eyes as though framing her. “My dear … such modesty is most becoming if a trifle, just the merest bit, jeune fille.”

Rhiannon colored and her gaze fell. Point for Carr. His smile was not without malice but Rhiannon, eyes still averted, did not see this.

“ ’Struth,” Carr said, “You are a most beauti—”

“Why did you turn me away all those years ago?” Her gaze flew up, discounting his flattery. He hadn’t won her. Not at all. “We came to your front door,” she went on. “My mother’s old nurse and I. She had a letter, she gave it to the man there and he took it away. When he returned he refused to let us in—”

“He did?”

Ash had to credit Carr, his expression of amazement was superb, especially followed as it was by that convincing blend of indignation and sorrow.

“I … I had no idea! I swear on all that is sacred, until this moment I did not know you had ever come to my home.” Carr moved closer to her and drew one of her hands up and between both of his, chafing it lightly. “I heard of what Cumberland was doing, of course. I knew your family would likely be punished for being dragged into taking a stance on the part of The Pretender—”

“My family gave their lives for him. Willingly!” Rhiannon burst out. “They were not coerced. They committed themselves with valor and honor and pride. And James Stuart is no ‘pretender’!”

Her outburst seemed to startle Rhiannon as much as Carr for as soon as the words had escaped her, she bit hard on her lips and scowled. Carr looked briefly taken aback but then, seeing Rhiannon’s discomfiture and confusion, he smiled sympathetically.

“Of course, my dear. Of course,” he crooned. “And after I heard that Cumberland had satisfied his depraved need for vengeance, I sent men to search for my dear wife’s relatives, most especially you, my wife’s ward and thus mine. Alas, they returned emptyhanded.” He lifted one hand and with his fingertips tilted her chin up, so that she would be forced to meet his eyes.

It took all of Ash’s self-control to stand still then, but if he were to indicate by word or deed that Rhiannon meant anything more to him than the two thousand pounds Carr had promised for her, Carr would use that to his advantage. And without a doubt Carr’s advantage would be Rhiannon’s disadvantage. So Ash stayed where he was even though the blood thickened in his veins and pounded in his temples and his hand shivered above where the stiletto hid in the top of his boot.

“What is this?” Carr suddenly said. “What is this scar on your face?”

“Nothing.” Rhiannon said, jerking her head back. “A highwayman shot at a carriage in which I rode. The bullet grazed my cheek.”

“Damn the bastard!” Carr’s low words vibrated with anger.

Ash stared, confounded. He knew every gesture and expression in Carr’s repertoire and the darkening of his sire’s throat and cheeks was beyond even Carr’s thespian talents. He was truly furious.

“I escaped, my lord,” Rhiannon said evenly.

“And did he?” Carr spat. “This … this highwayman?”

“Yes.”

“Damn!” Carr bit out. “Damn him to a painful death!”

“Really, sir. I suffered no great harm.” Her tone was amazed.

Carr took a deep breath, releasing it slowly. “Yes. Yes. We must accept what we cannot change. You are here now. You are safe.”

“I was safe in Fair Badden.” Rhiannon kept her gaze locked on Carr, as though by ignoring Ash, she could somehow make him cease to exist. “I wish to return there.”

Carr scowled, released her chin, and folded his hands behind his back. “Return there? But how would that look? I mean by dusk everyone at Wanton’s Blush will know you are here, that you are my ward. How would it appear if I were to shun my obligations and ship you back?”

“Returning me to Fair Badden won’t be a detriment to your good name, sir.”

Poor Rhiannon, Ash thought, too honest by half. She hadn’t been able to keep the sneer from her voice and Carr noted it. His eyes shot to her face, glittering. Gamely she continued. “You’ll be returning a bride to her fiancé.”

Carr pulled thoughtfully at his lip.

“Please,” she urged him.

“Well, perhaps,” Carr allowed.

Ash froze. Whoever endangered Rhiannon, it was someone in Fair Badden. She couldn’t go back there. She mustn’t be allowed.

“Put in such a manner, one could understand.”

“Exactly! You’d be righting a wrong done to an innocent girl—”

“Not so innocent,” Ash drawled, careful not to make any impression of urgency. “No, I don’t think that will do. You see, Miss Russell’s rather precipitate exit on the eve of her wedding will doubtless give rise to all sorts of sordid speculation. I fear her reputation is quite in tatters. As for her erstwhile bridegroom”—Ash paused and shook his head sadly—“I doubt he’ll have her now.”

“Bastard!” Rhiannon hissed.

Carr’s pale gaze flickered back and forth between Rhiannon and Ash. He moved across the room to Ash’s side and leaned forward. In a voice gauged so that Rhiannon could not overhear, he whispered, “Is that the way of it? I must say, she doesn’t look so very fond of you. Perhaps you lacked finesse? What say, Ash? Wasn’t she very good? Or weren’t you?”

It was a ploy, Ash knew, a simple gambit to discover what Rhiannon meant to him. Still, he nearly betrayed himself. He wanted to choke Carr to silence so very, very much. Instead he kept his expression blank.

“What the people of Fair Badden speculate on and what is truth—” Ash shrugged eloquently. “Surely you know how interchangeable such notions are. Ruining Miss Russell’s reputation was simply a matter of expedience. You wanted her. She wouldn’t go and I doubted whether her bridegroom would release her without a reason. I provided a reason. But remember, one can ruin a reputation without troubling to ruin anything else.”

Rhiannon, on the other side of the room, had lifted her chin proudly.

“Ruin?” Carr, his back still to Rhiannon, snickered. “Such vanity. I’ll tell you a secret: Ladies love to be ruined and in truth are quite peevish if you stop at their reputations. Witness Miss Russell’s ire.”

“What of it?” Ash asked in bored tones. “I’m more interested in my fee.”

Carr’s humor evaporated. He stepped back. “I’ll see you’re paid by day’s end,” he said, “then you can go wherever it is you go.”

“No hurry,” Ash replied, fervently pleading with a deity he no longer believed in that Carr would not send him away from Wanton’s Blush—and Rhiannon. He would do whatever necessary to stay here and watch Rhiannon until he knew what Carr planned for her.

“I’ve seen your guests, Carr,” Ash said. “Fat purse, rabid appetites. High stakes tables, I should imagine.”

“You’re a vile drunk, Ash. And a violent one. You could embarrass me or my guests.”

Ash laughed humorlessly. “Your guests, Carr? Your guests would pay in gold for the titillation of my company. Their sort is so often drawn to the sordid for their entertainment.”

Rhiannon flinched as though his words hurt her. Impossible. He was imagining things.

Carr considered him through narrowed eyes. “True,” he finally murmured. “All right. You may stay. But for God’s sake, find something decent to wear. I won’t have you offending my eyes looking like that.”

“Of course,” Ash said.

“Now leave us,” Carr said. “Miss Russell and I have much to discuss.”

To hesitate now would be disastrous.

Ash walked out of the room smoothly and easily, without looking at Rhiannon.

“My dear Miss Russell,” Carr said, “please be seated. Where are my manners?”

The young woman hesitated a second before taking the seat Carr had indicated and settling her dress about her. She was clearly unused to such extravagant skirts.

But having no experience in society did not mean she should be underestimated. Indeed, the sharp glances he’d already received from her were indicative of a keen perception.

“Sherry, m’dear?”

She nodded, watching him doubtfully. “Please.”

In his youth such suspiciousness would have presented an irresistible challenge. To succeed in seducing a woman already on her guard would have been high entertainment. He busied himself pouring two glasses of sherry.

Unfortunately he was no longer so easily diverted. Even the piquant pleasure of bedding a girl his son wanted wasn’t incentive enough to woo this girl. Not that he wouldn’t do it at some future point if it profited him.

He’d seen the glimmer of possessiveness in Ash’s eyes. The girl might be useful in manipulating his recalcitrant eldest son. But for right now, seducing the chit wasn’t necessary, and he allowed finally, his mouth flattening, he was no longer so young that the idea roused him.

Only one thing still had the same power over him that it had always had: his ambition to return in full glory to his former position in society—a position from which he’d been exiled over twenty-five years ago. But if he didn’t return soon he’d be too old to enjoy his triumph.

He handed the girl her glass. She accepted it with a mumbled thanks and took a delicate sip of the sherry; a flicker of appreciation appeared in her hazel eyes. Thank God they were not sherry-colored.

As hers had been.

Knowing Rhiannon shared McClairen blood, even diluted by half a dozen generations, Carr had been … anxious that she might have the McClairen eyes. Like Janet.

Thank God, Fia did not have her mother’s eyes. He didn’t think he could stand it. And Ash, too, cold as his eyes were, had little of Janet in him. Only the other boy, Raine, carried his mother’s stamp in feature and character.

The thought brought with it a ripple of sentimentality, and for a brief moment Carr indulged it. Some, he knew, said he had no heart. If they only knew how still, to this day, he grieved for his first wife. If they only knew the truth about Raine’s incarceration, they would not slander him so.

It was his younger son’s resemblance to his mother and not his father’s greed, as was widely reported, that kept Carr from ransoming Raine. Well, honesty forced him to admit, perhaps Raine’s usefulness in bringing Ash to heel also contributed to his continued incarceration—but mostly it was his resemblance to Janet.

Was not that romantic? Was that not indicative of the power of his passion, that he let his son rot in jail because the look of him was too painful to bear?

Janet would think so. She was the only one who’d ever truly understood him. He gazed out the window at the lawns spread below. All the rooms he occupied and entertained in faced front. He disliked looking out over the cliffs where Janet had fallen. Indeed, he could barely bring himself to venture into those sea-facing rooms. Once, just before the break of dawn, when all his guests slept, he’d found himself in the back library overlooking the terraced gardens. He’d thought he’d heard Janet singing, her voice soft and light—

“Sir?”

He looked around. The girl—Rhiannon—was regarding him as though she’d spoken several times.

He pulled his thoughts together. He had other matters to consider. Like this girl. This Rhiannon who might, if things did not go as they needed to go, prove troublesome.

“Your son is wrong in his estimate of my situation,” she said. “I am sure Mrs. Fraiser will not deny me the home I have known for over ten years.”

She waited, her body angled forward in entreaty. He steepled his fingertips before his lips, regarding her intently, thinking.

He wanted to believe her. But if Ash had destroyed the girl’s reputation to return her to Fair Badden and the stigma of being used and abandoned could only be seen as an act of cruelty. The Prime Minister’s letter, ostensibly written to express his condolences on the death of his third wife, had made it clear that Carr dare not be delinquent toward this or any woman.

He remembered the pertinent parts by heart:

His Majesty has watched in amazement and deep grief as three of his subjects, all well endowed in feature, form, and fact, have died whilst in your care, Lord Carr. There are some who have suggested to His Majesty that your series of sorrows have benefited you materially. His Majesty is wroth with such slanderous talk. He is certain that no woman shall ever again come to grief or be caused sorrow while under your care. Indeed, he is most adamant.

He glanced at Rhiannon, doing little to disguise the dislike in his eyes. Not only could he not return her to Fair Badden, he must make certain that while she was here she enjoyed only the best of health. That meant keeping her from his guests who were apt to see her fresh innocence as part of the entertainment.

As for the other matter—that would have to wait. He had some time yet. Something would occur to him. It always did.

He slapped his hands down on the arms of the chair and pushed himself to his feet.

Rhiannon blinked at his sudden movement. “Lord Carr?”

“No, Miss Russell. I must, for your own sake, refuse you. You will stay here.”

“But—”

“Perhaps later you can return to this place. I will think carefully on it, consider the ramifications of your return and the alternatives.”

“Alternatives? Please!” She threw out a hand. “I don’t want to stay here. I don’t belong here!”

“Miss Russell,” Carr took her hand and patted it, a gesture that seemed both awkward and unnatural, “the best I can do is to assure you, you will not be here too long.”