The Duchess And The Dragon Part 16

Christopher's next words made it nigh impossible for Drake to breathe. "Now I understand . . . G.o.d knew." He smiled, and for an instant his face shone with an unearthly light. Then he looked up and past Drake.

Drake's heart speeded up until it pounded in his ears.

"Look! I see heaven. It has opened!" Christopher's eyes were bright and full of reflected light. Drake looked up into the beams that formed the ceiling of the cabin but saw nothing. Christopher made a sudden sound, regaining Drake's attention. Then the wounded man took one shallow breath-and breathed no more.

Drake heard a cry and turned back to Serena. She sat in a terrorized trance, unable to move away from the dead man but seeming to know that Christopher was gone. Gently Drake closed Christopher's eyes and then went to his wife. She sat, unmoving, until Drake gathered her into his arms. After a while, deep shaking overtook her.

DRAKE SAT AND held her, his mind working to make sense of it all. What did one do with two dead bodies . . . friend and foe. Finally he forced Serena to drink a little brandy. Steadier, she went to Christopher, kneeling beside his body. Drake watched as she put her hand on his head, touched his golden hair with her fingertips. A little sob escaped her throat and her hand rose to her mouth as she looked up at Drake. "Is he really gone?"

"Oh, sweetheart . . ." Drake went to her, wrapping his arms around her as she buried her face in his shoulder, beginning to sob.

"It is our fault!" She lifted her head to look at Drake, her eyes giant pools of tears. "We never should have come here."

Silently Drake agreed with her. They had brought the dragon's curse here. He had brought it. But her friend's death wasn't Serena's fault, and Drake couldn't let her believe it. "Never say that. Never think it." He cupped his wife's lovely face and lifted it until she met his eyes. "Christopher would never want you to think that, would he?"

She shook her head, sniffling. "No, he would not. But those men. It was Lyle and Thom Patrick." She started crying again, her gaze back on Christopher's face. "They followed us here . . . but why?"

Drake wasn't about to tell her the truth. She did not need to know a man's l.u.s.t and what it could do. Not now. Instead, he prevaricated. "They must have thought we had money. At the inn, when we received the better room, they must have thought I had enough to pay for such luxuries."

"But they did not ask for money, they-"

"They just hadn't gotten around to it yet. They would have. It's the only logical explanation."

She lowered her head, nodding. Then she touched Christopher's hair. "G.o.d forgive them-" she bowed her head-"for I don't know how I shall."

She started crying again, and Drake hauled her into his arms. He gave her another sip of brandy and then insisted she go lie down on the cot in the loft. After she left the room, Drake gently wrapped Christopher's body with a sheet and laid him on his bed.

Looking at Lyle's body, crumpled on the floor in a b.l.o.o.d.y pool, he felt sick. It was all he could do to look at the man, yet he had to do so much more. Taking a fortifying breath he grasped the thin wrists, really looking at the dead face for the first time. He was so young, had such a long life ahead of him . . . and what had he died for?

Disgusted, Drake dragged Lyle's body out into the yard and then farther, as far as his strength would let him, to the end of Christopher's property. The man would have to be buried tomorrow but not, Drake vowed, on Christopher's land. The longer he pulled, the angrier he became. What had given this man the right to come after Drake's wife? To take Christopher's life?

As soon as he thought it, he saw the man he pushed over the bal.u.s.trade of his Northumberland mansion. Suddenly it was as if he and Lyle were one. Drake flung his arms away as a ragged sound tore from his throat. He stumbled from the body, turned, and ran . . . away from the image . . . away from the ghosts.

Fear dogged him as he ran. He had not thought to bring a gun with him and the darkness descended with sudden menace. The wind blew through the branches of the surrounding trees, making threatening shadows in the moonlight. Sounds of the woods were suddenly loud and distinct. He shouldn't have left Serena alone so long. Stumbling, he ran toward the house.

Finally he came into the clearing, panting and slowing to a walk. All was quiet in the house, only a small light coming from the kitchen window where the fire burned. Drake crept quietly in the back door, hoping not to wake Serena. Heaven knew she needed to sleep. There would be wreckage enough to deal with in the morning.

Now, with blood on the floor waiting to be cleaned up, was not the time to deal with the coming demons.

Chapter Nineteen.

They tried to make a home on the homestead of Christopher Kingsley's land. They tried to clean up the nightmare and pick up where he had left off. They tried to live Christopher's dream, but they both knew it wasn't working. Everywhere they looked were the efforts of a man they had both come to regard as more saint than human, more angel than mortal, more n.o.ble than either of them.

Drake slammed his fist down upon the small writing table, making the quill and ink jump. Serena jerked her head around.

"What is it, Drake?"

He stared at his hands. They were hardly recognizable. Deep calluses lined the palms, dry and rough, catching on Serena's clothing when he touched her. His face and upper torso had bronzed in the sun, growing lean and strong. A farmer's hands and body.

Something told him he should be proud-his was the body of a man who knew a hard day's work-but he was not. What he wouldn't give for the thrill of a contract being sealed, his scrolling signature at the bottom of a Parliament doc.u.ment to be read and considered by the king.

"Nothing. I am sorry." He forced a smile for her. The lie must be perpetuated-the fairy tale carried out to its bitter end.

She rose and came to him. Reaching around him she slowly opened a drawer in the desk, dug into the back under Christopher's papers, and drew out a letter. Staring at it in her hand a moment, she studied the address, then drew a deep breath. "I-Drake, I took thy letter from the postmaster. I think it is time for thee to open it." She held it out for him to see.

Drake stared at the letter as if it were a snake, coiled and ready to strike. "You've had it all this time?" He could not believe she'd kept this from him.

"Yes." She didn't say more, just held it out to him.

"You would have me open it," he stated, as if to make himself believe it.

She considered him a moment, then nodded, looking surer than she ever had. "Thou shouldst bring it into the light."

In the light. Nothing felt better in the light. Only in the dark recesses of his soul, hidden, could Drake stand this wilderness life. But Serena had changed since Christopher's death-something inside her had matured. Where there once was simplicity was now a grave serenity, a quiet strength. He found he could not fight against her this time.

Let it be as she said. Let them bring it into the light.

He took the letter from her hand and swiftly tore it open. Before he had time to give it a coward's thought he flipped the page open and began to read: To His Grace, the Duke of Northumberland: Wait . . . that was his father's address. Was this letter intended for his father? Drake flipped the envelope back over and reread the name. It was his own. "Drake Weston, Earl of Warwick" in flowing black scrawl. He took up the page once more: Yes, dear friend, you read correctly. It is not too late to continue with your plan to grasp the dukedom. Much has happened since your flight. First of all, your servants saw the man trip and fall backwards over the railing of your balcony. They have testified that you did not touch him, and I believe this to be true. From your own accounting to me, you merely frightened him, which led to the unfortunate event. Furthermore, the man lived! He bled terribly, I am told, being cut in the head and having several broken bones, one being that nasty leg you described, but all have mended nicely since. All has been satisfactorily dismissed regarding this matter. Apparently, Judge Abbot was looking for you to offer you a position as royal advisor to His Majesty, at King George's request. They were somewhat distressed to learn you and your father had departed for a trip to the continent, as I explained to them. So you see, all believe your father still lives and that the two of you are even now enjoying a tour of the colonies.

Drake, you must see what this means. You can now return, leaving your father safely hidden in the colonies. It would further your original plan to bring home a wife and pa.s.s her off as your step-mother. After she conceives (hopefully on the voyage over), we will learn that your father has pa.s.sed away . . . buried somewhere on the frontier, perhaps? Then you can marry the "widow" and run the estate until your son inherits. It is a superior plan to the original, if I do say so myself. No messy makeup and fake appearances. No gossipy servants or funeral to plan.

All you have to do is find the right woman. Good luck, your grace, my dear Duke of Northumberland.

Ever Your Servant, Albert Radcliff Drake's hands were trembling. The man lived.

The man lived!

Just as his death had haunted Drake, so now his survival thrilled him. Drake folded the paper and placed it on the desk, but kept his hand over it, afraid it would disappear.

"What is it, Drake? Tell me everything."

He looked into Serena's worried eyes and wondered . . .

Did he have it in him anymore, the ability to deceive, to make his own wife an accomplice to such a lie? At one time he wouldn't have hesitated. Now . . .

Had he changed so much? He didn't know what to tell Serena, but one thing was clear: She could never read this letter. His hand closed around it, wadding it into a ball. With even strides he made for the fireplace and threw it in. He watched it catch and then blaze with yellow light until it was nothing but ash.

He felt Serena's arms slip around his waist, her head resting on his back. "I am sorry. I should not have asked thee to read it."

He turned, putting his arms around her, kissing the top of her head, his throat so raw, so choked with emotion he hardly knew what to say. "No, it was a good thing. I just did not want it around." Tilting her chin up to look into her eyes, he took a deep breath and then plunged in. "It told me two things, Serena. Two very important things. We have to go back." The first step. It was easier than it should have been.

"Go back? To Philadelphia? But Drake, why? I know thy heart dost not love it here, but if we give it more time . . . allow the memory of Christopher's death to fade . . ." She'd been talking fast, but slowed and, seeing his set eyes, her argument faded into silence.

"I have to go back to London."

She took a step back, out of his arms. "London?" Her eyes searched his face. "But . . . why? I thought thou couldst never return."

Drake stepped up to her again and grasped both her arms. "Dearest . . . the letter said . . ." He stopped and allowed the joy of it to fill him, to suffuse his face and eyes. "It's incredible. The man I thought I killed did not die! He lives! Serena, do you realize what this means? We can go back to England! I can take up my life again."

Suddenly, he realized it-all the consequences, advantages, and realities of being of English n.o.bility. He wouldn't be cheating her! He would be giving Serena everything she deserved. Finally he would be able to shower her with all the wealth and status the world had to give. He could be her provider, protector, her husband in truth. He laughed again, squeezing her tight, lifting her feet from the floor and spinning her around in a circle.

Serena only grasped his arms, confusion in the lines on her brow. "But Drake, what does this mean?"

He set her on her feet. "Allow me to make the introductions." The words tumbled out, easy and sweet. Bowing his most elegant bow, he stated with relish. "Serena, dearest, your husband is a duke. And you are . . . a d.u.c.h.ess. The d.u.c.h.ess of Northumberland, to be exact."

Serena backed away again. "Drake, stop it. Thou art frightening me." She looked frightened, and Drake could not resist a chuckle. "I am sorry, Serena. It must seem madness, but please, if you will sit down I will explain everything."

Pale and wide-eyed, she sat, hands clasped tightly in her lap, while Drake told her the truth.

Most of it.

He explained how, fearing for his life, he had fled London and boarded a s.h.i.+p as an indentured servant, how his money was stolen and his health robbed to the very brink of death. He told her the truth of how he came to be indentured. Then he told her about his life before the accident.

It was in this telling that the madness began.

He told her of the life he had lived, and the life they would now share when they returned to London as the Duke and d.u.c.h.ess of Northumberland. It didn't seem important that she thought him the duke and not his father. It was perfect really, now that he considered it. She was so innocent of the ways of the world. She would never understand what he had to do. But no matter, for it would be an easy deception.

After a few carefully chosen social events where she would appear with him as his stepmother, he would take them to Northumberland where she would give birth to an heir. The sooner she became pregnant, the better, of course. For anyone to believe the child was the duke's, she would have to conceive in the next few months. But Drake had little doubt he could make it so. They had time before the journey and the ocean voyage. Then, after the babe was born and they announced his father's death, the will would be read and circ.u.mvented by the presence of a legitimate heir.

And if Serena ever learns the truth?

He pushed the caution aside. He would convince her it had all been necessary. No . . . their son would convince her. What mother wouldn't do anything for her son to inherit such a t.i.tle and estate?

Oh, indeed he was back. A changed and better man for his hards.h.i.+ps, yes, but back and alive again, not buried in this wilderness coffin awaiting a slow, guilt-ridden death. He would make everything-his life and now hers-a dream come true.

SERENA SAT IN silence, unable to comprehend and yet knowing. It all made so much sense now. She had always known he was like no one else, had always suspected he was of the English n.o.bility. But a duke. G.o.d help her, she had never entertained such a thought. And she, a d.u.c.h.ess! She wasn't sure she even understood what that meant.

Sudden, overwhelming tears struck her. "I cannot be a d.u.c.h.ess! I am still a Quaker at heart. I cannot go to London. What shall I do in London?" She looked up at him with all the helplessness that she felt.

He sat down beside her, gathering her cold hands into his. "Thou wilt make a wonderful d.u.c.h.ess. Quaker or not, Serena, you are my wife and I love you. You must come with me, take your place in the world at my side. I will guide you."

"But . . . how does one be a d.u.c.h.ess? Drake-" she stopped alarmed. "May I still call thee Drake? Is there some special address I should be using?"

Drake laughed. She was so delightful. "Of course you may call me Drake. Others will address us both as 'your grace,' but family and close friends use first names." He gathered her into his arms. "You have no idea how wonderful it will be. I have seen your world . . . now let me show you mine." He leaned back to look into her eyes. "Serena, trust me in this. Let me show you my world."

Something inside her said no, that this was wrong. But he looked so happy . . . and she hadn't seen that look very often, nearly never. She found that she would do anything to make it permanent.

Even ignore the counsel of her heart.

Chapter Twenty.

LONDON.

Ow!"

Serena jerked as a pin stuck the delicate skin of her wrist. She stood, precariously balanced on a three-legged stool, while seamstresses swarmed about her. A "fitting" they called it. Serena wondered if the flames of h.e.l.l would come now or later. Such decadence. Such luxurious fabrics, one yard of which cost more than her father made in a year. The laces and furs and jewels.

What was she doing here?

She was being fitted for a court dress, for her presentation to the queen of England. Never in all her wildest imaginings had she thought to someday be in such a place. Her hands brushed across the skirt of her gown as she stared at her reflection in awe. The underskirt, or chemise, was heavy, gold brocade with a lighter cream fleur-de-lis design. The overskirt and bodice were done in deep blue silk. The overskirt was draped back and away, providing a teasing glimpse of the magnificence of the chemise, gathering at the sides and attached in the back. The bodice was a triangular stomacher, the blue fabric inset with real jewels of amber, diamond, and sapphire. The magnitude of the wealth she was wearing made her want to shriek with both terror and delight.

The still-sane part of her thought of the poor she had seen in the streets of London, the orphans and the widows and the starving. The other part of her swelled with wonder and . . . something else . . . a feeling of astonishment that she could look so beautiful, like a princess from some faraway land, as though this dress revealed some part of her that she'd never known existed.

She blinked into the mirror, feeling like two different women, and wondered which would prevail.

Her stays were so tight she could barely breathe. Standing before the full-length, gilt-edged, peer gla.s.s in her own private dressing room-which was connected with the large bedroom she and Drake shared-Serena swallowed hard, gulping as much air as she could. Don't let me fail Thee, G.o.d. If this is a test . . . I do not want to fail.

"Your grace, could you turn?"

Madame de Bourbor, whom Drake a.s.sured her was the best dressmaker in all of England, demanded more than asked. Serena had little doubt what Drake said was true. Since their arrival she had had little choice but to trust his vast knowledge in every way. She might hardly recognize her husband these days, but she was sure he knew whatever it was he was currently about.

Her husband.

Serena attempted another deep breath and turned as directed, thinking of him, of this strange and glorious creature she had married.

Her husband.

A vision of him in his "duke's clothing" (as she thought of his raiment) rose to mind, sending a warm s.h.i.+ver over her. The changes in him since returning to London had been nothing short of astounding. It wasn't just the clothing or the extravagant townhouse on Berkeley Square, where they now lived. When Drake asked her to let him show her his world, she'd had no idea the scope of such a world.

So much had happened since Drake read that letter.

They had sold the farm in the Shenandoah Valley to a nice Quaker family who promised to make of it all Christopher had hoped. It was hard to leave and yet a relief of sorts. They were meant for something different. Back in Philadelphia they had visited briefly with Serena's family, explaining everything that had happened. Her mother and father had showed little shock to find their daughter married into the English n.o.bility, knowing all along that there was much more to their son-in-law than an indentured servant. They were saddened to see Serena off to England but acknowledged she must follow her husband. The two of them had sent Serena and Drake off with kisses of goodwill at the dockside.

The journey was much easier than the one Drake had taken over a year ago. With money, Serena learned, anything could be had. His name and t.i.tle reinstated, Drake took charge. They boarded one of the king's own vessels, taking possession of a comfortable cabin complete with feather bed, servants to wait upon them, and French delicacies to dine upon.

Upon reaching London, her breath caught at her first sight of one of the world's largest cities. The harbor was at least as busy as Philadelphia's but different; it seemed busy in an ancient way, as though all knew their business better. The people here spoke in her husband's accent, even the dock hands, though their sound was more coa.r.s.e. But they treated Drake with deferential bows and ran to and fro to fetch him his heart's desires. Serena realized something along those docks: Drake's t.i.tle, just the name they called him, that alone generated respect. It didn't matter what he did or how he lived his life; he was a duke.

It was all so foreign. She'd clung to his arm like a child, hating that she felt so helpless, feeling that whatever ground she had gained, whatever growing up she had done after Christopher's death, was gone like a puff of smoke. This world was as unknown to her as the silversmith shop and the farm had been to Drake. Now he was the confident one. They were now in his world where they were sudden royalty and everyone around them bowed and sc.r.a.ped for no other reason than the accident of one's birth.

A hired carriage had taken them from the busy harbor, down the cobbled streets to Berkeley Square. On the ride Serena glimpsed the sorry side of London. Dirty children ran like rats in the narrow alleys. Dark and dank little houses lined the side streets, and everywhere were hucksters with their carts. It was such a frenetic place, so alive with the business of trying to make a living. Serena was appalled and enthralled by turns.

They had finally reached Berkeley Square, where the wealthy and t.i.tled resided in three-storied brownstone houses that lined the square. Like the king's own guards, the stately homes stood ready to cast judgment on any who didn't belong. Serena had floated through the front door of the duke's home, as if riding on a cloudy dream. The entrance was more of a salon than a hall. A polished black-and-white marble floor gave way to snowy white walls, complete with Roman columns and inset arched cases. Six gilt armchairs, done in gold and white velvet, flanked the walls. A black velvet settee with matching scrolling gilt edging sat against another wall. Chinese urns of dark-hued richness, as tall as she, stood guard on either side of an arched doorway that led to a short hall. A domed ceiling was intricately plastered, with a brilliant chandelier its central jewel. It was a room designed to impress and intimidate.