Lord Deverill's Heir by Catherine Coulter (best books to read all time .TXT) 📗

life, the terms of the earl’s will—all had been a great shock to her. He had blundered, he had ridden her too hard.

God, but she was young and wretchedly confused. She had to feel betrayed by the one person on earth she loved and trusted the most—her father.

He steadied her, closing his long fingers protectively about her heaving shoulders. He gently pulled black masses of hair that hung loosely about her face. She seemed unaware of him. When she stopped retching, he drew a handkerchief from his waistcoat pocket and handed it silently to her. She clutched it in her hand, and without looking up, wiped her mouth.

“Arabella—”

“Ma’am.”

He had to smile. “Ma’am, then. Can you rise if I assist you? It is nearly dark now and your mother will be quite worried. I promised her that I would bring you back to her unscathed. You are only a bit scathed.” How calmly he speaks, as if we had stopped to admire the daffodils.

Unscathed? She felt scathed from the inside out. Come on, Arabella, stand up. See how dark it becomes; he cannot see the shame etched in your eyes.

He can see nothing that is really you, nothing.

She drew a deep breath and with an effort of will locked her knees to support her weight.

The earl slipped his hands beneath her elbows and held her upright, her back to him.

She tried to pull free of him but he had a good grip. “I don’t need you.” The naked pain in her voice sliced through the still evening air. Her hands clenched into fists, and in a swift, totally unexpected movement, she whirled about in his arms and smashed at his chest with all the mindless fury of a trapped animal.

He dropped his arms and sucked in his breath, more from sheer surprise than from any pain she caused him. “That was a good blow. Thank God you didn’t go lower.”

She ran from him, thick masses of hair streaming out about her shoulders and down her back.

Sharp gravel bits dug into the thin soles of her kid slippers, sending stabs of pain up her legs. Blind, unreasoning panic blurred her vision, yet she ran on as if death itself pursued her. A gently rising slope rose before her, but her mind did not tell her legs to adjust for the abrupt unevenness. She went hurtling forward, clutching frantically at the empty air to balance herself. Instinct brought her arms in front of her face to cushion the impact as she sprawled facedown onto the drive. Gravel cut into her arms, tearing her gown, digging into her flesh. She cried out just once. The pain from her body seared through to her mind, unleashing the unshed tears for her father. They coursed down her cheeks, burning tears that had not touched her face since her father, with grim resolution, had put his pistol to her pony’s head, and pulled the trigger. Years of stoic discipline, of scorn for such despicable weakness, were stripped from her.

The earl loomed above her within an instant of her headlong plunge. It is becoming quite a habit with me, he thought almost inconsequentially as he knelt down beside her. Her gown was grimy and rent with small jagged tears; blood welled up and spread, blending into and encrusting the black material. He knew with an uncanny sense that the deep rending sobs were not from her fall; nor, he guessed, did tears come easily to her. He did not attempt to speak to her or soothe her. Rather, with a sigh, he grasped her about her waist, hauled her upright, and swung her into his arms.

She went rigid and he thought wearily that she would lash out at him again. He tightened his grip and strode on, not looking down at her.

It did not occur to Arabella to fight him. She had tensed with shock at the touch of a man’s hands. No one save her father had ever before held her. She felt the strength of his arms, and for a fleeting instant sensed an inner strength in him, a calm self-assurance that heightened the stark emptiness deep within her.

The earl halted a moment at the edge of the front lawn, staring thoughtfully ahead at the bright candlelit mullioned windows.

“Is there a staircase to your room through the west entrance?” He felt her nod against his shoulder.

As the earl turned to skirt the front doors, they were suddenly flung wide and Lady Ann waved to him. She looked frantic.

“Justin, thank God. You have found her. We’ve been distraught with worry.

Bring her here, quickly, quickly.”

He leaned his face close to Arabella’s and said, “I’m sorry, ma’am, but there seems to be no hope for it. I would have spared you if I could have. But she is your mother. I would never disobey a mother. I’m sorry for it, but there it is.”

She said nothing at all, but she was as still as a board in his arms. He called out, “Yes, Ann, I have found her. I’ll bring her to you.” Lady Ann did not shriek or fall into hysterics. Her blue eyes fastened with disbelief on her daughter’s ravaged face. She saw the tear streaks trailing through the dirt and blood down her white cheeks. “Dear God,” she managed, then fell silent.

The earl felt Arabella clutch at his coat as if she wanted somehow to disappear inside of him. He sensed her deep shame and said quickly, “She isn’t hurt, Ann, merely cut up a trifle from an accidental fall. It is nothing more than that. Is. Dr. Branyon still about? I think it wise that he see her.”

Arabella gathered remnants of pride and struggled in the earl’s arms to face her mother. “I do not wish to see Dr. Branyon. Mother, I am perfectly fine. It is as he said, I simply took a stupid fall and hurt myself just a bit. If you will please let me down, sir.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He dropped