“Of course. I thought about it carefully and then decided that if everyone in London knows exactly what happened to you, everyone will be looking out for not only your father, but for you and Jason as well. You know, Devlin leaves his hat on to keep the sun off his face. And he did today as well. There, I admitted it. Such a lovely pallor. At least his face.” The witch shuddered.
There was no hope for it. He said, all indifferent, “I don’t suppose Devlin told you that your adventure with me was the cause of some, er, consternation?”
“Consternation? Actually, when I mentioned to him that Mrs. Cutter and Lady Brisbett had cut me, he just laughed and patted my hand and told me that it didn’t mean anything and not to concern myself about it. He said, if it was all right with me, he would like to visit with my Uncle Simon.”
No, James thought, Devlin wasn’t going to offer for her, his parents would disown him if he offered for a girl whose reputation was in shreds. Besides he’d only just met her. And he didn’t know she was an heiress, she was right about that. She was just a girl who amused him. What was Devlin up to? Why had he told her she would have to pay?
Better to get things straight right this instant. “We had an adventure, Corrie, didn’t we?”
“It was a splendid adventure if you hadn’t gotten so ill that it fair to scared the spit out of me.”
He grinned at her cant, recognized Lovejoy. “Yes, all of London-everyone, Corrie-now knows about our adventure. And those few who didn’t know, Devlin has now doubtless informed.” He stared down at his fingernails, examining the small tear on his thumbnail. When he looked up at her, he smiled. “It appears that I won’t have to hunt you down like a rat.”
“Whatever do you mean by that?”
The estate room door suddenly opened and the earl walked in, saying to James, “This smuggler who briefly captured you and Corrie, I’ve been wondering who he could be, wondering if I’ve played cards with him. I’ve a hankering to go look at that cave, see if there’s any clue as to what he’s smuggling. You said he sounded familiar?”
“Yes, sir, sort of.”
“Whatever is the matt-?” Douglas turned slowly to see Corrie sitting there on the lovely brocade sofa that Alexandra had known he liked and given to him. “Corrie,” he said. “You’re looking quite lovely, my dear.”
“Thank you, sir. James was telling me about Uncle Simon muttering about me being hunted down like a rat.”
“It would be best if you simply forgot about that, Corrie. I must see to something now. You will both excuse me.” He turned in the doorway. “James, ten more minutes, then I want you back in your bed.”
After Douglas had left, closing the door quietly behind him, Corrie rose, smoothed down her skirts. “Well, James, I was thinking about our smuggler too. I agree with your father-when this is all over, let’s go take a look at that cave. I think you should take a nice rest now. You’re looking a bit on the vampire side. Not quite as pale as Devlin, but still too pale for your swarthy complexion to look anything but weedy.”
He rose slowly, his palms on the desktop. “If you attempt to leave, I will put you over my lap and smack you good.”
Her chin went up. “I don’t think you’re strong enough to hold me down, much less raise and lower your hand with any force at all. I think it likely that if you take one step toward me, you will fall on your face.”
“I could beat you in my sleep.”
“You’re looking flushed, James. I don’t like it. Please sit down and try to calm yourself.”
He rolled his eyes, nothing else to do. He really couldn’t beat her, not here in his father’s estate room. It struck him rather forcibly that such an action would not gain him what he had to have, not that he wanted what he had to have. “Sit down, dammit.”
Corrie sat down, clasped her hands in her lap, and looked up at him like an inquiring pupil.
He said, all slow as a snail, feeling each word being pulled out of his throat, “This adventure of ours-it will be a tale that will doubtless embroider itself into a heroic saga when we tell it to our children and grandchildren.”
There, it was out of his mouth, and those clever words had made sense, indeed, had sounded fluent and sincere, and the words were eloquent, calling forth images to charm the mind. But James had signed his fate with those bloody elegant words, a fate he’d known had to be his when his brain had begun functioning again.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
HE WAITED. HE felt strangely detached, as if his brain was sitting over on that bookshelf across the room, watching him, watching and laughing.
Complete and utter silence filled the estate room.
Corrie raised an eyebrow. “I beg your pardon? Are you delirious again, James? Shall I fetch your father? A physician? You’re obviously not well and that worries me.”
“Corrie, don’t be stupid.”
“I will be as stupid as I wish.” She fiddled a moment with her mittens, the same lovely green as her gown and slippers. What came out of her mouth next nearly sent him over the edge. “Do you think that Devlin is going to propose?”
“All right, be stupid for the moment, but I can’t. I’m facing the situation head-on here. There’s no choice in this, Corrie, no choice for either of us.”
Corrie jumped up, backed away three steps to behind the sofa, and stood there, staring at him, her hands on her hips. “Now you listen to me, James Sherbrooke. There is no situation to face head-on. There is no situation at all. Do you know what your problem is? You think too much, you weigh everything, churn it all around in your head, and then you make a decision. Many times you’re exactly right but sometimes-like right now, right this instant-you skip happily to a conclusion that makes my brain hurt, so stop it. Forget this. Do you hear me? Forget it!”
He said quietly, “Two ladies already cut you. Don’t you realize what that means?”
“Devlin said to forget it. I plan to.”
“You cannot marry Devlin Monroe, unless, of course, you’ve a hankering to be a duchess rather than just a countess.”
“What a stupid thing to say. I’m leaving, James.”
“Where are you going?”
“To get some brandy from your father’s library.”
“Don’t you remember what happened to you the last time you drank brandy? You and Natty Pole stole a bottle of your Uncle Simon’s best, and ended up puking your guts out in the yew behind the house.”
“I was twelve years old, James.” But that stopped her.
He said, “I remember you were so sick you were lying there panting, and in the most pitiful voice you said to me, ‘There’s nothing else in me, James, even my heart has been puked out of me. I’m going to die now. Please give my apologies to Uncle Simon for stealing his brandy.’ And then you fell into a stupor. No brandy, Corrie. I don’t think I’m well enough to hold your hair out of your face this time.”
She paused, her hand on the doorknob. She gave him a look of acute dislike. “Sometimes you are right, I admit it. You do have a point here. Very well, I will get myself a big glass of water,” and she ran out of the room, light on her slippers, and that was because there were no heels on them.
He sat there and brooded. For God’s sake, he didn’t want to marry. Not just Corrie-and that thought was enough to make his eyes cross-but anyone. His father hadn’t married until he was twenty-eight, a nice ripe year, his father would say, a year when a man finally realizes that there just might be something to this business of sleeping with a woman every single night and it was legal.
But he was only twenty-five. Three years of freedom were wafting right out the window, all because Corrie had chased after him to save him.