Chapter Eighteen

NNE WAS RUNNING again, with her lungs heaving and her chest tight. At least Devon’s clothes made it much easier to move, but every quick breath she took flooded her nose, her conscience, and her heart with his rich scent. It was truly agony. She vowed she would return everything to him.

Dawn lightened the sky, but the rain had brought out a thick morning mist. Layers of fog billowed over the lawns and twined among the trees. She was running as blindly as she had in the dark.

This time she hoped she had a better plan. She raced to the woods and took the opposite direction to the one she had before. This way, she should be able to reach the road to the village, and she could travel more quickly along a road than on the paths in the woods. In dark masculine clothing, she would not attract attention.

Behind her, in the gray mist, twigs snapped. Her heart jerked wildly in her chest.

What if it was Mick again? Surely he would have given up on watching the house. She prayed that he had, that he thought she was well and truly in the duke’s possession now.

Crunching sounds pursued her, and she risked one glance back. She couldn’t see anything but mist and the trees close to her; their black trunks seemed to dance crazily as she swept her gaze back and forth. She left the path, just as she’d done last night, and she ran through the woods. If it was Mick, he wouldn’t let her get away this time. If it was Devon—

Her right foot didn’t land on the ground—it dropped away beneath her. She was too shocked to scream. Her boots slid, her bottom slammed down, and she went flying along a slope into thick fog. Then she cried out in shock, damning the sound as it echoed everywhere.

Splash! Her feet hit water. Cool water instantly poured in through the lacing of her boots. Her spine felt as though it had been smacked with a hammer, and her hands had been scratched and torn up by small rocks. She quickly jerked her feet out of the water, but it hurt to move. She had nearly fallen into the wretched stream.

“Anne? Where are you?”

It was Devon. Not Mick. Relief left her light-headed, but she stayed silent. She had to get away. The only way he could help her was to throw himself into a scandal that would hurt him.

His footsteps grew closer, muffled by the mist. “Anne?” Then a pause. “Taylor? Taylor, are you out here? If you have Anne, hand her over to me right now. I swear I will shoot you.”

Devon didn’t sound angry. His voice was strained with panic.

Heavens, he was running now, his footsteps hard through the fog. It sounded as though he was racing over her head, but that was impossible.… No, he was running along the path she’d taken. Running, even though he couldn’t see. The path would bring him to the edge of the ravine—

“Don’t!” she shouted. “Stop! You’ll fall down the hill!”

But her cry was too late. She heard a startled male shout, a horrible thud, and a terrible amount of crashing, as if Devon was tumbling over and over as he fell down the steep side of the ravine. Then there was a huge splash, several yards behind her.

Sheer panic forced her pained body to move. She turned and limped as fast as she could toward Devon. Fog had pooled in the ravine, and she couldn’t see anything through it. Not trees until branches smacked her in the head. Not rocks until she collided with them. Heavens, this was what it was like for Devon. No wonder he hated it. How strong he had been to learn to cope.

Through the veil of gray mist, she saw a ghostly white outline. Her wits clicked into place, and she understood what she was looking at. Devon’s shirt was white. It was rippling on the water of the stream. He hadn’t slid in, as she had. His entire body had tumbled in, and he was facedown in the water.

Anne ran into the stream, forcing her legs to push through flowing water. An eternity raced by as she fought her way to him. The current tugged at him, but he wasn’t moving. Now she could see that his arms and legs were outstretched, the water slapping at him, flowing around him.

Finally she was at his side. He had landed chest-first in the water. His head had struck a large flat rock. He lay on it, his cheek resting on the slippery surface. Water lapped at his lips.

His face wasn’t submerged. That gave her hope. But his skin was ashen and waxy in his unconsciousness. Please don’t be hurt. Not badly hurt.

Anne had known horror when she’d found the virgins in Madame’s house, when she’d watched Madame crumple after the blow to her head, when Mick had caught her. But this was the worst terror she’d known.

She touched his cheek. Even though his skin was sheet-white, it wasn’t as cold as she expected. She had to get him out of the water. She grasped his heavy right arm and tried to lift him. All she succeeded in doing was unbalancing herself, and she fell on a rock.

Sore and soaked, she clumsily got to her feet. He weighed a ton. She gave another tug, desperate now, for the water was splashing at his slack mouth.

He moved. His cheek slid along the slippery rock, then he was free of the stone support, but she still couldn’t lift him. Damn and blast, his head was starting to sink.…

His head ached like the blazes. He tasted dirt against his lips. Bits of rock jabbed into his side. Why was he soaking wet?

Devon kept his eyes shut and lifted his hands to his aching head. It felt as if a sword had pierced his skull. Or a bayonet. Where was he? In battle? No, he was in England. Wasn’t he?

Visions flashed through his head. A bayonet slicing through the ash- and scream-filled air, coming right for his eyes—

“Devon!” A tremulous, fear-filled feminine voice flowed over him. Anne Beddington’s frantic voice brought him back from the battle in his head. As she always did. Gentle as a feather, her hand caressed his shoulder. He heard her stifle a sob, and warmth brushed over his cheek. Her breath, he guessed. “Thank heaven,” she whispered.

He intended to agree—thank heaven he’d caught her. Instead, he started to cough. He was lying on his side, and he sputtered, spitting out water. His mouth tasted like the stream, his lips felt slimy. He could hear the water burbling close by. With his eyes still shut, he asked, “What happened?”

“You were running after me through the fog. You did the very same thing I did—you slid down the side of a ravine and landed in the stream. I managed to pull you out.”

It all hurtled back. The smell of cool night air wafting through the open window in the bedroom. Driven by panic and frustration, he hadn’t bothered to gather up servants, and he’d made it to the woods. Once in there, he’d heard her. She moved quietly, but he was used to listening for every sound. Then he’d heard her scream. “Thank you. Are you all right, Cer—Anne?” There was no point in opening his eyes—he couldn’t see her to know.

“Yes, I’m fine. I slid down on my bottom.”

“So first you try to heal me, now you’re trying to kill me. Angel, why did you try to run again? Don’t you believe I will help you?”

“I fear you will try to help me. I cannot ask that of you. I caused Kat to be hurt. I don’t want to hurt you.”

At her confusing words, he instinctively lifted his eyelids. And his vision was flooded with bright gray light. It was so intense, pain shot through his skull. He felt … blinded. Stunned. He shut his eyes again.

Devon’s heart thundered. Maybe he was in shock. Or he had drowned after all, and for him purgatory consisted of a burning gray light and Anne’s voice to haunt him for eternity.

“What’s wrong? Are you in pain?”

Pain. In his head. “Where did I land?” he asked hoarsely, with his eyelids clamped shut.

“On a rock.”

Doctors—the ones at the London Dispensary for Curing Diseases of the Eye and Ear—had told him his sight could come back if the fragment of bone or knot of blood in his skull was to move. “Did I hit my head?” he demanded. Why didn’t he open his eyes again? It was as if he was afraid—afraid to find he’d hit his head and still couldn’t see. At least the blow hadn’t dislodged the thing from his optic nerve and killed him.

“I think so. I found you lying in the water, with the side of your head on a rock. When you landed, you must have hit it.”

She pressed a place on his left temple, and he let out a growl of pain. At once, her hand withdrew. “There’s no blood but definitely a bump.”

He caught hold of her wrist so she couldn’t run. He pulled her down on top of him and wrapped his arms around her. Then he cursed himself for cowardice here, in front of Anne, and he opened his eyes.

A canopy of dark-green leaves loomed over him, and a soft fog rolled among the trunks of trees. He could see faded browns, ebony blacks, and some splashes of yellow leaves. He could see the stream out of the corner of his eye, frothing white where it bubbled over rocks. The sun was rising, burning away the fog. He could see leaves rippling and shimmering where the light struck them. He was assaulted by the detail, by all the color and form around him. He was soaking wet, his head throbbed with pain, but he’d never seen anything so … miraculous.

The most wonderful miracle of all waited in his arms. Anne. More abruptly than he intended, he pushed her up so her face hovered over his. For the very first time, he saw her, and he felt his eyes go wide as though he was trying to draw in every detail.

Her huge eyes peered down at him. Eyes of an exotic green, dark and shiny as ivy leaves. Eyes filled with worry—for him. He saw her wet, disordered hair—half was pinned up, the rest tumbled down her back in a curtain of reddish-blond silk. She had an oval face with a stubborn, firm chin to anchor it. A wide, lush mouth so sensual he wanted to haul her down and kiss her—

No, look at her first.

She looked … nothing like he had imagined. He’d never pictured she would look so young, so innocent. She possessed a straight nose with a bump at the end and a trail of freckles across the ridge. Long lashes of amber. Her skin was like pearl, and perfect. She looked like a lady. No wonder she’d been prized at the brothel. Hell.

He reached for her cheek. The ability to direct his hand, to touch what he saw, was like a miracle. Something a child took for granted, but it filled him with awe. He felt the grin explode on his mouth.

“Why are you looking at me like—” Her eyes went wide as saucers. Her hands flew to her mouth. Pretty hands with long, graceful fingers. Wild images shot through him. Of what it must have looked like when she stroked his chest or wrapped her hands around his erection.

“You are beautiful,” he said, even as his head ached from the onslaught of newly found sight. It was so much, too much, hurtling at him. But he fought the instinct to close his eyes.

“You can see,” she whispered.

Devon saw the shock in her eyes dissolve and happiness flare to life in her face. “I can,” he murmured. He let his gaze flow over her. Like a drunk man draining the last drops, he wanted to take in everything. This was the woman he’d made love to, the woman who had healed him. A heartbeat later he observed, “You’re wearing my clothes.” And in a faster heartbeat, “The shirt is soaking wet, love.”

Anne looked down, dizzy from the knowledge that Devon could see. Water had turned the linen translucent. Between the sides of the tailcoat, the shirt stuck to the curves of her breasts and to her erect nipples. She might as well not have been wearing anything at all. “I’m sorry I took your clothes. I couldn’t run in skirts. And I planned to return them to you. Somehow—” Then Devon grimaced and rubbed his temple, and she gasped, “Is your head all right?”

“The doctors told me this could happen—a blow to the head could bring my sight back.”

“You can see everything? Perfectly well?”

“I think so. It’s overwhelming right now.” Groaning, he finally tried to push up from the muddy ground. He still held her hand. “We need to get home. Get you out of your wet clothes. Again.”

She tugged her hand free of his grip. “I’m so sorry. But I must go.”

She backed away from him. Through sheer force of will, she had dragged him out of the water, onto the bank. She had rolled him onto his side, in case he’d swallowed water. She had prayed he would open his eyes. But she couldn’t go with him.

Another two frantic steps back. He was watching her. He was trying to stand, but his fall down the hill had obviously hurt him, and he was blinking as daylight glowed through the mist. She should help him, but he would never let her go then.

“Thank you for believing me, Devon, but I can’t ask you to hide me and hunt for the real killer. There’d be scandal. Or worse. You could be arrested. For hiding me. I’m sorry.” She was babbling wildly and, before she could lose her nerve, she ran.

He wasn’t badly hurt … he could see now … he would be all right. She tried to make herself believe it, repeating those words as she raced through the woods. Now that he could see, he would be safe and happy. He could find a wife. He could find love. He could have everything he deserved.

Every fiber of Anne’s being wanted her to turn and go back and ensure he was safe. Devon, please be all right.

She heard a roar of fury behind her. Then crashing. Dear God, he must be running after her. Relief and fear clashed inside her. If he could run, he must not be badly hurt. He could see now. He should be able to catch her. But somehow he didn’t.

She ran like wild through the woods. Just when her legs wobbled beneath her like rubber and she was ready to collapse, she heard crowing, barking, shouting—all the sounds of a village waking with dawn.

Then she saw it. There was a small farmhouse ahead, and in the lane beside it stood a cart filled with baskets of apples. There was no one around. She ran to the cart and squeezed between the baskets, slithering her way to the back. She was cramped, and rough wood scratched her, but she was hidden.

Minutes later, the cart jiggled as a man leapt up to the driving box, then he called out a command to his pony. With a lurch, they set off.

How had she managed to vanish into thin air?

Devon stood on the muddy road. The breeze had whisked away the rest of the mist, so he could see up and down the road and across fields. He could see so much it made his head hurt.

But he couldn’t see Anne.

What had possessed the foolish woman to run from him? He knew exactly what he was getting into. He had faced cannons and rifles, but Anne Beddington thought she should protect him.

He had to squint as sunlight filtered through the sky and landed on the wide strip of road. It was searing for eyes that hadn’t seen for three months.

How had she escaped him? Admittedly, he’d been unsteady on his feet, disoriented because he could now see. At first when he was running, he’d tripped over every blasted root in the forest. He’d been worse than when he was blind. But he should have been able to catch her.

He swung around in a circle. Instinct warned him he was in the open and vulnerable. He shook his head—that was a remnant of battle. Now he was hunting a damsel in distress, one determined to evade his help. Leaves rippled around him. Sheep dotted a hillside to the right, behind a quiet stone farmhouse. Every detail of the farm loomed at him—the time-mellowed edges of the stone, the golden thatch on the roof, the pink of late roses rambling up a wall. On the other side, the woods stretched to a meadow, following the hill downward toward the village.

The one detail he couldn’t see was a slim woman in a wet shirt and breeches running down the road, through the meadow, or across the fields.

The farm would be filled with hiding places. More than he could effectively search. He needed to return home. Bring out a band of his servants and scour the farm, the woods, and the fields from top to bottom. He had to send a man to the village inn. If Anne made it that far, if she could find another hat to disguise her head—she’d dropped his at the stream—and made herself look convincingly male, she might try to get on a stage. But she would need money to buy a ticket.…

Devon’s heart gave a strange, hard kick in his chest. Anne had worked in a brothel. He now knew how lovely she was. Any man she approached would want her—certainly with her wearing that wet, almost transparent shirt.

God, the thought left him reeling more than the onslaught of color and images that came from regaining his sight.

Two days later, Devon strode down the steps toward his waiting mount. His groom held the reins of his fastest horse.

“Are you certain you should ride alone so soon after taking a serious blow to your head?”

He jerked around to see Tristan coming down the steps, his courtesan following on his heels, the plumes of her extravagant bonnet waving in the wind. “Dev, why not ride with us?”

“A horse will travel faster than a carriage. I feel perfectly fine.” Fine, but impatient.

Two days of searching and he still had not tracked Anne down. In hours, she had fashioned an escape plan of her own, one worthy of a general. Worthy of Wellington. He could imagine the praise the Iron Duke would have heaped on her for this clever plot.

“So she didn’t vanish into thin air after all? Treadwell told me you had reason to think she’d gone to London. I thought she’d want to avoid Town at all costs.”

“It’s a long story.”

Tristan grinned. “Give me a summary. I want to hear how she outwitted you.”

Devon scowled. He’d found a young boy who had seen a “gentleman” sneak out from the back of an apple cart. But after that, the “gentleman” had disappeared. However, Devon had discovered his clothes neatly bundled up behind the stables of the Black Swan. Like Tris, he’d been certain she wouldn’t take a stage to London.

He’d been wrong.

He briefly explained that to his friend. “It was a chance comment by a maid at the Swan that finally made me realize what Anne did. One of the girl’s dresses was missing from her wardrobe, along with an old straw hat. I questioned the innkeeper, and, indeed, a woman in plain servant’s style of dress had bought a ticket on the London stage two days ago.” He also had his men searching for Mick Taylor, who had effectively disappeared.

“She bought a ticket? How did she get the money?”

That question haunted him.

“So you’re going in pursuit?”

“Of course.”

Tristan crossed his arms over his chest and grinned. His expression implied he knew something Devon did not. “Why are you going to chase her down, Dev?”

“Obviously, I—” He paused. It seemed … natural for him to pursue her. “She could be in danger. I can’t abandon her.”

He mounted Abednigo and took the reins. Barely aware of his servants or Tris and Miss Lacy watching, he set his horse trotting. Anne had gone to London. Why? Had she done it because she guessed it would be the last place he—or anyone—would look for her? Or was it because of Kat? She had been terrified that Mick Taylor had badly hurt her friend.

That would be his Cerise. She would risk her own neck to ensure Kat was safe.

As he rode out onto the road, he urged his horse to a gallop. He was two days behind Anne, with no hope of overtaking her now. But some instinct made him want to move quickly.

This morning, he’d realized that, even though he could now see, he hadn’t actually taken a look at himself. He’d finally faced the mirror in his bedchamber. And discovered he wasn’t at all like the man who had gone to battle. He had been mourning Rosalind then, and he’d looked grim, empty, ravaged.

Now he wore every mark of mourning, loss, and fighting on his face. A bayonet scar gouged his temple. His nose had been broken in a fall from his cavalry horse—it was no longer perfectly straight. Various scars from blades had left a trail of white lines over his jaw and his forehead. He hadn’t shaved in days, and black stubble shadowed his face. He looked … like hell.

Anne Beddington had lived through a hell of her own. She had lost her home. Lost her father and mother. She’d ended up in a brothel that should have claimed her soul.

But she had not looked like a haunted woman. She had still looked pure and lovely, every inch a lady, no matter what she had seen, what she’d been forced to do. To do that after what she’d endured … it showed how strong she was. Was she strong enough, clever enough, to evade him in London?

No, she wasn’t. He hadn’t commanded a regiment of men for nothing.

Just as she’d done more than a fortnight ago, Anne crept up the mews behind Kat’s house and used a tree to help her scramble over the back wall. She stole to the kitchen at the rear and slowly pushed open the door. Kat’s plump cook, Mrs. Brown, turned quickly from the stove. “Miss Beddington? Let’s get you upstairs to the mistress. She has been worried about you!”

Anne’s heart lodged in her throat as she followed the cook to Kat’s sitting room. She was so afraid of what she would see. Mrs. Brown cried, “It is Miss Beddington. She’s returned safe.”

Kat rose slowly from her chair and turned. Fury toward Mick Taylor burned in Anne’s heart. “Oh, my goodness, Kat!” Bruises blossomed on Kat’s cheeks and jaw. A scab had formed on her lip, where Mick had obviously split it. But, despite that, Kat held out her arms in welcome.

Anne embraced her dear friend. “Oh, Kat, were you badly hurt?”

“Nothing worse than I’ve endured before. But I’m so sorry, Anne. I couldn’t hold out, though I tried. I told Taylor you’d gone to the Duke of March, to his hunting box. I sent you a letter to warn you, but I feared it would arrive too late. Did he find you?”

“Yes.” Her stomach gave a fierce growl.

Kat’s brow arched. “You can tell me everything that happened while you eat.”

Anne did, speaking swiftly between mouthfuls of delicious steak and kidney pie. Kat’s large brown eyes widened at every twist and turn of Anne’s tale, including her revelation that she hadn’t killed Madame after all. “The Duke of March rescued you from Mick?”

Anne nodded. “He wanted to help me. It was his plan to hide me while we searched for Madame Sin’s true killer, but I couldn’t let him take such a risk for me.”

“He must have cared for you very much to offer such a thing.”

“I’d helped him before he regained his sight. I assume he felt obligated to help me.”

“If you went to Bow Street, could you convince them you’re innocent?” Kat asked.

“I don’t know. Without Mick’s story, how could I? I’ll be arrested. And Mick Taylor could withhold the truth and give evidence against me. I’d hang for certain then.”

Kat set down her wineglass, frowning. “Anne, you are a viscount’s daughter! You can’t believe your cousin would let you hang. Surely he will help you. He’s gone to a lot of trouble to find you—he must want you back very much.”

“That’s what frightens me. Oh, Kat, he was always horrible.” Anne felt her lip wobble. She gathered her strength. “I have to leave England. I’ll get money somehow. Enough to buy passage on a ship.”

Kat swept to her feet, hurried over, and embraced her. “I have money, Anne.”

“Kat, I can’t—”

“You can. What good is money if you cannot use it to help a dear friend? This doesn’t begin to repay the debt I have to your mother.”

Kat had once lived in the stews beside them, in a small, dingy room like theirs. Without funds and desperate, Kat had finally got employment on the Drury Lane stage. One night she was returning home after a performance and a man attacked her. Mama heard the screams, ran outside, and rescued Kat by fighting off the man with a frying pan.

“It does, Kat,” Anne said softly. “For you would be saving my life.”