Lost Lady Read online

  It was dark outside, and the wind from the sea moved the tree branches overhead. As she paused on the doorstep, she lifted her chin high. She would make it; no matter what it took from her, she’d show them that she wasn’t an ineffectual person, as they seemed to believe. The stones were cold under her feet as she walked away from the house, refusing to think about the fact that she was in public—however dark—wearing only her nightgown. Someday, she thought, she’d return to this house wearing a satin gown and tall feathers in her hair, and Farrell would go down on his knees to her, saying that she was the most beautiful woman in the world. Of course, by then she’d be renowned for her brilliant house parties, a favorite of the king and queen; she’d be celebrated for her wit and intelligence as well as her beauty.

  The cold was becoming so intense that it was overriding her dreams. Stopping by an iron fence, she began to rub her arms. Where was she? She remembered Farrell saying she’d been kept a prisoner, and it was true. Since she was two years old she had rarely ever left Weston Manor. A succession of maids and frightened governesses had been her only companions, the garden her only place of amusement. In spite of being alone, she rarely felt lonely. That feeling didn’t come until she met Farrell.

  Leaning against the cold iron, she put her face in her hands. Whom was she trying to fool? What could she do alone in the night wearing only her nightgown?

  She lifted her head when she heard footsteps coming toward her. A brilliant smile lit her face; Farrell was coming after her! As she moved away from the fence, her sleeve caught in the iron and tore at the shoulder. Ignoring the tear, she began to run toward the footsteps.

  “Here, girly,” said a poorly dressed young man. “So, you came to greet me, all ready for bed.”

  Backing away from him, Regan tripped over the edge of her long gown.

  “There’s no need to be afraid of Charlie,” the man said. “I don’t want nothin’ that you don’t want.”

  Regan began to run in earnest, her heart pounding wildly, her sleeve tearing a bit more with each movement. She had no idea where she was going, whether she was running toward something or away from it. Even when she fell the first time, she hardly slowed her pace.

  It seemed like hours before she slipped into an alleyway and allowed her heart to calm enough to listen for the man’s footsteps. When everything seemed to be quiet, she leaned her head back against the damp brick wall and smelled the salty, fishy odor from the sea. She could hear laughter from somewhere to her right, a door slammed, there was some metal clanking, and she could hear the call of the seagulls.

  As she looked down at her nightgown, she saw it was torn and muddy; there was mud in her hair and, she guessed, on her cheek. Trying not to think about how she looked, she wanted only to control her fear. She had to get away from this bad-smelling place and find shelter before morning—a place where she could rest and find safety.

  Trying as best she could to smooth her hair, pulling the torn pieces of her gown together, she left the alleyway and started walking toward the place where she’d heard the laughter. Perhaps there she would find the help she needed.

  Within minutes, a man tried to grab her arm. As she jerked away from him, two more clutched at her skirt; the fabric tore in three places.

  “No,” she whispered, backing away from them. The smell of the fish seemed to be overpowering, and the darkness was as heavy as velvet. Again she started to run, the men following her closely.

  As she looked back, she saw that there were several men behind her—just following her, not really hurrying, seeming to tease her with their pursuit.

  One moment she was running, and the next she felt as if she’d slammed into a stone wall. She hit the ground, landing on her seat as if she’d been dropped from a window.

  “Travis,” a man above her said. “I think you’ve knocked the wind out of her sails.”

  An enormous shadow bent over Regan, and a rich, deep voice asked, “Are you hurt?”

  Before she could think, she was swept from the ground and held in strong, safe-feeling arms. She was too exhausted, too terrified to consider proprieties but hid her face in the deep shoulder of the man who held her.

  “I think you got just what you wanted for the night,” another man chuckled. “Shall we see you in the morning?”

  “Perhaps,” said the deep voice against Regan’s cheek. “But I may not come out until the ship sails.”

  The men laughed again before continuing on their way.

  Chapter 2

  REGAN HAD NO IDEA WHERE SHE WAS OR WHOM SHE WAS with; all she knew was that she felt safe, as if she’d awakened from a terrible nightmare. As she closed her eyes and let her body sink against the man who held her so easily, she felt as if everything was going to be all right. A burst of light made her close her eyes more tightly, and bury her face more deeply into the hard shoulder.

  “Whatcha got there, Mr. Travis?” came a woman’s voice.

  Regan felt a deep chuckle run through the man. “Bring some brandy and hot water to my room—and some soap.”

  The man seemed to have no trouble climbing the stairs with the extra weight of Regan in his arms. By the time he lit a candle, she was nearly asleep.

  Gently he set her on the bed, her back propped against pillows. “All right, let’s have a look at you.”

  While he seemed to inspect her, Regan got her first look at her rescuer. An extraordinarily thick crop of soft, dark hair topped a handsome face with deep brown eyes and a finely shaped mouth. There were little sparks of laughter in his eyes, tiny lines at the corners.

  “Satisfied?” he asked as he went to answer the knock at the door.

  He had to be the largest man she’d ever seen—a totally unfashionable figure, of course, but at the same time fascinating. The depth of his chest was probably twice the circumference of any part of her body. No doubt his arms were as big as her waist, and she could see that his snug buckskin trousers clung to massive muscles in his thighs. Tall boots reached to his knees, and she wondered at them because she’d only seen men in silk hose and little kid slippers.

  “Here, I want you to drink this; it’ll make you feel better.”

  When the brandy was too hot in her throat, the man urged her to sip it slowly.

  “You’re cold as ice, and the brandy will warm you.”

  The brandy did warm her, and the golden candlelit room, and the man’s quiet power all reinforced her feeling of security. Her uncle and Farrell seemed far away. “Why do you talk so strangely?” she asked softly.

  His eyes crinkled further. “I might ask you the same thing. I’m an American.”

  Her eyes widened in a mixture of interest and some fear. She’d heard many stories about the Americans—men who declared war on their mother country, men who were little more than savages.

  As if he had read her thoughts, the man dipped a cloth into the hot water, rubbed it on the soap, and began to wash Regan’s face. Somehow it seemed so natural that this man, whose palm was as big as her face, should gently and tenderly wash her. When he’d finished her face, he began on her feet and legs. She looked down at his hair, cut just above his collar, curling a bit, and she couldn’t resist touching it. It was firm and clean, and she thought that even the hairs on his head were strong.

  As he rose, he took her hand and kissed her fingertips. “Put this on,” he said, tossing her one of his clean shirts. “I’ll go downstairs and see if I can find us something to eat. You look like you could use a good meal.”

  The room seemed cavernous when he was gone. When Regan stood, she weaved a bit and realized the brandy had gone to her head. Her Uncle Jonathan had never allowed her to drink spirits. The thought of that name brought back all the ugly memories. As she pulled off what was left of the torn and soiled nightgown, she began to imagine how Farrell and her uncle would feel when she returned with a big, handsome American on her arm. The Colonial was big enough to enforce anything he wanted. As she climbed into bed, wrapped in his clean shirt,