Lost Lady Read online

  “You have no right! Please, please let me out of here.”

  Acting as if she hadn’t spoken, Travis went to the door and bellowed down the stairs for supper to be brought up. “You’ll feel better once you’ve eaten,” he said, closing the door again.

  “I am not hungry,” she said, her nose in the air.

  Travis clasped her chin in his hand and twisted her head to look at him. “You are going to eat if I have to force it down your throat.” His eyes were hard, unlike the softness she’d always seen.

  All she could do was nod in answer.

  “Now,” he said, cheerful once again. “Why don’t you put on one of the dresses I brought you? That will make you feel better.”

  “You’ll have to leave the room,” she said weakly, still somewhat frightened by his threat. She hadn’t felt the least fear of him until now.

  Lifting one eyebrow at her request, he picked her up out of the bed, and stood her naked on the floor. “You don’t have anything I haven’t seen before, and if you don’t want the landlord to see you like that you’d better get dressed.”

  As she looked at the clothes Travis tossed to her, she realized there was no underwear. But rather than ask for it, she slipped the velvet gown over her head and had just finished the last button when the landlord knocked. The dress was high-waisted, the deeply cut bodice front filled with sheer silk gauze. Catching a glimpse of herself in the mirror opposite the bed, she was pleased that it wasn’t a child’s dress. Her hair hanging down her back in a mass of unruly curls, her flushed cheeks, her bright eyes, all went together to present a picture of a woman who had just been made love to—and had enjoyed it.

  The landlord’s appreciative looks made Travis almost push him out the door.

  “Why did you do that?” Regan asked in awe, wondering if Travis was jealous.

  “I don’t want him to get the wrong idea,” Travis answered, lifting the cover off a piece of roast beef. “I have to leave you alone again tomorrow, and if he thought I wouldn’t mind, he just might send someone else up here. The last thing I want is a fight or any other trouble so close to sailing time. Nothing is going to stop me from going home. I’ve been in this cursed country too long.”

  Deflated, Regan took the seat he offered her. After one whiff of the food, she realized how long it had been since she’d eaten. Her last meal—her eyes widened when she remembered—had been with Farrell and her uncle.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked, filling a plate for her.

  “Nothing. I just—.” She put her chin up. “I don’t like being held prisoner, that’s all.”

  “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to. Eat your supper before it gets cold.”

  All through the meal, Travis tried to get her to talk, but she wouldn’t since she was afraid she would inadvertently give him some clues about where she lived. There was no possibility now that she could go back to the life she once knew; after what had happened this evening, she probably no longer qualified as a lady.

  Putting his hand over hers, Travis leaned close to her. “It’s a shame Englishwomen are taught that they shouldn’t like lovemaking,” he said sympathetically, correctly reading her thoughts. “In America the women are earthier; they like their men and aren’t afraid to show it.”

  She gave him her sweetest, most insincere smile. “Then why don’t you go back to America and the women there?”

  Travis’s laugh made the dishes rattle, and he planted a hearty kiss on her cheek. “Now, little one, I have some paperwork to do, so you can snuggle up in bed and wait for me or—.”

  “Or leave perhaps.”

  “You are persistent, if nothing else.”

  And you are stubborn, she thought, watching him stack the dishes on the tray and put it outside the door. Later, when she was in her nightgown and in the big bed, she watched the back of him, saw how he ran his hands through his hair as his quill pen flew across the papers before him. She was curious about what he was doing but refused to ask, refused to make their relationship more personal than it was.

  As she stretched out in the bed, she began a dream in which Farrell came to rescue her, beating the American in a sword fight. Her Uncle Jonathan would be there begging her forgiveness, saying he was quite lonely without her. The thought of Travis cringing in fear made her smile. In her vision she imagined pulling away from Farrell’s arms and going to Travis, giving him her hand and forgiving him, telling him to go back to America and forget her—if he could.

  When Travis slipped into bed beside her, she pretended to be asleep, but he just pulled her to him, nuzzled her ear, put his hand on her stomach, and eased into sleep. It was odd, but she felt that now she too could go to sleep.

  In the morning, she was alone in the big room, but no sooner had she awakened than the maid let herself in. “Oh, beg pardon, miss. I thought you were still asleep. Mr. Travis said I was to bring you a bath if you’d like one.”

  Regan wouldn’t humiliate herself by a repeat performance of begging the maid to release her. She told the girl to bring the tub and hot water, and in spite of herself she enjoyed the bath. It was almost a comfort to be able to do something for herself. Always before, a maid had dressed her, and washed her hair, and her uncle had chosen cheap, childish clothes for her. Clean once again, she toweled her hair, ate a big breakfast, and put on the blue silk dress. A delicate scarf embroidered with flowers in several shades of blue filled the deep neckline.

  The day was long, and since she had nothing to do, she was bored. It was cool in the room, yet there was no fireplace, so she walked about, rubbing her arms. The early spring sun was weak through the window, but it was still the warmest place in the room. She pulled up a chair, gazed absently out the window, and made up her dreams, ranging from a garden plan to how she would never forgive Travis and would let Farrell run him through.

  When the sun was setting and she heard what could only be Travis’s voice—deep, golden-toned, filled with humor—she found her heart pounding. Of course it was only because of the sheer loneliness of the long day, but still she had to force herself not to smile when he entered.

  His big brown eyes raked her as he smiled in greeting. “The dress looks good on you,” he said, removing his hat and then his jacket. Practically collapsing in a chair, he gave a big sigh. “Working the fields all day would have been less work,” he said. “Your countrymen are a bunch of close-minded snobs. I could hardly get anyone to listen to my questions, much less answer them.”

  Running her finger along the edge of the table in a nonchalant way, Regan tried to hide her curiosity. “Perhaps they didn’t like your questions.”

  Travis wasn’t fooled for a moment. “All I wanted to know was if someone had lost a pretty but unreasonable young female.”

  Opening her mouth to retort, she closed it, realizing he was baiting her. “And had they?”

  Frowning before he answered, Travis seemed to be puzzled by what he’d discovered. “Not only couldn’t I find out about a missing girl of your description, but I couldn’t find anyone who’d even met a girl looking like you.”

  There was no reply Regan could make. There had never been visitors at Weston Manor. All she knew of life was what she’d learned from the stories of her maids and governesses, with their talk of love and gallant gentlemen, of the world outside the grounds of the house. Of course there was no one who knew of her.

  Watching her, Travis tried to read what was in her face. All day the question had been haunting him: What was he to do with her when he sailed for America? He didn’t tell her, but he’d hired three other men to help make inquiries about her. The night he’d found her she couldn’t have run from very far, so she lived in either Liverpool or the surrounding area—or she’d been traveling through. After checking every lodging house in the area, he knew she must live there, but he could find no trace of her. She seemed to have materialized on that dark night near the docks.

  “You’re a runaway,” he said quietly, watching wh