Chapter 20
Virginia could not stop trembling. She knew it was foolish—she was bruised, but other than that, she was hardly the worse for wear—and she did not want Devlin to see how cowardly she was.
Still, the tremors did not cease. She could not forget Thomas Hughes’s brutal assault.
She could not forget his hand cruelly twisting her breast, or worse, his tongue invading her mouth.
Her stomach heaved as Devlin’s coach swerved wildly and then bounced over a rut. Virginia closed her eyes and hung on.
“Virginia?” he asked softly.
She did not want to speak to him now. She doubted she could—she remained far too close to hysteria. She hugged herself, huddling in the coach’s far corner, other images afflicting her now. Devlin had wanted to kill Thomas Hughes. She had seen it in his eyes.
“We will be home shortly,” Devlin said, his tone odd, as if uncertain. “Within minutes,” he added.
She nodded, refusing to open her eyes because his tone sounded suspiciously concerned and she was afraid she might cry. Of course he had wanted to kill Tom Hughes. He had spent most of his life burning with the need for revenge against Eastleigh and all that was his.
“Virginia, are you in pain?”
She simply could not speak, so she shook her head, and it was not really a lie. Her wrist and breast throbbed, but it was so much more than that. Devlin seemed to want to know what was wrong. But she could not tell him.
Tom Hughes had treated her like the whore the world thought she was. She could never play this game again, and if it meant losing any chance to win his love, so be it. It had become crystal clear, anyway, that he did not have any soul left with which to love any woman, much less herself.
How easily he had been triggered to murderous intent.
“We’re here,” Devlin said, sounding grim.
The coach had slowed and was now stopping; Virginia opened her eyes and saw the terribly welcome sight of Waverly Hall. A footman leapt off the back of the coach to open her door. Devlin adjusted her satin wrapper, concealing her torn dress.
Virginia’s heart tightened. Why did he bother? She knew she had a split lip, a telltale sign of her disaster. She wanted to thank him, but she still didn’t trust herself to speak.
She stood and allowed the footman to help her down to the sidewalk before the mansion’s front steps.
Devlin jumped down behind her, as agile as a jungle cat, and she was swept back in time to another place—to the deck of the Americana, as she had gripped the railing and gazed at the fierce ocean, wondering what her fate might be at the hands of the pirate captain.
If you think to leap to a watery death, think again. I will not let you die.
Oddly, his refrain pierced the night as if she were back on the Americana, newly seized, as if Devlin stood there behind her, as if he had just uttered those words again.
Devlin carefully took her arm, and Virginia leaned heavily against him. Once in the hall, he circumvented Benson from assisting her with her wrap. “Send Hannah to the master suite instantly with hot water, towels and brandy. Miss Hughes has had a fall.”
Benson nodded and hurried away.
He would guard her reputation now? Virginia choked, wanting to weep.
Devlin suddenly lifted her into his arms and began striding through the hall.
“What are you doing?” she managed. “I can walk.”
“I am doing what I have wanted to do ever since I allowed Tom Hughes to live,” he said grimly.
She finally looked up at him as he bounded up the stairs. His face was taut with anger and regret and, she thought, with anguish. He hit the second level and their eyes met and held. He did not speak and neither did she. Stunned, she realized how distraught he was.
Devlin opened their door with the toe of his shoe, followed by his broad shoulder.
He carried her through their sitting room, where a fire blazed in the hearth, and into the master bedroom.
There, another fire crackled happily and their bed was turned down.
He set her down on it, removing her wrap and breaking eye contact to do so.
“I’ll help you out of that gown before Hannah arrives,” he said. It was not a suggestion.
Virginia realized she was hugging herself, that she still trembled, though she was not cold. Why did he go to such lengths? All of society would know the truth by the next morning.
“Turn around, please,” he said softly.
Virginia started. Then she said hoarsely, “I have never heard you say please before.”
His jaw flexed. “It’s a word I rarely feel the need to use. Virginia—” He stopped.
She stared, realizing that he was distressed, perhaps even uncomfortable, and that he wished to say something. Her heart leapt with hope. “What is it, Devlin?”
A silence ensued. Then, “I am so sorry,” he said roughly.
Her heart turned over so hard that there could be no doubt that her feelings remained in full force, that nothing had changed, that she still loved this man. She opened her mouth to tell him that this was not his fault—but it was. Everything was his fault.
“Please turn around,” he said, his tone as rough as before.
Virginia shifted, and his hands nimbly moved down her back, unbuttoning the gown.
When he had removed it she began taking down her hair, acutely aware of him in the room, placing the dress on the back of a chair.
A huge silence ensued. Virginia became impossibly aware of her state of undress.
She wore her new undergarments—the black lace chemise, black linen corset and black silk drawers, all trimmed in ivory and pink ribbons, all sinfully sensuous.
She needed a wrapper, she thought, stabbed with a sudden, new urgency.
“Would…” She paused, wet her lips and tried again. “Would you hand me a robe?”
He glanced briefly at her, and if he noticed her undergarments he gave no sign. He opened the armoire as a knock sounded. “Come in,” he said very sharply, and perplexed, Virginia thought she heard relief in his tone.
Hannah entered, her eyes wide, carrying a tray with a bowl of water and towels.
Devlin slipped a lavender silk robe over Virginia’s shoulders, also courtesy of Madame Didier, and she belted it firmly, relieved.
“Oh, mum,” Hannah whispered. “You had a fall! I’m so sorry,” she cried.
She set the tray on the bed. “Captain, one minute, sir.”
He nodded, standing by Virginia’s side, and Hannah went to the door and received another tray from a servant standing outside, this one with a bottle of brandy and two snifters. He took a small towel, dipped it in the water, and then looked at her directly. “You have blood on your lip,” he said.
Virginia could only stare, amazed at what was happening, her heart fluttering madly.
He sat down beside her and gently wiped the blood from her mouth.
She could not breathe. What was he doing? And more important, why?
He tilted up her chin, studied her mouth for a moment, and then lifted his eyes to hers. “I’m afraid you will be bruised for a few days.”
She didn’t know what to say; she said nothing. His touch was beyond gentle. She had never seen this side of him before. Had she not been so upset, she would have been elated.
Hannah had returned, holding two snifters. Devin nodded at the side table, where she set them down. He lifted Virginia’s wrist, which still throbbed. And she saw his face tighten, his eyes turn black. He cursed.
“It’s not that bad,” she lied, her heart pounding now with terrible force.
His gaze lifted. “Like hell. I think he meant to snap your wrist in two. It is lucky for him that he did not.”
Virginia could only stare. He cared. There was simply no other possible way to read this man’s reaction to her condition now.
He handed her a snifter. “This will help. I advise you to drink the entire glass. You will sleep like a baby,” he added, trying to smile. But he failed utterly and gave it up.
Virginia sipped, her mind racing, filled with more amazement, more disbelief and, finally, the seed of elation.
But how could this be happening? What if she was wrong?
He had hurt her so any times—did she dare hope now, that at long last he had come to really care for her?
But what else could it be? This man knew no guilt.
Devlin stood. “I will sleep in a guest room so as not to bother you tonight, Virginia.”
She blinked hard, in dismay. The last thing she wished was to be alone, even if he slept on the sofa in the next room, as he was want to do.
“Hannah, please apply an ice compress to her wrist.”
“Yes, sir,” Hannah whispered.
Virginia wet her lips. “Devlin, no,” she said hoarsely.
He stiffened.
“I don’t want to be alone—not tonight—please, stay here with me,” she cried softly. And tears filled her eyes.
His own widened, his visage far sterner than before. He could not seem to speak.
“I’ll get the ice,” Hannah whispered and discreetly she fled, closing the door behind her.
Virginia could not move. She could only stare up at him, the tears trickling down her cheeks, wishing she could stop crying, wishing he would not leave, wishing he would take her in his arms and gently hold her.
He remained stiff with a conflict she could not fathom. “Virginia,” he said hoarsely, “this is my entire fault. I have used you shamelessly. I am sorry.”
She gasped, stunned.
He closed his eyes as if agonized, then sat down beside her hip. He took both of her hands in his. “I will not ask for your forgiveness, little one, because I do not deserve it.”
“You are forgiven,” she whispered instantly, meaning it.
His nostrils flared, indicating huge emotion, and he stared, never releasing her hands. “How can you be so kind after what I have subjected you to? Tom attacked you because of our charade—the charade I insisted upon. God, I wish I had killed him,” he cried.