Love and the Single Heiress

“Emily was painfully shy. Awkward. Clumsy and tongue-tied. All conditions worsened by the forceful personalities of her parents. The Northrips were dismayed at their daughter’s reserved ways. Emily was much more at home with horses than with people, and consequently she spent a great deal of time at the stables. Whenever her father would find her in one of the stalls or in the loft, he’d complain that he didn’t know what to do with her. How had he and his wife, two gregarious, friendly people, produced such an unsociable child who preferred animals over people? He said these things as if she were deaf, and I could see how much they hurt her. Over the years, a friendship blossomed between me, my father, and Emily.”

Memories he hadn’t allowed himself to resurrect for years rolled through him. “I’ll never forget the night my father died. I was standing in the stables, staring at his empty chair. I felt… gutted. And so alone. The next thing I knew, Emily was standing next to me. She slipped her little twelve-year-old hand into mine and told me not to worry. That I wasn’t alone because she was my friend, and that she’d be my best friend, if I’d like.” Nostalgia tightened his throat. “I told her that I’d like that very much. And over the next seven years the bond we’d formed strengthened. We truly were each other’s best friend.”

Pausing before the fireplace, he stared into the dancing flames. “Because he had no son to whom he could pass his business, Mr. Northrip was determined that Emily marry a man capable of running his enterprise, and he believed he’d found such a man in Lewis Manning, the only son of another wealthy merchant. A marriage-to say nothing of a lucrative business merger-was arranged. Emily accepted this, knowing it was her duty to marry in accordance with her father‘s wishes. She was actually relieved she’d finally be doing something her father approved of after disappointing him her entire life.

“But I soon learned that Lewis Manning possessed a violent temper. One night, only several days before the wedding, Emily came to me, crying, in pain from what turned out to be a cracked rib. Although there was not a mark upon her face, the rest of her-where the blows wouldn’t show-was bruised where Lewis had beat her for daring to question one of his decisions. She told me then that while this was the first time he’d hurt her this badly, Lewis had lost his temper several times before and struck her. She’d told her father about those earlier instances, but he’d dismissed her concerns, saying that all men occasionally lose their tempers. After this last instance, however, Emily feared that the next time Lewis flew into a rage she might not be able to get away from him.”

He pulled his gaze from the fire and looked at Catherine, who was listening with rapt attention. “My first instinct was to tear Lewis apart, but Emily begged me not to. Said I would only be imprisoned for my trouble and that Lewis wasn’t worth it. I reluctantly agreed, but I was determined to protect her-from that bastard Lewis, and her father, who obviously cared more about the connection this marriage would make than his daughter. And the only way I could think of to do that was to marry her myself. We both knew she’d be giving up everything, as her father would be furious and surely disown her, but so be it. We left that night and eloped.”

Again he could not remain still and resumed his pacing. “The next day, after settling Emily at a nearby inn, I went to see her father. I wanted to tell him about the marriage face-to-face, and let him know that further harm to Emily would not be tolerated. He was, as expected, incensed. He said he would have the marriage annulled and intended to see me charged with kidnapping and hanged. When I told him there were no grounds for an annulment, his fury doubled. Said that one way or another he’d get his daughter back, even if it meant seeing me dead. I didn’t doubt for a moment that he meant what he said. I returned to the inn. Shortly afterward, as we were preparing to depart, an enraged Lewis Manning arrived. He said hateful, disgusting things about Emily, and my patience reached its limit. He informed me that he did not intend to wait for justice-he wanted to see the job done immediately, and he challenged me to a duel. I accepted despite Emily’s pleas not to.”

He continued on, the words coming faster now. “The Northrip’s groundskeeper, Adam Harrick, was my closest friend besides Emily, and he served as my second. At the duel, unbeknownst to me, Lewis cheated by turning to fire before the full count was made. Emily, who was supposed to have remained at the inn, saw his treachery. In an attempt to warn me, she ran forward… and was hit by Lewis’s shot.”

He closed his eyes, the image of Emily crumpling to the ground, her eyes wide with shock, the midsection of her ivory gown stained crimson, indelibly carved in his mind.

“I fired, and my shot hit Lewis,” he said, his voice a rough rasp. “I dropped my pistol and ran to Emily. Although she was still alive, there was no doubt her wound was fatal. I… I held her, trying to stop the blood, but to no avail. With her dying words she pleaded with me to escape. To leave America, go where no one could find me. She knew her father would either kill me or make certain I hanged for Lewis’s death, and no doubt try to blame me for her death as well. She begged me, over and over, not to let that happen. She desperately wanted me to live, to have a full and happy life. She loved me and did not want me to die.”

Fixing his gaze on Catherine, he pressed his palm against his chest, and said in a ragged whisper, “I felt her final heartbeats against my hand after I finally promised her I would do as she asked. And then she was gone.”

His voice broke on the last word. Then silence hung heavy in the air as he relived the horror of that chilly day with a gutting, vivid clarity he’d forced from his mind for years. The day he’d lost everything. His home. Life as he’d known it. The sweet, gentle friend who’d been his wife.

He coughed to clear the tightness in his throat. “After saying my good-byes to Emily and making certain that Adam would see to her, I kept my promise. Several hours later, using a false name, I sailed away from America.”

Dragging his hands down his face, he tipped his head back and looked at the ceiling. “For the first five years, I lived… recklessly, not really caring if I lived or died. It was a very dark time for me. Lonely. Bleak. Empty. I’d done what Emily had asked me to do, yet I hated myself for doing it. For running away. For all my actions that had led to her death. I felt like a coward, and that I’d compromised my honor. I actually hoped that her father would somehow find me, yet he never did.

“But one day, your brother found me-just in time to save me from the machete-wielders, a rescue I wasn’t immediately grateful for, by the way. Since I had nothing better to do, I returned with Philip to his camp, and for the first time in five years I had a sense of belonging somewhere. Your brother not only saved my life, but through him, I found the will to live again. To make something of myself. He was the first real friend I’d had since leaving America, and my friendship with him changed my life. I eventually managed to bury deeply that horrifying day on the dueling field, but when that shot was fired in London, when I saw you on the floor…”He briefly closed his eyes. “I relived my worst nightmare.”

He drew in a deep breath, feeling utterly depleted, yet lighter than he had in a decade. He turned toward Catherine. Her hands were clenched in her lap, and she stared into the fire. He desperately wanted to know what she was thinking, but forced himself to remain silent, to allow her to absorb all he’d told her. A full minute passed before she spoke.

“Does Philip know all this?”

“No. None of it. I’ve never told anyone before.”

He wished she would look at him so he could see her expression, read her eyes. Would she look at him with disgust and shame-the same way he’d looked at himself for years? Unfortunately, he feared the fact that she steadfastly did not look at him told him everything.

Finally, she turned and gazed at him, her eyes solemn and bright with unshed tears. “You loved her very much.”

“Yes. She was a quiet, lonely, gentle girl who’d never hurt anyone in her entire life. We’d been the best of friends for years. I would have done anything to protect her. Instead, she died protecting me.”

“Why, after remaining silent all these years, did you tell me this?”

He hesitated, then asked, “Before I tell you, may I have use of a piece of vellum and a pen?”

There was no mistaking her surprise, but she rose and walked to the escritoire near the window, sliding a sheet of vellum from a slim drawer. “Here you are.”

“Thank you.” He sat in the delicate upholstered chair and picked up her pen. From the corner of his eye he watched her cross to the fireplace. After several minutes, he joined her there and handed her the vellum.

She looked at the markings with a confused expression. “What is this?”

“Egyptian glyphs. They spell out the reasons why I told you about my past.”

“But why would you write your reason in a way that I cannot understand?”

“At your father’s birthday party, you commented on Lord Nordnick’s methods with regards to Lady Ophelia. You said he should recite something romantic to her in another language. This is the only other language I know.”