Read Online The Reckless One by Connie Brockway - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Connie Brockway
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lie!” Pala cried. “She loves you. She wants to be once more with you!”
Carr flung the old woman away, running a trembling hand through his peruke, shoving the wig back on his head.
Janet returned, he thought numbly.
He had to find her.
The door to the tower room slammed open. Pala, her skirts bunched high, scuttled out and disappeared down the steep tower staircase. Carr followed a moment later, his expression distracted. Blindly he followed the winding stairs downward and through a low arched door. He turned sharply and collided with a stooped female figure.
A thick black veil concealed the left side of her face leaving the right side uncovered, exposing a twisted mouth, deformed jaw, and one sunken eye obscured by a drooping, nerveless lid. Carr recoiled. It was hideous.
The creature shrank against the wall, her twisted body trembling.
“Who in God’s name are you?” Carr demanded.
“Gunna, Yer Grace,” the old woman mumbled in thick Highland accents, lifting the corner of her veil across her mouth.
“Damn, another witch! Whatever are you doing in my house?”
“I do fer yer daughter, sir. Miss Fia. Have done fer years.” The woman shuffled sideways like a land crab. It was repulsive.
“ ’Swounds!” Carr swore softly under his breath, looking away. He remembered now. Fia had an inordinate and inexplicable fondness for this creature—Gunna, was it?—and she, in turn, seemed to be the one person who had some influence on his increasingly intractable daughter.
“What the hell are you doing here, hag?” he demanded.
“Followin’ yer bidding, Yer Grace,” the old woman mumbled.
“How so? By spying on me?” he demanded.
“No! No, Yer Grace! Ye said as how whenever I’m not tending Miss Fia I should keep meself to the east and upper rooms where the sight of me wouldna offend ye or yer guests. So here I be, Yer Grace.”
Carr looked about and blanched. Surely enough, the window behind Gunna framed a view of the churning North Sea. Somehow, what with his distraction, he’d taken a wrong turn and ended here, overlooking the very cliffs from which Janet had fallen to her death.
A little thread of apprehension tightened his back muscles and set his scalp tingling. It was as if Janet herself had led him here.
“Yer Grace?” he heard Gunna ask.
He quelled the shudder taking hold of his limbs and fixed his attention on her cowering figure. His pride would never allow him to reveal anything even remotely akin to dread to so wretched a creature.
He brushed past her, sneering as he went, “For a man who loves beauty why do I suddenly find myself surrounded by hags?”
Chapter Eight
There were close to a hundred guests overflowing the front salon. Carr fixed a well-practiced smile to his face, practicality having reestablished itself. The damned haunts he could deal with. It had been the notion that Janet could actually return … Nonsense! An ignorant woman’s ravings.
He waded into the crowd, greeting people as he went. No matter that he did not know a good half of them by either name or face, nor that they appeared at his door as the hangers-on of those who’d received
bona fide
invitations. The more wastrels, the better.
He poured himself a glass of port, downed the contents in one draw and poured another, eschewing the pale tea he drank most evenings. He eyed the crowd with a connoisseur’s appreciation. No huge-stakes men here tonight. Mostly middling wagerers. A number of gulls, a cheat or two.
“Your Grace!”
Carr lifted a brow in acknowledgment of the tall, extremely thin man threading his way toward him. It was James Wells, Lord Tunbridge, distant cousin to the future king, George III. Tunbridge was said to be educating the crown prince in royal—and royally carnal—sports. An agreeable situation, seeing how Tunbridge was in his power.
“I would have a word with you, sir,” Tunbridge said breathlessly. “I … It’s important. Very important.”
“Really?”
Carr flung the old woman away, running a trembling hand through his peruke, shoving the wig back on his head.
Janet returned, he thought numbly.
He had to find her.
The door to the tower room slammed open. Pala, her skirts bunched high, scuttled out and disappeared down the steep tower staircase. Carr followed a moment later, his expression distracted. Blindly he followed the winding stairs downward and through a low arched door. He turned sharply and collided with a stooped female figure.
A thick black veil concealed the left side of her face leaving the right side uncovered, exposing a twisted mouth, deformed jaw, and one sunken eye obscured by a drooping, nerveless lid. Carr recoiled. It was hideous.
The creature shrank against the wall, her twisted body trembling.
“Who in God’s name are you?” Carr demanded.
“Gunna, Yer Grace,” the old woman mumbled in thick Highland accents, lifting the corner of her veil across her mouth.
“Damn, another witch! Whatever are you doing in my house?”
“I do fer yer daughter, sir. Miss Fia. Have done fer years.” The woman shuffled sideways like a land crab. It was repulsive.
“ ’Swounds!” Carr swore softly under his breath, looking away. He remembered now. Fia had an inordinate and inexplicable fondness for this creature—Gunna, was it?—and she, in turn, seemed to be the one person who had some influence on his increasingly intractable daughter.
“What the hell are you doing here, hag?” he demanded.
“Followin’ yer bidding, Yer Grace,” the old woman mumbled.
“How so? By spying on me?” he demanded.
“No! No, Yer Grace! Ye said as how whenever I’m not tending Miss Fia I should keep meself to the east and upper rooms where the sight of me wouldna offend ye or yer guests. So here I be, Yer Grace.”
Carr looked about and blanched. Surely enough, the window behind Gunna framed a view of the churning North Sea. Somehow, what with his distraction, he’d taken a wrong turn and ended here, overlooking the very cliffs from which Janet had fallen to her death.
A little thread of apprehension tightened his back muscles and set his scalp tingling. It was as if Janet herself had led him here.
“Yer Grace?” he heard Gunna ask.
He quelled the shudder taking hold of his limbs and fixed his attention on her cowering figure. His pride would never allow him to reveal anything even remotely akin to dread to so wretched a creature.
He brushed past her, sneering as he went, “For a man who loves beauty why do I suddenly find myself surrounded by hags?”
Chapter Eight
There were close to a hundred guests overflowing the front salon. Carr fixed a well-practiced smile to his face, practicality having reestablished itself. The damned haunts he could deal with. It had been the notion that Janet could actually return … Nonsense! An ignorant woman’s ravings.
He waded into the crowd, greeting people as he went. No matter that he did not know a good half of them by either name or face, nor that they appeared at his door as the hangers-on of those who’d received
bona fide
invitations. The more wastrels, the better.
He poured himself a glass of port, downed the contents in one draw and poured another, eschewing the pale tea he drank most evenings. He eyed the crowd with a connoisseur’s appreciation. No huge-stakes men here tonight. Mostly middling wagerers. A number of gulls, a cheat or two.
“Your Grace!”
Carr lifted a brow in acknowledgment of the tall, extremely thin man threading his way toward him. It was James Wells, Lord Tunbridge, distant cousin to the future king, George III. Tunbridge was said to be educating the crown prince in royal—and royally carnal—sports. An agreeable situation, seeing how Tunbridge was in his power.
“I would have a word with you, sir,” Tunbridge said breathlessly. “I … It’s important. Very important.”
“Really?”
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