Stranger in My Arms(3)

Unfortunately the interior of the gatehouse had been ruined by fire the previous year, when a careless visitor had overturned an oil lamp and set the place ablaze.

Arthur and Janet had seen no reason to have the place restored, deciding that the unoccupied cottage was sufficient for Lara’s needs.

She could have cast herself on the mercy of other relatives who might have offered her more comfortable lodgings, or even accepted her mother-in-law’s offer to serve as her traveling companion, but she treasured her privacy too much for that. Better to remain near familiar surroundings and friends, despite the discomforts of the cottage.

The stone dwelling was dark and damp, with a moldy smell that no amount of washing could banish. It was rare that a meager ray of sunlight entered the lone casement window. Lara had sought to make the place more habitable by covering one wall with a patchwork counterpane, and filling it with a few simple pieces of cast-off furniture from Hawksworth Hall. The chair by the fireplace stove was draped with a blue and red lap blanket knitted by some of the older girls at the orphanage. A carved wooden salamander was placed near the hearth, a gift from an elderly man in town who had assured her that it would protect the cottage from harm.

Closing herself in solitude, Lara lit a tallow-dipped candle and stood in the glow of its sputtering, smoky light. Suddenly her body was racked by a hard shiver.

Hunter… alive. It couldn’t be true, of course, but the very idea filled her with unease. Going to her narrow bed, she knelt on the floor, reached underneath the creaking ropes that held the mattress.

She tugged out a cloth-wrapped parcel and undid the coverings to reveal a framed portrait of her late husband.

Arthur and Janet had offered her the painting with a show of generosity, but Lara knew that they were eager to be rid of the reminder of the man who had held the title before them. She hadn’t wanted the portrait either, but she had taken it, acknowledging inwardly that Hunter was part of her past. He had changed the course of her life. Perhaps someday when time had softened her memories, she would hang the portrait in full view.

The painting depicted a large-boned, stocky man in the company of his dogs, one huge hand casually clasped around the butt of his favorite gun. Hunter had been handsome, with thick gold-brown hair, intense dark brown eyes, and a perpetually arrogant expression.

It had been three years since Hunter had set sail for India on a semidiplomatic mission. As a minor stockholder in the East India Company, and a man of some political influence, he had been appointed to advise the Company administrators in India.

In reality, he had been one of many hangers-on eager to join the crowd of idle debauchees in Calcutta. They lived like kings there, indulging in endless parties and orgies. It was said that each household contained at least a hundred servants who saw to every detail of their masters’ comfort. Moreover, India was a sportsman’s paradise, abounding in exotic game-irresistible to a man like Hunter. Remembering her husband’s enthusiasm upon his departure, Lara smiled sadly. Hunter had been more than eager to leave her. England had begun to pall for him, and so had their marriage. There was no doubt that he and Lara had been mismatched. A wife, Hunter had once told her, was a necessary nuisance, useful only for the sake of bearing children. When Lara had failed to conceive, he had been deeply injured. For a man who had prided himself on his strength and virility, the absence of children was hard to bear.

Lara’s gaze fell to the bed, and cold knots formed in her stomach as she remembered Hunter’s nighttime visits, his heavy body crushing hers, the painful invasion that seemed never to end. It seemed like an act of mercy when he had begun to stray from her bed and visit other women to satisfy his needs. Lara had never known anyone so physically strong and vital. She could almost believe he had lived through a violent shipwreck that no one else had managed to survive.

Hunter had so dominated everyone around him that Lara had felt her spirit withering in his shadow over the two years they had lived together. She had been grateful when he had departed for India. Left to her own devices, Lara had become involved in the local orphanage, giving her time and attention to improving the lives of the children there. The feeling of being needed was so gratifying that Lara had soon found other projects with which to occupy herself: visiting the sick and elderly, organizing charitable events, even trying her hand at a bit of matchmaking.

Upon being informed of Hunter’s death, she had been saddened, but she had not missed him.

Nor, she thought guiltily, did she want him back.

For the next three days there was no word from Mr. Young or the Hawksworths. Lara did her best to go about her activities as usual, but the news had traveled all through Market Hill, spread by the excited gossip of the servants at Hawksworth Hall.

Her sister, Rachel, Lady Lonsdale, was the first to visit. The black-lacquered barouche stopped midway up the drive to the Hall, and Rachel’s slight form emerged to walk unaccompanied along the cottage path. Rachel was Lara’s younger sister but gave the impression of being the elder, possessing greater height and a sweet solemnity that lent her an air of maturity.

They had once been proclaimed as Lincolnshire’s most attractive sisters, but Lara knew that Rachel’s beauty eclipsed her own. Rachel possessed perfectly classical features. large eyes, a small rosebud mouth, and a narrow, slightly upturned nose. By contrast Lara’s face was round instead of oval, and her mouth was too wide, and her straight dark hair-fiercely resistant to the curling tongs-was always slipping from its pins.