The Heart of a Duke(65)

Surprise crossed his features. “I didn’t think he ever spoke of Bedford or his childhood,” he murmured. “Feared he was ashamed of it.”

“Ashamed?” Julia said, a chill suffusing her.

“Well, explaining all the bruises. Daniel was such a small boy . . .” His voice trailed off. “But he had eyes in the back of his head because he was always one step ahead of every prank at Dunbar Academy. Being the sole American in the school, I quickly bet on his hidden talents to save my much-bruised body. We joined forces and extricated ourselves from our share of troubles over the years.” His eyes strayed to the bed and Daniel’s still figure. “We still are. And he’s still quick footed.” He grinned, but it faded and his eyes saddened.

“You asked me if I thought Bedford is behind these attacks? I honestly don’t know. As Daniel says, Bedford has nothing to gain through Daniel’s murder, and everything to lose. But if a boy is capable of beating and maiming another, nearly severing his finger, then perhaps that boy is capable of murder as a man.” He paused and gave Julia a deliberate look. “You aren’t ruined, Lady Julia. Far from it, Daniel saved you.” He bowed, turned on his heel, and left.

Stunned, Julia stared at the closed door, swiping at the tears she realized streamed down her cheeks. She was an embarrassing water pot. Thank goodness, the room had cleared. She lifted Daniel’s hand, and grabbing a discarded washcloth, she washed his bloodied and battered knuckles, the mindless task soothing her.

Daniel had said his reasons for leaving for America were unimportant. He had lied. Murder. Why? Why would someone want to kill him? To what purpose? He was the second son of a duke. His lands comprised a mere four hundred acres of Lakeview Manor. She did not understand it. Too many pieces of the puzzle eluded her. Her eyes strayed to Daniel, and her breath hitched.

Someone had tried to murder him.

It was the only piece she did have. Brett had confided so much more than Daniel. Good lord, his childhood must have been a living nightmare. She shuddered, seeing a slim, almost delicate boy, head bent, hands thrust in his pockets as he strolled the banks of Lakeview Manor. So very alone. And bruised. She had seen it herself. A blackened eye or cheek, his innocuous explanations were often accompanied with a dismissive shrug.

Her thumb rubbed over his bruised knuckles, and she found another white scar on his middle finger. Nearly severed, Brett had said.

While she had realized her mistake in accepting Edmund’s hand, she had never fathomed how close her escape had been.

I think I was meant to come home for you.

Daniel saved you.

“Thank you,” she murmured. She lifted Daniel’s hand and pressed her lips to his scarred finger, her vision swimming again.

“My pleasure.”

The words were barely audible, but they had her jerking back as if they were shouted. She stared into Daniel’s eyes, or rather, one open heavy-lidded eye. It met hers for a few heartbeats before it slid closed, and his breathing evened out. Her heart fluttered. When she was sure he slept, she expelled her breath.

Sometimes it takes the scare of losing something precious for someone to realize its true value.

Daniel’s words about her father and Emily returning from grief echoed in the quiet room. Through a moist sheen of tears, she brushed Daniel’s hair from his forehead, her smile wavering. He was precious to her, but Brett was right. He needed to return to America before it was too late. She vowed to make sure he did so. Short of finding his murderer, it was all she could do for him.

He had saved her.

It was her turn to save him.





Chapter Seventeen





DANIEL awoke when he rolled to his side and a stabbing pain shot through him. His eyes flew open and he blinked, disoriented. He didn’t recognize the brass bed, the emerald green and gold brocade curtains and drapes, or the marble-topped nightstand. When his befuddled gaze located a young woman, curled up in a padded armchair and fast asleep, he relaxed. The room may be unfamiliar, but the beautiful woman was not.

Julia.

Once again, he approved of her streak of bluestocking independence, for a young woman did not enter a gentleman’s bedroom alone, let alone fall asleep in said chamber, in bed or out. His lips curved as he savored this rare chance to study her at his leisure, without her blue gaze staring him down or her delicate brow arched in question.

She wore a rose-colored silk dressing gown, her legs drawn up on the chair and tucked beside her. For the first time since his return, her hair was down. Loosely tied back, the long strands fell in a riotous mass of curling waves over her shoulder and to her waist. The pain in his side paled in comparison to his aching need to reach out and wrap his hand in the thick locks and pull her close.