All I Ever Needed Read online

  Sophie shook her head and repeated her soft plea for him to leave.

  "Not without you."

  "I cannot rise."

  Eastlyn let his hand fall and slipped his fingers under the stiff material of Sophie's gown. He scooped out better than a dozen small stones. They were everywhere under her, he realized, and there could be little protection afforded her by the dress. "I will carry you if I have to," he said.

  "No!" She turned to him then. "You must go before my cousin returns for me."

  East frowned. "Returns for you?" he asked softly. "Do you mean he accompanied you here?"

  Sophie turned her face away again and continued her prayers.

  It went against Eastlyn's better judgment to leave Sophie as she was, but he remembered that she was privy to things he did not know, and if known, then things he did not understand. He stood slowly, letting the milky pebbles clatter to the floor. The sound of them rolling, he noticed, made Sophie start. He saw her face contort in pain as the movement caused the stones to dig into her tender skin in places they had not before. He tried again. "Let me take you from here."

  Sophie had no chance to refuse him a third time because approaching footsteps cut off her reply. She glanced quickly at Eastlyn, her eyes pleading, and saw that he had also heard and was already moving away. Sophie faced the altar again, wiped the tears from her face, and forced composure into her features. It was difficult to draw a breath as she waited for the inevitable confrontation between Eastlyn and Tremont. They could not fail to pass each other in the narthex. She wondered at the sacrilege of offering up a score of selfish prayers that would keep it from happening.

  Tremont's footfalls echoed loudly in the stillness of the chapel. He walked briskly to the altar rail and stood beside Sophie. "It has been two hours," he said. "I told you I would come in just that time." He had also observed her at odd moments to assure himself that she was obedient of his instructions. He would have allowed her to remain in the chapel much longer if she had been less tractable. She expected his attention, he knew, and that was acceptable to him. That she depended upon him to make his observations also kept her compliant.

  "I cannot rise," Sophie said. Except where the stones dug into her knees she could feel almost nothing. She wanted to turn around and see for herself that Eastlyn was gone from the chapel. He could not be, of course, unless he had been spirited away by Divine Intervention. "I require your help."

  "How those words must stick in your throat," Tremont said. He extended his large hand and waited for Sophia to take it. Her hesitation in doing so galled him, but he did not withdraw.

  Sophie placed her palm in his and tried to pull herself up. "I cannot," she whispered, hating her weakness, the pleading in her voice. The stones made new impressions in her flesh as Sophie sank to her knees again, and this time she could not help but whimper at this fresh pain.

  Tremont's features showed no trace of sympathy. He bent and placed an arm under each of Sophie's and pulled her to her feet. She could not stand without his support and would have collapsed to the floor if not for the arm he hooked tightly about her waist. His strength was hardly tested when he hefted her against his side and carried her, shoes dragging, to the first pew. He set her down and allowed her to gingerly stretch her cramped muscles. An array of pebbles was embedded in the fabric of her gown. He leaned forward and plucked one out and examined it in his open palm.

  "It is like a pearl," he said. "Should you like it better, Sophia, if you were to make your repentance on a bed of pearls?"

  Needles of sensation pricked her calves and the soles of her feet. She pointed her toes, flexed her ankles, and began to remove the stones clinging to her gown. She laid them on the bench beside her, casting them before the swine, she thought, though they were nothing at all like pearls.

  "You are very quiet," Tremont said. "It becomes you." When he deemed he had given her sufficient time to recover, he pointed to the stones still littering the floor. "You will gather those as well."

  Nodding, Sophie came to her feet carefully. She used the arm of the pew for support until she was certain she was steady enough to stand, then walk. It took her several minutes to collect the stones. She gave them to Tremont. He slipped them into a leather pouch along with the ones on the bench and pulled the rawhide string closed.

  "Take my arm," he said, holding out his elbow to her. "You are like a foal with your wobbly gait. Perhaps you will want to stay abed tomorrow. I will make your excuses to Eastlyn. You may be sure of it."

  "Yes," Sophie said softly. "That is what I will do. Thank you."

  Praying, it seemed to Tremont, had served to quiet his cousin's combative spirit this time. He marveled at the change in her, the submission, and was satisfied by what he observed. He would insist that she apply herself to prayer more often, for it appeared to him that her soul had at last been touched.

  From his hiding place beneath the pew where Sophie had been seated and had protected him with the spread of her skirts, Eastlyn listened to the sound of the footsteps recede. When the sanctuary was quiet again, he rolled out from under the bench and sat for a time. When he finally rose, at first it was only as far as his knees. Head bowed, Eastlyn prayed, and found he could live with what was in his heart.

  * * *

  Sophie dismissed her maid before she was finished with her bath. Putney left reluctantly and only after Sophie was forced to have a harsh word with her. The servants all knew about her punishment in the chapel, Sophie was certain of it. She imagined it was how Eastlyn had found her, though she doubted she would find one of them willing to admit it. Whoever had informed the marquess of her whereabouts had done so with the best of intentions. They were helpless to assist her when Tremont meted out his discipline, but she understood why one of them would put so much faith in Eastlyn.

  He had the look of a man who might accomplish anything.

  Sophie did not permit herself to dwell on either the marquess or the humiliation she had known in his presence. To put her mind elsewhere, she eased herself out of the water and drew a towel around her middle. Stepping over the lip of the tub carefully, Sophie found her balance. Water dripped on the floor and pooled around her feet while she stood waiting for the ache in her knees to pass.

  Putney had had the foresight to place a spindle-back chair close to the tub, and now Sophie sat on the hard seat. She rubbed her hair with a second towel until it was merely damp, not dripping, and then gently massaged her knees before she stood again. Her nightshift and robe were hanging on the inside door of her armoire, and Sophie chose only her shift. She was for bed straightaway this evening, desiring only to lie there in the darkness and lick her wounds like any injured animal.

  Sophie poked the fire several times, making it give up heat and light enough to keep her warm until she fell asleep. The covers were already drawn back for her, and she pulled them around her shoulders as she slid onto her side, facing the window as was her habit. Tonight there were no stars framed by the opening in her drapes, and even the moon had disappeared behind a thick bank of clouds. It was just as well, she thought. She doubted she would have found solace in the ritual this evening, or that she would again. Far better to put it behind her and accept what was. She was alone and she was afraid and following the drift of stars in the night sky was cold comfort indeed.

  She slept without dreams.

  * * *

  Eastlyn lighted the stub of a candle at Sophie's bedside. Neither the small sounds he made in this activity nor the flame itself roused her to wakefulness. There was no longer any evidence that she had wept in earnest earlier this night; her features were softened to a Madonna's countenance in repose. Loath to disturb her, yet knowing there was nothing else to be done, East laid his hand gently on the slope of Sophie's shoulder. She was not covered there by either the comforter or the neckline of her gown, and the touch of his palm was against her warm bare skin. She moved then, not to avoid the cup of his hand but rather to burrow deeper and try to nudge it
with her chin. Eastlyn was reminded of a newborn kitten blindly snuffling for the nourishment and ease of the mother cat's teat.

  "You will not find that here," he murmured letting his fingertips drift to her neck. "Come, Sophie. You must wake."

  She came to awareness of a sudden, and every instinct told her she must scream. The hand quickly clamped over her mouth prevented it. Sophie stared up at Eastlyn, recognizing him immediately but unable to make sense of his presence.

  "I mean you no harm." He eased himself onto the edge of the bed while he kept his hand in place over her mouth. "There is no reason you should scream. Indeed, it would have the opposite effect that you would wish. I cannot think of a faster means by which we might land ourselves in the soup."

  Sophie blinked widely at him. How was it, she wondered, that she knew the words he was speaking yet did not understand the language? It was utter nonsense that she heard, like the gibberish one might use to entertain an infant.

  "Sophie?" Eastlyn was uncertain that he was understood, but he chose to lift his hand a fraction above her mouth anyway. All she did was release the breath she had been holding. That caused East to breathe more easily as well. "Will you sit up?"

  Did he mean to have a conversation? The stare she returned in his direction was not so much blank as it was disbelieving. Sophie was slow in responding to his query as a result.

  "Shall I assist you?" he asked.

  She shook her head. Pressing the heels of her feet into the mattress, Sophie pushed herself upright and leaned against the bedhead. She withdrew the pillow at her back and hugged it to herself. It afforded little protection of her person, but as a weapon it might serve. Sophie could envision the need to clobber the marquess with it.

  Eastlyn regarded her, taking particular note of the mutinous set of her mouth. "Are you quite awake?"

  She pinched him.

  "Ow!" Of necessity his exclamation of pain was subdued. He rubbed his forearm where she had managed to get more of him between her fingers than his frock coat. "What was that in aid of?"

  "To see if I am dreaming. Apparently I am not."

  "I thought the point was to pinch oneself."

  "That would hurt, don't you think?"

  He cocked an eyebrow at her, but his eyes were amused. She was indeed awake. "Point taken."

  Sophie's butter-wouldn't-melt expression remained unchanged. "What are you doing here? You must have very little regard for me that you can so blithely ignore every warning I've given you."

  "And you must have very little faith in me if you think I will be caught out."

  "But my cousin—"

  "In the arms of Morpheus, compliments of Bacchus. Which is to say he is sleeping off the effects of an entire bottle of the grape."

  "One does not have to have attended Hambrick, you know, to be familiar with the Greeks."

  "Forgive me. You were regarding me with a complete lack of comprehension."

  "It has nothing to do with what you are saying," she replied dryly, now quite pointed in her regard. "There is still Mr. Piggins. He is—"

  "Also deeply asleep. It is the medicine he takes at bedtime, I believe, which does the trick."

  Sophie realized Eastlyn had learned of the habits of Tremont and Piggins in very little time. She suspected he had considerable assistance from belowstairs, beginning with intelligence gleaned from his own valet. "Very well," she said. "I am satisfied we are not to be disturbed. I remain in confusion about the necessity of your sojourn to my room." She glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece and saw that it was gone midnight. "There can be no good reason for it."

  "Then I hope you will listen to this poor one." Eastlyn turned slightly on the bed, drawing one knee up so that he might face Sophie properly. "I wish to remove you from Tremont Park," he said. He held up a hand to stop her interruption, and her lips remained parted around the protest she did not utter. "I have no doubt that Tremont would quite properly refuse to allow it, so I have elected not to put the question to him, or even apprise him of my intent. I do not mean to take you to Gretna, Sophie. You may put that from your mind. I would not force a marriage upon you, and I do not seek to compromise you; rather I mean to take you to a place where you might be treated with more affection and goodwill than is your lot here or at Bowden Street."

  That he had paused and was in anticipation of a reply made no difference now. Short of pinching him again, Sophie could only stare.

  "Sophie? Have you nothing to say?"

  She hugged the pillow more tightly, resting her chin on the plump end of it. "You are in earnest, are you not?"

  "Completely."

  "And you are considered to be an intelligent man."

  "It has been remarked so, yes."

  "In full command of your faculties."

  "There are questions in that regard."

  Sophie did not return his ironic grin. "I appreciate that what you saw in the chapel this evening has unsettled you, but I—"

  "What I observed in the chapel caused me to be considerably more than unsettled, Sophie. It was a punishment thinly guised as penance. Nothing less. From Tremont himself I heard how long he left you there. After two hours on those pebbles it was a bloody miracle you could walk at all." He searched her face, looking for some sign that she was in agreement. She remained expressionless, not precisely calm, he thought, but numb. "I collect it is not the first time he has abused you in such a manner, for you seemed to understand too well all that was required of you."

  When she made no reply, Eastlyn tugged at the comforter so that her arms were laid bare to him. His eyes immediately found the livid bruise above her right elbow. "It was not Dunsmore this time who did that to you." He swore softly. "That it should happen just beneath my nose, it is not to be borne."

  "You must not blame yourself."

  "I don't"

  "I am responsible." Sophie lightly massaged her elbow where Tremont's fingers had left their purplish marks. Because of her downcast eyes, she missed the surprise in Eastlyn's own. "I ignored my own warning, you see. At the lake. I should not have—"

  "Kissed me?"

  "Kissed you," she finished. "It showed a regrettable lapse of judgment."

  So they had been seen. That flicker of light at the turret window had not been the winking sun after all. "It was a kiss," Eastlyn said with a certain amount of impatience. "We were not caught flagrante delicto." He witnessed her blank expression. "That means—"

  "I know what it means," she said testily.

  Eastlyn was rather more amused than offended by her tone. He counted it as a good thing that she was finally riled. "You are in no circumstances responsible for Tremont's manner of retribution. I think he takes perverse delight in subjecting you to his will. It is as if he wants more than mere obedience from you. He demands your agreement as well. Your sanction. You must needs communicate that he is in the right of it before he is satisfied. I do not pretend to understand it; it is only what I have very narrowly observed."

  Sophie could find no fault with that observation. Eastlyn had clearly defined this aspect of Tremont's character. "What would you have me do?" she asked. "I cannot resist him and spend three hours on my knees. I am not nearly as brave as I want to be. There is an end, and I think I have come upon it."

  Eastlyn did not believe it, even though he knew she believed it herself. "I would have you leave," he said. "Tonight. My sister Cara is currently in residence with her husband and children at their country house near Chipping Campden. I have written a letter for you to present to her explaining your need for sanctuary and secrecy. She will have many questions, for that is her nature, but none that you need answer against your will. She may apply to me for the particulars when I arrive."

  "I don't understand," Sophie said. "You will not accompany me to your own sister's house?"

  "Not immediately. I will meet you there directly. I must remain behind to explain to Tremont what I have done. Do not worry that I will tell him where you are. It is only my inte
ntion to assure him that you are safe and that I am culpable, not you."

  "He will call you out."

  "That is most unlikely."

  Sophie was not certain she shared Eastlyn's confidence. She had learned that Tremont's actions were not entirely predictable. She was quiet a moment, thinking. "I have never once entertained the notion of leaving," she said at last.

  "It is not proof that you are a coward, Sophie, but rather that you have too much courage. You continued to make a stand when reason dictated you should surrender or flee."

  "I think you are giving me too much credit."

  Eastlyn did not share her opinion. "You also thought you had no place to go."

  "But I don't." Sophie met Eastlyn's eyes and took measure of his resolve. Could hers be any less than his? "Or rather I didn't."

  He released a breath slowly as her meaning was made clear. "Then you accept."

  She hesitated but then nodded slowly. "Yes," she said. "Yes, I do."

  Chapter 8

  The alacrity with which everything was arranged let Sophie know how much Eastlyn had relied on her agreement. She wondered if he would have used other means to persuade her had she not fallen in so easily with his plans, or if he could have accepted her refusal. The question had no bearing now, for she had no intention of testing him.

  Eastlyn's valet appeared to pack Sophie's clothes. Sampson would brook no interference from her. He managed the thing with a speed and efficiency that made Sophie wonder if he had been put to this specific service before. It encouraged her to regard Eastlyn's offer with a slightly more jaundiced eye.