his reaction the first time he’d seen Adelaide.
He remembered that February day with perfectly clarity. After three months of being incarcerated, he’d glanced out the cell window with little expectation of seeing more than the depressingly familiar view of the frozen courtyard. But what he’d seen was Adelaide—standing in the bitter winter wind with her worn coat whipping about her ankles, and her arms wrapped protectively around an infant cocooned in a sea of blankets.
She’d stopped to speak with a guard and turned her face up when the guard pointed at the second floor of the debtors’ wing.
Connor hadn’t been able to see the color of her eyes. He hadn’t known her name, where she’d come from, or why she was at the prison. But none of that seemed to matter. He’d experienced the most excruciating longing to reach out and touch, to brush the back of his hand against the cool silk of her wind-kissed cheeks, to draw her into the shelter of his coat and feel her grow warm in his arms.
He’d never before had such an immediate, visceral reaction to a woman. He’d known instant lust, even immediate fascination. But he’d never known such a hollow longing. He’d realized it was illogical, even embarrassing, but he’d reveled in every fantastical second, drinking in every inch of her until she nodded to the guard and disappeared into the prison.
He’d turned from the window then, disturbed that he should be so powerfully affected by a mere glimpse of a woman. That was the sort of maudlin nonsense to which other men, lesser men, succumbed. Dandies spoke of the angel they had seen from across a crowded ballroom. Poets waxed on about the captivating maiden they had spied from afar. Men of sound mind were not taken in by that sort of romantic rubbish.
He’d gone too long without the company of a woman, that was the trouble. Abstinence did terrible things, unnatural things, to a man’s mind. And yet, twenty minutes later, he’d gone back to the window. And he’d gone back again and again—every Saturday for months, hoping for that next glimpse.
He’d built harmless fantasies around her when he’d thought her married . . . Mostly harmless . . . A man couldn’t be blamed for the odd lurid thought. Once he was free and had access to all his funds, he would pay her husband’s debts anonymously, and perhaps set something aside for the child.
When he’d learned her name and that she was coming to visit a wastrel brother, Connor decided he’d clear the debts and give Adelaide the home and income her brother was clearly incapable of providing. The notion of marriage was considered and rejected. He didn’t want the responsibility of a wife distracting him from his quest for revenge. Perhaps after . . .
Then he’d heard of Sir Robert’s courtship, and everything changed. There would be no anonymous donations. There would be no after. She would be his.
In the study, Connor set the carving back on the desk.
Adelaide Ward had always been his.
Chapter 9
T he late summer sun beat down mercilessly on Adelaide as she made the return trip down the drover’s trail. There wasn’t a hint of chill in the air. And yet she felt cold down to her very bones.
A means to an end, that’s all she was to Connor Brice.
She gathered her cloak around herself like fitted armor. She tried to do the same with her anger, but it slipped out of reach faster than she could grab hold, pushed aside by exhaustion and bitter disappointment. And the damn stinging of her feet.
“Damn and blast.”
Abandoning the notion of reaching the relative sanctuary of her chambers as quickly as possible, she stopped to rest on a fallen log. She sat on it gingerly, thinking it would be just her luck to discover the center was rotted through after she took a seat.
It held. Which was more than could be said for her composure.
She pulled her right shoe off, glared at the thin, worn sole, then hurled it at a nearby tree with all her
He remembered that February day with perfectly clarity. After three months of being incarcerated, he’d glanced out the cell window with little expectation of seeing more than the depressingly familiar view of the frozen courtyard. But what he’d seen was Adelaide—standing in the bitter winter wind with her worn coat whipping about her ankles, and her arms wrapped protectively around an infant cocooned in a sea of blankets.
She’d stopped to speak with a guard and turned her face up when the guard pointed at the second floor of the debtors’ wing.
Connor hadn’t been able to see the color of her eyes. He hadn’t known her name, where she’d come from, or why she was at the prison. But none of that seemed to matter. He’d experienced the most excruciating longing to reach out and touch, to brush the back of his hand against the cool silk of her wind-kissed cheeks, to draw her into the shelter of his coat and feel her grow warm in his arms.
He’d never before had such an immediate, visceral reaction to a woman. He’d known instant lust, even immediate fascination. But he’d never known such a hollow longing. He’d realized it was illogical, even embarrassing, but he’d reveled in every fantastical second, drinking in every inch of her until she nodded to the guard and disappeared into the prison.
He’d turned from the window then, disturbed that he should be so powerfully affected by a mere glimpse of a woman. That was the sort of maudlin nonsense to which other men, lesser men, succumbed. Dandies spoke of the angel they had seen from across a crowded ballroom. Poets waxed on about the captivating maiden they had spied from afar. Men of sound mind were not taken in by that sort of romantic rubbish.
He’d gone too long without the company of a woman, that was the trouble. Abstinence did terrible things, unnatural things, to a man’s mind. And yet, twenty minutes later, he’d gone back to the window. And he’d gone back again and again—every Saturday for months, hoping for that next glimpse.
He’d built harmless fantasies around her when he’d thought her married . . . Mostly harmless . . . A man couldn’t be blamed for the odd lurid thought. Once he was free and had access to all his funds, he would pay her husband’s debts anonymously, and perhaps set something aside for the child.
When he’d learned her name and that she was coming to visit a wastrel brother, Connor decided he’d clear the debts and give Adelaide the home and income her brother was clearly incapable of providing. The notion of marriage was considered and rejected. He didn’t want the responsibility of a wife distracting him from his quest for revenge. Perhaps after . . .
Then he’d heard of Sir Robert’s courtship, and everything changed. There would be no anonymous donations. There would be no after. She would be his.
In the study, Connor set the carving back on the desk.
Adelaide Ward had always been his.
Chapter 9
T he late summer sun beat down mercilessly on Adelaide as she made the return trip down the drover’s trail. There wasn’t a hint of chill in the air. And yet she felt cold down to her very bones.
A means to an end, that’s all she was to Connor Brice.
She gathered her cloak around herself like fitted armor. She tried to do the same with her anger, but it slipped out of reach faster than she could grab hold, pushed aside by exhaustion and bitter disappointment. And the damn stinging of her feet.
“Damn and blast.”
Abandoning the notion of reaching the relative sanctuary of her chambers as quickly as possible, she stopped to rest on a fallen log. She sat on it gingerly, thinking it would be just her luck to discover the center was rotted through after she took a seat.
It held. Which was more than could be said for her composure.
She pulled her right shoe off, glared at the thin, worn sole, then hurled it at a nearby tree with all her
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