Page 51 of Someone to Watch Over Me
Staring at the letter in her lap during the short ride home, Vivien traced the feminine script with the tip of her finger. V. Devane…The name bothered her, tugged at her. Like so many other things, it seemed familiar but evoked no actual memories. V. Devane…
“Do you remember the little painting in Vivien’s bedroom, by her dressing table?” she asked. “A cottage covered in white roses…and it had been signed by Devane. This man must mean a great deal to her, if she keeps his painting in her bedroom and runs to him when she is in trouble.” She fidgeted with the letter until Grant finally held his hand out for it.
“Give me that thing before you rip it to shreds,” he said.
Vivien surrendered the letter without protest. “Do you really believe that Vivien is still alive?” she asked softly.
His hand slid over her knee, and he squeezed it reassuringly. “I believe she’s landed on her feet like a cat.”
She was relieved by his answer. “I feel so protective of her. I wonder if I truly am related to her. Do you think she and I might be sisters?”
“You look too much alike not to be.”
Closing her eyes, she let out a tense sigh. “I want to know about my family…friends…I want to know why no one seems to be looking for me. A person can’t disappear withoutsomeonenoticing…Isn’t there anyone who misses me?” Her voice faded to a near whisper. “Anyone who loves me?”
“Yes.”
Startled, Vivien looked up into his purposeful face, while her heart pounded hard. He must be referring to himself, she thought in wonder.
“If I find Vivien today,” Grant said, his green eyes filled with warmth, “it will change nothing between you and me. And when you recover your memory, I don’t give a damn about what or whom you remember. I had no part of your past…but I intend to be your future.”
“I-if you’re talking about somehow making reparations f-for last night,” she stammered, “I’ve already told you it’s not necessary—”
“No, I’m not referring to that. I’m talking about my feelings for you.”
His words caused equal parts of delight and dismay. Vivien could imagine no greater joy than being loved by a man like Grant Morgan. However, she feared that he still harbored guilt for having taken her virginity, and she did not want him to propose merely because she had been “ruined.” Above all else, she must not be an obligation that had been thrust upon him. And she had not forgotten what he had once said on the subject of marriage. He had no use for a wife, he had told her. He hadn’t wanted to stay faithful to one woman for a lifetime. Had he sounded less certain, less cynical…but he had left no room for doubt. And therefore, if he were saddled with a bride he had never really wanted, he might eventually come to resent her.
“Don’t make promises to me,” she begged, silencing him with her fingers as he began to say something. “Not yet.”
Catching her hand, he kissed her fingers and palm and the fragile veins of her wrist. “We’ll talk when I come back.”
The carriage stopped, and Vivien realized they were home. “Have a safe journey,” she said, her fingers closing tightly around his.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “I intend to find Vivien Duvall and solve this infernal mess. And after that…” He paused and grimaced. “I’ll apologize to her, dammit.”
“You will?” She stared at him with patent surprise, her lips parting softly.
“Even if it kills me.” A self-mocking grin twisted his lips. “It just may,” he added with a short laugh, leaning forward to steal a kiss before helping her from the carriage.
Thirteen
The small village of Forest Crest was located in the heathland of Surrey. Unspoiled and half hidden by surrounding slopes of gorse and heather, Forest Crest possessed two main streets, a church, and a green planted with acacia trees. It seemed that the dragonfly was something of a village symbol, carved into a few shop signs and the front of the village inn. Indeed, there were many dragonflies buzzing in the air around the green. Stopping his curricle on the side of the central street, Grant went into the village bakery. The air was hot and sweet, and he inhaled appreciatively as he ventured further into the shop.
A plump woman with well-muscled arms was pulling a flat of large buns from the depths of an inglenook hearth. “Will ye have some baked goods, sir?”
Grant shook his head. “Thank you, but I’m looking for White Rose Cottage…Can you tell me where to find it?”
“Aye. For years it was occupied by the village schoolmaster and his daughter, the Devanes. A lovely pair, they were, always up to their ears in books and surrounded by children. But poor Mr. Devane died two years ago of a weak heart. His daughter still abides there. Follow Cottage Street to the lane that goes past the Church of All Angels. Out in the heathland, ye’ll see the cottage. Mind ye don’t frighten the girl, she’s a timid sort. We’ve not seen her in town for weeks. Just the maid.” She paused and asked with a slight frown, “May I ask what yer business with her is, sir?”
He smiled. “You may ask, but I won’t tell.”
The baker’s wife chuckled. “I would say she’s a fortunate girl, to have a big handsome lad appear on her doorstep. Fare-thee-well!”
Returning to his carriage, Grant urged the horses forward with an impatient flick of the ribbons. The light curricle bounced and jostled along the uneven road, until Grant arrived at the thatched and timbered cottage. The little structure stood at the end of the lane in a profusion of rosebushes. It was so quiet that Grant could hear the dragonflies’ wings beating the air, and the drone of insects browsing among the flowers. The heavy, powdery scent of roses surrounded him as he approached the arched doorway bordered with thick wooden posts. The cottage looked like an illustration for a fairy tale, with a stone garden shed nearby and a brook trickling amidst a grove of yew and willow.
Unconsciously Grant held his breath as he knocked at the door with two knuckles. He sensed movement within the house, a scrape, a whisper, a sudden awareness that a stranger had come to call. After what seemed an interminably long wait, he knocked again, this time using the side of his fist.
A young cook-maid came to the door, dark hair tucked beneath a blue cap, her face uncertain. “Good day, sir,” she murmured.
