Counterfeit Lady (James River Trilogy 1)

She looked across the river to Arundel Hall, so perfect in the early morning sun. But she didn’t have Clay, she thought. She must realize he was gone, as surely as her mother was now gone.

She sat down on the ground, her knees drawn up, and buried her face. She would never stop loving him or needing him. Now all she wanted was the comfort of his arms holding her, telling her that life would still go on after her mother’s death. Even Adele’s last words had been of Clay.

Her head shot up. A fat woman was going to kill Clay. Of course! Adele had somehow overheard Bianca planning Clay’s death.

Nicole’s mind whirled with possible explanations. Bianca could have met someone she had hired on the mill side of the river. If Clay were dead, Bianca would own the plantation.

Nicole stood and ran to the wharf. She rowed herself across the river in record time. Once on land again, she lifted her skirts and ran to the house.

“Clay!” she called as she ran from room to room. Even as she ran, even in her urgency, she was aware of the house. It seemed to welcome her with open arms. Beth’s portrait had been replaced over the mantel in the dining room. She gave a quick look and thought she saw a look of concern in Beth’s eye.

She went to the library last. The feel of Clayton’s presence was overpowering. The desk was cluttered but clean, a place of constant work.

She knew exactly when he came to stand behind her, but she didn’t turn. The strong smell of his sweat mingled with the leather in the room. She breathed deeply, then slowly turned to face him.

She had seen very little of him in the past year, only once for any length of time. The humble, quiet Clay who’d come to help them dig the trench was a stranger to her. But this man before her now was the man she’d fallen in love with. His linen shirt was open to the waist, and he was drenched in sweat, his hands and forearms tobacco-stained. The way he stood, feet wide apart, hands on hips, reminded her of the first time she’d seen him, through a spyglass.

“You’ve been crying,” he said flatly.

His voice sent shivers up her spine, and she had no idea why she was there. She turned away from him, took one step toward the door.

“No!” It was a command she obeyed. “Look at me,” he said quietly.

She turned slowly.

“What has happened?” His voice was full of concern.

Sharp tears mounted behind Nicole’s eyes. “My mother…died. I must go home.”

His eyes held hers for a long moment. “Don’t you know that you are home?”

The tears were threatening to spill. She had no idea he still had so much control over her. She shook her head, her lips silently forming a no.

“Come here.” His voice was quiet, but it was the sound of command.

Nicole refused to obey him. Somewhere, there was a seed of reason in her brain, and she knew she should not renew what had once been between them. But her feet were not so sensible. One of them picked itself up and took a step forward.

Clay merely stared at her, the current between their eyes nearly tangible. “Come,” he said once again.

The tears broke, and her feet leaped toward him. He caught her in his arms, nearly crushing her. He carried her to the couch, where he cradled her in his arms.

“If you’re going to cry, you should do it where you belong, on your man’s shoulder.”

He held her and caressed her hair while she cried, pouring out her grief at her mother’s death. After a while, he began to ask questions. He wanted her to talk about her mother, about the good times. She told of Adele’s relationship with the twins, how they were like three children together.

Suddenly, she sat upright and told him what had brought her to Arundel Hall.

“You came to warn me that you thought someone would try to kill me?”

“Not someone,” she said. “Bianca. I think Mother meant to tell me that Bianca planned to kill you.”

He thought for a moment. “What if she’d heard Isaac or one of the other men talking about Bianca? One of my men told me the other day that if he had a wife like mine, he’d probably kill her.”

“That’s awful,” Nicole gasped.

Clay shrugged. “Adele could have heard a similar statement. It would probably have come out in the same gibberish.”

“But, Clay—”