Lost Lady (James River Trilogy 2)

When the sun was setting and she heard what could only be Travis’s voice—deep, golden-toned, filled with humor—she found her heart pounding. Of course it was only because of the sheer loneliness of the long day, but still she had to force herself not to smile when he entered.

His big brown eyes raked her as he smiled in greeting. “The dress looks good on you,” he said, removing his hat and then his jacket. Practically collapsing in a chair, he gave a big sigh. “Working the fields all day would have been less work,” he said. “Your countrymen are a bunch of close-minded snobs. I could hardly get anyone to listen to my questions, much less answer them.”

Running her finger along the edge of the table in a nonchalant way, Regan tried to hide her curiosity. “Perhaps they didn’t like your questions.”

Travis wasn’t fooled for a moment. “All I wanted to know was if someone had lost a pretty but unreasonable young female.”

Opening her mouth to retort, she closed it, realizing he was baiting her. “And had they?”

Frowning before he answered, Travis seemed to be puzzled by what he’d discovered. “Not only couldn’t I find out about a missing girl of your description, but I couldn’t find anyone who’d even met a girl looking like you.”

There was no reply Regan could make. There had never been visitors at Weston Manor. All she knew of life was what she’d learned from the stories of her maids and governesses, with their talk of love and gallant gentlemen, of the world outside the grounds of the house. Of course there was no one who knew of her.

Watching her, Travis tried to read what was in her face. All day the question had been haunting him: What was he to do with her when he sailed for America? He didn’t tell her, but he’d hired three other men to help make inquiries about her. The night he’d found her she couldn’t have run from very far, so she lived in either Liverpool or the surrounding area—or she’d been traveling through. After checking every lodging house in the area, he knew she must live there, but he could find no trace of her. She seemed to have materialized on that dark night near the docks.

“You’re a runaway,” he said quietly, watching wh

en her expression confirmed his thoughts. “Only I can’t figure out who you’re running from and why no one is moving heaven and earth to find you.”

Turning away, Regan tried not to think that it was because the people she thought loved her didn’t care where she was.

“The only thing I can figure,” he continued slowly, “is that you did something to make your people pretty damned angry at you. I know for a fact you weren’t caught in bed with the gardener’s boy, so maybe you refused to do something they wanted you to do. Did you refuse to marry some rich old duffer?”

“Not even close,” she said smugly.

Travis only laughed because her eyes told him he wasn’t too far wrong. But his laughter covered his true feelings. It made him very angry to think that anyone could just toss out a pure young girl into the streets, wearing only her nightgown. Perhaps in the heat of passion it could have happened, but how could they have let days go by and not searched for her?

“I was thinking that, since there doesn’t seem to be any reason for you to stay in England, maybe you should go with me to America.”

Chapter 4

“WHAT!” REGAN GASPED, ALMOST STAGGERED BY HIS words. “America is full of boorish, illiterate people who live in log cabins. What is there besides wild Indians and terrible animals, not to mention great, savage people? No, I will not under any circumstances go to that backward place.”

The humor quickly left Travis’s eyes as he rose to come toward her. “You damned Englishwoman! I get this all day from your ‘gentlemanly’ countrymen. I get snubbed because they don’t like the way I talk or dress, or they had a relative killed in a war that happened when I was a boy. I’m getting damned tired of being looked at like something unclean, and I’ll sure as hell not take it from you.”

Backing away from him, Regan lifted her hand to her throat as if to protect herself.

“I’ve tiptoed around you enough, and from now on you’re going to do what I say. If I left a child like you alone here, when it’s quite clear you haven’t a friend in the world, I’d never sleep again. I won’t bore you with what America is when you have such clear ideas of your own, but at least in my country we don’t toss young girls out just because they’re disobedient. When we get to Virginia you’ll have choices of what you can do—something more suitable for an English ‘lady’ ”—he sneered the word—“than walking the streets as would be your only alternative if I left you here.”

Narrowing his eyes, he glared down at her, pressed against the wall. “Is that clear?” He didn’t give her a chance to answer before he slammed from the room, locking the door after him.

“Yes, Travis,” she whispered to the still echoing emptiness.

She was glad when he was gone, since it was quite impossible to think when Travis was around. At least, perhaps, if she made him angry enough, he wouldn’t force her to do those horrible things in bed, and he just might possibly release her if she provoked him. Smiling, she sat down and began to imagine her escape, how good it would be to get away from this boorish American. Imagine! she thought. The very idea of her going to America!

Snuggling in the chair, a quilt around her, she fantasized about what a dreadful place America must be, remembered every tale that had been told to her by a maid whose brother had traveled there and returned with horrible, treacherous stories, all of which the maid had told Regan in gory detail. As the candle sputtered and the room grew dark, she began to glance at the door, wondering when Travis was going to return. Sometime deep in the night, she left the chair and climbed into the big, cold bed, placing the pillows so that she could snuggle against them. They weren’t as good as a large, warm body, but at least they helped.

In the morning, her head ached, and she was in a foul mood. That the American would leave her alone all night, unprotected, and at the mercy of anyone who could get the key to her room made her furious. One moment he made speeches about how much he was going to care for her, and the next he abandoned her to the mercies of any outside element.

Her sulks were interrupted when the door was given a quick tap and then unlocked. Folding her arms across her chest, she tilted her chin up, preparing to let Travis know she was unaffected by his abandonment of her. But instead of Travis’s deep voice came the light laughter of women. Turning, Regan gasped in astonishment at the sight of three women who entered her room carrying great books and several baskets.

“You are Mademoiselle Regan?” asked a pretty little dark woman. “I am Madame Rosa, and these are my assistants. We have come to begin your wardrobe for your journey to America.”

It took Regan several minutes to piece the story together, but it seemed Travis had engaged Madame Rosa, a French emigree and former dressmaker to one of Queen Marie Antoinette’s ladies, to create an entire wardrobe for his captive. Too angry at his presumption to speak at first, Regan just sat in the bed and gave a vacant stare to the women. But as she saw the puzzled looks on their faces she knew she could not let them be on the receiving end of her anger. Her quarrel was with Travis Stanford and not these women who were merely doing their jobs.

“Perhaps I will look at your wares,” she said tiredly, thinking of all the other times she’d been allowed to choose clothes. Her uncle had allowed her to wear pink or blue or white, and the only trim was what she and her maids embroidered.

Smiling delightedly, the designer and her assistants began to spread fabric samples out on the bed. There seemed to be an endless array of colors and textures, most of which Regan had never seen before. There were a dozen colors of velvet, more of satin, linen, at least six types of silk, and dozens of colors in each type. Wools took up one corner of the bed, and Regan marveled at the variety: cashmere, tartans, a long-haired softness she was told was mohair. And the muslins! There seemed to be hundreds of colors, stripes, painted, printed, embroidered, pleated.