Come the Dawn by Christina Skye Read Free Book Online

gilt-framed portraits. At the end of the hall a silver candelabrum burned outside a half-opened door. “There is no need to announce me.”
    “Really, miss, I must protest. This is not at all the thing. Who are you to push in here unannounced, demanding to see Lord Thornwood?”
    “Who am I?” Something dark and wounded filled India’s eyes. “I am his wife.”

CHAPTER 4
     

     
    The butler’s face paled. “Wife?” he repeated.
    “Wife.” India’s fingers locked. “Please, where is he?”
    “Right through there, miss — er, my lady.” In his surprise, the butler nearly stumbled over an ornate Hepplewhite end table near the door. “But you can’t—”
    “Chilton, is that you?” A husky voice echoed from beyond the half-opened door. “Where is that port I asked you to fetch?”
    It was a voice India knew well.
    A voice she had thought never to hear again.
    She swayed a little, one hand pressed to the wall. So it was true. The man she had seen in the ballroom had been no illusion. Up until that moment, India had thought it might be a mistake.
    “Are you all right?” the butler asked anxiously.
    India took an unsteady breath and nodded, her head filled with a thousand questions. How would he have changed after all these months apart?
    “Chilton, are you there?” Again the low, familiar voice rang out. India shivered, remembering the first time she had heard that voice in the middle of a crowded and muddy Belgian street. The tall officer had caught her bonnet, blown off in a stiff spring wind.
    His look had been frankly admiring. “I find myself in a cruel dilemma, faced with two crimes. I am not sure which is the greater,” he had added huskily.
    A smile had tugged at India’s lips. “Indeed?” she had asked softly. “And what crimes might they be?”
    He had not spoken for a moment, his eyes narrowed. For the barest instant his fingers had brushed hers, and India had felt the touch churn all the way to the soft soles of her kidskin boots, mired deep in the mud of the Brussels street.
    With slow grace he had bowed, proffering the charming straw bonnet with the tiny decoration of wild strawberries. “The first crime would be for such a lovely lady to lose this fetching bonnet.” His gaze had risen, burning over her face. “But for me to return it would be even worse.”
    “And why is that?” India had felt unsteady, aware of the heat of his gaze, tasting the raw power radiated by this stranger.
    “Because then you would use it to hide the most remarkable pair of eyes I have ever seen.” His voice had darkened. “And surely the most beautiful mouth.”
    Even now India felt a knot form in her throat at the memory. Had they been merely words? Had Thorne’s gallantry been only as lasting as their time together?
    India’s hands clenched. She refused to believe it.
    His emotion had been as real as her own. There must be some other explanation for his absence.
    But now everything would be wonderful. He was back, and all her pain would be past.
    At that moment the study door swung open. A broad-shouldered figure stood silhouetted in the light from the room beyond. “Chilton, have you been at the port again?” The man took a step forward, his eyes narrowing. “Who is this woman, Chilton?” he demanded.
    The cold, flat question brought India to a dead halt. She looked up at the sculpted jaw and lean face of the man in the doorway.
    At Devlyn Carlisle, the man whose death had tormented her for months.
    The man she had married on the eve of the encounter at Waterloo.
    India moved forward slowly, her heart pounding. “Dev, is it truly you?”
    He froze, his mouth thinning to a hard line. “I beg your pardon.”
    India moved into the candlelight, her eyes misted with tears of joy. Slowly she put back her velvet hood, light spinning auburn sparks over her hair. “You’re alive. You’ve come back to me at last.” She reached out and caught his wrist.
    But the man in the doorway only frowned