chapter Eleven
Back in her chamber, Mary picked up the little history book and turned to the maps. It clearly showed the tunnel to the old ruins. Hopefully it was in as good condition as the one running beside her chamber.
She put on her warmest gown, the last of the ones she had brought with her from Wiltshire, and donned her practical half-boots. She lay down on her bed to rest before it was time to leave, unable to stop herself from pondering Beresford’s last words.
The bleakness in his voice had touched a chord deep inside her, started an ache. A feeling she was missing something important. Sometimes she felt as if he was speaking in riddles.
She shook the feeling off. He was playing her again, like a fish on a line. Turning her on her head. But each time she heard those whispered words in her head and what he had said when he jumped down from the carriage: You little fool. For some reason she could not match them up. It was as if the words were spoken by two different people, for two very different reasons.
Or was it simply his seductive kisses turning her upside down, making her want to believe he was not the cause of her fall? Her long, deliberately forgotten dreams of a home, a husband, children playing at her feet, a real family, conspiring to make her yearn to believe in his innocence, to believe the seduction and not the facts.
Why did she want to believe? Had her foolish heart done something she had sworn she would never do again—could it be possible she had fallen for him?
Despite everything she knew.
If so, she really deserved all that had happened.
A numbness crept into her chest. The sort of emptiness she’d felt after she’d learned the truth about Allerdyce, only deeper. Colder. It was the only way not to feel the pain of knowing he’d sooner kill her than marry her.
And so she must leave. Without regrets. Without feeling anything. She got up and carried her candle to the clock on the mantel. Two in the morning. The household would be asleep by now. She wrapped her cloak around her and pulled up the hood. She had no valise. Nothing to carry except her reticule and that she had tied around her waist under her skirts for safekeeping.
Quietly she opened her chamber door.
It creaked.
She held still, waiting, wondering if the alarm would be raised. Nothing. She opened it a little more. And then she saw him. Beresford. Sitting on the bottom of the circular stairs leading up to the room above.
She froze, waiting for him to leap up and force her back into her room.
His chest rose and fell in deep even breaths. She raised her candle higher and saw that his eyes were closed. He was sleeping, his head resting against the rough stone wall, his large body sprawled across the steps, in a sleep of utter exhaustion.
In sleep he looked so much younger, as if all the hard lessons of life had been washed away and he was a boy again, with high hopes and sweet dreams. Her heart ached for that unsullied boy she had never met.
What was he doing here outside her door? Making sure she could not leave, obviously. Was that how he had arrived at her room so quickly the other night? No wonder he looked so weary if he had taken to sleeping here. One wrong sound and he would awaken and no doubt lock her up in her room.
She had to hurry, before he awoke and caught her. But somehow she could not drag herself away. She would never see him again and the sense of loss was almost more than she could bear.
Because, in spite of everything, in spite of the coldness he wore like armour against the world, she had glimpsed a softer and kinder side. And, yes, a vulnerable side that called to her in ways she did not understand, as well as a seductive side she found almost irresistible. Which she should not be thinking about now, but somehow she could not help it as she gazed at his face, at the small frown between his brows. He looked troubled and she wanted to smooth those cares away. She longed to press her lips to his lovely mouth and lose herself in his wonderful kiss.
She loved him.
The realisation filled her chest in the region of her heart with a sweet kind of ache.
Why not stay? Why not accept his offer of marriage? Perhaps in time, there would even be children despite what he had said. Had it not always been her dearest wish? A home. A family of her own.
And live her life knowing he would never return her love.
The thought sliced her heart to ribbons. She pressed a hand to her ribs to ease the terrible pain.
He stirred, shifting position, looking for ease he wouldn’t find on the cold hard stone. If he awoke now, she would surely be lost. The next time he assaulted her with kisses and sweet seduction, she would be unable to resist.
To love and not be loved, it was all she had known. But with him it would be a disaster. She could feel it in her bones.
The was no other choice. She had to go.
Heavy-hearted, she crept over the threshold and closed the door behind her. Once more she glanced down at his sleeping form and had the wild urge to press her lips to his mouth. To bid him farewell. But she couldn’t.
Instead she crept away, like a thief in the night, and took the stairs down to the cellar, the stairs he had brought her up that very first night, before either of them knew about the will. The first time he had kissed her.
She would never forget his kisses as long as she lived. When he was kissing her, she felt alive, like a different person, strong, sure and, heavens help her, beloved.
It was all a lie. A figment of her foolish longings. He didn’t want her. He’d made it perfectly clear he didn’t. He was being forced into this by a man he hated. And in time indifference might well turn to hate.
At the bottom of the stairs she turned left, away from the sound of the sea. Halfway along the wall, there was another sconce. Another entrance to yet another secret passage, if the map was correct. And this one would lead her outside to the old Abbey ruins.
She twisted the sconce.
Nothing happened.
Her heart rose in her throat. She’d got it wrong. Blast. She’d left the book in her room. She couldn’t check the map. She’d been so sure she had memorised it correctly.
She glanced up and down the hallway, lifting her candle. There were no other sconces. She tried again. Twisting hard. She felt it shift. A little. It was stiff from disuse, perhaps.
She put the candle down and used both hands. The sconce turned painfully slowly. And the grinding noise echoed down the hallway. Heaven help her, Beresford would hear it. She had to hurry.
She wrenched it hard. The wall moved a little, then a little more, and then it opened fully. She picked up her candle and darted inside, found the mechanism on the other side and closed it behind her.
Now all she had to do was make it out to the ruins and run as fast as she could. And never look back.
* * *
The cold seeped into her bones. She felt as if she had been walking for hours, but she knew it was far less than that. Betsy had been right about the impending snow. It was up over her ankles and made walking difficult. And the wind seemed determined to impede her, too. It gusted this way and that, tearing at her cloak, blowing flurries of snow in her face so she couldn’t see where she was going. Not that she could see much at all, it was so dark.
But if it was too dark to see her way, then it was too dark for anyone to find her. She clung to that hope and forged on. Going east. Keeping the wind on her right, as best as she could tell, because it constantly changed direction.
And she had to be correct, because the sound of the sea had faded away. She was heading into the countryside. Towards Halstead. Soon she should come across a road, with signposts and milestones and then she would be able to take her bearings.
She stopped to catch her breath, to look behind her for signs of pursuit. Nothing. Just the wind and the blowing snow. Hopefully his lordship was still sleeping outside her chamber door. He was going to be very angry when he awoke and found her gone. Hopefully that would not occur until later in the morning. She’d asked Betsy not to wake her too early, complaining of being tired.
It was all she could do.
She struggled on. The snow was drifting now. Getting deeper in some places and leaving the ground bare in others. And it also seemed to be lessening. She looked up at the sky and saw the glimmer of the moon through scudding clouds. Then a patch of stars.
The storm was over.
Her heart picked up speed. Even more reason to hurry. But now, with the moon casting light and shadow over the landscape at irregular intervals, she could see her way. See the line of a hedge that marked the edge of a field. See the moors rising in their white blanket off to her left. If she could just see the road. She looked around for a landmark. Something to tell her where she was. How far from the Abbey she had come.
Not far enough yet. She knew that. Not if his lordship was determined to find her. She would have to find a place to hide, somewhere he wouldn’t look for her.
Again she glanced back over her shoulder. And gazed in horror. Oh, dear lord, what had she been thinking? That the snow would hide her? There, tracking across the field, was the dark imprint of where she had walked. She’d left the easiest trail for him to follow.
Wildly she glanced around her. She needed to find the road. Somewhere where other people walked and drove. Somewhere where her footsteps could not be identified.
She took careful stock of her surroundings and headed for the hedge where the snow was piling up on one side and clinging to the top and leaving the ground bare on her side.
Once in the lea of the hedge, with her footsteps no longer clearly visible to the most casual observer, she retraced her steps, going back on herself, hoping that he would not realise she would dare take such a risk.
She pulled her cloak around her, tried to ignore that her hands were freezing and her feet turning to blocks of ice and hurried on, taking the hedgerows, zigzagging in different directions, until she was dizzy, with no clue where she was. And still she did not find a single lane or road.
Yet there had to be one.
Had to be. She sank down to the ground to catch her breath, to think. She was exhausted. Tired. It would be just so easy to sleep for a while. To gain her strength.
Not a good idea, to sleep out here in the open. People froze to death under such circumstances. She had to find a place out of the wind. An inn. A barn. Any kind of structure. A flurry of snow stung her face. She frowned. Why was she panicking? The snow had been falling when she left the Abbey. It would have covered all traces of her footprints, and if these flurries kept up, then by morning there would be no sign for Bane to follow. Bane. She must not think of him as Bane. He was the Earl of Beresford. And a man who wished her at Jericho. Or worse.
She pushed herself to rise and took stock of her surroundings again. There. A barn. She could spend the rest of the night there and travel on in the morning. In daylight. She must have travelled five miles at least. Hopefully it was far enough for dawn would soon be upon her. Then she would get her bearings and move on. It would not be long before she was questioning Sally Ladbrook.
Filled with new purpose, she skirted the field, keeping to the hedges since they offered protection from the wind, and she was still concerned about leaving too easy a trail for the earl to follow.
The snow stopped again. The wind dropped, proving her caution correct. She inhaled deeply. There was something about the smell of the air. Cold. Crisp. Sparkling clean as it filled her lungs. She’d never inhaled anything quite like it. She rubbed her hands together to warm them as she walked.
Somewhere in the distance a dog barked. It sounded excited, as if it had been disturbed by an intruder. There must be a farmhouse or a village nearby. That was good news. Somewhere to aim for in the morning. Right now she just wanted to rest. To sleep. She shook her head to clear it. A few more yards and she would be able to lie down.
Another sound cut across the deep quiet. Hoofbeats. Travelling fast. She swallowed. Perhaps a traveller on a nearby road? In her heart, she knew it was not. She huddled deep against the hedge and looked back. A dark horse with its dark rider was cutting across the neighbouring field, heading straight for her, a dog bounding along at the horse’s heels.
It couldn’t be.
It was. It could be no one else. Hatless, his coat flying in the wind, it was Beresford. He hadn’t seen her. He could not have. She picked up her skirts and ran for the barn, praying the door would be open. Praying he would not see her. Praying she could make it there before he cleared the hedge into this field.
And then she was there at the barn, huddled against the wall. The door was on her side. And closed.
She glanced over her shoulder. Beresford was coming up on the hedge. For the next moment or two he would be blind to her as he took the jump. She dashed to the door. To her great relief it opened and she slipped inside, closing the great door behind her. She scampered up the ladder to the loft, threw it down behind her and collapsed into the straw, breathing hard. Now all she had to do was remain as quiet as a mouse and pretend she wasn’t here. She shivered. Despite her run, she was still freezing.
She took great gulping breaths of air in an attempt to fill her lungs and get her breathing back to normal as she listened to the sound of hoofbeats closing in on the barn. If she was lucky, he would keep on going, thinking she would have continued on without stopping.
The horse slowed and stopped.
Dash it. How had he guessed?
The dog whined, then barked.
The dog. He was using the dog to follow her. Inwardly she groaned. She had never considered the dog. That he would use it to hunt her like a wild animal had never occurred to her. And it should have. But she didn’t know much about dogs and hunting. She had thought of Ranger as a pet, if she had thought of him at all. Since that first night the dog had not been seen anywhere in the house except his lordship’s chamber.
Perhaps her disappearance up the ladder would fool the animal.
She lay still, jaw clamped, trying to stop her shivers, and listened to the barn door open, to the sound of a horse being led inside, to the excited barking of the dog.
‘Mary,’ Beresford called out in commanding tones, ‘I know you are in here. Give up. Don’t make me come and find you.’
She remained still, trying hard not to breathe. Trying not to let the sobs of fear welling in her throat and the cold seizing her limbs overcome her will to remain utterly silent.
‘Down, Ranger,’ he said.
The dog whined and was quiet.
She could imagine them down there, him in his greatcoat glowering around the barn, listening, the dog at his feet. She strained to hear what he was doing over the sound of her banging heart.
Nothing. Not nothing—she could hear breathing. A laboured sort of panting. The horse. She held herself rigid, breathing in small sips of air, wondering if he could hear the pounding of her heart, while she knew he could not.
A click of metal against rock. An all-too-familiar sound of a tinder being struck. Light glowed through the floorboards. He must have found a lantern. She buried herself deeper in the straw, knowing in her heart it was hopeless.
She wanted to weep with frustration.
A thump.
She turned her head and saw, in the light cast by his lantern from below, the top of the ladder appear in the hole she had climbed through. If she pushed it away from the edge, it would pitch him to the ground.
She imagined his lifeless body sprawled on the paved floor beneath. It would be a fitting end. Except she could not make herself do it. She wasn’t the murderer here.
His head appeared above the floor. He raised his lantern and she saw his dark ruffled hair, a face reddened by the wind, eyes filled with fury as he took her in. He leaped over the edge and stood before her. He set down the lantern, peeled off his gloves and stuffed them in his pocket.
Trapped. She backed up into the shadows, the blood rushing in her ears. They were all alone. What had he said that first day? If I wanted to do away with you, I would not do it in front of witnesses. There were no witnesses now.
She’d played right into his hands by running.
His expression softened. His mouth turning sultry as he shook his head. ‘You didn’t think I would let you leave me, did you, sweetling?’
Bewildered by his words, she stared at him.
‘You little fool,’ he whispered tenderly. ‘Why won’t you trust me?’
She trembled at the sound of his voice. Shuddered from the cold in her bones. ‘Say it again.’
He raised a brow. ‘Trust me?’
‘No.’ Her voice shook. She could not imagine why she felt so desperate. So hopeful. ‘Say “you little fool”. Say it the way you did just now.’
A small smile curved his lips. ‘You little fool,’ he said softly.
It sounded nothing like the voice in the mine. His voice had its own special raspy quality she would recognise anywhere. He could not have been the one who had pushed her into the mineshaft. Could he? Her heart felt so certain, even if her logical mind refused to believe.
Which did she trust most?
There was a light in those pale-grey eyes, gladness mingled with the shadows of concern and something softer, more heartwarming. If she hadn’t felt so cold, she might have been better able to understand what it was, but she was freezing, her body shaking, her teeth ready to chatter if she said one word.
She was too cold to feel fear.
‘I—I’m s-s-sorry...’ she got out.
‘There will be time enough for sorry later,’ he said, moving towards her.
Backing up, she tried a scornful laugh through her shivers. Pure bravado. ‘I mean, I’m s-sorry you found me.’
His answering smile was so bright, steel-edged and glittering, her heart lurched. ‘Not sorry enough, my dear. I can promise you that.’
He yanked her close, holding her tight with one arm around her shoulders, his mouth coming down hard on her lips. His tongue plundering the depths of her mouth. A punishing kiss. Searing. Possessive?
She certainly felt possessed, mind and body. Wild. Feverish as she responded to the hot pleasure of his kiss with a moan in the back of her throat. She didn’t want to respond to him, to yield to the strength and his heat. Her mind knew it was a mistake, but he’d found her, and there was nothing she could do about it. It seemed she was helpless in the face of his seduction.
She couldn’t fight the feelings inside her any longer. The traitorous longings. She twined her hands around his neck, felt his heat wash over her and breathed in the scent of snow among the essence of him. She loved the way he smelled. She let herself sink into the darkness of so many sensations she felt overwhelmed. Excitement. Longing. Desire.
His large hands roamed her shoulders, her back. It felt so good to be held. To feel the connection that strengthened with each passing moment. More especially delightful was his warmth. He pushed back her hood and cradled her face in his wonderfully warm hands. He pulled back from her, breathing hard. ‘My God, you are freezing.’ He touched her shoulders. ‘And soaking wet.’
‘It was snowing,’ she said.
‘I ought to put you over my knee and spank you,’ he said through gritted teeth. ‘Do you have any idea how dangerous it can be wandering the moors in weather like this?’
‘It is safer than staying at the Abbey.’
His dark brows lowered in a frown. ‘Are you saying I can’t protect you?’ He sounded furious. And frustrated.
She stiffened. ‘Protect me from whom?’
‘From yourself.’
Without another word he picked her up in his arms and made for the ladder. ‘Put me down,’ she gasped. ‘You will fall.’
‘Let us hope not,’ he said through gritted teeth. ‘Hold on.’
He let go of her with one hand, reached for the ladder and stepped on to it. There was not help for it, she put her hands around his neck and clung on. It was either that or fall ten or more feet to the floor.
Ranger wagged his tail in greeting when they hit the ground. Mary gave him a glare. ‘But for your dog, you would never have found me.’
He gave a grunt in answer and put her down next to the stallion who was contentedly munching on hay. He pulled the horse away and mounted him with fluid ease. ‘Give me your hands.’
She hadn’t liked riding the horse the last time and she was sure she wouldn’t like it any better now. She shook her head.
‘It is either that or be tied on behind the saddle like luggage.’
That sounded worse. She approached the horse gingerly.
‘Don’t worry, he’s calm after such a good run.’
She winced and held up her hands to him.
‘Put your foot on top of mine,’ he commanded.
She did so, with some difficulty, and then flew upwards. He somehow caught her under the arms and set her on his lap.
‘Ready, Miss Wilding?’ His voice wasn’t offering an option.
She sighed. ‘I suppose so.’
He urged the horse out into the night, setting it into a steady canter.
* * *
She couldn’t believe how little time it took them to reach the drive up to the Abbey. Minutes. Not the hour or two she had been walking. ‘How did we get here so fast?’
‘You were walking in circles,’ he said grimly.
Something hot rose in her throat. A hard lump of disappointment at her own inadequacy. She should have been miles from the Abbey. She sniffed the tears away.
She heard him mutter something under his breath that sounded like ‘God save me’, but she couldn’t be sure with the wind rushing in her ears and the sound of hoofbeats. What she was sure of was the band of iron around her waist holding her firmly in place and the hard wall of chest at her back.
If she hadn’t felt quite so cold, she might have enjoyed the wild ride in the wind and the dark. He rode the horse right into the barn where a sleepy-eyed groom was waiting with a lantern.
His eyes widened when he saw Mary, but he took the reins the earl threw at him and turned his back while Beresford helped her down.
‘See him well rubbed down, if you please, Sol,’ his lordship said. ‘Some warm bran and not too much water. Ranger, with me.’ He grabbed Mary around the shoulders and marched her into the house by the side door. The one by which she had left that very first day. Tonight it was unbarred and unlocked.
He walked her past the corridor leading to her chamber in the north tower.
She dug in her heels. ‘Where are we going?’
‘You’ll see, soon enough.’
But she knew where they were going. He was heading for his rooms. ‘You can’t...’
‘I can do whatever I please in my own home, as you will soon discover.’
He flung open a door to a chamber and pushed her inside. A room where a large four-poster bed took up most of the room. A fire blazed merrily in the hearth where a pot hung from the crane, and gave off a faint aromatic aroma. In front of a comfortable-looking sofa was a table. The two glasses said he was expecting company.
Startled, she turned to face him.
He kicked the door closed with his heel, took off his coat and flung it on a chair. He gave her a tight smile and began attacking the fastenings of her cloak.
She pushed his hand away. ‘What are you doing?’
‘Getting you out of these clothes before you are chilled to the bone.’
‘I can undress in my own room.’
‘You are not going anywhere before you and I talk.’ He finally untied the knot at her throat and pulled off her cloak. He spun her around and started on the buttons of her gown.
‘I can’t undress in here.’
‘You can and you will. Either you do it, or I will do it for you.’
A shiver ran down her back at the dark notes in his voice, the seductive promise laced with the heat of his anger. He might be completely in control, but she could still sense his anger running hot beneath the surface.
She folded her arms across her chest. ‘I can’t. Not with you watching.’
He walked around her, picked up a robe from across the foot of the bed and handed it to her. ‘Put this on.’ He locked the door and pocketed the key. ‘I’ll be right next door.’
He disappeared into what must be his dressing room.
‘Close the door,’ she said.
‘My back is turned. I am not some errant schoolboy who needs to peek, Miss Wilding. I can assure you I have seen my share of women in various stages of undress.’
That was supposed to make her feel better?
She let her sodden gown slip to the floor, and stripped off her stays. She put her arms in his silk robe, so smooth and slightly cool against her skin. It was embroidered with dragons. It seemed very fanciful for such a dark man.
‘Are you done?’ he asked.
She picked up her gown and looked around for somewhere to hang it. He strode in without waiting for an answer. He took the garment from her hand and tossed it over a wooden chair.
‘Now,’ he said, with a hard smile. ‘Sit there, Miss Wilding, on that sofa beside the hearth, and tell me what the devil you think you were doing tonight. Perhaps you can give me one reason why I should not punish you for setting the house in an uproar?’