“I did,” Thaddeus replied. “And now I am studying the English longbow. Captain Smith says I have the makings of a fine hunter.”
Thaddeus gave her a look she hadn’t seen since he graduated from pony to horse.
“Did he?” She turned her gaze to the captain.
She’d been caring for Thaddeus for years. She’d been protecting him. Raising him. Educating him. And in the space of a few days, this man had made Thaddeus flush with excitement
“Your talents appear to be quite broad,” she said.
He lifted a brow. “Have I done something to cause your ire?”
“No,” she said, finally. Though he might attempt not to be so attractive.
“Would you like to try?” He indicated his longbow.
“You must think I’m a fool,” she quipped. “That longbow is strung to match your strength.”
“Do I look like a man who can shoot?” He lifted his injured arm.
She snorted. “You look like a man who could do just about anything he put his mind to.”
His surprised expression melted into a smile. A dazzling smile, a smile that melted her insides, so they dripped like hot wax all the way down to her toes.
“Honestly, Mother,” Thaddeus said. “Your cheeks have gone all red.”
“Try,” the captain offered, still smiling. His eyes communicated a deeper, unspoken plea. For a moment, she found herself lost in his questions, transported.
He crossed the distance between them.
Perhaps it was the dream she’d dreamed last night. Perhaps it was his closeness. Perhaps it was the wails of feminine needs long-denied. But when she blinked, she saw Chev. She blinked again. The captain returned.
She searched deep into his gaze. Not a sign of recognition—of shared past. The only plea leeching from his gaze was challenge.
Try.
Well, one thing she’d learned from Chev—never agree to a challenge unless you can define the rules.
She leaned down and drew out her knife. Not the one long knife, thin enough to fillet a fish or an intruder, but a shorter one she kept tied to the other leg. This knife wasn’t nearly as sharp, but it had its uses.
“Thaddeus, love, would you set a clump of dirt between the v of that tree over there?”
For once, thank goodness, her son did as he was told.
“If you would step aside, Captain.”
He acquiesced.
Closing one eye, she aimed. She flicked her wrist and then the knife hit the tree, sending the dirt flying in every direction.
“Impressive.” The Captain wiped a clump of dirt from his cheek.
Penelope shrugged. “We all have talents.”
He flashed another melting smile. “Remind me not to cross yours.”
“I thought I just did.”
He chuckled softly. Despite her annoyance, she warmed.
Most men would have been insulted. Or frightened. Only one other man had watched her perform the same trick and clapped with a whoop.
The captain turned away.
“Cheverley,” she whispered.
He did not turn back.
Then, Thaddeus yelped.
“Thaddeus!”
“Don’t move!” The captain’s held her back with an iron arm. “Either of you.”
Thaddeus answered a quiet, “Yes, sir.”
Sir?
Furious, she met the captain’s gaze. There was not time to argue.
“Trust me.” An order, not a request.
Taking in a shaky breath, she nodded.
Thaddeus hung from one arm, lifting as much weight as he was able but hanging above a now partially-exposed pit. Glancing down into the hole, she saw a poacher’s spring trap. A piece of a branch used to cover the pit had wedged into the trap and was arcing in a dangerous bulge.
“Come around my right and crouch near the boy, but do not reach for him until I say so,” the captain said.
“What are you going to do?” she asked, moving into place.
“I am going to lay myself across the opening while you pull him free.”
She blinked, her eyes misting. One false move and he’d be missing another limb—or worse. She met his gaze.
Trust me.
She nodded again.
On his knees, he examined the pit and the trap within. His breath slowed.
He crouched into position, leaning his weight on the elbow of his severed arm. And, with a foxlike pounce, he landed across the opening.
“Now,” he yelled.
Penelope grabbed Thaddeus’s legs and swung him down.
Behind her, the captain roared. Then, the spring trap snapped closed.
~~~
Chev stared at the single spot of blue visible through feathery clouds while his heart whipped against his ribs. Somewhere close, his wife murmured sounds of comfort to their son.
He was alive. With remaining limbs intact.
Which, oddly enough, did not even rate.
There had been a moment, a lightning second, when he’d thought Thaddeus would not clear the pit before the spring trap snapped closed. Everything Chev had survived up to that moment was nothing more than a flickering candle next to that explosion of pure terror.
Spring traps were nothing more than a trigger and hinged jaws that closed like teeth when the trap went off. They were simple, but unforgiving.
He rolled to his side and glanced down into the shallow pit. The trap—pit and spring together—had not been created to catch small game. The branches used to cover the opening would have supported a rabbit or a fox.
But not a man.
Or a boy.
He hung his head. He hadn’t known if he had strength enough to support Thaddeus if Thaddeus fell. All he’d known was that he must trust Penelope to do all she could. Either way, the jaws of the trap would have closed on him—not on his son.
He reached up to wipe his eyes. Wrong arm. He slammed his elbow against the ground. He rolled back, prone and vulnerable, quaking like an untrained child.
C’est comme ça que je t’aime. This is how I like you.
No. No! He refused to listen.
Her voice returned nonetheless.
Le capitaine grand et courageux, impuissant et frémissant. The great and brave captain, helpless and quivering. Et donc très irrésistible. And so very irresistible.
No. No...
This time, not so much a protestation as a whimper.
The pirate would always return, especially in the times he most needed strength. As long as she lived, she’d remain a leech in the shadows of his mind.
A feminine face blocked the sun. “Captain,” she said. “Captain!”
Not the pirate, but Penelope.
Penelope.
She was within inches, but an ocean lay between them. An ocean he, an expert mariner, could not fathom a way to cross.
Slowly, Penelope came into focus. Worry etched onto her face, echoed in her hollow gaze.
What would she say, if he told her the truth? What would she do if he cried out, my wife, my son?
Tu ne possèdes rien. You own nothing. Tu n’es rien. You are nothing.
He turned away from the glare threatening to destroy everything he valued.
“Captain, are you—?”
“I am fine,” he interrupted. He fended off her touch. He couldn’t bear the weight of her gaze.
Look away, Pen. Please, look away.
The scarred end of his limb brushed along her arm. He flinched. Even in places numbed by scars, she burned.
“I am fine,” he repeated, this time in a voice that brokered no objection.
She sat back, pained with uncertainty.
“Mother?”
Thaddeus’s voice broke the awful spell. She moved away, leaving Cheverley aching for—and fearing—her return.
“Thaddeus?” He asked without rising. “Are you injured?”
“No, sir.”
Sir. The boy was either a radical or he had started to su
spect the truth. All the more reason to end this before it was too late.
“Pe—” Damnation. He cleared his throat. “Lady Cheverley, are you able to take him to Ithwick?”
“I had already determined to do just that,” she answered coolly.
He raised himself to his elbows. She assessed him, detached, but all authority.
Ah. There she was—the knife throwing, pig-farmer’s daughter who could build a cottage and, with equal ease, fool the ton into believing her blood blue.
A woman who deserved to be a duchess, even if he did not deserve to be a duke.
A breeze ran fingers along his forearm, taunting him with the closeness he could have felt, if he were not broken beyond mending.
He used the tree’s trunk to help him stand. Facing Thaddeus, he gripped the boy’s shoulder, resisting the urge to pull him close.
“Fine courage,” he said.
“Thank you.” The boy beamed. “And thank you for saving my life, too.”
He nodded once. “Your mother played an equal part.”
“I’ve already thanked her,” Thaddeus replied.
“A word, Lady Cheverley?” Though torture, he drew her aside and lowered his voice. “Keep him inside and occupied for the next few days.”
She lifted a brow. “And where will you be?”
“Scouring the woods for traps.” And finding out who was responsible for setting this one.
“Very well.”
She tried to turn. He tightened his grip. She glanced down at his hand.
“Forgive my presumption.” He released her arm. “It was not my place to tell you what to do.”
Penelope looked away. “Yet you did not hesitate to do so.”
“Not for the reasons you think.” He hadn’t been lording. He just—he sighed heavily. Yes, he had been lording. Arrogant. Everything she had accused. “Listen,” he said, “I’ve seen sailors younger than Thaddeus bludgeon enemies without batting an eye, only to crumple in feverish nightmares once the danger was past.”
“The reaction is not immediate, you mean?”
He nodded.
She glanced to Thaddeus, and back again to him.
“The soul pays the price,” she said. What has yours paid?
She didn’t have to ask the question. It was in the air between them. In the tension he’d created when he’d shoved aside her concern. But only Cheverley could answer those questions. They weren’t in the purview of Captain Smith.
“Thank you for saving him.” She took a deep breath. “I don’t expect you to acknowledge my thanks, but I hope you can feel it. Now”—her breath stuttered—“if you will excuse me, I must attend to my son.”
He let her go.
He did feel her thanks, and her thanks crushed him with a deadly blow.
Chapter Eleven
CHEV FOLLOWED HIS wife and son until they disappeared into the entrance of the Great Hall.
Only then did his shaking cease.
Blank windows stared outward from the manor house, eyes in a soulless shell. In the distance, above the dull, slate roof rose the remaining ramparts of Ithwick Castle. From this aspect, castle and manor appeared as puppet and puppeteer—both grey structures, both foreboding, both meant to instill awe and respect in men of different generations.
Without the privileges nor the responsibilities of being heir, he’d been spectator to Ithwick’s true cost, watching as Piers stumbled beneath the weight of the power that had left their father avaricious, acquisitive, and mean.
The soul pays the price.
Indeed.
But—he turned back to the wood—was the prize valuable enough to make a man—or woman—kill?
Slowly, he made his way to the clearing and the pit. Careful to watch his step, he leaned over the pit and lifted out the spring trap by its closed jaws. Beneath the trap, something hissed.
Adders.
He backed quickly away.
The beautifully marked black snakes were poisonous, but not usually aggressive.
Not unless one stepped directly into a nest.
Had this been the spot where Piers had lost his life? When Emmaus returned, he’d have to inquire.
He cleared the spring trap of debris, removing grass from the iron hooks placed there for just that purpose.
Disgusting.
The trap was several times the size of a trap meant to ensnare a rodent. He’d seen its like only once before. It was a man-trap, meant to ensnare poachers.
As if there wasn’t enough game to go around.
To his knowledge, man-traps had never been needed or desired at Ithwick before. And even if the duke had ordered them placed, there wasn’t any need to make the trap even more deadly by placing it in a shallow pit.
So, who had brought the trap here? And why?
Had this been a trap set for Piers? Or had it been meant for Thaddeus? Or Emmaus? Or him?
Strangers were neither welcomed nor liked in Cornwall, especially not in smugglers’ country. But to wish any of them maimed or killed?
That didn’t make proper sense, either.
Not that any of this made sense.
He glanced back at the pit. What would have happened to Thaddeus—to Pen—if they’d been wandering through the woods alone?
To that question, at least, he had an answer: The same thing that had happened to Piers. He hooked the trap on his arm and turned to head back toward Emmaus’s cottage. Then, something flashed within the tree.
Penelope had forgotten her knife.
Unsurprisingly, the knife did not dislodge with ease, but he managed. He held it up to the light, seeing Pen in the way it had been lovingly polished, carefully sharpened. She’d never been one to take anything for granted.
Would he have taken the same care with his possessions if he’d been born poor? Or would he have been wasteful, embittered?
No matter what her protestation, he’d always believed he’d rescued her, in a way.
He’d intended to whisk her away from the hardship to which she’d been born, to protect the jewel he’d found by creating a lovely setting just for her. When his father had given him the choice—Navy or exposure, he’d told himself she and their child would be better off where he’d placed them while he ventured off to bring home the prize.
Instead, he’d left her alone in this world. A world with far more ease by many measures, and yet, a world of treachery and deceit.
What if—he hefted the knife—he had trusted her strength? What if he had taken them both to a world even his father’s power could not reach?
And, if he were to trust her strength now, what would that mean?
He slid the knife into his belt.
Before turning back, he scanned the forest one last time.
How could he prevail when he could not answer the enemy within and he could not see the enemy without?
~~~
Penelope passed three days at Thaddeus’s side following the incident in the forest. Three excruciating days. Thaddeus had collapsed almost as soon as he reached his room and had only just begun to recover.
She hadn’t even noticed the snake bite until Thaddeus had vomited so much that she and Mrs. Renton had to remove his breeches.
She dipped her cloth into the basin at Thaddeus’s bedside, wrung out the excess water, and carefully wiped her son’s brow. Even if the captain had not encouraged her to keep watch, she couldn’t have left her son’s side.
At least Anthony, Thomas, and their guests had left for a few days at Portsmouth, for the expressed purpose of viewing the infamous hulks where the French prisoners were kept, but Pen suspected they were more likely to indulge in gaming and whores.
What kind of men traveled that far to simply to gawk at those less fortunate?
She returned the cloth to the basin.
Before the fever broke, Thaddeus had been flushed, and cranky, and insisting he must get out of bed.
“Why?” she’d asked.
“To find my father,” he�
�d replied.
“Your father is dead, love.”
“He’s not,” he’d repeatedly insisted. “He’s out there. He’s in trouble.”
She closed her eyes and exhaled, grateful that trial, at least, had passed.
She stood and stretched her back, eyeing the stitching she’d thrice abandoned.
She hadn’t been thinking clearly when she’d started cutting and sewing. She’d just needed something—anything—to occupy her hands. But now, the coat she’d made for the captain was finished, the shirt nearly so, and she wondered if she should give the captain so intimate a gift.
Why shouldn’t she thank him?
After all, he’d saved Thaddeus’s life. And, the high stakes of the moment forgave his discourtesy in the aftermath, even if he hadn’t apologized.
She drew the shirt into her lap and plied her needle.
After a few failed starts, she’d settled on a design that had seams that, instead of circling the shoulder, ran from under the arm directly to the collar, allowing, as she’d hoped, for a wider range of movement.
She placed the last stitch, tied off the thread, and then shook out the shirt.
Mrs. Renton came into the room. “I’ll take over for a while. You rest.”
“Thank you.” Penelope folded the shirt and picked up the coat. “I believe I’ll take some air.”
Halfway down the stairs, she heard the rattling of carriage wheels and raised, raucous voices.
Her heart sank.
Her reprieve had ended. Anthony and his coterie had returned.
The butler Anthony hired rushed to open Ithwick’s door.
Anthony was first inside. “What? No sign of the intrepid Mrs. Renton?”
“Mrs. Renton’s seeing to the young master,” the butler replied.
“What has the miscreant done now?”
“He’s been ill, sir. Following a nasty encounter with an adder in the forest.”
Anthony cocked his head in a way that made Penelope’s blood run cold.
She read in his expression the truth she’d only just suspected—the man-trap had been intentionally set and purposely concealed, and the target had been her son.
As for the adders—they could have been an accident, or they could have been insurance.
She set down the shirt and coat on the stairs and then strode down the rest of the steps and across the hall.
“Do you think you are clever?” she demanded of Anthony.
His Duchess at Eventide Page 11
