Redeeming Lord Ryder
Page 14
But maybe he’d written something in her notebook! She flipped through the pages, almost smiling at their previous “conversations.”
There was nothing in his hand except for his beautiful little rabbit and the sketches of those strange shoes.
The tears flowed now, and Nicola was too distraught to wipe them with the handkerchief tucked up her sleeve. She’d never felt so alone in her life.
“J-j-jack,” she hiccupped. She was too upset to marvel that she’d said his name.
She should rise and light the lamps, but was stuck in the chair, her limbs useless. How had she come to care so much? The idea that Jack might be hurt or worse pierced straight through her.
A sharp thump in the kitchen broke her misery. It was probably the wind whistling down the chimney and knocking something off a shelf, but she pushed out of the chair to check.
Then slithered back down when she saw the man in the doorway.
Jack! This time no sound came out, but she’d never been so delighted to see anyone in her life. Nicola sprang up and rushed into Jack’s arms.
“Now, now, what’s this? I thought your company would never go. I was halfway up the ladder when I heard the knocker. Let me tell you I almost came up anyway. Another hour in that cellar of yours and I would have frozen my bal—um, my blood. May we stand by the fire? I’m stiff as a cadaver. Which I’m not, even though you are looking at me with a mixture of horror and fascination.”
Nicola kissed him to shut him up, then remembered he was cold and dragged him to the fireplace.
“Ah, much better. Please resume kissing me—my lips are completely numb. Are they blue—mmf?”
The room was quiet save for the crackling fire. Nicola clung to Jack like a limpet, vowing never to speak to him again if he ever caused her such worry. That presumed she would talk one day, and right now she felt she was on the very edge. She had said his name, hadn’t she? Not smoothly, to be sure. It was too soon to brag about it, until she was sure she could do it again.
However, talking was far less important than kissing.
She continued her onslaught, her tongue a perfect weapon of seduction. Jack was seducing her right back, meeting each thrust with one of his own, cradling her cheek, threading his fingers through her hair. Her scalp tingled, and other bits of skin followed. She felt herself swaying, but Jack would never let her fall. She trusted him.
But where had he been?
With great reluctance, she broke off the kiss, pleased to see a definitely dazed expression on the man’s face.
Where were you all day?
“Didn’t I just say? In your cellar. The whole damn day. I woke up when Mrs. Grace arrived and hid behind the couch for a bit. I’ll give her credit—not a cobweb or dust bunny to be found back there, so I did not sneeze and reveal myself. When she headed upstairs to look for you, I ran into the kitchen, flung open the trap door and sequestered myself in the cellar. It was not my finest exit strategy, I admit. I should have gone straight out the kitchen door, but my footprints would have shown. And yes, I realized almost immediately that more snow would have covered them up, but by that time it was too late. And, anyway, I might have been seen closing your gate. Probably any number of your neighbors were looking out the window at the right time to catch me.”
Nicola rolled her eyes, imagining Jack stuffed behind the sofa. The sofa that she had been sleeping on. It seemed she missed the whole show.
“I know you had roast chicken for lunch and it was all I could do not to emerge then. I was drooling at the aroma, Nicola, and there was nothing I could do about it. I didn’t think to pack a picnic in my darkest tweed suit—I was just aiming for stealth last night. Thank God Mrs. Grace left early. But then that fellow turned up immediately after. Who was it? I couldn’t hear.”
Mr. Sykes.
“Oh, that busybody. What did he want?”
To find you! All of Puddling thinks you’ve run away! Or are dead!
Jack laughed. “Dead! Do I kiss like a dead man?”
Don’t make a joke. What are you going to tell them? You have to go home!
“Not until I drink a cup of tea and eat all your biscuits. Do you think you can make me a chicken sandwich? I am famished.”
Chapter 22
Jack prided himself on thinking on his feet, although he’d failed once today rather spectacularly, thus his sojourn in the cellar. Right now he was stumped again.
Where could he say he was all day? He’d never admit to being at Nicola’s the entire time, even if she hadn’t known he was right under her nose. That would bring the wrath of the governors down on them both, and who knew how they’d be punished?
He’d been so bored below he’d drawn in the dust, dozens of mechanical objects from memory and even a stag wearing a top hat between its antlers just for a change of pace—he’d scuffed up his illustrations to wipe away the evidence before he ventured up the ladder, which seemed a pity. Jack would have enjoyed showing Nicola his artistic and scientific talent.
He’d managed to nap for a short while too, quite an achievement on the stone floor with only his suit jacket and muffler to keep him warm. Jack’s stomach had rumbled so loudly it woke him up. He was surprised Mrs. Grace hadn’t heard it as she went about her chicken-roasting above.
The small cellar did not run the whole length of the cottage, but was directly under the kitchen and pantry ell. Knowing that all the food was directly above him, inaccessible, had driven Jack’s hunger to new heights. Even two cups of tea, three roast chicken sandwiches, and eight biscuits prepared by Nicola and eaten in quick succession by him had not cleared his head.
Think, Jack. Apparently the whole village was out looking for him. From his vantage point in Nicola’s spare bedroom, he could see lanterns bobbing below in the street in the gloomy dusk. The poor blighters would freeze to death as the frigid winter afternoon turned into frigid winter night, and he wasn’t worth that.
He’d tidied himself up as best he could, washing his face and hands and brushing the dirt from his wrinkled clothes. He’d come out last night without his camelhair topcoat, as it was light-colored and would have been noticeable in the dark. Jack was reluctant to go outside, just when he’d finally gotten warm. The tea and kisses had been very helpful in that regard.
But he couldn’t subject the well-meaning villagers to any more time spent searching for him, even if they were bleeding him dry for the cost of the program and starving him to boot. So, where could he have holed up since before dawn without anyone noticing?
St. Jude’s bell struck four times, and Jack had his answer. He’d never question divine intervention again.
If he was lucky, he’d be able to hop over stone walls, trespass through a few gardens, and get to the church itself without using any of the lanes. Its doors were always open. If they had already checked there for him, he could claim he’d hidden in a cupboard in contemplative prayer and didn’t wish to be disturbed.
Jack hoped God wouldn’t strike him dead for his duplicity.
He went downstairs to a nervous Nicola, who was washing up all traces of his visit in the kitchen.
“I have a plan, not a very good one, but it’s the best I can do. I’m going to church.”
Nicola wiped her hands on a towel and took out her notebook.
What if they’ve already looked there?
He grinned. “They must have missed me. I fell asleep in some dark corner, didn’t I? The sleep of the dead. Couldn’t hear them when they called my name. Everyone knows I have trouble sleeping. When I finally do conk out, I might as well be deaf. I’ll see if I can’t curl up with the vestments for verisimilitude.”
Be careful.
“Careful is my middle name. Actually, it’s Haskell. Oops, not supposed to be telling you that sort of thing, am I?” But if Nicola was to be his wife one day, what was the harm?
Yes, he’d just about m
ade his mind up to propose. No more pussy-footing with talk of courting, etcetera. Maybe he’d spring it on her the last day he was in Puddling. Every time he came home, he could be greeted with wild kisses from a beautiful young woman. Hell, a beautiful mature woman if he could keep her sweet as they both grew old.
Really, though, he should make an effort to know her slightly longer than two weeks before asking her to marry him formally, if only to assuage his mother. She would no doubt pepper him with questions when she returned from France, but with any luck, Jack would be wed by then.
He gave Nicola a fond kiss. She looked so adorably domestic, an apron tied about her slender waist, her hair coming undone from its strict pins, a charming rosy blush on her cheeks. He wanted to see this face upon waking every morning for the rest of his life.
That presumed he would sleep again. Well, he’d managed on a chair and on a stone cellar floor within the past twelve hours with no bad dreams. Nicola was curing him already.
“Wish me luck.” Jack hoped he wouldn’t snag his pants, or worse, private parts, on the triangular rocks that topped most of the garden walls he’d seen. The church couldn’t be more than three or four house plots away—its spire was visible from Nicola’s conservatory roof. Mummifying his face with his black scarf so that only his eyes were unobscured, he gave Nicola one last wool-covered kiss and crept out the kitchen door.
The wind cut through him immediately. All those poor souls out looking for him—Jack really did need to go to church and ask forgiveness. He sprinted over one wall, dashed through the snow-covered garden, then climbed the next two walls a bit more carefully as they were nearly as tall as he was. The church was in striking distance, its rooster-topped spire looming over him. He scurried between a shed and a patch of ice, then raced through the clipped yews in the churchyard to the main door.
It swung open in Jack’s gloved hands, emitting an unearthly groan. The interior of the church was as dim as the advancing dusk outside, and just as cold, but it was thankfully empty. A few votives flickered to one side of the altar. Jack instinctively dropped to his knees, touching his head to the pew in front of him.
He prayed a rather straightforward entreaty, then, shivering, sat back on the hard bench. He hoped old Mr. Fitzmartin was snug in his house on Vicarage Lane. That was his next destination—he’d turn himself in and hope for the best.
Would the vicar know Jack was lying? Jack was out of practice, had never stretched the truth all that much growing up. Well, there was a first time for everything.
He was spared from disturbing the old man at his tea and perjuring himself. As soon as he screwed up his courage and exited the church to face the cold and consequences, he was faced with a trio of people coming up the path.
“Oi! There he is!”
It was Tom, the foreman from the work crew, and two men he didn’t recognize. At least Jack wouldn’t be fibbing in the church—being outside it was much better, wasn’t it?
“Hello, Tom! I say, I’m so very sorry I wasn’t at work today. I had trouble sleeping and let myself in to the church early this morning to, um, pray. Think. I guess I slept the whole day away.”
“You’ve been in there all day? Didn’t the bells wake you up?”
Jack shook his head. The village was very proud of its automated bells, though they still had human bell ringers who did things the old-fashioned way on occasion.
This was one of them.
“Stan, Joe, get up in the belfry and sound the all clear.” Tom turned to him, his face dark with anger. “No point to anyone freezing their bollocks off any longer for the likes of you. Puddling has been turned upside down since the middle of the morning because of you. You’re in trouble, Lord Ryder.”
“I usually am,” Jack said, feeling somewhat guilty. “It was an accident. I didn’t mean to shirk my work.” He was rhyming, but Tom was definitely not impressed.
“Oh, we got on for a bit without you, for you know you’re rubbish at carpentry. Painting too. My own son, Tommy, could do better, and he’s not ten years old yet. But we’ve been out searching for hours instead of finishing up at Primrose Cottage.” Tom raised the lantern to peer in Jack’s face. “So, let me get this straight. You’re saying you were in the church all day?”
Jack blinked at the brightness. “Yes.”
“All day.”
“I just said so, didn’t I? I resent the tone you’re taking with me. I am a peer of the realm, and not used to my word being questioned.” Jack sounded very much like his late papa, but there was no point to being a baron if you couldn’t pull rank when necessary. Just imagine how a duke would handle this insubordination! Old Tom would willingly crawl into a crypt.
“You’ll have to convince the governors. I’ll take you over to the vicarage. Miss Churchill is there, and some of the others too frail to go out on a day like this to look for your sorry arse. Let’s go.”
Tom’s attitude did not bode well for the future of Jack’s Service. He saw himself getting hit “accidentally” with Tom’s hammer. With the church bells ringing in his ears, he was led off to the slaughter.
Chapter 23
The church bells had pealed wildly some hours ago. Nicola remembered from her Welcome Packet that there was a system to alert the villagers in cases of emergency. A certain alarm for fire, for example, the bells rung in a particular order. She could only assume what she’d heard meant that Jack had been found and everyone could go home and defrost.
The lantern lights had disappeared from Honeywell Lane, but not the small cottage pie which had been intended for her supper. She had been too anxious to eat it. Instead, she’d drunk endless cups of tea, worrying over Jack’s fate.
And her own. When she’d thought he was missing, possibly even—she couldn’t say the word inside her head for shaking—she realized that she was in love with Jack Haskell Whoever. What she felt was not simple infatuation or lust. He meant too much to her.
And she couldn’t tell him the truth.
For something to do before she put herself to bed, she studied the card with all the hand signals. She might as well have been looking at a foreign alphabet with those odd dots and squiggles over vowels. Nothing made much sense to her, and she despaired she’d ever learn enough to communicate with Jack without her trusty notebook and choice of colored pencil. She wondered if she should be “reading” the hands facing her or away, and tried both positions.
It was truly all Greek to her.
She was close to falling asleep on the couch again, and that would never do. Nicola needed a good night’s rest—today had been a Russian Mountains ride, not that she’d ever experienced such a thing, or even gone to an amusement park. Normal train travel was frightening enough for her now.
How would she get back to Bath? Go to London to see Frannie and the boys? One more seemingly insurmountable obstacle to overcome.
Nicola locked the front door, after waiting longer than she should have to see if Jack would somehow find a way to come to her. She was halfway up the stairs when she changed her mind, going down to unfasten the bolt just in case he was foolish enough to break more rules. It was not as if thievery was rampant in Puddling—Nicola had never seen such well-fed, well-clothed, well-shod, prosperous people. She knew they all shared in the Foundation’s profits. If she moved here full-time, would she as well? That wouldn’t seem right somehow. Her presence would be evidence of Puddling’s rare failure.
She undressed for bed, washed, and murmured her nightly prayers in her head. Her requests were simple and repetitious—health and safety for her family, especially her precious nephews, and the restoration of her voice. If push came to shove and she had to choose, she’d pick the first over the second.
Jack couldn’t be expecting her tonight after the to-do today, could he? It was her turn, but she didn’t know what she’d find. For all she knew, he was under house arrest. Maybe that Mr. Syke
s with his grim countenance and fearsome eyebrows was stationed across the threshold of Tulip Cottage, armed with a blunderbuss. The image made her smile.
Mr. Sykes had looked entirely different on the day he’d married. Nicola had played the organ for the wedding, and a handsomer couple than Lady Sarah Marchmain and Mr. Tristan Sykes would be hard to find.
Weddings. Lilies and orange blossoms and veils and satin trains. Spoken vows—see, she’d never pass muster. Nicola wouldn’t allow herself to think of any of them. She tucked the coverlet under her chin and shut her eyes. The counting of sheep, white and the occasional black ones, did not produce the sought-after results. She tried heartbeats, although they were so rapid she was unable to record them all.
Too much tea; that was it. She’d nearly drowned in the stuff this evening, anxiously awaiting word of Jack’s circumstances. It had enervated instead of relaxed her, and now sleep was beyond reach, no matter how gritty her eyes were.
Nicola was not fond of warm milk but was desperate enough to drink a whole gallon of it. As she’d brushed and braided her hair earlier, she’d noted the shadows beneath her eyes. It wouldn’t be helpful for her to alarm kindly old Dr. Oakley. She was supposed to be getting better here, not worse.
Of course, any time spent with Jack was well worth some bags under her eyes.
Down the stairs she went and into the warm kitchen. She lit a lamp, poured a generous splash of milk from the bottle in the ice chest into a pan and set it on the hob. Perhaps a sprinkle of cinnamon would make it go down easier, so she opened the pantry door where the spices were kept.
And caught Jack red-handed and shame-faced in the dark with a jar of peaches.
Nicola felt she might scream. Almost.
He put a hand out to her. “Sorry, sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you. I didn’t know if it was you or that dragon of a housekeeper come to spend the night to keep you company. Or protect you from my depredations. I was about to peek out the door and offer myself up to the gallows.”