Refuge for Masterminds

by Kathleen Baldwin

  The fall startles a cry out of me. I tumble downhill, snapping branches, bashing against rocks and mounds. Finally, I land with a loud crash, startling birds who squawk and fly from their slumber.

  “Jane!” Alexander shouts. “Jane! Are you hurt?”

  Only my pride. I’ve landed in a pile of wet muck and leaves. My hair is full of twigs, and judging by the stinging sensation, I’ve skinned both my elbows and forearms. My shawl is lost. No doubt it will make a dandy addition to some creature’s lair, and this work dress will need a long soak before it will ever be wearable again.

  “I’m all right,” I reassure him. “Keep after her! We’ve got to catch her.”

  Too late. I can hear he has stopped running. He’s tromping toward me, charging through the underbrush, breathing hard.

  I sigh, guessing what he will say before he says it. “It’s no good. I’ve lost her.”

  I can’t help myself. I grab a handful of decaying leaves and crush them in my fist. “No. No. No!”

  “Afraid so. Sounded like all hell breaking loose when you fell. I worried you’d broken your neck.” He squats beside me and brushes clumps of mud off my shoulder. “When I turned back, she’d disappeared.”

  I moan, not because of the bruises I am beginning to feel, but because I can’t bear the thought of having lost her. We were so close.

  “Are you planning to lie there all night, Lady Jane?”

  Flippant as ever. If it weren’t so dark, I would make the effort to glare at him. “This is your fault, you know. I would’ve had her if you hadn’t interfered.”

  “Maybe. Maybe not.” He pulls several twigs out of my tangled hair. “There’s another possibility. The way I saw it, that fellow had a pistol tucked inside that great big coat of his. If there hadn’t been two of us, I figure he would’ve pulled it out and blown your pretty little brains all over the forest floor.”

  Mr. Sinclair has a point, but I refuse to credit it. “Don’t be ridiculous.” I cough up something that must’ve flown in my mouth during the tumble. “My brains aren’t little.”

  “Right.” He tugs another twig out of my hair. “So, instead of blaming me for all this trouble, my lady, what do you say you put those large devious brains of yours to work finding another way to catch our traitor? Won’t she have to pass through the gate to get back to Stranje House? We could try heading her off there. Or we could lock it so she can’t come back through.”

  I sit up, knowing full well I am plastered in mud and debris. Not caring because, after all, it’s not Beau Brummell, the dandy of Mayfair, here with me. It’s Mr. Alexander Sinclair, and he is accustomed to sloppy dress. I wipe off as much grime from my person as is possible. “No, unfortunately, our weaselly little traitor can easily bypass the gate by going through hedgerows in the back pasture. Or, she could make her way down to the shoreline and come up by way of the bluffs. For that matter there are a hundred ways she can get back to Stranje House without going through the gate.”

  He tosses the twig away and stands, holding out his hand to help me to my feet. “Not much use then, that big iron gate.”

  “It stops carriages well enough.” I defend my beloved Stranje House, and busily shake a clump of mud off my skirts. “Now that I think on it, there may be another way to catch her.” I look up at him with excitement. “Come! We have to hurry back.”

  No sooner do I say this than I realize I have absolutely no notion which way to go. I glance about the pitch-black woods and scan the clouded sky, struggling to get my bearings.

  “Lost, are you, my lady?” Alexander chuckles under his breath.

  “Of course not,” I huff, wishing desperately for some landmark by which I might set my direction. I see nothing to point the way, nothing, not one blessed thing. I begin hiking uphill, having decided to retrace my steps. One of Cook’s clogs flew off during my tumble, so I proceed with a rather lopsided gait, doing my best to dodge pointy sticks and other hazards.

  “You’re certain this is the right direction?” Alexander follows close behind me, and I hear a mocking smile in his Yankee twang, rippling through his innocent question.

  I will not allow him to dampen my confidence. “You may thank your lucky stars that I do. Considering I tumbled halfway down this hill, it is a wonder I’ve any sense of direction left at all.”

  “A miracle! I shall notify the church.”

  I ignore his sarcasm. “You may play the skeptic if you wish, but I’m certain if we retrace our steps we will come out very near the clearing in which we began. From there, it will simply be a matter of following the road back to the house.”

  “Not a bad plan, as plans go. Excepting, the gal we were chasing was clever as a fox. Seemed quite familiar with these woods. Did you happen to notice she didn’t run in a straight line? By my reckoning, she led us a merry looping chase.”

  Looping? I stub the toe of my clog-less slipper against a rock. I’m hard-pressed not to yelp audibly, but I suck in the pain and limp forward as if nothing has happened. “And you noticed this how…?”

  “You’re hurt.” He grabs my shoulders and takes stock of me. “You’ve lost your shoe.”

  “Only Cook’s patten. I shall make do with my slipper.”

  “Balderdash.” He heaves out a deep breath. “I’ll have to carry you.”

  I back away from him. “You shall do no such thing. That would be highly improper.”

  “Begging your pardon, my lady, but I don’t see how there’s any way around it. If you proceed with nothing but that flimsy excuse for a shoe, you’re bound to put a thorn through your foot, or worse. That little bit of silk and felt isn’t going to stop a sharp stone.”

  Much as I am loath to admit it, he’s right. I stare down at my offending appendage, which is already soaked with muddy water. Any wound I incur will no doubt become infected. “Never mind. I will be fine.”

  “You’re not stubborn in the least are you, Lady Jane?”

  I hobble forward, ignoring his latest insult.

  He follows on my heels, so close I feel his breath on my neck as he lets out an exasperated sigh. “We can do this one of two ways. I can sling you over my shoulder like a sack of potatoes, or you can ride, as my nephews like to do, piggyback style.”

  Piggyback! A sound rumbles in my throat, half indignant squawk, half harrumph. “Certainly not! We shall go on as we are.”

  “Have it your way. It will be easier to carry you over my shoulder anyway.”

  I whip around. He stops only a few inches from me, and I crane my neck to look up at him, giving him my most ferocious glare. “Mr. Sinclair, we will observe the proprieties. The fact that you and I are out here in the wilderness alone is disastrous enough. If anyone finds out, my reputation will be in tatters. I absolutely refuse to return to Stranje House hanging over your shoulder as if I am a common tavern wench. And may I remind you, I am not above using my knife on you if the need arises.” I plant my fists on my hips and do my best to look imperious.

  He says nothing to that, and well he shouldn’t. I hope I am at least as intimidating as Tess would be in the same situation. Mr. Sinclair is prone to slow, lazy smiles. Moonlight catches on the twitching curve of his lips. He does not seem worried about me running him through with my blade. So I switch tactics, and the subject, hoping to distract him from carrying me. “Now if you will be so kind as to explain your theory on the traitor’s circuitous route. How did you notice? More to the point, do you think you know the fastest way back to the road?”

  His smirk vanishes and he stares down at me steadily, unnerving me enough that I drop my arms and take a step backward.

  “Haven’t done much hunting at night, have you, Lady Jane?”

  “What has that to do with anything?” I frown. “Do I look the sort of young lady who hunts at night?”

  He laughs. “At the moment I wouldn’t take a wager on it one way or the other. You’re full of surprises. I wouldn’t have thought you capable of cutting my throat either, and yet a few m
inutes ago you seemed ready to do exactly that.”

  “I didn’t know it was you,” I mumble. “Not until after…”

  “Yet here you are threatening me again.”

  “Mr. Sinclair, am I to gather from this roundaboutation that you cannot actually guide us back to the house? Is all your talk about looping routes and shortest distances merely bragging on your part?”

  “I don’t brag.” He glances up at the clouded sky, as if reorienting himself. “Provided you don’t stand here jawing me dead too much longer, and those clouds don’t change shape any faster than they are now, then yes, I will be happy to show you the quickest path home, my lady. Unless, of course, you prefer to take the long way? I know how much you enjoy my company, and I wouldn’t want to deprive you, but it seems to me we’ve a fairly serious matter to attend to this evening.”

  “Good heavens, Mr. Sinclair! Do you make a study in how to annoy me? For pity’s sake, let’s be on our way.” I roll out my hand indicating he should take the lead.

  Instead, he bows, overdoing it on purpose. While I am casting my gaze heavenward in a silent plea for patience, he swoops me up in his arms, cradling me like a helpless infant.

  “Put me down this instant!” I slap my hand against his chest.

  “We are in a hurry, Lady Jane. I haven’t time to humor you.” His long legs are covering the hillside in strides that far outpace anything I could do. “First off, there isn’t one single solitary soul out here in the black of night to observe your sacred proprieties. Second, if you injure yourself it will slow us down even more. Do you want to catch this traitor or not?”

  I say nothing, brooding because he is right again. The wretch. And I cannot believe he is carrying me, holding me against his chest as if he has every right to such an intimate act. What’s worse, what is even more inexcusable, is that I do not altogether dislike it. In fact, I begin to feel self-conscious because I stink of rotting leaves and moldy muck. I am about to open my mouth and apologize when he cuts me off.

  “Save your lectures, Lady Jane. When we get to the road I will set you on your feet, so no one will think you are a tavern wench.” He looks irritated for some reason. “Not that anyone ever would. One look at you puts that idea to rest once and for all. There is nothing about you nearly so comfortable or amiable as a tavern wench.”

  Normally, his remarks set my teeth on edge. Normally, I have a quick rejoinder. Or, if I am at a loss for words, I sometimes feel an overwhelming urge to pummel him. Normally. But the fact that he finds me less amiable than a serving wench wounds me in unexpected places. I find I’m unable to speak. It’s as if he slapped me.

  He shifts me in his arms as he wends his way sideways across the hill. “It would help if you could lower your standards enough to hang on to my neck,” he says rather gruffly, trying to maneuver us between two tall trees.

  I wrap my arm up over his shoulder, still keeping mum, wishing I were someone else. Someone sweet and kind, like Sera. Or someone adorable and clever, like Georgie. Anyone else. Even a tavern wench.

  Two

  COLD HARD FACTS

  Mr. Sinclair marches on without speaking a word, a rare thing for him. The way he is stomping through the underbrush I worry he may startle an adder hunting for mice beneath the bushes. There’s no point in alarming him, so I keep it to myself. He stops to adjust his grip on me and glances up at the heavens as if getting his bearings even though there is nary a star to be seen.

  Curse this wretched silence between us! I can’t stand it another second. “How is it you’re able to use the sky as a compass when it is completely overcast?”

  It’s a perfectly reasonable question, not insulting in the least. I’ve no idea why his jaw buckles so tight. He pushes through a bank of scrub oak and finally decides to answer. “It’s an old woodsman’s trick. One I learned from my pa when he took me hunting.”

  “A trick?” I ask, using my most congenial tavern-wench voice.

  Wearing a narrow expression, he glances down at me as if he suspects me of laying a trap for him. I strive to keep my countenance as innocent as possible, as much like a trollop-y innkeeper’s daughter as I can manage.

  He still looks like he doesn’t quite trust me, but explains anyway. “When I first started out on this little adventure of yours, I noticed the wind was blowing east. There were also some distinctive formations in the clouds. I took note of those as well. So long as the wind doesn’t send them sailing too fast or switch direction too rapidly, they’ll do for a landmark, albeit a moving one. It’s a matter of keeping track of the wind direction and speed.”

  “Clever,” I say, and nod, truly meaning the compliment. It is a handy tool. One I catalogue in the back of my mind for the next time I must chase someone on a dark, moonless night. Another, even more important, question needles at me. “What possessed you to follow me in the first place?”

  I feel the muscles in his chest stiffen. “If you must know, I couldn’t sleep.”

  Why, I want to demand. My imagination flares up, racing to all sorts of foolishly romantic conclusions. “You couldn’t sleep?” I ask, as if it’s an insignificant question.

  “No. So I stepped out into the garden for some air, thinking it would clear my head. That’s when I saw you creeping past. I suppose I was curious as to what sort of mischief you were getting up to at that hour.”

  “I wasn’t creeping.” I bite my tongue, endeavoring to keep from letting him goad me into another argument. “Ladies do not creep. Didn’t you see the traitor stealing out in front of me?”

  “Regrettably, no.”

  My breath comes out in a long tired exhale and I sag against him. “A pity. It would’ve been handy if you’d seen something to help us identify her.”

  As we trudge through tall grass, he seems more relaxed, as if he’s no longer annoyed, and stares at me, taking my measure.

  I swallow, suddenly feeling awkward. I’m normally contented with my appearance. I’m quite ordinary and that suits my purposes. Pretty enough to get by, but not so much that anyone ever stares. I haven’t Georgiana’s extraordinary red curls, or Sera’s silken white-blond hair. I have plain features, brown hair, and nondescript hazel eyes. I suppose I am a little above average in height, but other than that, there is nothing about me to attract attention.

  That’s why I fidget uncomfortably when Alexander’s gaze skims over me. I’m not accustomed to anyone staring at me. I nervously push back a strand of muddied hair stringing across my cheek before holding on to his shoulder again.

  With an indecipherable sigh, Alexander looks away and focuses his attention on climbing over a large fallen log. He shifts me in his arms, which by now must surely be aching. Yet he doesn’t complain, not even a tiny groan. So much nobility on his part makes me want to apologize for not being a more agreeable person.

  “I’m sorry,” I start to say, but it catches in my throat and only half of it escapes out into the night air. It does so at the same moment we startle an owl from a branch directly above our heads. Alexander ducks instinctively and I cling to him tighter.

  The enormous creature flaps away, shrieking like a cat whose tail has been stepped on. We grin at each other, embarrassed at being surprised. It takes a moment for our heartbeats to settle. His lips curve into that half-cocked teasing grin of his. “You started to say something, didn’t you?”

  I shake my head.

  “You did,” he insists. “I would swear I heard you say the word sorry. Couldn’t believe my ears. Yet, I distinctly heard that very expression pass your lips. Sorry for what, my lady?”

  “Jane. You may call me Jane.”

  “I thought you forbade me such informalities.” He sounds irked. “Never mind your title, let’s get back to this remarkable sorry-ness of yours. What are you sorry about, Lady Jane?”

  I cannot prevent the indignant swell of my breast. I have just granted him permission to use my given name and he glosses over it as if it’s of no consequence.

  I am n
o longer sorry, not in the least.

  I sniff. “It was nothing. I’m sorry you have to carry me all this way. That’s all.” I might’ve said anything. I could’ve said I was sorry for smelling like a putrid bog. I wish I had, rather than diminishing the one thing I actually admired him for doing.

  “Wasn’t your decision, your highness, now was it? It was mine. And a great burden it has been, I assure you. Yet, somehow, out of sheer force of will, I managed to haul you uphill and across the countryside, back to our starting point. Look about you, your majesty. We have arrived in the clearing.”

  I’m amazed at the speed with which he has gotten us here. The traitor must’ve indeed run us in an indirect route. Who could have run so fast and so sure? Only one possibility occurs to me. The thought strikes my stomach with the force of a cannonball. I sink against Mr. Sinclair’s arms. It can’t be Tess. I refuse to think it. She would never do such a thing. It defies logic. She wouldn’t.

  But if not her …

  “Who could’ve run like that?” I don’t intend to say it aloud, but it slips out unbidden. “Not Tess. It can’t be Tess.”

  Alexander strides to the road and sets me on my feet, still holding me closer than he ought. I suppose he’s simply making certain I’m steady enough to walk. He sympathetically rubs my shoulder with his palm. “If not her, then who?” It unsettles me that he asks this question with such a mournful tone.

  “Not her.” I bow my head. “Tess has risked her life for us. Several times.”

  It can’t be her.

  Mr. Sinclair lends me his arm so I can limp along beside him as he starts walking up the road. “Well then, let us proceed on that assumption.” The gravel beneath my slipper still digs into my foot, but I do my best to hide the discomfort.

  “Let us sort through your list of possible suspects and eliminate them until we find the culprit.” Alexander approaches this predicament like an engineer. As if this problem breaking my heart can be solved as easily as a mathematical equation. If only it was that simple—a tidy column of numbers that only need to be added up in order to arrive at the right answer. In this case, no matter what the answer is, it will hurt like the very devil.