Have I committed an offense punishable by hanging?
Roark prowled his cell. Ten irate paces to the wall. Ten fuming paces back. The lone candle flickered but valiantly continued to burn despite being scarcely more than a nub.
His last one.
The weak flame cast meandering shadows across the rustic walls. On a stone above the table, he’d discovered one hundred and seventeen etched marks. Some pitiable sot had spent almost four months locked in this cell.
What time was it? Miss Ferguson promised to return after dinner. Where was she? He shot a glance to the candle before returning his gaze to the sooty darkness beyond his cell. At most, it would burn another hour.
He tried to conserve the tapers. His fear of the dark, particularly the inkiness caused by being a good twenty feet beneath the keep, had him burning a light constantly. Roark wrinkled his nose. They stunk too, worse than he did. Likely they were made of mutton fat. He sniffed. The whole place reeked of mildew and dank, musty dampness.
He slept little. He’d only been able to do so by repeating in his head the scriptures Maman had recited to him. They’d not brought him much comfort. However, despite his vow to never strike a woman, daydreams of paddling Miss Ferguson’s backside brought him a sense of satisfaction,
When he did nod off, the squeaks and squeals of rats and mice fighting over the remnants of his meal woke him. He’d taken to resting with his food tucked near him, throwing crumbs or leftovers outside the cell. Still, the more daring of the rodents ventured within.
He shuddered. He’d dozed off a bit ago and woke with a grayish-brown rat the size of his three-legged cat, Achilles, perched on his chest, grooming itself.
Roark had remained stock-still. He’d no desire to be bitten by the brazen rat or the fleas it no doubt hosted. In the medical books he’d studied, he’d read of numerous incidences of humans contracting typhus, cholera, and the plague due to exposure or bites by infected vermin.
Another black mark against Miss Ferguson.
No doubt she hadn’t considered the dangers of close association with rats. Likely, the addlepate was unaware of the hazards, not that she’d care. She was obsessed. No matter how many times he told her his name, she adamantly insisted he was Edgar and, therefore, posed a risk to Yvette.
Instead of scampering off, the rodent had reared onto its haunches and wiped at his nose and ears with his front paws. Grizzled whiskers twitching, the bugger stared at Roark with his black-button eyes.
Then casually, as if it were an everyday occurrence to bathe on a human, the scraggy rat had ambled across Roark’s abdomen and down the length of his leg. After giving him a cursory look, the little beast hopped onto the pallet, and sauntered from the cell.
Roark cocked his head. Were those muffled footsteps in the distance? She was coming—at last. And none too soon. The candle would last scant minutes more.
The glow announcing her progress grew in size and intensity as Miss Ferguson neared. She was moving rapidly. Where was the familiar click of her boot heels?
Then, she was there.
Roark gaped awestruck at the vision before him. Her coffee-colored hair piled into an intricate Grecian knot atop her head displayed her slender ivory neck exquisitely. The deep scarlet gown clung to her slim figure. Jewels in her hair, earlobes, and around her neck sparkled in the lantern’s light.
Petite perfection.
He glimpsed the creamy swell of her bosom as she struggled to slide on a slipper. Her subtle perfume filled the air. Desire speared him.
Blister and damn.
His groin tightened involuntary. Roark cursed inwardly at his body’s betrayal. Adaira Ferguson was the last woman on earth he wanted to be attracted to.
CHAPTER 7
Halfway through the after-dinner entertainment, Adaira pleaded a fierce headache. She promised to return as soon as she took some powders. The moment the drawing room was out of view, she rucked her skirts to her knees. She sprinted upstairs to fetch the candles, food, and other supplies she’d hidden in her chamber.
Tiptoeing back downstairs, she peeked into the great hall. It was deserted, except for Brayan. He took a long drink from a silver flask before snatching a confection from a plate atop the sideboard. He stuffed the whole pastry into his mouth. A dab of clotted cream lingered at the corner of his lips.
“Brayan, whatever are you doing in here?”
“I excused meself to use the necessary. I couldn’t resist helping meself to a few more of Sorcha’s pasties.”
Adaira hurried to the cabinet. Opening it, she retrieved a half-full bottle of wine. Should she also take another? No, she’d plenty to carry already. As she snapped the cupboard closed, the cork popped off the bottle. The stopper rolled across the floor. “Dash it all! I don’t have time for this.”
Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, Brayan stopped the cork with his shoe. He swayed the merest bit. “I thought ye might need help carrying supplies to yer prisoner.”
He winked conspiratorially.
“No, Brayan. I only told you I was venturing below so you could cover for me if I’m delayed in returning.”
He set the flask on the sideboard before bending to retrieve the stopper. His kilt tilted dangerously high, revealing whisky-brown hair on his muscled thighs. Adaira quickly averted her gaze, something every Scotswoman was accustomed to doing. She’d seen a goodly number of men’s buttocks over the years, and on several uncomfortable occasions, other manly attributes as well.
She couldn’t, for the life of her, understand their pride in such a peculiar looking appendage. To have to walk about with that thing dangling about, swinging back-and-forth . . .
Well, it had to be most annoying and cumbersome. Especially the larger ones when a man engaged in physical activities like wrestling. Whatever had the Good Lord been thinking?
Thank God she was a woman.
“Here ye be.” Brayan reached for the wine. He pressed the plug firmly into the top before handing her the bottle. He took another long draught of whisky. After replacing the cap, he tucked the flask into his coat.
Adaira speared a worried glance toward the entrance. “Thank you. You’d best hurry back to the others. I’ll return as quickly as I can.”
Once she reached the lower levels, she all but ran the entire way to Marquardt. She’d no doubt her slippers were ruined, but there wasn’t time to change them. She was expected to rejoin her family straightaway.
Just as she reached his cell, one shoe slid off her heel. “Confounded slipper.”
Breathless and hopping awkwardly, she tried to shove her foot in. A difficult task with a bulky sack wedged beneath her other arm and a lantern hanging from her hand.
“You’re late,” Marquardt snapped.
She managed, at last, to tug the silk edge over her heel. She straightened and leveled him with an exasperated glower.
“You needn’t sulk. I came as soon as I was able.” Adaira resisted the urge to yank her bodice higher. His gaze was riveted on her chest, a scowl distorting his handsome face.
She was daft for wearing this dress tonight. She’d known she’d have to venture below the keep. No doubt the cur had enjoyed a generous view of her breasts while she struggled to put on the slipper.
Her nipples puckered.
Confounded, traitorous body.
Her reaction was due to the dungeon’s coolness, not his heated gaze on her flesh. You lie whispered an annoying little voice in her head.
Adaira couldn’t deny he was disturbingly attractive. She knew him to be a scoundrel, yet every time he looked at her, something in his eyes caused a peculiar physical reaction. One she refused to examine. The tingling ache in her breasts and lower, much lower, was most peculiar. She’d no romantic interest in any man, least of all him.
Marquardt reached through the bars. “The candle’s nearly burnt out.”
Adaira glanced beyond him to the table. The stub flickered and sputtered. Gads, but the man went through the tapers. What did he do, burn them at night? Did he never sleep? From his haggard appearance, she’d wager not a whole lot.
A mere foot separated them. She studied him for a long moment. Dark stubble shadowed his jaw giving him a rakish, pirate-like appearance. The mark her crop left had faded to a bruised ribbon. Bluish circles rimmed his eyes.
She’d never seen eyes his shade of blue before. The color of sun-bleached hydrangea blossoms, rimmed in cobalt with silvery flecks embedded in them. When he was angry, they darkened to midnight. An icy shiver chased across her bare arms and shoulders at his unblinking glare.
After hanging the lantern on a hook beside the door, she turned her attention to the bundle. Opening the coarse sack, she rummaged inside. She paused and looked at him, then stared pointedly at the mussed pallet. He knew the routine. She wouldn’t budge until he was seated across the cell.
“Insufferable shrew.” He stomped to the makeshift bed. He sat, lolling against the wall. His forearm rested on his bent knee.
Adaira squatted, her gown billowing about her ankles. After setting the pistol on the ground beside her, she removed the candles. With one eye on him, she retrieved the gun before approaching the cell. She set the candles a couple inches beyond the door.
“I brought you some tooth powder and a brush.”
She placed them alongside the candles. She swiftly laid out the other items: two large flasks of water, the bottle of wine, a basket of food, along with a wash cloth and a bar of spicy soap she’d pilfered from Ewan’s bathing chamber.
In one swift, agile motion, Marquardt angled to his feet. Adaira withdrew several steps as he stalked to the door. Smirking, he seized the candles. He strode to the table, and using the flame from the nearly extinct taper, he lit another. Its amber flame sprang to incandescent life.
Securing the new one in place, he cast her a sidelong glance. “Might I have a lamp instead?”
“Do you take me for a dimwit? A lamp won’t pass through these bars.” She fluttered her fingers at the iron rods. “Once I opened the door, you’d be on me like filth on a hog.”
Hands on his lean hips, he heaved a gusty sigh. “How long do you intend to keep me imprisoned?”
She eyed him. Even disheveled and in stockinged feet he exuded confidence and a strange charismatic power.
His well-formed lips tightened when she didn’t answer.
“I assure you, the longer I’m kept locked in this hellhole, the harsher my retribution will be.”
With nary a word of thanks, he gathered the food from the basket and after depositing it on the table, collected the rest of the goods she’d brought.
The entire time, she kept well beyond his reach. She also kept the pistol leveled at him. He gave it a cursory glance. Did he suspect it wasn’t loaded? He appeared more cynical than alarmed when she’d pointed the gun at him.
“I. . .” Adaira clamped her mouth shut. Her back teeth ached from closing it so hard. She stared at him for a long moment. His features were unyielding. He might as well know the truth.
With a slight shrug, she said, “I won’t be letting you out. Ewan will.”
Marquardt stiffened. He slowly straightened, his gaze riveted on her. “Sethwick?”
Scowling, he cast a swift glance upward as if he thought to see Ewan through the ceiling. A corded vein in Marquardt’s throat stood out beneath her scratches.
“He knows I’m caged here? Does your father also know?” Marquardt ground through clinched teeth.
He clenched and unclenched his hands. Adaira had no doubt he itched to hit her. It came as no surprise. Striking a woman was child’s play to a man who’d attack women, commit murder, and betray his country.
After several minutes in which Marquardt visibly struggled for control, his expression softened, and he relaxed. He shook his head. A strand of wavy hair fell across his forehead. “I don’t believe you. You see, I know Sethwick well.”
Selecting an apple from the store of food she’d brought, he took a bite and ambled across the cell to stand before the door.
“His honor wouldn’t permit it.”
Honor. Something Marquardt made perfectly clear she lacked. What did he know of honor? She glared at him. “No, I mean, yes, Ewan’s an honorable man. But no, he doesn’t know you’re here. Father isn’t aware either.”
A barely discernible noise sounded from somewhere in the dungeon. A rat? Frowning, she glanced over her shoulder and nervously fingered the cross at her neck. Nothing but shadows shrouded the passageway.
“Pray tell me, Miss Ferguson, why, if he doesn’t know I’m here, will he be the one to release me?” Marquardt enunciated each word as if speaking to a simpleton.
Another noise echoed. No doubt about it. Something or someone was moving about the keep’s lower levels. How far away?
Adaira hoped it was a rodent or a weasel. Marquardt heard the sound too. He suddenly straightened to peer past her. His frigid gaze dipped to hers, then skipped beyond her once more. He dared a satisfied grin.
“Halloo,” he hollered. “Is anyone there? I’m the Earl of Clarendon. I’m being held prisoner.”
She shook her head, sending him a contemptuous scowl. “Stop shouting, you dolt. It’s but a weasel or a stoat, perhaps even a squirrel. They come in through the drains or gaps where a stone’s gone missing in the wall.”
She motioned with the pistol for him to move away from the door once more. “I’m surprised none have paid you a visit as yet. As for Ewan, he’s away in London, just now.”
With what could only be described as a derisive grunt, Marquardt obliged her and sauntered away from the door. He rested against the far wall, ankles crossed, crunching on the apple.
A muffled thud, as if someone had bumped into something, echoed through the lower chambers.
He perked up. “That was no pest.”
Adaira whirled to peer into the gloom.
“I say, can you hear me? I’m locked in a cell.”
She spun back around.
He’d moved to the door, his hands fisted around the bars. Drat it. She was losing control of the situation. His presence mustn’t be known to anyone other than Brayan yet.
She bent to retrieve the sack. No doubt Brayan had come looking for her at one of her parents’ behest. Marquardt absolutely must not see him. Brayan would boast he’d helped lock the man up. From the sound of the crashing about, he’d sampled the flask a good deal more and was utterly bosky.
“Blast and da—” She stopped as Marquardt’s eyebrows flew to his hairline in obvious disapproval.
Lowering her voice, she hurried on. “Ewan’s expected back any day. When he returns, I’ll tell him I apprehended you. He can do with you what he wants. I’m quite sure it will involve the authorities.”
“Apprehended?” He shook his head. “You’re still sticking to the absurd notion that I’m Edgar?”
He tossed the apple core between the bars. It bounced before rolling to a stop barely three feet beyond her. A rat promptly appeared, scrambling to snatch the core in his pointed, yellow teeth. The little beast raced down the passageway with two other rodents squeaking their outrage in its wake.
Marquardt had done that on purpose, the lout.
What did he expect her to do? Scream and swoon? The women whose company he typically kept, no doubt, would have. It was expected of delicate, well-bred young ladies.
Another mark against her lack of social graces.
She lifted a shoulder. What did she care what he thought of her? He was no saint. Ironic that such a despicable knave as he, was concerned with society’s expectations.
She draped the sack over her arm.
“Leaving so soon?” He arched a brow at her, while quirking the corners of his mouth in disdain.
“I must return above stairs.”
And stop Brayan—please, God, let that be who’s causing the racket—from reaching the cell.
“It’s a wonder no one has become suspicious of your sneaking about. Tell me, why does your negligent family take such little interest in you? Are you so irredeemable they truly don’t care?”
He was accusing her of being irredeemable?
The Earl's Enticement (Castle Bride Series) Page 7
