Sally MacKenzie Bundle

by Sally MacKenzie

  “Battle?” He’d like to do battle. He’d like to run Lord Andrew through with a lance.

  Meg and Parks separated from the group, going off to inspect some weeds no doubt. At least Andrew couldn’t harm Lizzie with Mrs. Larson present.

  “Oh, Lord Westbrooke, there are some words carved in this stone. I think it must be Latin.”

  Robbie grunted. Wouldn’t the girl be done soon?

  “Could you come see? Perhaps you can tell me what it says. I can’t read Latin.”

  “Certainly, Lady Caroline.” Of course she couldn’t read Latin—he’d be surprised if she could read much English beyond that necessary to understand the fashion plates. Lady Caroline did not strike him as a scholar.

  He took a last look at Lizzie and Lord Andrew. The man appeared to be behaving himself. How could he not? Mrs. Larson and Sir George were standing right there.

  “Lord Westbrooke?”

  “Coming.”

  He forced himself to turn away. He was being absurd. Yes, Tynweith’s house parties had the reputation of being fast, but they were not really dangerous except perhaps for naïve young debutantes who had more hair than wit. Lizzie was not totty-headed. She would not go off alone with a man of Andrew’s stamp.

  “Over here, Lord Westbrooke. See? What does it say?”

  Lady Caroline actually looked excited. He smiled and bent to examine the inscription. She was almost pleasant when she dropped her society airs.

  “Is it a blessing? A mention of an especially brave knight?”

  Robbie ran his fingers over the carving to be certain. “Antonio erat hic.”

  “Yes? What does it mean?”

  “Anthony was here.” Robbie grinned. “Sorry. I suspect some bored young schoolboy carved this when he escaped his tutor one day. Perhaps one of Tynweith’s ancestors. You can ask him if he has a forebear by that name.”

  “Oh.” Lady Caroline looked crestfallen for a moment and then perked up. “Perhaps there are crypts. Do you think there might be? Could a knight be buried right under our feet?”

  Robbie hated to disillusion her. “I doubt it. We can look, but I suspect any bodies are buried at the village church.”

  For the next few minutes, he helped Lady Caroline brush aside dead leaves and encroaching ivy. Surprisingly, the ivy was the only thing encroaching. He had not been pleased with the girl when she’d burst into Lizzie’s room with Felicity, the two of them looking for his naked self, but now she appeared to be truly enthusiastic about exploring the ruin. When they disturbed a field mouse in a tangle of dried vines, she screamed but did not try to leap into his arms.

  He was almost in charity with her when he finally persuaded her to return to the rest of the party.

  His feelings of good will did not last long. Something had happened while they were poking around the ruins. People were standing in tight knots, talking and shaking their heads. He picked up his pace.

  “Please, Lord Westbrooke, you go too fast.”

  “My apologies, Lady Caroline.”

  He tried to slow his steps so the girl’s fat little legs could keep up with him. He scanned the groups for Lizzie. He did not see her. Lord Andrew was missing also, but so were the duchess and Lady Felicity.

  “You missed all the excitement, my lord.” Lady Dunlee was the first to greet him. She was standing with Lord Botton and Mr. Dodsworth. Her eyes gleamed with suppressed gossip.

  “Excitement?”

  “Indeed.” Lord Botton spoke as Lady Dunlee was opening her mouth. “Hartford came to collect his wife. Took her back to Lendal Park. Was quite vocal about what he planned to do with her once he got her there.” Botton giggled. “Said he planned to start on the way.”

  “In the carriage, while the horses were moving.” Dodsworth’s voice held a note of wonder. “He was going to f—”

  “Mr. Dodsworth! Please!” Lady Dunlee put her arm around Lady Caroline. “There are ladies present—including an impressionable young lady.”

  Dodsworth had the grace to flush. “My pardon, Lady Dunlee, Lady Caroline. No insult intended. Forgot myself.”

  “Obviously.” Lady Dunlee sniffed.

  “Did Lady Elizabeth return with them?”

  The group stared at Robbie as if he were mad.

  “Be a bit in the way, don’t you think?” Lord Botton coughed into his hand. “You did understand what the duke had in mind?”

  “Bed play,” Dodsworth said helpfully, “only not in a bed. In a carriage. Hartford was going to f—”

  “Mr. Dodsworth!”

  “Sorry, sorry. I just can’t get over…It never occurred to me…. In a carriage…. Horses, you know…I just never thought…Perhaps I could finally…” He turned bright red. “Very stimulating thought, that’s all.”

  Lady Dunlee narrowed her eyes. “Have you been drinking?”

  “No! No more than anyone else, that is. I just—”

  “If you will excuse me?” Watching Dodsworth tie himself in verbal knots or speculating on the duke’s sexual preferences wasn’t getting Robbie any closer to locating Lizzie. He spotted Parks and Meg. Perhaps they would know where Lizzie was. They had been with her not so many minutes ago.

  “Parks.”

  “Westbrooke. You missed quite a spectacle.”

  “It was terrible.” Meg looked ready to hit someone. Robbie stepped back slightly so he did not present a target. “That old man is despicable.”

  “That old man is a duke, Miss Peterson.”

  “I don’t care, Mr. Parker-Roth. Duke or drayman, no one should be so rude. The poor duchess.”

  Meg was warming up for a long diatribe. Robbie was certain Hartford was lower than pond scum, but he didn’t have time to listen to a verbal drubbing.

  “I’m actually more concerned with Lizzie at the moment, Meg. I don’t see her. Do either of you know where she is?”

  “I believe Lady Elizabeth was going up to the battlements,” Parks said.

  Meg nodded. “Yes. We couldn’t get the door opened yesterday.”

  “She and Mrs. Larson both wanted to go, I believe,” Parks said. “Sir George and Lord Andrew are escorting them.”

  Panic grabbed Robbie’s chest. “Mrs. Larson is standing over there with Tynweith, Parks.”

  “Hmm. So she is. And I see Sir George there, too. So that leaves…”

  “Lord Andrew.” Bloody hell. “If you’ll excuse me?”

  Lizzie did not care for preceding Lord Andrew up the stairs. He said he wished to be in a position to catch her if she stumbled. She believed he wished to observe her ankles.

  She paused on the last turn. “We are almost to the top, my lord. Shall I step aside now and let you pass?”

  “No, no, Lady Elizabeth. Please keep going.”

  “But you will need to be in front when we reach the door. It is stuck quite securely. You will want to use your complete strength to open it.”

  He smirked. “We’ll see.”

  “What do you mean, ‘we’ll see’? I assure you, I could not get it to budge.”

  His smirk grew. “Lady Elizabeth, just because you cannot open the door, does not mean I cannot. I do not anticipate any difficulty. And this way I will not block your first view of the battlements.”

  Lizzie suppressed a strong urge to put her hands on Lord Andrew’s shoulders and push hard. He would get a taste of her strength and she would get the opportunity to hear the satisfying sound of his conceited head hitting the steps all the way to the ground.

  She turned and continued climbing.

  “Here we are, my lord. How do you intend—oh!”

  Lord Andrew stepped onto the stair right behind her and put both hands on the door. She was trapped by his body. More than trapped. He was pressed up against her—she felt his length all along her back. She did not like it. A whisper of panic fluttered along her spine.

  Thankfully he made short work of the refractory door. One push and the job was done. She would have been exceedingly annoyed if she’d not been
so happy to be free of him. She stepped quickly over the threshold and onto the battlements.

  The wind whipped over her, stealing her breath and threatening to take her bonnet. She laughed, and the wind stole her laughter, too.

  She loved this weather. The clouds, roiling masses of gray, hung so low she could almost touch them. She took a deep breath. The air was damp, chill, wild. She smelled the storm coming, tasted its flat, metallic flavor.

  She leaned on the parapet. Eddies of dead leaves swirled around her skirts. In the distance, the village church steeple jutted up into the sky as if it would prick the storm clouds and let loose the rain. To the west, the brownish yellow walls of Lendal Park caught a stray ray of sunlight.

  She straightened to take in the view from the other side of the tower and collided with a large, solid object.

  “What?” She tried to turn, but found her way blocked by Lord Andrew’s chest. The wind must have masked his footsteps. She twisted to see his face over her shoulder. “My lord, you are crowding me.”

  “That is my intention.” He shoved her up against the parapet so her breasts flattened against the stone. She felt something sharp at the back of her neck, then the scrape of his fingers on her skin. There was a rending sound and her dress sagged.

  “Lord Andrew!” She tried to push away from the wall—she couldn’t. Her hands were trapped under her. She threw her hips back instead.

  “Mmm. That feels good.” His voice was thick. He thrust his hips forward and a hard ridge pushed into her bottom.

  She froze—and felt her corset tighten briefly, then loosen. The wind whistled over her shift.

  “What are you doing?!”

  “Cracking you like a lobster so I can get to the tender meat inside.” He grabbed her shoulders and jerked her around. He still had a knife in his right hand.

  She tried not to panic, but her heart was pounding. It was difficult to get the air to speak.

  “Lord Andrew, please. Stop.”

  He kept her imprisoned with his weight. She assessed her chances of getting to the door and down the stairs to safety. They were not good. There was no hope of arguing with a knife in such close quarters, and even if she did get free, she would have trouble navigating the old, winding stairs without tripping on her loosened clothing. Pitching headlong down those stone steps would be dangerous indeed.

  She glanced at Andrew’s face. Perhaps not as dangerous as staying here with this madman.

  “You won’t get away, sweetings, so don’t hurt yourself trying.” He chuckled. “I have much more amusing ways to hurt you.”

  “No.” She was losing her battle with panic. Fear made it hard to get even one word out.

  “Oh, yes.” He tilted his head, studying her face. “It would be somewhat amusing to have you with your headgear on, but I think we will leave that treat for another day.” He tugged on her ribbons, plucked her bonnet off, and threw it over the parapet. “Today I believe it will be more entertaining to see how you look with the wind in your hair.”

  Lizzie craned around to see her poor hat tossed by the winds to land on the grass outside the castle. If only they were above the courtyard. Then Robbie or Meg or one of the other guests would see her bonnet sailing through the air and come investigate.

  Her movement was a mistake. The ridge throbbed against her belly.

  “Nice.” He tangled his hand in her hair, pulling the pins out and throwing them over the parapet as well. Her hair tumbled over her shoulders. The wind caught it and whipped it around her face. She pushed on his chest. Perhaps she could free herself now.

  She couldn’t.

  He jerked her dress and corset down. She saw a moment of opportunity and brought her knee toward his crotch. He evaded her easily. Laughing, he pressed against her again. He caught the tip of his knife under the neck of her shift.

  “No!”

  “Yes.” He pricked the fabric and tore it to her waist, exposing her breasts. He studied them. “Too small for my tastes, but I’ve seen worse.”

  “Lord Andrew, my brother will kill you.”

  “No, I think he will insist I marry you. But don’t worry. I will graciously agree to do so—and then I shall have complete control of your property and your person. Won’t that be fun?”

  She bucked against him. He laughed thickly.

  “Remember how I said I didn’t bite?”

  Whatever was he getting at? “Yes.”

  “I lied.” He dropped his knife and bent his head, closing his teeth around her nipple.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Where the hell was Westbrooke?

  Felicity stretched up on her toes to take some of the pressure off her arm. She’d lost all sensation in it. It might as well belong to another person—or to a corpse.

  What if no one came? What if she were left here?

  She looked at the key lying on the table. She’d thought she’d considered everything. It had seemed a good plan to put it there—more damning evidence when everyone found Westbrooke with her. She reached for it. Impossible. The little feeling she still had in her left arm presented itself as shooting pain. The key wasn’t inches from her fingers, it was feet. No amount of stretching would work.

  Damn it all, why had she tried to be so clever? She should have kept the bloody thing in her pocket.

  Where the frigging hell was Westbrooke? He should have been here by now. Hadn’t Charlotte sent him yet? No, the stupid bitch must have forgotten to play her part. Surely she would remember before everyone left? When she saw Felicity wasn’t there to get in the carriages, Charlotte would recall her role.

  She hoped. Charlotte had been behaving in an exceedingly odd manner since they’d arrived at the house party. She’d been nervous. On edge. And then today she’d been the opposite—dreamy, languid, as if her mind were somewhere else.

  Where? Felicity frowned. Charlotte had cast more than one look at their host during luncheon. Was there something between those two? Perhaps. That miniature in Charlotte’s room—that was certainly peculiar. And now that she pondered it, Charlotte did have the look of a woman who’d been thoroughly bedded recently. But Charlotte didn’t like bed play. Or, she hadn’t liked it. Had Tynweith changed her opinion?

  Interesting. If dear Charlotte didn’t do her part, Felicity would see to it that Hartford heard all the details of his wife’s activities. The duke was very possessive. He would not take kindly to Tynweith’s cuckolding him.

  Damn.

  If Charlotte didn’t play her part, Felicity would be stuck in this dungeon for hours.

  She noticed movement out of the corner of her eye and turned. A large black spider was crawling over her elbow. She jerked away. The spider kept crawling. She couldn’t feel it. She reached up with her free hand and flicked the creature away. She couldn’t feel the touch of her own fingers.

  She could hear though. The silence was heavy, but there was a scrambling in the far corner of the room. What the hell was that? She squinted. Did she see the gleam of a rat’s eyes?

  She moaned. She had to get out of here.

  She forced herself to take a deep breath. If she called out now, anyone might come to her aid. Mrs. Larson or Lord Dunlee. The plot would be ruined.

  She could not let her emotions run away with her. Tynweith had said the party would only stay another half hour. At least ten minutes must have passed since then—more like fifteen. She didn’t have much longer to wait. She just had to be patient.

  “I could kill the man.”

  “Edward, please. Get hold of yourself.”

  “But he’s a frigging idiot, Nell. You heard him.” Tynweith fought to keep his voice down. He could see Lady Dunlee’s avid expression as clearly as Nell could.

  “Yes, I heard him. He’s despicable—but he is also a duke and her grace’s husband. You have no rights here, Edward.”

  “I’ve the right of any gentleman to see that ladies are treated with respect!”

  “Shh. Yes, of course. But if you acted on that
right, you would cause severe speculation as to your motives—you have never bestirred yourself to defend any other lady’s feelings.”

  “I’ve never seen them violated so publicly.”

  “And what is more, I don’t believe Charlotte would thank you. She went with Hartford. She didn’t ask for your aid.”

  “No, she didn’t.” That had galled him. After last night she must know she could turn to him for protection.

  Yet Hartford had not offered her injury, really. He’d merely wanted to exercise his marital rights. He’d been beyond boorish to publicly humiliate Charlotte by advertising his intentions, but that had been his only real sin. Some would not call it a sin at all.

  Nell was right. He would have looked extremely odd leaping to Charlotte’s defense. More than odd—suspicious.

  Charlotte wanted the world to think any child she might get as the result of this house party’s activities was Hartford’s. This afternoon’s little drama was perfect for her purposes. If she were found to be increasing, all the ton would congratulate the duke, especially after Lady Dunlee spread the story of his arrival, as she was sure to do.

  This was for the best—but he hated it. To think of the old man pawing Charlotte’s body, putting himself between her lovely thighs…

  God, it made him want to puke.

  “Are you all right, Edward?”

  “Yes.” He turned away from Nell. “Where is everyone? We should be returning.”

  “No, Edward. Not yet.”

  “Why not? The storm is coming. No one wants to get wet. I can’t imagine anyone cares if we leave a few minutes early.”

  “Charlotte may care.”

  “What?”

  “Think, Edward. If you rush everyone back, we may arrive only shortly after the duke and duchess—sooner if you spring the horses as I can tell you are in the mood to do.”

  “So?”

  “So you will embarrass the duchess further. You’ll give Hartford another opportunity to entertain our guests with his crude remarks. And if he has engaged in any…activities in his coach, the duchess’s person may show some signs of it—her clothing or hair might be disarranged.” Nell put her hand on his shoulder. “I think she would prefer not to have an audience, don’t you?”