She glanced over her shoulder to see if Mrs. Blackthorn followed. The dray had moved on, and the carriage abruptly jerked into motion. The door she’d left open slammed closed from the force of its own weight, suggesting that the driver had indeed been shouting at the cow and hadn’t seen her escape. In the twilight, Fiona could see nothing of her maid either. As the carriage rolled past, she realized she was alone.
She’d walked many a street alone in her life. She just rejoiced that she’d escaped that madman of a driver. She would worry over Colin and Mrs. Blackthorn once she was warm and had arranged transportation.
The farmer tugging his cow back to pasture gave her a look of curiosity as she stalked past, dragging her expensive traveling cloak through the mud, but curious stares had no effect on her either. The temper that had simmered quietly while she explored her plight now held full rein.
Someone had tried to abduct her! She would have them swung by the neck except she was too cold and too worried to figure out the details of catching them.
The inn she approached was obviously not a coaching inn. A neat picket fence closed off what would certainly be a garden of flowers in warmer months. The dead branches of Michaelmas daisies leaned over the green new growth of jonquils as she opened the gate and hurried down the cobbled path toward the front door. She scraped mud off her boots on the stone, and her cold toes sang hallelujahs.
A burst of warm air and light hit her as she entered, and she halted just inside, blinking as if she’d encountered sunshine. With the door closed against the cold and her enemies, Fiona rubbed her hands for warmth and wondered if she shouldn’t wait there while she sent word to Neville.
A tall, large-boned woman hurried toward her, drying her palms on her crisp white apron. “It’s a terrible day, isn’t it?” she sang out agreeably, as if continuing a conversation with an old friend. “Would you be taking a room for the night?” She glanced eagerly over Fiona’s shoulder, apparently looking for a companion.
Fiona hesitated. Once her kidnappers discovered her absence, they would return, if kidnappers they truly were. And if Mrs. Blackthorn were one of them, she could tell them precisely where Fiona had left the carriage. But the idea of traveling farther did not smack of safety either. She gazed uncertainly at her hostess.
“I don’t suppose there is a carriage for hire, is there?” she inquired.
“A carriage?” In surprise, the woman dropped her apron and stared. “On a night like this? I should think not. No man in his senses would strike out now. It’s almost dark.”
Fiona bit her bottom lip. The inn tempted her with its warmth and coziness, but she could not think it safe. Still, she must trust in someone. “If I might have a private parlor and a bite of something hot to warm myself, I’ll travel on then. But you must not tell anyone of my presence.”
With obvious shock, the woman studied Fiona. Apparently reaching some conclusion, she nodded, almost dislodging her mobcap. “This way then, my lady. I’ll stir the fire for you and bring hot cider directly.”
She led Fiona to a small parlor, lit a lamp, and threw coal on the embers in the fireplace. With the door closed against the public hall outside, the landlady spoke more freely as she worked. “I do not inquire into the business of my patrons, my lady, but I cannot think it a good night to be about, and you a lady all alone.”
Fiona sighed and sank into the chair near the fire, propping her boots on the andirons to toast her toes. “I cannot think it is either, but it seems safer than the alternative. There was a town not too far back, I believe. I could inquire about transportation there.”
The innkeeper shot her a sharp look. “We have an excellent mutton pie this evening, my lady. Shall I fetch you some?”
Fiona nodded wearily. “Yes, please. Is it still sleeting?”
“That it is, and by way of being a blizzard, if you don’t mind my saying so. No living creature will survive the night out there.”
With resignation, Fiona realized she didn’t have Neville’s strength, and she had a child to protect. Swords and guns were not her weapons of choice. She must use her wits.
“May I trust you, Mrs....” her voice trailed off questioningly.
The woman nodded. “I’m Doreen White, not missus anything. My da owned this place until he died. I keep it now. I’ll be happy to be of help, but I cannot recommend a body being out in this weather. The wind blows fair cold off those moors.”
Fiona shivered at the thought. “I don’t think I have much choice, Miss White. I have reason to believe I have just escaped an abduction, and the man responsible will return here once he learns of my escape. For all I know, he could be out there waiting for me now. I must reach my husband as soon as possible. It is extremely important.”
She didn’t mention her title or name. She didn’t like throwing about her position as if it mattered whether she were queen or pawn. And she thought it might not be safe for this outspoken woman either.
Miss White drew a sharp breath and glanced at the shuttered windows as if thieves already stole their way through them. “The times are terrible indeed when a lady is not safe in her own home. I’ll call for the boys, then, and we’ll see what we can do.”
Before Fiona could protest that “boys” were scarce sufficient against determined kidnappers, the woman hurried from the parlor with an admonishment for Fiona to lock the door behind her.
In no hurry to brave the icy wind, Fiona did as told for a change. Perhaps “the boys” would know of a carriage she could borrow to at least take her to the next town. What if her kidnappers had used her as a means of drawing Neville from the safety of London?
The thought gnawed at her as the minutes passed. They had nearly killed him once. She hadn’t seen him after that episode, but she remembered how he’d looked stretched so pale and helpless after Sean’s blow. What if he were lying in the fields beside the road now, knocked senseless once again by the blows of murderers?
She lost her taste for the pie that Miss White brought. Standing, she paced the room, rubbing her hands for warmth and to keep them occupied. She couldn’t just sit there, warming her toes. She must leave. She must reach Neville. Urgency overwhelmed caution.
A sharp rap on the door jerked her back to the present. Her hostess’s voice reassured her from behind the panels. “It’s me, my lady. I’ve brought the boys.”
Fiona unlocked the door and allowed her would-be protectors to enter. She couldn’t send children out in this weather. Perhaps she could purchase some extra wraps for warmth. Perhaps a lantern would provide sufficient flame to warm her fingers occasionally. She would ask...
Fiona looked up at the newcomers. And looked up some more.
Two towering giants filled the space in front of her. Shoulders broad as oxen blocked out sight of the entire wall. She blinked and looked again. They did not diminish in size upon second look.
“Young John says as he’ll get word to your husband, my lady, if that’s all right with you.”
Fiona searched between the two behemoths for some view of her landlady. Miss White stood directly behind them, but Fiona could only catch a glimpse of a white apron and mobcap as the two young men nodded earnestly.
“My horse isn’t so fast as some,” one of the pair explained, belatedly pulling off his cap. “But he’s sound and sturdy and will carry me far.”
“And I’m at your disposal, my lady,” the other giant assured her. “I’ll guard your door and see naught disturbs you.”
The idea of this young giant waiting outside her door all night gave Fiona heart palpitations. Breathless, she tried to think quickly. Thinking did not come easily under the circumstances. She backed away and slipped into the chair near the fire.
“And your names are?” she inquired, postponing any immediate decision.
“Our manners are lacking, my lady. Please forgive us.” Miss White hurried forward. “This here’s my nephew, John, and the other is his brother, Luke. They’re my sister’s boys. They help their da on t
he farm, but in this weather, there’s naught to do, so they help me around the place a bit. You can trust them, my lady.”
Fiona looked up into two eager young faces, extended her trust, and prayed. “I’m the Duchess of Anglesey, and I must return to my husband at once.”
She didn’t acknowledge how good the last part of that sentence sounded. She’d never had anyone to turn to in times of trouble before, but she had a trustworthy hero on her side now.
***
The object of Fiona’s thoughts wasn’t in a state conducive to rationality. Having arrived at Anglesey in a raging blizzard to learn Fiona had taken only her Irish miscreants with her, Neville nearly had an apoplexy. His grooms, never having seen His Grace in a roaring temper, cowered in a stable corner, hoping the violent storm would pass without causing too much damage.
“She’s my wife, you blockheads!” he roared. “She carries the heir to Anglesey and you let her out in weather like this with naught but fools for escort? Have you lost your bloody minds?”
“Beggin’ your pardon, Your Grace,” one of the older grooms replied hesitantly, “but Her Grace didn’t say as to where she was goin’. She didn’t pack no boxes. Ladies don’t travel far without boxes,” he added in a tone intended to soothe.
Neville clenched his fingers in his hair, remembering the single satchel Fiona had brought with her from Ireland. Other ladies might not travel without “boxes,” but Fiona did. Blanche had provided her with a dowry of gowns suitable for a duchess. He would be fortunate to discover she wore even one of them and not her usual traveling clothes of boys’ attire. Fiona could travel the earth with a single satchel.
“All right, then. Check the village, if you will, and saddle a fresh mount. I think I know her direction.” Exhausted by his frantic journey from London, Neville didn’t consider resting. By morning, the snow could cover the roads. He’d be as far on his way as possible.
“Willie and I will go with you then, Your Grace,” the outspoken groom announced. “It’s no night for you to be about either, sir.”
At another time, Neville might have rejected the insult to his ability to take care of himself, but not tonight. If Townsend had arranged this misadventure, he might need the aid of his men to rescue Fiona. He prayed it wouldn’t come to that.
The sleet had changed to a sloppy snow by the time the horses were saddled and the men provided with lanterns to canvas the village. Neville had little hope of their finding any trace of Fiona. He hoped the exercise would have his men thinking twice before allowing the brat out in a carriage without appropriate escort next time.
Wrapped in his greatcoat and his heaviest cloak and muffler, Neville wheeled his best stallion down the drive. The horse breathed plumes of steam into the freezing night air and champed at the bit, not the least intimidated by the weather. In a fit of desperation, Neville gave the animal its head. He needed the gallop as much as the horse did.
Away from the familiar environs of Anglesey, he slowed his mount to a canter. His grooms followed in the distance, and Neville checked his pocket for the pistol he carried there. He didn’t expect thieves on a night like this, but he took no chances.
All his life, he’d watched the irrational passions of others with cynical amusement. Never, not in his wildest moments, had he ever considered falling victim to such emotional desperation that he rode his stallion through a raging snowstorm in pursuit of a hoyden with more courage than brains. Had he any sense at all, he’d sit in front of his fire and send messengers to his yacht rather than be out on a night like this, as any proper thinking gentleman would do. As he would have done, had Fiona been anyone but Fiona.
He refused to lose his wife. It was a matter of pride and possession. Or so he told himself as his horse slogged through the increasingly deeper drifts. The fury driving him now had more to do with Townsend and his tricks than with the fear and panic rising like bile in his throat.
The sight of two towering shadows on plow horses appearing through the blizzard of wet snow ahead startled Neville from his grim thoughts.
He reined in, blocking the road and waiting for his grooms to catch up. It was a sign of his growing insanity that he imagined Fiona behind the unexpected appearance of the twin giants. In any case, he couldn’t miss the opportunity of questioning anyone arriving from the direction of the coast.
Through the sleeting snow, Neville discerned a smaller pony trailing in the wake of the giants, its small rider blocked from the wind by their greater forms. His heart lurched and his mouth grew dry as the trio proceeded cautiously, eyeing him warily as they did so.
A feminine cry of recognition and joy cut through the bitter cold air, and Neville closed his eyes in silent prayer. He opened them again with a roar of fury and kicked his stallion into a gallop as the pony broke free of its guardians and aimed toward him.
“I swear, I’ll chain you to the walls and lock you in the tower if you ever pull this again, Fey-onah MacDermot Perceval!” he shouted into the wind as he caught her by the waist and hauled her up in front of him, where he could feel her safe and warm in his arms again.
Fortunately, his grooms rode up in time to prevent her stalwart bodyguards from attacking him with the stout cudgels they carried. With a shout for all the riders to desist, Neville wrapped his wife’s slender form inside his cloak and held her as tightly against him as their clothes would allow.
The way she wrapped her arms around his waist and buried her face against his coat decimated all remaining anger. She’d run to him instead of the other way around. That knowledge warmed his veins all the way home.
Thirty-three
“He’s scarcely speaking to me,” Fiona murmured as Blanche arranged a small white orchid in Fiona’s hair.
Fiona fretted about Sean, she fretted about the looms and the village, but Neville’s tight-lipped fury threatened her entire existence. She hated that. She needed his reassurance right now, while she played in cozy comfort and her friends suffered. And Neville plotted who knew what dangerous deed.
“You terrified him out of his wits,” Blanche replied, admiring the result in the mirror. “He had the flowers sent out for you, didn’t he? He never does that.”
Fiona’s reflection revealed dark circles of worry around muddy green eyes.
When she didn’t acknowledge the explanation, Blanche smiled and patted her shoulder. “Neville isn’t accustomed to being terrified. He prefers a well-ordered, uneventful existence. He’s never known anything else. Has he told you anything of his family?”
Fiona shook her head, not seeing the flattering cut of her pale green gown in the mirror, recognizing only the anxiety gnawing at her.
“Neville’s father was the youngest of my grandfather’s three sons. He never had any hope of acquiring the title. From what little I can tell, his father was a narrow-minded, despicable little man whose one goal in life was to live like the duke he’d never be. Neville is an only child, and his father’s nasty temper prevented his ever having much to do with the rest of us his family.”
Fiona didn’t meet Blanche’s eyes in the mirror as she touched a drop of lilac water to her wrist. She didn’t like invading Neville’s privacy like this, but she didn’t want to live in an armed camp either. She had seen his joy once. She would have it again if she could.
“Anyway, Neville’s father taught him his parsimonious ways. They lived in a fashionable part of town because his father bought up the deed from a man who gambled and needed cash. They furnished it with trappings bought at bankruptcy auctions. Neville was taught from the day he was born that he must earn his own way in the world, that his wealthy grandfather would never provide for him. I suppose his mother must have shown him some affection when he was young, but she died of a stomach ailment while he was still in school. I doubt that he ever knew anything but his studies and his father’s instructions after that.”
Blanche glanced reflectively at the door leading to the glittering ballroom below. “I suppose his father was right. Our
grandfather left all the wealth to me and a penniless entailment to Neville. He’s never known a moment of childhood or pleasure, really. He inherited Anglesey while he was still at Oxford and has carried the burden well. I’ve seldom heard him complain. I’ve done what I could, but his pride won’t allow more.”
Fiona’s heart ached at the tale. She’d known poverty, but she’d never suffered from a lack of joy or love or any of the other human passions. She’d never known a hunger of the soul.
She didn’t know how to deal with Neville’s detachment now. She had wanted to go directly to Ireland and save Sean and the village. Neville had insisted they stay in London until his legislation passed. She thought she might explode with impatience. And Neville’s aloofness wasn’t helping matters any.
“He needs you,” Blanche murmured as Fiona rose from the chair and fidgeted with the spray of tiny orchids pinned to her sash.
Feeling naked in the fashionable gown with the minuscule sleeves and narrow bodice, Fiona clutched her arms at her waist and tried to comprehend what Blanche was telling her.
There had been times before the abduction that Neville had held her as if she mattered, laughed with her and at her. And even when she’d been foolish, he’d rode frantically in pursuit of her. Those weren’t the actions of an uncaring man. Neville cared. He simply didn’t like caring. Fiona smiled at that realization.
She annoyed the devil out of the mighty Duke of Anglesey, and she would continue to do so for a lifetime.
“Let’s go down then, shall we?” she suggested, taking Blanche’s arm. “If I’m to be a prisoner in me own home, then ’tis a gay prisoner I’ll be.”
“You’re not a prisoner,” Blanche scolded as they strolled out the door. “Our husbands are just excessively nervous. You must admit, they have some right to be.”
Fiona shrugged. “I do not see it, myself. I escaped, did I not? The bill comes to a vote tomorrow. What can anyone do at this late date? Either they have the votes or they don’t. I just can’t imagine any of those pompous old goats caring enough to stir themselves. No, ’twas McGonigle’s men behind it all, I’d wager.”
The Irish Duchess Page 27
