by Holly Newman
Tentatively, Leona raised her face out from the pillows. "What are you doing?" she asked.
He glanced at her, his face a set mask. "Looking for a blanket to wrap around my shoulders."
"Oh." She pulled the blankets up higher on her chest. "This is Maria's room, isn't it? I mean we're at Rose Cottage—try the trunk over there in the corner."
He did as she suggested. Inside were neatly folded stacks of embroidered linens. He looked back at Leona, one eyebrow raised in mute inquiry.
She smiled gently. "It's Maria's hope chest."
He nodded, both of them silent as they contemplated the tidy evidence of a spinster's dreams.
"Under the sheets you'll find a hand-stitched quilt. Don't worry, Maria won't mind. She'd be more distressed to learn you wouldn't use it." She watched as he carefully moved the linens aside and pulled out the quilt. He wrapped it around his shoulders and sat down in Maria's rocking chair.
"You'd best find something to wear," he said gruffly.
Leona glanced down at the nightgown she wore, blushing anew. She didn't need to ask how she came to be wearing it She started to edge toward the side of the bed, the covers clutched tightly about her when they both heard a heavy tread on the stairs. Deveraux rose and came to stand next to the bed, his body rigid with tension.
The key grated in the lock, and then the door opened to reveal a sour-faced Jewitt with a tray in her hand.
"Harry says it isn't in our interests to let you starve."
It was obvious she disagreed.
"Here. You can share what's left of our stew from last night." She thrust the tray into Deveraux's hands. She turned to leave. At the door she stopped and faced them again, a sly smile on her pinched features. "Harry's gone to send a message to the Castle. He made sure to tell them you were safe, locked up as you are together in one tiny bedroom. Sure you wouldn't mind, as close as you two seemed yesterday." Her laughter cackled after her as she closed and locked the door.
Jewitt's words were a knife cutting through the bonds that bound Leona in her timid, uncertain state. She sat up on the bed, the blankets falling to her waist. A new, thrumming excitement traversed her body. She would not be so defeated! She reached up to pull the last of the pins from her hair and shook the matted tresses out as she thought through the implications of Jewitt's words. A cold rage grew.
"In that top drawer of the dressing table, I believe you'll find a spare brush. Would you hand it to me, please?" she asked Deveraux in a coldly neutral voice.
Deveraux handed her the brush, his expression wary.
She methodically brushed her hair with long, fluid strokes. What had come over her yesterday? She'd begun the trek to Rose Cottage with grit and determination. How could she allow herself to slide into a sniveling, weak morass of missishness? The rain was no colder than she'd suffered when she climbed the vines at Lion's Crate. True, her clothes were more of a nuisance but nothing she shouldn't have been able to control.
"You were terribly weak last night. You should eat something." His voice intruded on her thoughts, echoing her concern for her weakness.
She looked up at him, but he had the odd sensation that she did not even see him. He ran his hand through his hair. "She's right about one thing," he said with a forced smile. "At least for us it won't be an uncomfortable forced marriage."
She blinked at that, as if slowly registering his existence. "Are you inferring that I consider myself shamefully compromised? A woman who may no longer hold her head up proudly if she does not marry?" Her voice was frighteningly empty.
Deveraux's heart twisted in his chest. He sat down at the edge of the bed, drawing her hands into his. "Leona," he began gently.
"Would you stop treating me like I am some fragile porcelain!" she demanded angrily. "I am an intelligent, independent woman. I do not need your pity or your smothering protection! I do not consider myself compromised, and that is all that matters!"
"But society—"
"Hang society! Our concern at the moment should be in extricating ourselves from this situation rather than wringing our hands and crying mea culpa, mea culpa." Her green-gold eyes flashed, and a delicate high color that had nothing to do with her earlier embarrassment shone on her cheeks.
Deveraux's lips twitched. It appeared Leona once again had the bit between her teeth. Though he was glad to care for her yesterday, he had to admit he liked her independence. It was a far cry from the weighty dependence his family placed on him. A man could feel truly at ease with a woman like Leona. He leaned back against the head of the bed, suddenly filled with admiration for the firebrand at his side. At least life with her would never be dull. "Well, General, what do you suggest?" he asked, folding his arms across his chest.
Her glance raked him, but she saw no mockery in his expression. She slid off the bed and began pacing the room, barefoot, her eyes darting all about her.
Deveraux half closed his eyes and watched her stride in circles about the small room, the flannel nightdress clinging to her curves.
She stopped by the window and looked out. The dormer window was directly above the parlor window which ruled out lowering themselves with knotted bed linens to the ground. Too risky. She cocked her head, straining forward. She could barely see the scarf tucked away in its secure corner, but at least she reassured herself it was there. Her eye was struck once again by the construction of the thatch around the dormer. She studied it pensively. A small smile appeared on her lips. She nodded to herself, then turned to face Deveraux, her hands on her hips.
"We are going to escape!" she claimed triumphantly, her eyes shining and her lips widening into a cheeky grin.
"Through the window?" Deveraux asked.
"Through the window," Leona confirmed.
He plucked at the sheets, his eyebrows raised questioningly.
She laughed and shook her head. "No, I am not that simple-minded. That would be too obvious and—I fear—what they expect. No doubt they guard us by setting a chair before the parlor window below!"
"Such was my thought. Almost you relieve my mind."
"Poor Deveraux, wary of my machinations?"
"Terrified!"
"Good! All the more reason for me not to divulge my plans until we are ready!"
"You, Miss Leonard, have all the markings of a tease."
"Why, thank you. I take that as a compliment."
"If you don't get some other clothes on soon, you may take it as more than that," Deveraux drawled, rising to his feet in one fluid movement to drop the quilt he held about his shoulders.
Leona glanced self-consciously down at her state of dishabille, a blush suffusing her cheeks and rendering her adorably confused.
Deveraux grinned. "As your subordinate officer, might I suggest we fortify ourselves for our planned exploits? Forgive me for mentioning it but you were a trifle weak yesterday."
Leona grimaced. "And helpless."
He spread his hands deprecatingly.
She laughed. Drawing her quilt closely about her, she sat down opposite him to her bowl of lukewarm rabbit stew. The flavor was strong with an odd after-taste, but at least the stew satisfied the hollow cravings in the pit of Leona's stomach.
Finishing quickly, she began to search Maria Sprockett's cupboard for a suitable outfit to wear. Suddenly she found herself yawning. On her third yawn it finally dawned on her. They were drugged! Too late she remembered Chrissy's complaint about how the Norths made her continually sleep. Her eyes were closing, and a strange heaviness lay in her chest. She fought to open her eyes. No!
Quickly Leona wheeled around and lurched toward the bed. Deveraux had already fallen backward against the pillow. Leona was in the middle of swearing when unconsciousness finally overtook her, and she slumped down on the floor at the end of the bed, dragging a blanket off as she fell.
"Don't worry. I put enough laudanum in that stew to knock them out until tomorrow morning."
"So you say. I just want to check."
Heavy boo
ts clumped into the room.
Deveraux felt something pushed up against his nose. He focused on laying still and breathing regularly. A hard hand jabbed repeatedly at his shoulder. It took all his fortitude to keep his muscles relaxed against the punches.
"He's out all right."
"I told you. Do you think they'll pay?"
"Aye, and tonight if they want to see him alive. I'll not make the same mistake we did last time of waiting."
Deveraux risked peering through slitted lashes to see Jewitt and North standing by the open bedroom door. Light from a candle Jewitt held threw their faces into ghoulish relief.
"It was a good plan. It would have worked if it hadn't been for her," Jewitt spat.
"But this one's better, my pet. We can split the money, and you can go off to the Continent to join your harridan mother and insipid sister. Faugh! To think that I put up with them for as long as I did."
She looked momentarily annoyed at his words regarding her family, but offered no comment. "Yes. This is a better plan. With the ransom money I'll travel to Switzerland and deal with Nevin myself!"
He shrugged. "Suit yourself. It's none of my concern."
"But, Harry," Jewitt said in a wheedling voice as she reached out to stroke his arm. "Don't you want to come with me?"
He shook off her hand as he turned to close the door. "Sally, my girl, the way our luck has run we're best parted. Besides, I've . . ." His voice trailed off, indistinguishable, as the pair descended the stairs.
Deveraux lay still for a while longer to make certain they weren't coming back. He heard the front door of the cottage open and close. Carefully he sat up. His head felt heavy, thick. Leaning against the wall for support, he made his way over to the window, glad he'd not donned his boots that morning. He opened the window a crack, breathing in the cold, damp air. He didn't know how long he stood there before he realized the heavy lethargy was fading. He turned his head to look at Leona, wondering if he could rouse her. Hell. It wasn't a matter of if—he had to.
He crossed over to her, picking her up off the floor. She moaned softly. Relief flooded him. She wasn't out deeply. He carried her over to the window, setting her feet down on the floor while he held her up before the window. His teeth set on edge as his body instinctively reacted to the feel of her soft pliant body against his. His hands holding her up wanted to slide around to cup her breasts. Fantasy images of her naked and writhing under his hands threatened to devour his sanity.
She moaned again. Thankfully, the sound was a douse of cold water to his heated, throbbing body. He knew she trusted him. He'd keep that trust sacred if it killed him.
He brought his hand up to pat her cheeks. "Come on, Leona, wake up," he said, his breathing ragged but determined.
She muttered fitfully, her hands rising to push his away.
"Good girl. Come on, wake up." His quiet voice was edged with sharpness as he shook her, her head flopping back and forth.
Finally she resisted his shaking. Her head steadied, and her eyes fluttered open. She blinked at him. "Deveraux?"
He relaxed and grinned, relief flooding him. "You were expecting North, maybe?" he whispered, reminding her of their situation.
She shuddered. "Please, not even in jest. How—how long have we been out?"
He found he was inordinately pleased at the levelheadedness with which she accepted their situation. She was worth ten heirloom jewelry sets! "From what I can gather, all day. And, to our favor, they expect us to stay that way until morning. Turn your head toward the window and breath in the cold air. It helps."
Obediently she did. Finally, aware of his arm about her, she gently pulled herself free. He let her go, his hands falling to his sides.
"I must get dressed." She walked away from him, too embarrassed to look at him.
He turned his back on her to give her a small measure of privacy.
Quickly she donned an old black mourning gown of Maria's that had been packed away in the cupboard. It was too short, but that was an advantage to her plan. Luckily, her own boots were nearly dry. She carried them over to the window.
"Perhaps it's just as well that it's night. The night can be our ally," she said briskly. She grabbed up her brush, pulling it swiftly through her long hair. Then she simply braided it in a thick braid down her back, tying it off with a bit of ribbon from one of Maria's drawers.
"I propose we climb out the window then up and over the roof of the house. If we move slowly and carefully, the thatch should provide us handholds. Once over the top, we can descend to where the kitchen wing and Maria's still room jut out as a one-story addition. Maria's garden is right outside the still room door. It's bound to prove a softer landing spot than anywhere else for a leap from the roof."
"It's drizzling outside. The roof is bound to be slick." He grabbed for his jacket, relieved to see it was finally dry.
She agreed. "But we'll just have to chance it. My pistol! Where is it?" She grinned when she saw him pull it out of a drawer in Maria's dressing table. "You keep it I'll have my hands full with these blasted skirts."
He tucked it in his pants then grabbed up his boots. "Better let me go first." He slithered out the narrow window and dug his toes into the tightly woven thatch. Climbing this roof would prove slow, arduous going. He didn't know if this was a wise plan, but phlegmatically he conceded it was their only option, so wisdom bore little importance. He held his hand out to Leona, pulling her out and up beside him. Her eyes sparkled with excitement. His heart contracted, but all he did was frown.
Signaling caution, he set out carefully to discover secure finger and toeholds in the weathered thatch. Without a word Leona followed him, closely copying his hands and foot placements. He wished he'd thought to tie a line between them. He didn't like her climbing after him. There was no one to catch her should she fall. On the other hand, he doubted her hands were strong enough to pry apart the thatch to make it climbable. His own hands were rapidly acquiring little cuts and scrapes, the tips of his fingers bearing the brunt of injury. Luckily Leona had discovered a spare pair of gloves in Maria's room. He hated to imagine what her soft hands would be like without them!
Nearly to the top of the roof, one of his booted feet slipped, sliding down to rest on Leona's hand which was wedged tight in a handhold. She bit back a scream of pain, blinking back the tears. Deveraux reached back to touch her, his eyes anxious. She nodded, giving him a faint smile, tendrils of wet hair plastered to her cheeks. He didn't know any other woman who would not now be reduced to hysterics or vapors. She was amazing. Cold, wet, and risking her life with every movement, she still could smile.
At the top he slid his feet over so he could back down the roof. He quickly discovered going up to be easier than going down. Finding handholds became the worse problem.
The thatch sliced ribbons through her thin gloves and into Leona's hands. Her hands stung in a thousand places. She gripped her lower lip between her teeth and took deep, steadying breaths. She knew Deveraux was worried for her. After her dismal failure yesterday she had to maintain her energies. She could not let him worry about her. Their situation was precarious enough as it was. He needed to concentrate on himself.
As she pulled herself over the apex of the roof, her braid caught sharply on the rough thatch, threatening to pull the top of her head off. She tried to dig her toes into the thatch and work herself back up a bit to release the pressure on her braid. Finally she was able to reach up a hand to work her hair free, pulling out a painful clump in the process. She sighed thankfully, but suddenly her toe lost its grip in the thatch. She started to slip downwards, scraping her cheek. Frantically she tried to dig her fingers into the dense thatch, her feet scrambling. The heavy black dress pulled upward, caught for a moment, then released, tumbling her sideways down the slick roof. Her eyes, wide and frightened, stared up at Deveraux.
He pulled his feet free, allowing his body to slide feet first down the roof. He didn't try to grab, he just slid. Quickly he came up by Le
ona, grabbing for her dress as he slid past. With a slamming jolt, his knees buckled as his feet came in contact with the ground floor wing roof. Leona continued to slide, and he braced his arms and body against the roof, his fingers wrapped tightly in the material of her dress. She stopped with a bump, her head pointed downward, nearly off the edge of the roof.
Her breath whistled through her teeth as she sucked in air. She lay still for a moment, almost in shock that she didn't tumble completely off the roof.
Deveraux's heart thumped loudly in his chest. Carefully, he eased himself down until he squatted, pinning himself securely over the ridge of the roof. Leona reached up, grasping the wrist of his hand that held her dress in a vice like grip and pulled herself up. He reached out to steady her with his other hand. When she was safely up, she briefly brought her hand to his cheek in silent thanks, then pushed herself forward.
"This way!" she whispered.
Stunned, Deveraux followed.
To their left the ground sloped up toward the cottage, the dirt mounding almost to the window of the kitchen. She pointed it out to Deveraux. He nodded. Carefully Leona made her way toward that area. She jumped off the roof where the ground sloped the highest and landed on her hands and knees. Deveraux landed next to her. She impatiently brushed her muddied gloves against the sides of her black skirts then waved at Deveraux to follow her. He pulled the pistol from his waistband and came up beside her, laying a warning hand on her arm.
She shook her head. She hurried forward, determined to put as much distance between them and Rose Cottage as possible. Rounding the corner and heading toward the shed, she ran straight into Howard North's gun.
He grabbed for her arm before she could run and held the pistol to her head. "Drop it, Deveraux," he snarled.
Slowly Deveraux lowered his arm and dropped the pistol. The expression he turned toward Leona was forbidding.
