by Jenn LeBlanc
She’d kneeled, clutching him to her chest, wrapping him in her softness, kissing his tear-streaked face, quietly repeating his name to soothe him. He could almost smell her skin again, sweet and fresh, like the gardens. She swept him away, his face hidden against her neck, into a room filled with soft, translucent panels hanging throughout like a willowy maze. The breeze from a window he couldn’t see moved the delicate fabrics, causing them to graze the floor.
She carried him deep into the room to a sitting area near a large white bathtub. It was covered with hand-painted tiles, tiny flowers in hues of purple, pink, and yellow dancing across the surface.
Roxleigh shook his head, forcing the memory away. He must have embellished it greatly, because no such room existed at Eildon Manor. There was no piped water in the manor; the estate had not been wealthy enough to make such improvements until recently, but the feeling of that one imaginary room was what he wished for the entire manor to be: safe, peaceful, and joyful. He frowned; he didn’t fit into that picture very well.
Ferry set Roxleigh’s well-worn top boots next to the bench in front of the fireplace and he pulled them on, still lost in his thoughts. He’d recently decided to rid the manor of its previous masters’ deviousness by rebuilding parts of the interior. He didn’t approve of the clandestine way the manor was used for improper pursuits.
He knew the past had kept many in the peerage away and he hoped he could turn it into a more inviting home, one that many guests would visit. He knew no proper lady would willingly wed him and make a home in such a wickedly deceptive place. To that end, he had invited one of the brightest new London architects, Amberly Shaw, to the manor to assist him.
He stood. His personal demeanor tended to be more off-putting than anything else, including the layouts of the guest suites that tended to bamboozle visitors. It was merely his status that drew them.
Ferry returned to the wardrobe to retrieve a neck cloth, cuff links, jacket, and riding gloves.
“Don’t trouble,” Roxleigh said. He left Ferry there, his finishing items hanging limply from his valet’s hands. His eyes wide.
“Bollocks!” Ferry exclaimed after the door clicked shut.
Roxleigh paused momentarily, then moved on.
Roxleigh rushed out the side entrance of the manor, heading directly for the stables. “Davis! My steed!” he yelled.
“Here, Your Grace, warming in the paddock,” Davis replied.
Roxleigh stabled nearly forty horses, some of them mares sent to him from as far away as the Netherlands to be foaled with Samson. He preferred Friesians, beautiful, large, strong, jet-black horses known for their carriage and manner. They had an inherently smooth gait and incomparable demeanor, and the fact that their presence was often viewed as both regal and foreboding was also an asset. He took a great deal of pride in his breeding program and in turn it brought success and notoriety to the Friesian line.
Roxleigh approached Samson, stroking his muzzle. At nearly seventeen hands, the horse was one of the largest riding Friesians in all of Europe. The steed bristled and whinnied. Samson was Roxleigh’s champion and a proud and competitive horse. He didn’t like to come in second— he didn’t like to run in second. He knew when he was lagging and was more of a competitor than even his master. He was no match for the quarters and would never win a race, but yet he was a specimen unto himself.
Samson twitched and stamped his front hoof, eager to set out. “Yes, of course,” Roxleigh muttered, placing one hand at Samson’s crest. “We’ll be off soon,” he said, double-checking the saddle and rein. “How are Delilah and Kalliope?” he asked Davis.
“They are well, Your Grace,” he said. “Only scrapes and bruises. There’s no further evidence of damage to Delilah’s cannon bone as feared. Both mares have recovered well.”
“Good.”
Though Samson and Delilah had yet to drop a foal, Roxleigh had found stunning success with Kalliope, who had been a broodmare when he purchased her not three years before. He was obsessed with replicating the depth he found in the tones of her sleek blackness, and the yearlings she had with Samson were of the best conformation and promised excellent action for many purposes.
His horses were his pride and were treated as extended members of his family. When he’d taken Kalliope and Delilah out to train with the curricle, he never expected the ruckus from the wood, or that the horses would have startled so badly as to nearly kill a woman and do away with a hound.
That foxhound still troubled him. He thought that if he discovered its owner he might have answers to some of his questions about—
“Francine,” he whispered. She was like no one he had ever met. She cared not for his title or status. Waving them off like a fly at her tea.
“Pardon, Your Grace?” Davis said.
Roxleigh grunted. “We’re off!” he said quickly, leading Samson through the paddock gate. He pulled himself up onto the saddle, the large horse bristling and whinnying with the excitement of the coming run. Roxleigh smiled at the way his muscles pulled in his thighs from the sheer girth of the horse. He needed to feel the tangible pull of muscles, the eventual soreness the work would bring him, and the exhaustive sleep that would greet him this night. Samson nickered and Roxleigh took up the reins, leaning into his knees. The horse needed no more prodding. He took for the open meadows at the base of the Eildon Hills at a heart-pounding gallop, toward the forest and river at a pace that would startle any other horse and rider.
Samson’s grace and surefootedness at breakneck paces was the closest Roxleigh had ever come to some semblance of peace in his life. His head was never clearer, his nerves never calmer, and his mind never more unbound than when he rode Samson. He listened to the horse’s steady breathing, the exertion of his exhalations, and the steady beat of his hooves, punctuated by the swift silence of the jumps and the exclamation of the landing—like a staccato symphony. His mind unfurled its stressed tethers with the smooth action of Samson at full speed.
Roxleighshire was the closest town and the ducal seat. His residence, at Eildon Hill Park, was one of the largest estates in all of the United Kingdom, including forest and field. The light this far north was surreal, crisp and clear, perfectly toned—not detracting from the natural colors of the world or inhibited by extensive amounts of coal smoke like the larger cities. The first of the three Eildon Hills was home to his manor, the second was the site of the ruins of an old Roman fort known as Trimontium, and the third provided a view of the expanse of his lands. The Ettrick forest at the base of the hills met the meadow in a dramatic, heavenly rise, sheltering the meeting of the Teviot Water with the River Tweed not far from the manor as they meandered through the wood and clearings.
Roxleigh was passionate about his land, his manor, and the people it provided for. The estate, and the privacy it garnered, kept him close to home. He didn’t like to be disturbed, he wasn’t keen to socialize, and he only traveled to London when his duties to the realm required it of him. He had currently been in residence for nearly seven months, leaving only to visit the towns, shires, and villages within his purview.
Roxleigh leaned into the steed as Francine’s face hovered in his memory. He kept his eyes on the path ahead, attempting to clear his thoughts to everything but the sound of the ride.
After what Francine believed to be three days of sleep, but felt more like a century, Mrs. Weston allowed her to leave the guest suite. She followed the housekeeper along the upper balcony, marveling at the expanse of the entryway and the sheer beauty of its adornments. She was taken to the family parlor at the back of the manor, which looked out over an expanse of meadow and field beyond a maze of hedgerows. She could also see the two neighboring hills and the edge of the forest.
It really was a beautiful room with an incredible view, but there was only so much resting and looking Francine could handle. She curled up on a settee once Mrs. Weston left, picking at the trim on the back. She wanted to explore, but she knew she wasn’t allowed anywhere else in
the manor, save her suite, since she wasn’t properly attired. She’d thought about sneaking around anyway, but there was always someone nearby, even when she thought she was alone.
She was terribly unnerved about being trapped in this unknown place, but had no idea what she could do about it. She had tried to get information from the doctor, but he had refused to answer her questions, instead demanding she rest, or cover herself, or calm down.
Mrs. Weston was comforting, and Francine knew she refused too much of her assistance, but she couldn’t help it. She liked to take care of herself.
She stood and paced the length of the parlor, running her fingers over thick brocade cushions and soft damask upholstery. Everything was so precisely made, definitely not of the ready-to-assemble vein of her bookshelves and furniture. It seemed to be the stuff of a different era, which had occurred to her before, but the country she was in was so much older than hers to begin with that she had no way to measure. If her father’s hypothesis was correct, she was not only in a different place, but also a different time. A different time. A. Different. Time. Her breath caught and her hand went to her chest where her heart skipped.
She considered everything her father had written in his journals about the unnamed family. She was told she was in the United Kingdom, and judging from the accents and behaviors of the people around her she believed it, but most likely it was a more recent era than the Jane Austen books she loved. Definitely more recent than Shakespeare. By the corsets alone she would think it Victorian.
Even so, Francine tried to convince herself that this episode was some sort of waking dream, or unconscious dream, or delusion, or—something. She must have pulled the scenario straight from the journals, and her appearance from the portrait. She wondered if this was really what her assistant had lovingly termed her family curse. She knew it was ridiculous, but if this was a dream, she hoped—for now—that it would last as long as her mind could will it to, and she wasn’t entirely sure why. Seemed odd for a vacation. She wanted—no—needed to learn more of the duke.
Her attention was pulled toward the tall windows and doors lining the balcony by a giant black horse careening across the lush valley at the base of the rolling hills. It seemed impossible that a horse that large could propel forward at such a pace. The animal was nearly as beautiful as the rider it carried, at least what she could remember of him, and her breath caught on that twinge of remembrance as it sparked.
Most of her memories from that first day were faint, like looking through leaded glass, but his eyes were perfectly clear in her head, green and bright like polished emeralds shot through with molten topaz.
She placed both hands against the cool glass of the window and considered the horse and rider. The horse was black on black, gleaming brightly in the sun with his long waved tail and mane floating in the wind. The spray of silky hair above his hooves created a fluid look, like a hummingbird in flight. His step was sure and smooth, and the man, His Grace, floated along just above the saddle, with only his arms working to steady him.
Francine looked ahead of them and saw the forest looming dangerously. Her heart quickened as she scanned the tree line, then quelled when she picked out the small path that cut the dense copse. She raised a hand to her mouth as she waited, hoping he would break off and turn back. She imagined it would take a great deal of trust between an animal and its rider to be able to accomplish such a reckless pace through the thick forest. Even with a well-worn path there were treacherous limbs and roots that would change with the earth, requiring an immeasurably keen alertness.
Francine wondered what it would be like to put her complete trust in another being. She couldn’t begin to fathom what that kind of freedom would feel like. She was suddenly saddened, realizing that in all her life she had never felt such a liberty; she had never run as fast as her legs could carry her or even driven a car to its limit. She felt a pang of self-pity, recognizing that in the absence of parents, she had kept herself overly safe. She suddenly, desperately, realized she wanted to be on that horse, riding hell-bent for leather, without a care as to destination or outcome. She wanted freedom from her ordered life, from the rooms she was restricted to, from the skin of her being.
Francine threw the window open and closed her eyes, feeling the cool breeze washing over her. She leaned past the edge as the wind flew up the side of the manor into the open window. She smelled the earthiness of the clearing and the damp of the woods beyond. She stood smiling, her arms held out, grasping at the air and the possibilities until a woman’s terrifying scream jolted her from the reverie and she jumped back, losing her balance at the sill.
Mrs. Weston wandered the manor, surveying the work of the under servants. The past days had run into countless tense and nerve-racking hours of seeing to her new charge. She never knew quite what to expect from their guest, so she stayed up most nights keeping watch—and slept hardly at all during the days as well, tending her customary duties. She knew she was wearing thin.
Francine wasn’t speaking and seemed fearful, but she had trusted Mrs. Weston enough to share her name and would soon begin to trust her with more, the housekeeper hoped. It wouldn’t be long before everything would settle down or Francine’s family would come looking for her.
The thought arrested Mrs. Weston and she suddenly frowned. She didn’t want everything back to normal. She realized normal hadn’t been all that wonderful; it had been mundane. The manor was run smoothly and efficiently; Roxleigh had seen to that. And he was a generous master and duke. The tenants had no complaints and when they did they were seen to. She itched for something to happen beyond the silver needing polished. Again.
Roxleigh had a novel way of running his lands, and his management had turned Eildon into a more profitable estate than it had ever been. She knew that Roxleigh’s father, Darius—the previous duke—had very nearly driven the estate into the ground. He was resentful of his life and his station. He blamed the world for his misfortunes and didn’t see the most blessed part of his life, his son, right before him.
It was a tragedy to see him work himself to an early grave, but there had been no helping him after—
No. She stopped that train of thought. Things were different. She could feel it in her marrow. There was something happening and it was all coming along with the girl upstairs.
Mrs. Weston finished her rounds and headed straight to the private parlor where she witnessed something she thought never to see again—and she screamed.
Francine stumbled from the window. She cried out, but the sound was trapped in her vocal chords, and she put one hand to her mouth, the other to her throat. Shaking from her toes to her shoulders with fright, she nearly fell to the floor as Mrs. Weston rushed over. She looked into the woman’s round, gentle face and saw the infusion of fear. She dared not utter a word.
“Apologies, Miss Francine, you gave me a start. What were you doing?” Mrs. Weston asked nervously. Francine shook her head. She glanced at the window, trying to figure out what was so fearful as to cause Mrs. Weston to scream like that.
“Miss Francine,” Mrs. Weston said with a disapproving look on her face. “I know you do not speak, but I also know you can. And if you do not tell me what you were doing at that window, I will have to inform His Grace about exactly what I saw. I cannot take a chance on this. Go back to your silence afterward if you must, but trust me now or there’ll be hell to pay when he returns.”
Francine looked into the woman’s eyes, noting the well-masked concern. She certainly didn’t want a bad word to get to him. She glanced toward the window. She was keenly aware that her existence here at the manor was conditional and if she disrupted him she might be sent away. It was that unknown that she couldn’t bear, even though she had become accustomed to it. She’d faced that before, when the police came to take her away after her parents died, and now as a grown woman she dreaded it even more.
“I…” She cleared her throat gingerly. She could handle no more than a whisper, and even tha
t strained and tightened the muscles of her throat to a thick, scraping ache.
“Go on now, out with it,” Mrs. Weston prodded. Francine clutched her hands together.
“I don’t want to be sent away,” she cried, and with that she wept. Mrs. Weston put one of her soft arms around Francine’s shoulders, pulling her down to the settee and cradling her against her ample chest.
“There, there, miss, don’t fret. I will see that you stay. Why, only now I was looking to tell you that His Grace gave me leave to have some gowns made for you. Is that not a wonderful thing? If he was intending to send you away, would he be seeing to your comfort?” Mrs. Weston asked.
Francine shook her head. “No, I don’t suppose so,” she said.
“All right then, tell me, what has got to you? Why were you going out the window like that?” Mrs. Weston asked.
Francine stared at her. Out the window? She wasn’t out the window; she was at the window. Wasn’t she? She never went out the window. Realization dawned and she sat up straight, looking at Mrs. Weston in horror. “Oh, no. No! I wasn’t going anywhere!”
