by Ann Chaney
Moreham drew a deep breath, trying to get his heart rate to slow down. He wiped his brow to push his hair out of his eyes and found sweat.
“Fear, my dear, brings on a euphoria unlike any you will ever experience. Blood pumps faster, lungs pull in air, your body reacts with strength when you feel threatened.”
Gillian wrapped her arms around her middle. She looked so lonely. His heart ached for her. He acted by instinct and rushed over to her. He put his arms around her. “There, there, dearest, we are safe. The good news is we did not find any incriminating evidence against your uncle.”
Gillian stiffened and stepped away from him. Eyes filled with unshed tears, Gillian shook her head and held out her hand. “Moreham, I found another note.”
Moreham took the piece of foolscap from her hand and read the now familiar handwriting. The same hand wrote the note they found in London. Of that there was no doubt. He read the names of the gentleman due to attend the house party. Had someone dictated to Whitney who to invite?
Moreham led Gillian over to their bed. He jerked the bedcovers back and laid her in the middle of the bed. “Come, sweetness, we must sleep. Even with this note we still need to ride out in the morning. We must visit the meeting place…this abbey of yours.”
Gillian moved over in the bed and made room for him to join her. “Moreham, will you hold me for a bit? I don’t think I can sleep. Not after learning Sturm is missing and finding that second note which only makes Uncle look more guilty?”
“Most certainly, I’ll hold you all night if need be. You must not lose hope. Our business is full of conundrums at every turn. As I keep saying nothing is ever as it seems.”
He tightened his hold around her shoulders and nudged her closer so she could rest her head on his chest. “Now, close your eyes. I’m here if you need me. Tomorrow, we will venture toward the abbey ruins. Mayhap we will find evidence of who is really the culprit in this conspiracy.”
Moreham kissed her forehead and looked down to find his wife asleep. Her breathing coming in tiny puffs.
The next morning came far too quickly. Foggy headed from the late night, Gillian fought waking up. Warmth pulled her back down into the bed and with a moan she forced herself to open her eyes only to find herself in Moreham’s arms. The man’s gray eyes were trained on her face.
She glanced over his shoulder to see the early light of day through the bed curtains.
“You should have woken me. We should be riding by now. I know you are impatient to find your proof of my uncle’s guilt.” Gillian winced at the harsh sound of her words.
Moreham growled and pulled her back to face him. “I share your opinion. The key under the urn proves anyone could have planted the note. You said yourself the duke hasn’t been in residence in two months. The only logical assumption is someone else planted that note.”
“Logical! My uncle is an honorable loyal subject of the King. Logic doesn’t enter into the discussion.” Gillian tried to push him away. Moreham held on.
“Gillian, facts and logic will reveal who is the traitor in this conspiracy. Not emotional tirades. Before you demand it, I will not apologize for saying so. I am doing what I took a vow to do. Protect the King and his Government at any cost. I will not allow my feelings for you to interfere with that oath. It would seem, my dear, we are at an impasse.” He rolled over and rose from the bed. “I’ll be dressed in a quarter of an hour. Shall we meet in the front entry?”
Without waiting for her agreement, the arrogant man disappeared through the door to his dressing room. Gillian fisted her hand and slapped at the bed covers. The infernal man always managed to have the last word. Why couldn’t the man take her word for her uncle’s innocence and concentrate on finding the real culprits? Her uncle was under suspicion for acts of treason and murder and she was sitting in her bed in a fit of temper over the stubbornness of the man she’d married.
For the first time in her life, Gillian understood the inconsistencies of the human mind. Hers was all muddled up and contorted over a man. Percy had never affected her so. He was a pest who she avoided as much as possible.
With Moreham, she wanted to be with him. To touch his skin, to share another kiss. She closed her eyes and relived each of the moments when they both forgot about her uncle and dwelled on each other. The night they made love, their kiss in his traveling coach the afternoon before then last night in the library. She knew, in her heart, he was the one. How very sad to finally find that one man who she could love and know he could destroy the other man in her life, a man who she regarded as her father.
Guilt ate at her. Even with this void between them, she fretted he would toss her aside if the unthinkable were true. She had to continue to work at his side. He was the one who would sort this business out. Of that she was certain.
A tap sounded on her dressing room door. Maisy called, “My lady, will the blue riding habit do for today?”
Gillian took a deep breath, threw back the covers and bade Maisy to bring the habit.
Between the two of them, Gillian dressed as quickly as possible adding a quick twist of her hair pinned at the nape of her neck. She ran down the stairs, ignoring the servants she encountered on her way. More than one laughed at what she knew they regarded as her impatience to join her husband.
Moreham was right. Nothing was ever as it seemed. She was unprepared for her reaction to a severely turned out Moreham standing by the front entry with a riding crop in hand. He didn’t look up from the newssheet in his hand. Where had the man gotten the publication? She cleared her throat to gain his regard in her direction.
“Ah, dearest, here you are.”
The corner of his mouth lifted in his signature smirk. She joined him and tilted her head for his kiss.
Gillian closed her eyes and waited for his kiss. Her cheeks warmed with awareness and embarrassment. Moreham was responsible for the awareness but knowing her old friend was watching them led to the pinkness in her cheeks. Moreham appeared to be unbothered by it all. The dratted man!
Their unseemly show of intimacy would give the butler a juicy tidbit to share over the staff supper table that night. When would Moreham kiss her again just because of his need to do so?
“Good morning, my sweeting. I’m happy to report we have a temperate day for our tour of the estate.” He leaned closer and kissed her cheek before moving on to her ear.
The man’s voice titillated every nerve in her body. Gooseflesh raced up her arms. She had never felt such stirrings before in her life. She wished she could pull back. Maybe she would be able to think clearly if she stepped away. Before she could do so, Moreham took hold of her hand and held on.
She knew Perkins took great pleasure in witnessing Moreham’s intimate attention. His nose brushed the outer shell of her ear. Determined not to allow Moreham to tease her any longer, she cleared her throat and turned. Her nose collided with his and the silly man grinned once more.
“Wonderful, I was a little concerned the day would be too cold for a long ride,” she replied. The thread sound of her voice caused her to cringe.
“I am ready to be off if you don’t mind. I…we stayed in bed far too long. We will be hard pressed to see the estate today.”
Moreham smiled at her and nodded. She drew a breath only to have the man lean in and kiss her lips. Not a kiss of passion as he had preciously but rather as one would kiss a child good night.
“Perkins, fetch the satchel I requested.” He explained. “I asked for some of Cook’s wonderful strawberry scones, pieces of fruit and bottles of lemonade be organized for us to take with us. No need to stop midday and return to the house for nuncheon. As you said, we do have quite a bit of ground to cover.”
Perkins returned with the satchel of food in one hand and the duke’s beaver hat in the other. The telltale jingle of metal told her the horses were waiting for them saving her the need to make any conversation.
A twinge of embarrassment shot through her when Moreham was the one to address the
butler as he took the satchel. “Perkins, we will start off traveling to the east. I hope we will manage to circle around to the west before returning home. A hearty tea tray would not be amiss upon our return. I am sure the dowager countess and Lady Philly will be most interested in the details of the house party. If you would be so good as to review the duchess’ plans for the week with them, we would be most appreciative.”
Perkins bowed. “I will see to it personally, my lord.”
It was all Gillian could do to not stomp her foot and demand her uncle’s butler remember his loyalty to her. Only Moreham’s knowing eyes lit up with mischief kept her from doing so. The irritating man might kiss her like one would kiss a child but she refused to act like one.
What had she gotten herself into with this man?
The woman could ride, and she knew her way through the fields of the estate. Her seat was perfection. Even when a squirrel ran in front of her mount, she didn’t panic. Gillian drew her horse back firmly and soothed the animal to a slow walk. Moreham knew men who would not have done as well as she.
She stopped moving forward and waited for him to draw even with her horse before speaking. “Over the next hill is the old abbey ruins. We are a quarter-hour from the front steps. I propose we take the long way around, about a half-hour in total to the rear of the abbey. If we use the front, we may leave tracks.”
“My dear, well done. Yes, it would be best if our presence here remained a secret.”
Gillian led the way off the path and struck out across an empty pasture. He looked around them and saw no one. He knew someone could be observing them from the trees at the edge of the field but decided not to dwell on the possibility.
Moreham urged Paladin and eased back up beside Gillian. Given a choice he preferred to remain by her side. He relished the sight of her emotions flitting across her face as she talked and pointed out landmarks. She loved this place. If that he had no doubt.
“The abbey is built into a hill. The door at the back of the building is really the third level down from the courtyard.”
“Where the monks’ cells are located?”
Gillian smiled at him. “Yes, you have an interest in old Papist abbeys?”
“I have a variety of interests.” He returned her smile.
He regretted his words at the leaching of the humorous gleam from her eyes.
“Yes, for a moment I forgot…everything. Thank you for reminding me.”
Gillian clicked her tongue. Her horse increased his gait and once more left Moreham to follow.
Moreham frowned at the sight of the thick grove of trees in their way. Not a single sign of a path. To his amazement, Gillian kept riding forward and only at the last moment did he see the narrow path cut into the grove. One moment he was out in the sunlight and the next riding through a darkness so deep he could barely make out Gillian in front of him.
“We dismount here. We dare not bring the horses any closer. The path is rocky and far too easy for one of them to be injured.”
They both dismounted and hobbled their horses. At least, he assumed Gillian had done so. He couldn’t make out where either she or her horse was situated in the dark.
“Why hasn’t the path been cleared?”
“As far as I know I am the only one who ever comes this way. Everyone else knows of the path but prefers the quicker route through the village and the main road. You will understand once we gain entrance to the abbey. Not a pleasant journey. You don’t believe in ghosts, do you?”
“No, but I would rather not have that belief proven false either.”
Gillian laughed and appeared in front of him. “Take my hand.”
She led him through the trees into a clearing about three feet wide. Her light grasp of his hand warmed his heart. It had been a long time since anyone besides his mother had touched him, skin to skin. Finally, he could see her again. Only once he’d laid his eyes on her did he realize how tense he had been when he couldn’t see her. Gillian released his hand and reached out to run her hands over the side of the wall.
“Here!” she whispered. “From now on we must not speak unless absolutely necessary. Sound carries. Anyone in the courtyard can hear noises from below. Hence the reason the locals think there are ghosts.”
She motioned for him to come nearer. The door had a whimsical look to it. Short, about five feet high with a rounded top. He would not have been surprised if fairies appeared on the other side.
Gillian held up her hand to stop him from opening the door.
“I brought this.” Gillian pulled a small jar from inside her cloak.
“What is it? A witch’s concoction?”
“I told Maisy I needed some chicken fat for my hands. We can slather this on the hinges and work the fat into the metal.”
“Chicken fat?”
“Do you have any better idea, Moreham?” she asked. When he didn’t reply, she continued. “Just as I thought.”
Gillian opened the jar then proceeded to smear the yellow substance on the noisy hinges. Once she’d finished, she nodded to him. To his amazement, after moving the door back and forth a handful of times, there was no more groaning when he closed the door.
Gillian went up on her tiptoes and whispered. “We’re going to be in one of the cells. Stand still and listen. If anyone is in the courtyard, we will hear. Of course, should we make a noise, we will be found out as well.”
Moreham followed her into the abbey. She had forgotten to say they would be in complete darkness. Gillian grabbed his hand and tugged him forward. “We are in the corridor. There are doors to the courtyard at either end.”
Both of them stood still and listened. A faint rustle of wind was the only sound. When he would have moved on, Gillian’s grasp kept him in place. “Wait. I thought I heard something.”
She squeezed his hand. “There.” A faint clunk echoed around them. A rock maybe? Another clunk, this time voices rumbled. They had company.
Moreham, the consummate strategist who always put the mission first was torn. He wanted to take Gillian back to the door and shove her outside. He also wanted to proceed into one of the cells and spy on whoever was talking in the courtyard.
He needed to go on by himself. Frustration and helplessness ate at him as they waited until the voices faded away. Dare he hope the voices belonged to some farmers taking a respite from tilling the fields?
Moreham followed her and bit back his own groan. No doors on the cells. The stone cubicles would be perfect for an ambush. A body wouldn’t have a chance to escape from an attacker hiding in the little rooms. He hurried after Gillian, intent on passing her and taking the lead. Thoughts of someone hurting her ate at his gut.
Gillian stopped and waited for him. She pointed upward to stairs then pulled him against her, whispering. “This floor is below the courtyard. We will go up one floor to the cells that look out over the courtyard. This is where we will hide when we return. No telling who may be in the courtyard.”
Before she could take another step, he tugged her behind him and assumed the lead up the stairs. Her words about returning to the abbey had rubbed him the wrong way. She was with him today to be his guide. Her presence would not be needed any further. He intended to leave her safe and sound with his mother and Philly the next time he came to this place.
Gillian broke the silence. “Come, we can move down the corridor. Tread carefully and we may be able to see who is talking.”
Gillian pulled him into a room alit with sunlight from a small window. If he had his bearings right, the room overlooked the courtyard. The only difference from the level below was the gust of cool air blowing through the room and the voices floating from the courtyard below.
“All looks to be in order.”
“Yes, milord. I took care of seeing to the courtyard m’self.”
“None of the locals are suspicious?”
“Nay, milord, everyone is excited about the fancy folks coming for the house party. No one has any notion about what you h
ave planned. Most of the folks around here believe this place to be haunted by the old monks. Every so often, a brave soul will venture this way after dark. The wind blowing through the old monk cells is enough to send the lads scrambling back to the village. Just as I told you, the perfect site for your meeting with the bluebloods the duke invited.”
“Yes, well we will see. I must return to Town. We’ve captured an agent of the Crown. I intend to be the one to conduct the agent’s interrogation myself. Stay low until Whitney and his entourage arrive. I will be hot on their heels. Meet me here in two nights at six o’clock. Here…” The unmistakable jingle of coins caused Gillian to look over at him. “You’ve done well, my friend. Months of groundwork will culminate when we meet next. You can be proud of your efforts.”
Gillian stood in the darkness next to Moreham until the only sound she heard was their breathing. She wanted to cry. The voice kept echoing through her mind. He’d said her uncle’s name. Guilt warred with grief in her soul. She had aided Moreham in routing her relative. The only person who had been caring enough to offer her his home as her own. What would become of Aunt Isadora?
She wanted to discount the man’s assertion of Uncle’s involvement. She could no longer fight Moreham. She no longer could deny the real possibility her uncle was a traitor to the Crown. That thought sent shudders through her body.
Moreham took hold of her hand and tugged her back from the window until they stood in the corridor. He turned her around, facing him nose to nose. The starkness of his expression spoke volumes. How she wished she’d listened to his warnings.
“Gillian, did you recognize either man’s voice?”
She’d never felt so at sea. Frozen, filled with fear of how what they’d overheard robbed her of her voice. All she could do was shake her head in the negative. Moreham shook her ever so slightly.
She cleared her throat and spoke. Her voice pitched so low she feared he could not hear her. “No, I had no sense of having ever met either of those men. I wish I could say I did. You have no notion how badly I want to put names to those voices.”
