At last, she found a place where the wall had crumbled under the pressure of a tree root, enough for her to climb over and escape the estate.
The road ran outside, the rough-hewn stones at the edge pressing against her feet. She still wore indoor shoes, light slippers meant for smooth corridors and soft carpets, not the ground she stumbled over for who knew how long. Her right hand, gripped around the handle of her valise, was numb. She doubted it would lose the shape of a fist for some time.
She could not go to the village. He was bound to look there, if he searched for her. She did not know what lay in the other direction, how far she would need to travel. Not that it mattered. She was lost, her heart smashed into pieces, her purpose destroyed. She no longer fit anywhere.
Perhaps she would become one of those creatures of the night, wandering, eating what they could scavenge, moved on from village to village by the authorities, who were unwilling to take responsibility for vagrants. She could tell people stories of lost gods, of aristocrats who were greater than people imagined them and would destroy them with one slash of their hand.
She carried on walking, how far she did not know, putting one foot before the other until her legs trembled with the effort and her body growled for sustenance. She plucked the bread rolls from her bag and ate them while she walked. Night fell and she trudged on, keeping to the road. When a fox came upon her, she snarled at it and it bounded away.
The road became one long ribbon of nothingness. Though she stumbled she carried on until the soles of her shoes wore through and the soft uppers were bedaubed with her blood. Ruth felt nothing. If she stopped she might die. That was all she knew. Her mental turmoil turned to numbness and she became as unthinking as the other creatures she met. Not one human. She must be a long way from anywhere. Perhaps it was safe for her to rest.
Sinking down, she fell instantly into deep slumber.
Galloping hooves woke her. Anxiously she scrambled to her feet. She had no time to scurry into the hedge by the road, but the man did not give her a second glance. To him she was probably one of the disregarded people who tramped the highways day and night. Dawn was breaking. A stream burbled not so far away.
Her mind was still far from clear. Getting away remained the only thing on her mind, but rationality broke through enough to take her down to where the water danced its way over the pebbles.
Opening her bag, she found a washcloth. She had brought them from home and defiantly stuffed them in when she decided to leave. Now she was glad of it, because she could bathe her feet and wash her face without destroying any of her precious clothes. She would need them. She owned but one spare shift and a couple of petticoats, as well as a threadbare shawl. Her soft, expensive shoes she hadn’t thought to change before she left the house were ruined. At the bottom of her bag was her hairbrush, pushed out of shape but still serviceable, and a spare linen cap, as well as several handkerchiefs. One contained her savings. The money she had brought from home and not broken into, because Marcus provided everything at the house.
Her mind shied away from the name, startled into a spurt of unwelcome memory. Having rendered herself almost respectable, Ruth picked up her bag and continued on her way. Wherever that was.
Chapter Fifteen
“What do you mean, gone?” Marcus roared.
The maid bobbed a curtsey, her eyes round. “She ain’t in her room, your grace. Her bed’s disturbed, but it don’t look like it’s been slept in. She didn’t eat her dinner last night.”
“Search the house.”
Marcus raced up to the nursery, taking the stairs three at a time. She’d have gone back there for sure. When he burst through the door, only Andrea and the new maid stared at him. The boys burst into tears. Marcus knew how they felt. The new maid had taken over Ruth’s old room, and no sign remained.
As he hurtled along the corridor towards the old library, he felt a touch in his mind. I can feel your agitation. What is it?
She’s gone!
D’Argento searched the state rooms, while Henstall took the upper storeys and Marcus started in the kitchens. They met on the great landing. Painted angels and creatures of legend cavorted around them while Marcus’s despair took his heart and wrung it dry. “She’s gone.”
“So have the ladies Damaris and Nerine,” Henstall said.
Had they, by God? “Did they take her with them?”
“It’s possible,” d’Argento said. He laid his hand on Marcus’s arm, but Marcus shook him off. D’Argento persisted. “Should you not just let her go?”
Alarm rose to swamp him. “Would the ladies not wish to harm her?”
D’Argento shook his head. “I do not think so. They didn’t see her as a threat, more of a nuisance. Why would they take the risk of harming her, if she wanted to leave anyway?” He went on, his voice soothing. “She was obviously shocked by what you told her. Perhaps she wants none of you. Leave her to find her own way.”
“I can’t believe that.” He would not believe it. Only the night before last he’d held her in his arms, skin to skin, and declared himself the happiest man alive. He would not give that up, not without a fight.
He was made to fight. He was Mars.
“Then what do you suggest?” d’Argento asked him.
If Ruth was with the ladies, she would at least be safe. If she had gone off on her own, she was in more danger, from highwaymen, vagrants and any number of people. He would take that course, ensure she was not lying in a ditch somewhere, bleeding and helpless.
“Find the ladies. Bring her back, if she’s gone with them.” He snapped into action, reminding himself of the other attributes—the ability to campaign, to devise tactics.
“At once, mighty leader,” d’Argento murmured. “I will move fast. You will know within the day.”
“She could have gone anywhere. She could be lying out there dying or dead. It rained last night. Is she wet, shivering with fever?” He stopped his rash imaginings. “Henstall, stay here. Let me know immediately if she is found. Have the grounds searched.” His mind snapped into action, working out the best plan. His heart pounded out his terror.
“Spread your thoughts, Marcus,” d’Argento said sharply. “Sense her.”
Why had he not recalled that? He was too set on finding her, hunting her down, to use the ways other gods used almost without thinking. He was out of practice, but because he set his personal protection over her, nobody else could reach her, not even Mercury, the man who stood next to him in the guise of d’Argento.
He opened his heart and his mind, and tried to find her.
A thread returned to him, a silvery, fragile film of gossamer. Before it could snap he seized it, illuminated and strengthened it. “There! She’s alive!” If she was dead, he would have found nothing. He concentrated, closing his eyes, trying to see with her vision. All he found was darkness. “She’s moving. There’s noise, but it’s muffled. She’s dreaming.”
Lying somewhere lost and dreaming. He did his best to anchor the thread weaving through his mind. Her presence, however tenuous, eased him, allowed him to think better. He could not follow the thread, but it assured him that she was alive. “Order me a fast horse and my riding dress. I won’t wait.” He bounded upstairs.
His valet fussed over him, but Marcus would accept none of it, only pausing to collect a package his man insisted were essentials. He discarded half of them, dumping the lace ruffles and the dozen neckcloths, but keeping the spare coat and waistcoat, the stockings and the shirts. He ensured a razor lay at the bottom of the pile, and a pair of pistols, then handed the lot to his valet and ordered him to pack them in his saddlebag and discard what would not fit. Finding his safe, he took out a purse of guineas, hesitated and picked up some bills too, together with a handful of calling cards, proof of his identity, should he need it. No horses were missing from his stable, so she had not ridden away. He’d have
felt better if she had.
Half an hour after he’d discerned the faint trace of her, he was shaking the dust of the Abbey off his horse’s hooves.
He recalled what she’d said. She’d told him of her intention of taking the stage from the village. She would be a fool to take that course now. She must know he would pursue her. Perhaps she would use that knowledge to do the opposite.
Five miles down the road and an hour later, he stopped at a crossroads. He was travelling towards Scarborough. Would she go there, to catch a coach or even a ship? The coach would be cheaper, the ship faster. Did she have enough money for a ship’s passage, even as far as London?
Despair racked him before he regained control of his senses. He would find her. No other option existed. The wind whipped past him. The rain last night would only worsen today. Let her be indoors, where she would not catch her death of cold.
He shuddered. If she died, he would go mad in truth and glad for the going. His feelings for Ruth were true. No lust rose to blind him, as with Virginie, no emotion save the desperate need to save her. If she wanted to leave him after that, then so be it. As long as she was alive and not in distress, he would remain content.
Perhaps “content” was going too far.
He would go to Scarborough and ask at the coaching inns there. No, wait… Halting his horse, he stopped to think. If she had gone there, she’d already be on the stage or the ship. He wouldn’t catch her. Most coaches left early in the day. The ones that were already on a journey would not stop for long.
He still kept that thread, but it was weakening. Did some thought of him remain in her mind that she was trying to suppress? He cursed his gallantry, that he’d closed her off to any contact but his. For the umpteenth time he tried to communicate with her. Ruth, please, sweetheart, answer me.
He received nothing in reply. Perhaps she was too far away for him to reach her. Mind to mind communication only worked over a relatively short distance.
Then a door slammed in his head.
She had learned the trick, then, of shutting herself off even from him. Why had he ever taught her? Why had he not kept that knowledge to himself? She had cut herself off so that nobody but he could find her, and now she’d snapped off the link they shared too.
The action was too deliberate to be an accident, or caused by somebody else. He’d felt the slam, heard it, and knew she had done it.
Could d’Argento break through? He was the god of communication. If anyone could find her, link with her, even speak to her at this distance, he could. It might mean hurting her. Ruth had been hurt enough; he would not add to her distress unless the choice was between that and saving her life .Please God, it couldn’t come to that.
The vast majority of public stagecoaches travelled along the Great North Road. A coach from Scarborough would join it at some point. He set his mind to the task of working out where it would travel. Already the morning was half over. Would he find her by nightfall?
They would go to York and join the Great North Road. Public coaches tended to follow the same routes. He could either try to find which coach she was on or take a chance and head for York. If he missed her in Scarborough and she was travelling in the opposite direction, the fragile link between them would break.
His head pounded with the effort to regain the link. Shaking the pain away, he put all his efforts into working out a strategy. What would she do? What would he do?
Try to lose himself in a mass of people. Go to a place that had a plethora of inns, with coaches leading in every direction. Confuse and obfuscate.
She would not go north, where her parents lived, but south. And the biggest city, the easiest one to reach, was London.
Swinging his horse around, he headed for York.
Stopping at every sizeable inn meant his journey took longer than he wanted. He could ride faster than a lumbering coach could travel, but when he received news about the London coach, it was that it had left Scarborough at first light. He was miles behind, half a day, maybe more by the time he’d stopped asking at every damned inn.
He was forced to change horses. After giving instructions for his own steed, he found the inn had lumbered him with a slug. The animal could barely go above a trot, and by the time he reached the next posting stage, it was completely exhausted.
The landlord of the King’s Head scratched his head when Marcus poured out a litany of complaint. “I wouldn’t have stopped at the Ferret and Rabbit, my lord.” Marcus did not correct him on the use of his title. Enough he’d commanded the attention he needed, so the landlord would listen to his demands. The complaints were merely releasing the pressure building all day. He would not be able to go much further today, but if he could commandeer a good mount, he could make York before nightfall.
Thankfully the landlord provided him with packed food he could munch on the way and a young, frisky chestnut gelding eager to show his paces. Marcus was only too willing to let him. The quality of the road improved as he neared the city, broadening, with fewer ruts and potholes. The landlord at the Swan told him where the coach from Scarborough to London would be staying. He went straight there. Rooms were not available, but he found one across the street. He would have slept in the yard if he found nowhere else.
York was a fine town, full of gracious buildings, but Marcus was in no mood to appreciate its glories. After one quick glance at the Minster clock when it boomed eight o’clock, he crossed the busy road to the King’s Head. The thread had not strengthened, but neither had it lessened. She could be here and refusing to let him in any further. Marcus did not believe in bothering God except for Sundays and special occasions, but with the chimes of the great bell ringing in his ears, he devoted some time to it now. Just let her be here, safe and well. He would do anything for that.
The harassed landlord paid Marcus no mind. His rank did not concern the man, probably used to entertaining nobility, except to elicit a quick bow once he’d glanced at the calling card Marcus handed him, and an “I’ll be with you directly, your grace.”
Grinding his teeth, Marcus forced patience on himself. Antagonising the man who could help him most would do no good. He wandered into the taproom. The place was ill lit, noisy with loud chatter and shouted orders, cloudy with the smoke from pipes. Marcus walked around every table, ignoring the glares of the passengers who glared back, or demanded what he thought he was doing.
At last the landlord paid him attention. “I’m looking for a young lady,” he said after he’d followed the man to the entrance-lobby next to the yard, where he could hear himself speak.
The man frowned and scratched his head, pushing his wig to one side. He was considerably shorter than Marcus and must peer up at him. That gave Marcus a reminder. “She’s a tall young lady.”
“After a particular type, are you, my lord?”
“A particular young lady.”
“We’ve got a few, or I can put you in the way of more appetising fare. I have some addresses, if you get my meaning.”
Marcus closed his eyes and prayed for strength. “She is a relative and she ran away from home.”
“Ahhh.” The landlord grimaced. “Sorry, your grace, I thought when you said particularly, you meant a particular.”
Marcus recognised his error. A particular was a woman of the night. He was certainly not looking for one of those. “No, she’s a respectable young woman. She’s probably trying to get to my—aunt in London.”
The landlord rubbed his chin. “There’s a few travelling. I have the lists, but she won’t be travelling under her own name, will she?”
“No,” Marcus agreed grimly. He handed the man a guinea and let him see the two he held in his hand.
“I can show you the lists. I got three coaches come in today.”
“Let me see them,” he demanded.
For another guinea, the landlord fetched the lists. A few held women
travelling alone, but none of the names meant anything to Marcus. That did not mean she was not here. Unfortunately, most of them had retired to their rooms for the evening.
Desperately, he tried again to speak to her mentally, but received no reply. Not even an acknowledgement that she heard him. She had blocked him out completely.
They would set out at dawn, and even for the third guinea and the promise of more the landlord refused to let Marcus upstairs to explore. “I run a respectable inn, sir. You can’t expect me to let a man wander around looking for custom. Even if you’re not, it looks that way. I’ll have the constable on me before you can whistle.”
Unfortunately the bedchambers were reached by scaling a narrow set of stairs, in sight of the landlord and everyone else. At least if Ruth was here, she would be safe for the night. Comforting himself with that thought, Marcus crossed the road once more and settled on his bed to try to get some sleep, though how he would sleep with that damned Minster bellowing out the hours, he wasn’t sure.
The tinkle of his watch chiming the hour woke him. Blinking, he stuffed it in his pocket and swung his legs wearily out of his bed. He stayed here but a few days ago, in a much better quality inn, but he dared not go far. He scrambled into his clothes, smiling when he imagined the appalled features of his much put-upon valet when he saw the result. He donned his riding habit again, with a fresh shirt and neckcloth. He didn’t bother to shave. He’d take care of that later. Another matter pressed on him far more.
He hurried across the road, dodging the piles of horse manure, and entered the coaching inn.
In the yard, the first of the two great coaches stationed there was ready to leave, the four horses champing at the bit and stamping on the cobbles, their tack jingling as the coachman climbed up to his perch and took the reins from the waiting ostler.
War Chest: Even Gods Fall in Love, Book 5 Page 22
