“Canterbury!” Lady Camille cooed. “We could see the Cathedral, the ruins of the castle and St. Augustine’s Abbey, and St. Martin’s Church.”
“Excellent. Or what about going north to the sea instead?” Scarbreigh suggested. “Whitstable is fabulous this time of year.”
“Oh, yes!” Lady Camille said. “Wouldn't you idolize fresh oysters or clams, Lady Bethany? Or perhaps some fish chowder and fresh bread?”
Bethany caught another of those quick, meaningful looks the twins sent Locke before Lord Matthew intervened.
“Pull in your horses, Sister, Scarbreigh. Lady Bethany’s not alone in needing rest. Lady Camille, you forget we four men just arrived here yesterday, and Mr. Nicolas, Scarbreigh and I stopped at Hannaford and Whitton on the way. We all leave again tomorrow. Scarbreigh may want to sightsee, but I’m afraid I, for one, don’t.”
A flash of irritation crossed the marquess’s face. He rolled his eyes and shrugged.
“Just trying to be of help. Well, truth is, Lady Bethany does seem peaked. I suppose we should make the best of it here.” His visage was grim but his remarks eased the mild tension in the room.
After abandoning the breakfast table, games and the inherent gossip carried them to midafternoon, when they undertook a picnic in the shade of the trees by the pond.
Bethany paid close heed to the brief visit Locke’s stablehands Devon and Carter paid his lordship, and saw the quiet presence of the other two, Hugh and Josh, at opposite ends of the grounds. Armed guards, watching over them, she presumed. Men who reminded her that she wasn’t safe, that someone thought she knew something that she was equally sure she didn’t. She did, however, catch the disappointment on Locke’s face at the information Devon whispered in his ear.
The sweet tranquility of the country—as well as Bethany’s guards—served to calm her despite her qualms, and blankets spread under the shade trees offered a pleasant place to recline. Deciding to divest themselves of gloves and shoes, they made themselves comfortable. The others fell asleep, and Bethany herself dozed between Lady Camille and Lord Locke, to the sound of ducks and geese on the pond and the breeze ruffling the trees overhead.
Her eyes fluttered open when Locke stretched out beside her, the stress having slipped from his face and left it relaxed in slumber, dark lashes resting against the olive tones of his cheeks. He’d shaved that morning, but the stubble darkened his jaw again, and Bethany ached to touch it. He shifted, his left hand brushing her right one. She dared wrap her fingers around it, loving its masculine softness. A tingle skittered down Bethany’s back and across her belly, reminding her that she found this man inordinately attractive. She loved the faint, woodsy scents of his shaving lather and whatever he’d washed his hair with that morning.
Perhaps sensing her gaze, Locke came awake, blinking his eyes. He laid perfectly still when she let go of his hand, his dark blue irises contracting and expanding as he took her in. She’d pulled the combs and pins from her hair and set it free before lying down. It was a wild mane around her shoulders, a thick strand draping itself over her right cheek. Locke’s mouth rose in a soft smile as he gently stroked it from her face. His touch left heat trailing over her skin that made her shiver with pleasure.
* * *
Bethany’s wide, emerald green eyes disarmed Locke, and the thought she’d been holding his hand. He’d never experienced such wonderment towards a woman. Her full lips, hovering on the edge of a smile, drew him. He wanted to taste them again, to know how it would feel to have her respond to him. To revel in her fragrance of honeyed lemon.
It seemed so natural to cup her cheek in his hand, to stroke her silky skin with his thumb. So easy to lift her chin and lean towards her. So breathtaking to have her moist, velvety lips parted to greet his. Locke’s mind knew it was wrong to lead her on like this, to enjoy what he had no business taking from her and what he had no intentions of keeping.
His mind and heart warred with each other, but when he kissed her, her soft moan ignited a fire in his belly against which he had no defenses. He drew her close, intensifying the kiss, his hand exploring the roundness of her shoulder, the feminine planes of her back. Had she not slid her fingers up his chest to his shoulders, had she not threaded them into the hair at the nape of his neck, he could have pulled away.
But she did, and it welcomed him, and made him want more than anything to grab her and carry her to the manor, and make her his wife in more than name only. The fervor in her kiss persuaded him to believe she felt the same.
Hovering at the edge of control, he leaned over her, breathing her in, tasting her.
Then she stiffened and gasped softly, and he saw a flash of fear on her face. She pushed him, but with his weight trapping her beneath him began to panic. Her hands slammed into his chest and she shoved him hard, a tear dampening one cheek.
He wrenched himself away from her, whispering, “I’m so sorry, Lady Bethany. I had no right to do that.”
She skittered back from him, pushing up against a near tree trunk and hugging her knees to her chin. Her stocking feet peeked out from beneath her skirts, and she looked like a frightened child, her eyes shimmering damply, her face pale beneath fevered cheeks. Panic and shame flashed through her eyes before she threw her hands to her face and sat mute and shaking.
Locke felt like a monster. In his youth, he’d upon occasion enjoyed the pleasures of a stolen kiss and found himself drawn to it enough to blind him to his duties. He’d ever after stayed as far from women as was humanly possible.
He was eight years Lady Bethany’s senior. She was too young and inexperienced to understand such sentiments. She must think him an inconsiderate libertine, a monster who’d tried to take advantage of her, and that his agreement to demand nothing of her was just so much tripe. And this on the eve of his departure and after someone had shot an arrow at her.
He kept his distance, his heart breaking at the sound of sobs kept so silent, helpless to comfort her. Touching her, even kindly, might likely only make things worse.
Scarbreigh stirred and threw an arm across his eyes to ward off the late afternoon sunlight. Locke loathed the idea that his dear but sometimes frivolous friend would awaken and turn what had happened into a circus.
Rising carefully, Locke bent down and touched Lady Bethany’s hand. She jerked it from him, but her expression bore no anger, merely surprise. He pleaded with her through his eyes, offering her his hand. She gulped, shook her head as if to clear it, and allowed him to bring her to her feet.
Silently they slipped from their comrades in the general direction of the manor. When they’d gone far enough Locke believed their voices wouldn’t disturb the others, he paused and faced her. She could hardly meet his gaze.
“Please forgive me, Lady Bethany,” he said in a voice barely above a whisper. “I have no excuse for my behavior except that you’re a beautiful woman and we suffered a scare this morning. I want to protect you, and I suppose it’s too easy for a man to let those feelings get out of hand.”
Bethany grappled for words then wiped her cheeks, clasped her palms tight to her belly, and tossed that ravishing dark mane of hers back from her face.
CHAPTER 13
“There’s nothing to forgive, my lord,” Bethany said, her voice trembling, although to some degree there was. He knew things, important things, he kept from her. “I fear I suffered the same emotions. I shouldn’t have let them get hold of me, either. But I—I have a fear of tight places or being held down, and I must insist, if our marriage is to accomplish its purpose, that our pact stand inviolate.”
Locke remained quiet far too long and when she could look him in the eye, she saw a disappointment there she hadn’t expected.
“Plain-spoken as always, my dear. I admire you for it. I pray we’ll at least be good friends.”
“I want that very much. We have a face to present to the world, but in private....” In private? She would want even more. Even now she hungered for his kiss. His ardor had crashe
d over her, tender but needful, and unbelievably tempting.
But his weight pressing her to the ground had triggered flashes of that distant, dark and dreadful place, of cruel faces and weak lantern light, and ghastly pain that pierced the soul far worse than the body. From those deepest recesses of her memory came images of doubled fists, deadly threats, and never-ending questions to which she had no answers.
Those memories mortified her. Having Locke know the whole truth would make it that much worse.
No, it was important to put a stop to things now. To remind both of them, once and for all, that their marriage was simply a business arrangement, one she’d treasure, but one that would keep them forever apart.
Locke nodded, his lips pressed together in solemn affirmation. Then he forced a lopsided smile and nodded towards their guests, who’d begun to rouse from their lazy afternoon nap. “I suppose we should join them.”
Bethany watched him walk away, realizing the finality of it, fearing her heart would break into pieces. Despite the mystery Locke presented her, she knew no man in the world could have won that heart but Marcus Ashburn and couldn’t imagine a lifetime of not being able to tell him so.
* * *
Bethany did her utmost to capture every minute of that day’s shining memories. The company, the teasing and laughter, the camaraderie and well-wishing. She took part in it but not in entirety. What she’d overheard at the stable continued to trouble her, but so did what had happened between her and the Earl of Locke. She felt Locke’s discomfiture, too, as if he could hardly wait to escape Moorewood.
Locke’s farewell supper that night, so named by Mr. Treadwell on Mrs. Ford’s behalf, was even more splendid than the night before and spread the length of the table: tureens of vegetables and potatoes, spiced beef and potted pork, hindle wakes and caneton aux navets, and beef and kidney pies.
“You’d think she was serving Prinny and half the grand dukes of Britain,” Scarbreigh jested.
“They’re all some of my favorite dishes,” Locke mumbled. “Does she fear I’m never coming back?”
Mr. Nicolas laughed. “Be sure to leave an inch or two for dessert. Mr. Treadwell has a tray of glazed fruits in one hand and another of strawberry tarts in the other.”
Everyone moaned and laughed, and moaned again with each bite of the wonderful meal. All but Bethany, who only nibbled at each dish and pretended to enjoy it, her worries turning the food to sawdust in her mouth.
“We need a piano,” Scarbreigh said at last when, because of their brief time together, they again decided to forego the usual separation of the men to Locke’s study. “Since we gentlemen all play the pianoforte, what do you think about each of us taking a turn at the piano while letting Lady Camille and Lady Bethany dance with the rest of us?”
Lady Camille applauded the suggestion; Bethany endured it.
Lord Matthew played first, Scarbreigh claimed Lady Camille’s company, and Locke offered his hand to Bethany. Despite her reservations, his contact seemed magical as he whisked her around the parlor and took her, an average dancer, and made her feel elegant.
Or it would have if Mr. Nicolas, who waited his turn with the women, hadn’t kept making faces at them to bedevil them.
“I think I should play,” Lady Camille suggested after the men had all danced with both women, and her brothers had teased everyone mercilessly. “And you gentlemen should partner with each other.”
They roared when Lord Scarbreigh and Lord Matthew effected a great show of joining the fingertips of their opposite hands and making a mockery of the minuet.
“Let’s play whist,” Mr. Nicolas said at last.
“I’ll pass,” Bethany said, Lady Camille seconding her.
“Why?” asked Lord Matthew.
“You cheat,” Bethany said, grinning impertinently at them.
“I don’t cheat!” Mr. Nicolas had the audacity to declare.
“Nor do I,” Lord Matthew insisted.
Lord Locke intervened, admitting he would have to cry off as well. “I’m sorry, but I’ve had little sleep in the last few days and will leave before sunrise tomorrow. I must bid you all good night.”
There were moans of disappointment all around, but Lord Matthew reminded everyone that the Hannaford coach would vacate Moorewood’s doorstep in the morning, too. A decent night's rest was in order. Scarbreigh protested, reminding them all he wasn’t an early riser, and Mr. Nicolas offered to allow him to walk home.
Bethany felt the regrets in the goodbyes they gave each other, but was eternally grateful Lady Camille would remain at Moorewood. She’d miss her guests, but mostly she dreaded being surrounded by nothing but strangers.
Before Bethany realized it, Lady Camille and the rest of their companions had gone off to bed, leaving her and Lord Locke to head upstairs together.
“There’s no telling when I’ll return, my lady,” he said thoughtfully. “And my circumstances make writing difficult. I pray you won’t hold it against me.”
“Never. Just. Be safe.”
“I’ll do my best.” His jaw set tight, that faint telling mannerism hinting at the risks of his exploits, whatever they were. “Please remember your promise to keep one of my servants with you when you ride out. Even Mr. Treadwell can go.”
“Yes, m’lord. I’ve no desire to confront armed men, especially by myself. I’d like to be in one piece the next time you visit. Perhaps by then, you’ll have the pleasure of seeing the refurbishment well under way.”
Perhaps it would be done, depending on the length of his absence.
Locke smiled thinly, pausing outside her bedchamber door. The thought of his leaving had Bethany wishing to taste his lips again as much as she feared the thought; Locke seemed uncertain what to do. Then, for whatever reason, he bent and placed a hasty, chaste kiss on her cheek before nodding his good night.
That kiss branded Bethany's skin and sent its heat racing over every inch of her. She pressed her hand to it, as if to hold it fast.
Heart heavy, Bethany pulled the rope to summon Melissa and settled at her dressing table to wait. She was exhausted but feared sleep. Flying arrows and old memories would likely precipitate another onslaught of the recurring nightmares she’d suffered since that devilish night a year ago April.
Her thoughts turned to the discussion between Dimity and Locke. Her potential assassins had confessed they were looking for something her father had given her. An object? Information? What could it possibly be? Surely not her clothing, jewelry, shoes, or equipment for the horses. What of her books and perfumes? Toiletries and hair combs and other insignificant articles? She couldn’t fathom it.
Bethany had brought all her valuables with her to Moorewood. She needed to scrutinize her belongings, to see whether she could solve the puzzle, but she doubted it.
* * *
“Is Polly ready?” Lord Locke murmured when Mr. Treadwell joined him in his room’s flickering lamplight.
“Yes, m’lord. Seaworth kept him to his stall tonight. Don’t want any of our guests seeing him the way he looks now.”
Locke chuckled sourly. “This is a great deal easier when Moorewood is unoccupied, isn’t it? We knew it would be.”
“Indeed. Are you ready to dress?”
Locke nodded and began shedding the clothes of an earl and donning what Mr. Treadwell handed him. Threadbare but presently clean, the thin cotton shirt and trousers were cool against his skin. The ragged socks were thick, itchy woolen things that stiffened the old boots. When he sat at his dressing table and let Mr. Treadwell prepare his hair and face, he wondered, not for the first time, if this was how the pampered ladies of his class felt. Of course, it would horrify them that rather than powders and creams or hair tonics, his valet artfully applied dirt and grease to his hair and face, and added a streak of mud across one cheek. The subtlety of his skills made Locke appear genuinely impoverished. Time, travel and dismal circumstances, including hunger, would keep him looking that way, and that was what mattered.
Mr. Treadwell left briefly to ensure the manor’s halls were clear. Confident everyone else was in bed, they slipped quickly to the ground floor, Treadwell shouldering the bedroll he’d prepared earlier for the earl. Locke found the food Mrs. Ford had packed for him sitting on the counter in the kitchen. Grabbing it, he stole out the rear door and to the stables with the butler on his heels.
“Evenin’, m’lord.” Dimity took Locke’s provisions to Polly’s stall. “Seaworth and I both checked your mount out careful and he took no harm from this mornin’. Seaworth put a new nail in a shoe, but otherwise, he not only appears fit as ever, he seems eager to play his part. Found a mud puddle to roll in tonight and all I needed to do was groom ‘im enough his saddle won’t rub.”
Locke laughed lightly. Providence had an interesting sense of humor.
Devon materialized from the shadows, expression downcast.
“So you’ve still gotten nothing from them,” Locke said.
“No, m’lord, sir.” The young man’s jaw set with frustration. “Tight as drums they were, and I did what I could without killin’ ‘em. Scars they’ll have aplenty, but it didn’t impress ‘em. We’ll keep ‘em on rations that’ll barely keep ‘em alive. Hope that’ll break ‘em. We moved ‘em to the secret post a couple hours ago, put ‘em in the pits.”
Locke shivered at the image. A horrible place to spend one’s days. A necessary evil in surveillance and in war, he supposed, but he didn’t like it. “You’ll escalate as needed?”
“Of course. They may walk out someday, but if need be they’ll do it without thumbs and most o’ their toes, and once they’ve told us what we want, mayhap we really will relieve ‘em of their tongues.”
“Let’s hope it doesn’t require that, Devon. I hate such brutality.”
“Aye. Don’t like it m’self, but hands can write and tongues can wag, and her ladyship won’t be safe lessen we stop ‘em.”
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