The mist was rising, the shadow of the cliff long, the sun dangerously low. She had to get out of here. Now. But surely not up the clitter. She’d be back in the bog in a twinkling of an eye.
A quarter of the way around the quagmire, the side of the cliff dipped to a more gentle slope. Perhaps there she’d be able to find a safer way back to the top. Getting there, however, was not going to be easy.
Rodney was definitely going to kill her. If giant winged raven didn’t get there first.
Beth stood. Bloody hands outstretched, balancing precariously on the clitter-strewn rim of the granite, she made her way toward the less precipitous slope. Fifteen minutes later, she rested her back against the solid comfort of one of the standing tones and watched fog rising in waves from the bog, obscuring the mossy ground where she had lain. Transforming her last hour into the ethereal realm of nightmare and illusion.
The high tor was gone as well, shrouded in mist. She wasn’t going to make it home. But she had to try.
Beth found her bundle, took her bearings. The path should be . . . that way.
What if it wasn’t?
Her muscles ached. Her bones cried out. Even her hair hurt. Or so it seemed.
When she found her bundle, the path not far beyond, it seemed a miracle. So was the fog which stayed just behind her. Each time she looked back, it loomed up, a great gray shroud intent on gobbling up what the bog had spared. Beth shivered and kept going.
What of her attacker? Would he loom up out of the mist, black cloak flying, prepared to finish what he had started? Stumbling, terrified, her throat stabbed by the now familiar pangs of anxiety, Beth kept moving. If she could just get past the place where the trail narrowed to boulders on one side and marsh on the other before darkness overcame her . . .
She tripped, went down hard on her knees, adding another scrape. Tears flowed. Exhaustion. Cold. Despair. There were no rocks this large on the path. She’d strayed. Lost her way. No hope now.
No! She simply didn’t remember. In good light she’d avoided this rock. In poor light, she’d tripped. She was on the path. She was on her way home. She was a Brockman, she would survive.
Resolve could only go so far. Sprawled on the ground, her muddied cloak spread out around her, her body refusing to budge, Beth fought back a sob. Her soul screamed. Terence, I need you! I’m a fool, but so are you. Why did you leave me?
She would get up. Damn him to bloody hell! She had not yet told him what she thought of his desertion. Or of his allowing her to leave him. Beth raised her eyes, stuck a belligerent chin in the air.
A flash of light. An echo of sound. Imagination? She sniffed, wiped her tears on her cloak, went very still.
“My lady? My lady!”
“Lady Monterne!”
The purple shadows of dusk blossomed with dancing light. Three, four, a half dozen lanterns bobbing in the distance.
God bless Ellie Freeman!
Beth tried to stand. Opened her mouth, but nothing came out. No matter. The men were coming this way. In a moment she’d find her legs, recover her voice. She was a Brockman. And she was going to live to see tomorrow.
When Rodney would kill her.
Chapter Seventeen
Beth slid down in bed, wriggling her toes an inch closer to the hot brick wrapped in a linen towel which Ellie had placed beneath the covers. Glorious! She’d had a hot bath, piping hot food served on a tray propped atop the extra quilts Mrs. Ferris had produced, even as the housekeeper shook her head, declaring she couldn’t imagine what had possessed my lady to go off like that, alone among such dangers, benighted, fallen into a bog. And what was my lord going to say?
Beth closed her ears to Mrs. Ferris’s remonstrances, although what my lord was going to say hung like a threatening black cloud beneath the wonder of warmth, light, and safety. They—none except Ellie—believed her. Her insistence that she’d been pushed into the bog was met with incredulity, side-wise glances, the shaking of wiser heads. Perhaps she’d lost her balance. Perhaps a raven had swooped low and startled her.
She knew better. The giant black “wings” had been the outstretched folds of a cloak thrown back as hands thrust out and pushed her. She had been careful, standing two or three feet back from the edge of the clitter slope in case the ground might crumble. She had not lost her balance. The so-called raven had had arms. She could still feel the imprint of two strong hands on her back. Out on the moor, there had been no time for thought about anything except getting home. But now that she was warm and cozy in her own bed, the scene at the standing stones came back with glittering clarity. She had been pushed. Someone—human and malevolent— had tried to . . . frighten her? Kill her? Yes, kill her. That she had stopped rolling two feet short of the deadly center of the bog was merely luck. So why hadn’t he finished her? Because he couldn’t, she realized. He would have had to cross the spongy ground between the clitter and the bog to get to her. So he turned away, hoping she would not be able to escape the quagmire.
But who . . . and why?
Dartmoor was famous for its strange creatures, some legendary, some merely eccentric. Or so Rodney had told her. Could one of them have resented her intrusion? Enough to commit murder? Beth frowned at the leaping flames in her pink marble fireplace. No . . . a recluse might wish to scare her off. But killing, particularly killing a viscountess, made no sense.
Or had she been accosted by one of the ravenous beasts of Dartmoor’s legends? A fanged wolf, the huntsman of Wistman’s Woods with his pack of hellhounds? Vixiana the Witch, who was known to lure travelers to an untimely end in Dartmoor bogs? No! Beth Brockman was not about to succumb to legends. No myth had pushed her over the edge. Those hands had been as solid as granite.
The only other explanation, however, was worse. Believing in mythical monsters was easier, less painful. The shadows in the corners of her room crept forward like fog off the moor, dimming the warmth and light, bringing cold wisps of terror. Someone had deliberately tried to kill her. To kill her, Elizabeth Brockman Renfrew, Lady Monterne. She had been followed, carefully watched until the right moment. And then . . .
She might be a pampered darling, but she had been raised in a household of pragmatists. Stand-up fighters who analyzed problems, then dealt with them. Sometimes directly, sometimes subtlely. But without hand-wringing or anguish.
She needed to be strong. Think!
No, she did not need to think. She’d known it for hours. Since lying so still in the bog, listening for sounds of life from above, waiting for a murderer to go away. The person who would want her dead was the person who would benefit from her death. Her husband, Rodney Rexford d’Arcy Trevelyan Renfrew, Lord Monterne.
When the idea first popped into her mind, she’d rejected it. Now she examined it again . . . and came to the same contradictory conclusion. Rodney already had control of her money. He wanted a child, seemed almost desperate for a child. And if she died, he would never gain the half of Tobias Brockman’s empire. Which gave him absolutely no reason to murder her. So why . . .? It made no sense.
Yet she hadn’t imagined those hands. The deliberate push which sent her sprawling onto the clitter with far more force than if she’d slipped and fallen. She had the cuts and bruises to prove it.
The door to her room burst open and her husband strode in. His beaver was still on his head, his many-caped driving coat swirling about him. His blue-gray eyes had gone to slate. Cold. Blank. Beyond simple anger. Beth could only stare, eyes wide, mouth agape. She wasn’t ready for this confrontation. She hadn’t expected him home before tomorrow night. Obviously, someone had sent for him.
Pulling off his driving gloves, he thwacked them down onto the bed. Arms akimbo, his greatcoat spreading out into wings which caused bile to rise in Beth’s throat, he glared down at her. His voice was soft and deadly. His features seemed to shimmer, wafting between classic Greek beauty and the ugliest of gargoyles. For the first time she questioned her ability to distinguish fact from fantasy. This couldn�
��t be happening. None of it. Not this afternoon, not now. Not her whole dreadful marriage, the fairy tale crumpled so soon into grotesque nightmare.
“You went onto the moor alone?” the viscount inquired, his voice soft and deadly. “You sneaked out of the house and went off without maid, footman, or groom?”
“Nothing would have happened if I hadn’t been pushed—”
Rodney seemed not to hear her. “You, the little Cit, risked your life, possibly the life of my heir, on a hey-go-mad venture onto some of the most dangerous ground in Britain?”
“I was very careful—”
“Careful?” Rodney roared. “Are you mad? You nearly killed yourself!”
“I was pushed,” Beth reiterated stubbornly, sticking out her chin.
“Pushed?” her husband mocked. “Pushed! Are you a liar as well as a fool? Who would dare attack Lady Monterne? Come now, my lady, excuses are worse than admitting the truth. Surely even a Cit can understand that?”
Never, never before had anyone doubted her word! Hot scalding tears rolled down Beth’s cheeks, even as she despised every drop. She’d had a perfectly dreadful day . . . and now this. Waves of humiliation rolled over her. She should be stronger. She was stronger.
Just . . . not right now, when her fighting spirit had taken a near mortal blow. She’d known Rodney would be angry, of course she had. But this cold fury, the sarcasm, the disbelief were the final blows.
“Stop that sniveling, woman!” Rodney stepped back from the bed, stripped off his coat and hat, tossed them on a chair. The coat was tan, Beth noted dully. Not black. Nor was it a cloak. “Stop it at once!” he snapped. “Women always fall back on tears to hide their guilt. I won’t have it, d’you hear me? My lady, be quiet!”
She tried, she really tried. But the day had been too long, the physical exhaustion too much. She gulped, struggled to find a handkerchief lost in the folds of the quilt, finally threw herself face down into her pillow to hide her sobs.
He grabbed her by her long nightbraid, yanked her head back. “I said, stop that noise!”
Instinctively, Beth grabbed for her braid. She might as well have been a gnat. He shook her head as if she were a rag doll. Gasping in pain, she tried to turn her head to look at him. This couldn’t be happening. Except for a few inevitable spankings in her youth, no one had ever physically hurt her. And now . . . twice in one day.
In that instant, she realized there was a motive for murder she had not considered. Sheer black temper—a need for control so powerful it overcame reason, common sense, even the teachings of the church. When, out on the moor, she had thought Rodney would kill her, she had not meant it literally. Now, she wasn’t so sure.
Rodney hated tears. One of women’s most insidious tricks. Weak conniving bitches. Turning into watering pots to get their way. Turning strong men’s knees to water. Well, not this man, by God. He was made of sterner stuff. Damned if his wife would rule the roost. She was too independent, the little Merchant Princess. Defiant. He had deigned to marry her for her money. She should be grateful. Not going off to risk life and limb, doing exactly what he’d warned her not to do. She needed to be taught a lesson. It was, perhaps, fortunate his journey to Exeter had been cut short. He needed his strength for the task ahead. For the challenge of showing his wife who was master in this house.
Rodney let his wife fall back onto the bed. With great care, he shrugged himself out of his jacket, laid it on top of his coat. Mustn’t annoy Paxton—his valet, being a man, had his respect. It was his wife who needed to be taught a lesson. Too bad he didn’t have his riding crop. This time—this first time—the flat of his hand would have to do. Anything more after her ordeal on the moor, and he’d probably kill her. And, angry as he was, he knew he needed her. To warm his bed on long winter nights, to bear a son. And, besides, she was an appealing little thing. She simply needed to be taught a lesson.
In one swift movement, Rodney stripped the covers from the bed. “Turn over!” he commanded grimly.
Ferris, who was unable to completely repress his look of anxiety, came into the library where his mistress was curled up in a soft leather chair before the fireplace, reading one of the books just sent down from London by her old governess, or so his wife had told him. Poor wee scrap. She’d suffered for her day on the moor, far more than she should, though the disloyalty of the thought pained him. And now the vicar had come to call, and God alone knew what was going to happen. His mistress had seen no one since what Ferris thought of as “the incident.” Indeed, she’d only left her room for the first time the day before. She walked stiffly, but her bruises were fading, her scratches healing well. Yet her lively eyes and ready smile had gone dull, her cheerful voice reduced to grim-lipped murmurs. And what, pray tell, would she say to the vicar?
Not that it truly mattered. A man had a right to beat his wife. But she was so small . . . and she might be with child. Roughly, Ferris thrust his thoughts aside. It wasn’t his place to meddle. Yet he was torn between wanting to protect his lord’s good name and wishing Lady Monterne would plead with the vicar to intercede on her behalf.
“The Reverend Mr. Renfrew is here, my lady. Are you at home?”
Beth took a swift inventory of her appearance. Since the damage to her face was the result of her fall down the clitter and all the rest of her was completely covered up, she judged she could stand inspection. And if she didn’t receive the vicar, he would think her at death’s door. She had too much pride for that. And, in spite of his calling, she doubted the Reverend Mr. Renfrew could discover the wound which would not heal, the one to her soul.
“You will, I hope, forgive me, for not removing to the drawing room,” Beth said to the young vicar a few moments later. “I still find movement a trifle painful.”
“My dear girl, whatever made . . .? I beg your pardon,” Reverend Renfrew amended swiftly. “It’s not my place to remonstrate with you. A newcomer such as yourself could have had no idea of the dangers lurking on the moor. We may thank God for your safe delivery home. I–ah–trust you are feeling much more the thing?”
He’d heard something, Beth was sure of it. But what could he say or do? He was Rodney’s cousin. His living came from the Renfrews. And chastising one’s wife was a male privilege—indeed, a duty—practiced by Englishmen of every class, from street sweepers and tavern keepers to the highest nobility in the land. She assured him she was nearly recovered, thanked him for coming to see her.
Mr. Renfrew nodded graciously, although Beth fancied she saw a shadow of concern in his blue eyes. “Shall we have the pleasure of seeing you in church next Sunday, my lady?” he inquired.
Minimizing her aches and pains, Beth assured the vicar she would be back in the Renfrew family pew for the next services. She liked the vicar, thought him a fine young man. Yet she bit back the impulse to tell him how she fell down the clitter into the bog or why it had taken her so long to recover. From Mrs. Ferris she had discovered that he was Rodney’s heir. Although the two men did not seem close, she did not feel she could turn to the vicar for help.
And there was the problem of pride. It was hard enough to admit she’d come to grief on the moor, but to reveal that her husband had spanked her bottom until it was swollen and raw, streaked with lines of blood from his fingernails . . . that she could never do. It was a one-time occurrence, she assured herself. She would be good. There would be no more trouble.
How was that possible when someone was trying to kill her?
Someone tried to kill her? Rodney had mocked. Slap. Madness. Slap. If he’d known insanity ran in her family he wouldn’t have married her. Slap. And infertile as well. Slap. Disobedient. Slap! Liar. Slap! Poking around in rooms filled with junk. Slap!
Her sins had been a long litany. With every slap she had cringed, but refused to cry out. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.
Yet the whole household knew. She could feel it all around her. A miasma of horror and helplessness. Similar to her own.
In her
head she had composed a dozen letters to her father. And never taken pen in hand. Perhaps it would be easier to tell Tildy?
How could she admit to anyone that she was such a failure as a wife that her husband not only beat her but was, perhaps, trying to kill her?
Beth dragged herself back to the vicar’s mellow tones. “You must meet our newest neighbor, Lady Monterne,” he was saying. “She has the village quite agog. Why such an elegant creature should come to Dunscombe no one can imagine. And in the middle of the winter. But there she is, shopping in her fur-lined cloak and wearing one of those towering Russian hats. I was quite gratified when she joined us on Sunday.” Beth could swear the young vicar blushed. “Somehow . . . well, I suppose I thought she would ignore our small congregation, as the Refuge did until our Lady Monterne showed them the way.”
Now, Beth was positive the Reverend Mr. Renfrew was blushing. The not-quite-healed cut on her lip protested. The vicar had actually charmed a smile out of her. “And this mysterious lady’s name?” Beth asked.
“Mrs. Helen Archer. I’m not quite sure where she’s from,” the vicar admitted. “She was a trifle vague, declaring that she’s traveled most of her life and now wishes to settle down and enjoy the peace of the moor for a while. She’s rented the Smythe cottage. Mrs. Smythe passed on last year,” Mr. Renfrew confided, “and the heirs would not live any place but Plymouth. So it’s a boon all around to have her in the cottage. You will like her, I’m sure.”
“I’m sure I will.” Beth proceeded to pour out the tea which Ferris had just brought.
When Sunday came, Rodney was away, much to his wife’s relief. They had scarcely spoken since that night in her bedroom. Nor had he come to her bed for more intimate purposes. For nearly a week he had stomped about the house, glowering at everyone, then he had ordered his curricle put to and set off, with Paxton and luggage, to an unknown destination. Since he drove to Exeter alone, with nothing more than an overnight bag, it was presumed he was traveling a greater distance. He might have informed Ferris of his destination; he certainly had not informed his wife. Wherever it was, Beth prayed her husband would make a long stay.
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