Tarnished Honor

by Sabrina York

  She dropped down and draped her arm over her eyes to block out the light of the moon shining through the grimy window. It had been a grueling day.

  They all were, nowadays. She was up before the dawn and didn’t finish until hours after all the girls had gone to bed.

  She didn’t even bother to undress before she collapsed. Honestly, there didn’t seem to be a point. Too soon she would have to rise again. And it wasn’t as though her clothing mattered. She was a servant now, and probably would be until the day she died.

  Everything she owned—except for the precious carvings her brother had made for her—had been gifts from others. The blanket that kept her from freezing had been smuggled to her by Chelsea. The candles she used, on the odd occasion she had energy to light them, were stubs given to her by others. Even the food she ate—beyond the porridge the servants were served—was slipped into her pockets by her erstwhile friends.

  How funny it was that life could turn so capriciously.

  Fia had been born to wealth and privilege, the sister of a lord, sent to one of the finest finishing schools in Perth. Only now did she curse how very fine—and expensive—it had been.

  When catastrophe had descended and the money for her tuition and board had stopped coming, Blackbottom, the school’s headmistress, had confiscated Fia’s things—every dress, every shoe, every book—and sold them all to pay her debt. Even her horse, Tilly, and the necklace her mother had left her, had gone on the block. Sadly, it was not enough to cover all she owed.

  Blackbottom had been kind when she’d shared the news with Fia, just as she had when she’d passed on the news of Graeme’s death. And the news that Fia’s uncle—who had inherited Graeme’s estate and the title—had refused to continue paying for her keeping.

  Aye, Blackbottom had been kind when she explained to Fia that she was now alone in the world. That her debt to the school was extensive and it was only right that she work it off.

  She was kind when she offered Fia a home here—albeit in the garret.

  She was kind when she reminded Fia that she hadn’t anywhere to go. Not now. Not with Graeme dead and her home gone.

  So kind when she explained that the life Fia had always known, the expectations she’d had—of love and marriage and children—the hopes and dreams and prospects she’d once treasured, had all died with her brother.

  Blackbottom had always been so kind.

  On the surface at least.

  Fia knew better now. She saw the darkness beneath that serene and polished façade. She saw the nasty woman none of the other girls would ever see. She’d felt the fall of the cane when she displeased her mistress.

  She hated that she had to stay here but there was nowhere else to go.

  It was a stunning realization, how huge the chasm was between the servant and the privileged class. If she had not lived it, Fia would never have believed the world could be so cruel.

  She knew now, it could be.

  The doorknob jiggled, shattering her dismal thoughts.

  Fia shot up and stared at it through the shadows. The hair on her neck prickled. Sweat, cold and clammy, blossomed on her brow.

  Damn. Damn, damn.

  She’d been so woozy, she’d forgotten to latch the door. How could she ever have forgotten?

  Her heart lurched into her throat as the knob turned and the door creaked open. A large shadow loomed.

  She knew exactly who it was—even if her humming instincts hadn’t screamed it, even if she hadn’t expected him to try this again. In truth, she should have smelled him coming.

  Blackbottom’s nephew, Horace, was known for skulking about the female servants’ quarters at night. He’d attacked more than one girl, though the headmistress had taken it into her head to blame the girls for being loose. Horace was petulant, a pestilence. A boil on the butt of humanity.

  How on earth had she forgotten to lock the door?

  She swallowed, though her throat ached. Her pulse throbbed in her forehead. Her gaze raked the shadows, desperately searching for something, some weapon. Some way to protect herself.

  There was nothing.

  She had nothing.

  Nothing but a carved chess set she kept hidden beneath the floorboards, and those precious pieces would hardly prove lethal.

  “Well, hullo, missy.” His chuckle slithered through the room, making it feel even colder than it was. His eyes glinted in the moonlight. His tongue darted out like a snake’s.

  “Go away,” she snarled, trying to make her voice as mean as she could. She doubted that would help. He probably liked mean. She eased up out of bed—probably not the best place to face a man like this—and edged to the other side of the chamber, though it was a tiny chamber; his gaze tracked her.

  “I’m not going anywhere.” His lips lifted in a smirk. “You and I are going to have a…chat.”

  He stepped into the doorway, nearly filling it, but Fia noticed a small gap. Surely it was large enough for her to slip through, if she moved quickly.

  She decided to make a try—hopefully she could catch him off guard—and lunged forward. He was, apparently, experienced in the desperate ploys of women he had cornered, for he grabbed her arm and yanked her toward him. He did so with such force, she flew back and stumbled and then, oh horrors, tumbled to the floor.

  He was on her in a second, covering her and crushing her and suffocating her with his mouth. His breath was fetid, his touch repulsive. Fia lashed from side to side, but it did no good. Horace was far too sturdy. She couldn’t throw him off. He made revolting, piggish sounds as his hands roved and then, to her dismay, he tugged up her skirts. When they didn’t lift quickly enough, he ripped them open.

  The tearing sound echoed, twined with her cry of dismay. Not only was she certain Horace was going to rape her, right here and now, he’d just ruined her only dress. The only thing she had to wear in the entire world.

  Fury savaged her. Oh, if only she had a weapon. Even a butter knife would do.

  A pity there was no butter knife handy, but from the corner of her eye, she spotted something beneath the bed.

  Something that was always beneath the bed. Something she would never even have thought of, had she not been so utterly desperate.

  The chamber pot.

  As Horace rooted in the tattered material of her dress, searching for something to ravage, Fia reached out, farther and farther, until her fingers found the cold hard pottery.

  As he leaned up, to fumble with the ties to his breeks, she lifted the heavy pot and clouted him on the side of the head. His eyes flared and he fixed her with a surprised look, and then, with a groan, he crumpled to the floor in a lifeless lump.

  Fia studied him, looking for some evidence she hadn’t killed him. She poked him with a finger. He didn’t move.

  Oh dear, oh dear.

  She’d done it now.

  When Blackbottom found out, she’d have Fia hanged.

  The thought, the implications of this debacle sat like a stone on her soul. She had to leave. Had to run.

  She wasted little time packing her things. Indeed, there was little to pack. She pried up the board in the floor—which, thankfully, Horace had not landed upon—and pulled out her one treasure, the hand-carved chess set Graeme had made for her while in France. He’d created and sent them to her, one piece at a time. It had been their connection while he’d been away. His promise. Each piece reminding her he would be home again soon. Again, they would play.

  Sadly, the set was not complete. Never would be. One man was missing. But she treasured it, because it was all she had left of him. All she had left of her brother.

  Without a glance back at her dreary room, Fia headed into the hall and crept down the creaky stairs to the lavish third floor, where the students had their quarters. While she knew she shouldn’t tarry—if he was not dead, Horace could awaken at any time—she couldn’t leave without saying good-bye to her best friend.

  She and Chelsea had been like two peas in a pod si
nce they’d met, young girls shuttled away from home to be properly groomed for marriage. Of all the girls at Dunready’s, they’d been the least suited for marriage. Or grooming. They’d bonded immediately and become the best of friends. Both were hellions to the core. They’d spurred and inspired each other’s mischief. And of all the friends she’d had here, Chelsea was the one who had stayed faithful when Fia’s circumstance came crumbling down.

  Both their brothers had been members of the Scots cavalry, the infamous Scots Greys. They’d huddled together in prayer for their brothers as news trickled in about the battles of the war. And when the devastating report of Graeme’s death had come, Chelsea had been the one to hold her, comfort her, keep her soul alive through that horrific time.

  Not that it still wasn’t horrific, but the burden was easier to bear. She’d adjusted to his loss. At least, as best she could. It wasn’t as though she had a choice.

  One either adjusted, or one curled into a ball and died.

  She was not curling into a ball.

  Graeme would have hated that.

  Nae, she hadn’t given up then, and she would not give up now. She would embrace this new adventure—whatever it was—with open arms. Indeed, it felt oddly freeing.

  But then, she supposed, escape often did.

  Chelsea opened her door at first knock. No doubt she’d been reading. She often did, late into the night. She greeted Fia with a smile, but when she took in her state of dishevelment, her smile faded. “Fia. Come in.”

  “I’m sorry to bother you at this hour,” Fia said as she stepped into Chelsea’s room. She couldn’t resist a glance over her shoulder. No one was there. Of course they weren’t.

  “I don’t mind,” Chelsea said. “I’ve told you so a thousand times. But…” Her nose wrinkled. “What is that smell?”

  Fia ignored the question and took her friend by the hand. There wasn’t a moment to lose. “Something’s happened, Chelsea. I need to leave here at once.”

  Chelsea blinked at her panicked tone. “Whatever has happened?”

  “I think I killed him.” Fia knew she was in something of an uproar, but it had been a trying night.

  “Killed whom?” Chelsea asked as though such a turn of events didn’t startle her in the slightest. And as though there were numerous prospects to choose from.

  “Horace.”

  “Och. Him.” Chelsea shuddered. “What happened?”

  “He came to my rooms. He… He tried to… I hit him over the head.”

  “With what?”

  Fia’s lashes fluttered. “The chamber pot.”

  Chelsea studied her. Her nose wiggled a little once more. “Was it empty or full?”

  A cringe. “Half and half.”

  “I see.”

  No doubt, she smelled as well.

  “But I might have killed him, and even if I haven’t…I need to leave. Now. And I couldn’t do so without saying good-bye and…”

  “And?”

  “Asking if I could borrow some clothes.” She gestured to the rags she wore.

  Chelsea huffed a breath. “Those do reek.” She headed to her wardrobe and began to riffle. “Wherever shall you go?”

  Fia’s heart thumped. “I haven’t a clue. Just away.”

  “What nonsense.” An item flew out. And another. “You have to have a plan.”

  A plan would be wonderful. A pity she didn’t have one.

  She opened her mouth to respond, but Chelsea didn’t give her a chance. “You shall go to Wick.”

  “To Wick?”

  “It is the only sensible option. Charles will take care of you.” Fia nearly groaned. For years, Chelsea had insisted that one day Fia and her brother would fall in love and marry, and then the two girls would be sisters forever. It was a charming scenario, for a fantasy, and it might have borne fruit, if Fia’s circumstances had not shifted so sharply. She had nothing to offer this magnificent and heroic Charles of whom Chelsea so incessantly spoke. Nothing.

  “I canna impose upon Lord Wick.”

  “Pish. It is hardly an imposition.”

  “He willna want me hanging about.” No wellborn lord with a title and a castle wanted to be saddled with a penniless waif. Who smelled of offal.

  Chelsea whirled and grabbed Fia’s hands. “It’s not an imposition,” she hissed intently. “If roles had been reversed, and Charles had died instead of Graeme, you would do the same for me.”

  Fia’s lips worked. She couldn’t deny it. It was the truth. She would do anything for Chelsea. “But…Wick is so far from here. However will I get there?”

  “You shall take Blaze.”

  Fia gaped. “Blaze? I canna take your horse.” Chelsea loved that horse. Blaze was her favorite thing on earth. She would be lost without her.

  “Nonsense. She will enjoy the journey. She doesna get near enough exercise as it is. Besides, it takes forever in post chaises. Aside from that, when you leave here, Blackbottom will be looking for you. It would be best if you take the back roads and…” She eyed Fia up and down. “You canna go looking like that.” She waved a dainty hand.

  “Like what?”

  “A woman.”

  Fia blew out a breath. “I am a woman.”

  “Exactly!” Chelsea turned back to her search. She pulled something from the bottom of a drawer and tossed it on the bed. And then something else. Fia picked up the items and held them out, her mind spinning with incredulity. They weren’t ladies’ clothes. They weren’t decent. Chelsea caught her expression. “If you’re going on the run, you canna travel as Fia.”

  “Can I not?”

  “Doona be ridiculous. It’s far too dangerous. Put these on.” She thrust the garments into Fia’s arms. A pair of breeches and a rough-hewn shirt.

  “Where did you get these?”

  “I stole them.”

  “You stole them?”

  “From the line.”

  “Why on earth would you steal these?”

  Chelsea nibbled her lip and shrugged. “I might have been planning an insurrection. At the very least, it seemed logical that they would come in handy. And you see? They have.” Her smile was dazzling, but then it always was. She fingered Fia’s long, thick curls. “Blackbottom won’t be looking for a boy.” She held up a pair of shears; the gleam in her eye was a trifle disturbing.

  Fia lurched away. “Egads. You’re no’ cutting my hair.”

  “Do you want to escape?”

  “Of course I do.”

  “Then we shall do what is necessary.”

  Fia squeezed her eyes closed, trying not to wince at the heinous snips. She felt her hair falling but couldn’t bear to watch. But when Chelsea cooed, she had to peep. She cracked open a lid and glanced at the mirror and…oh heavens. It didn’t look like her. It didn’t look like her at all. With her hair closely cropped, her cheekbones were suddenly more prominent, her eyes wider and her neck exposed. Short, dark curls clung to her scalp in a rakish tumble. She was not displeased.

  She shot her friend a grin. “I doona look like myself at all now.”

  “Nae, you don’t.” Chelsea fluffed her hair.

  “I look like…a boy!”

  “Exactly! This way you can travel safely to Wick.”

  “Charles willna even recognize me.” They’d only met a few times, and only in passing, but he would never believe she was his sister’s friend.

  “Nonsense. I shall write you a letter to give him. Come. We must hurry.”

  Chelsea escorted her through the echoey halls to the kitchen and helped her gather some food. And then—with the letter to Charles, a handful of coins Chelsea had saved from her pin money, and the chess pieces that had been Graeme’s last gift to her tucked in her bag—Fia mounted Chelsea’s magnificent white charger and rode off into the night. To her future.

  Who knew what tomorrow would hold?

  She could only hope it wasn’t disaster.

  Chapter Three

  Glorious.

  There was no
other word for it. Simply glorious.

  Daniel tipped his face up to the sky and grinned. The sun was shining and the breeze was mild. The sky was blue and tufted with fat white clouds. It was a lovely day to travel—it could have been raining, could have been cold. But since he’d set out from London, on this lengthy journey to Inverness, each day had been prettier than the last.

  His mood had improved too. He was swamped with the conviction that he’d done the right thing, leaving his haven. As much as he appreciated his position at the club, he’d allowed himself to sink into it, into the rut of it. He’d allowed himself to wallow in his woes.

  There was no wallowing on the road; there simply wasn’t time for it.

  It was energizing to be traveling again, invigorating to be out in the world, breathing fresh air and going somewhere. He enjoyed the solitude, the quiet, the absence of need to make conversation.

  That left him alone with his thoughts, his regrets and his guilt of course, but such specters had haunted him for so long, they were like old companions. He wouldn’t know who he was without them.

  Aye. This was far more healing than any medicine—the power of his mount between his thighs, the kiss of warmth on his face, the movement. Surprisingly, his leg hardly pained him at all, except when he moved suddenly. In fact, it even felt better after several days of riding. He hadn’t fallen off his horse once.

  Hunnam was in good form as well. No doubt he’d enjoyed the fresh air and the chance to prance once again. An hour’s exercise a day was one thing, but for a Scots Grey, the chance to run and run wild spoke to his soul.

  It spoke to Daniel’s too, so he put his heels to his mount’s sides and gave him his head.

  And it was glorious.

  He hadn’t realized how closed up he’d allowed himself to become. How isolated. He hadn’t realized how much he’d allowed his injury—and his guilt—to shrink his horizons.

  Well, his horizons weren’t limited now. They spread before him in a verdant green wash that stretched as far as the eye could see. He passed a loch and paused to admire the sparkling waters, to watch an osprey swoop down to snatch a hapless fish.