Damon stopped, lifting the branch of candles he held and scowling at her. "What the devil?" He looked so forbidding; with that savaged portrait fresh in her mind, she instinctively took a step back. He lifted the candles higher and, in a voice like the crack of a whip, commanded, "Come here!" Instead, she moved back. He must know that she had seen what he'd done to the portrait. Perhaps he—
She gave a little cry of terror as he pounced on her. "Let me go!" she gasped, struggling desperately. "Filthy beast! You shall not—"
There was an ear-splitting creak. Dust billowed about them. Choked and half blinded, she was whirled around in arms of steel and deafened by a thundering crash. The floor shook, and debris flew through the air. She was paralyzed by the fear that the entire roof was folding in upon them as the darkness became absolute. She knew somehow that Damon's head was bent over her; coughing and spluttering, she clung to him desperately.
"It's… all… right," he wheezed, stumbling through the blackness. "Don't be… afraid."
"What happened?"
"One of the beams collapsed. Are you all right?"
He loosened his arms, but she shrank against him in a frenzy of terror. "Yes, but don't leave me!"
"Of course not." His voice became steadier and was very tender as he asked, "Sophia—are you quite sure you're not hurt?"
"Just… so frightened. I've never known such awful darkness!" She heard a scrabbling sound. Perhaps that collapsed ceiling had opened the way for rats—in a building this old. She threw her arms about his neck, burying her face against his chest.
And then his hands clamped on her shoulders, and she was being pushed away. Light was beginning to glow through the dust-laden air, and, looking up, she saw his face covered with grime, the tousled locks heavy with dust, the light eyes blazing. Shaking her, he demanded fiercely, "What in God's name were you doing down here? I told you to keep away! Are you daft, woman?"
Speechless with shock, she gazed up at him. Were these bruising hands the same hands that had held her so safely against him? Was this harsh snarl the tender voice that just a moment ago had asked if she was hurt?
Other voices rang out, followed by the sounds of running feet. Damon shoved her roughly towards the oncoming light. "Little fool!" he gritted. "Go with them! And since it has to be spelled out for you—as soon as may be, I'll thank you to leave my house."
She gave a gasp at this unthinkable behaviour, yet did not move, watching as he turned and went back into the drifting clouds of dust, peering up at the shattered remains of the ceiling.
A familiar voice called a worried "Damon…?"
"Marcus!" With a sob of relief, Sophia ran to her cousin's arms.
"Good God!" he exclaimed, and then shouted, "He's here, sir. And Sophia as well!"
The Earl came running up, his face strained with anxiety. "Are you all right, ma'am?"
"I am… now," she faltered, suddenly weak in the knees. Clay held her protectively. Ridgley eyed her with frowning concern, then went to Damon and demanded angrily, "Why in the deuce did you bring her down here at this hour?"
Damon threw him a disgusted look and, ignoring the question, said curtly, "The beam gave way, and—By Jupiter! Amory!"
Candle in hand, Hartwell clambered over the debris. He was covered with dust, and blood streaked his forehead. The Earl hurried to help him over the rubble, and he at once rushed weavingly to Sophia. "What are you doing down here? My God! Were you under that confounded crumbling ceiling?"
"Your poor head," she cried, her fears forgotten in her concern for him.
"I would suggest," said the Marquis sardonically, "that is is neither the time nor the place for l'amour. The rest of this ceiling looks quite ready to come down on us."
Sophia tossed him a disgusted look, but they lost no time in retreating. Upstairs, Vaille met them in the corridor and assisted Hartwell to one of the wide settles before the still-smouldering fire in the Great Hall. Miss Hilby fled in search of water and bandages, and Sophia, refusing stubbornly to go to her room, sat beside Hartwell. Vaille examined the young man's scraped forehead. "It doesn't look too bad. Can you tell us what happened?"
"And why?" asked Damon glacially.
He received outraged glares from both his father and Sophia as Hartwell muttered a rueful "Don't really know, Cam. Thought I saw someone trotting down the corridor, so I followed. When I got all the way to the catacombs, I heard someone behind me and turned back." He held his head and sighed weakly, "Whole… blasted roof came down."
Miss Hilby returned with a bowl of water and strips of white linen, and Sophia began to bathe Hartwell's lacerations.
"And you, ma'am," Vaille probed, "why were you down in that ghastly place?"
"I wanted to talk with Sir Amory," Sophia mumbled, colouring as she realized how foolish and improper that sounded.
"Had I known you were behind me," sighed Hartwell, "I should have rushed back."
"And had either of you been so courteous as to heed my warnings," Damon put in with a curl of the lip, "there would have been no need for any of this nonsense."
Chapter 12
Sophia rose early the next morning. It seemed imperative somehow that she look her best, and to this end she donned a frock of jaconet muslin sprigged with tiny orange garlands, and of a colour almost the shade of her hair. Her gleaming curls she piled high and tied about them a riband of orange velvet. Her toilette required a good deal of time, and when she went downstairs at last, it seemed to have been laboured over in vain, for there was no one to be seen. She had hoped to find Marcus, or Sir Amory. She needed to talk to someone, for she was still quite shaken from the horrible events of the previous evening. Troubled and restless, she wandered into the library and stood staring blindly at the empty hearth, the old heavy bricks… Again, the nightmare of that disintegrating ceiling swept over her. She forced memory away and, walking briskly to the bookshelves, scanned the volumes. She seemed to have halted before a section devoted almost entirely to the history of music. Much as she loved the subject, she was not in the mood, and was about to look elsewhere when she spotted a copy of Lord Byron's "The Corsair." Pleased, she reached up for it, but it was quite tightly wedged in, and when she removed it several other volumes toppled. She gave a little squeal as one landed on her head. Exasperated, she bent to gather up the fallen books. Her head had suffered quite a rap. She thought of how much more it would hurt if she had been nearer that massive beam last evening. Damon had saved her. There could be no doubt that if he had not acted swiftly she would have been seriously injured. She was most assuredly in his debt now! Yet what a hopeless enigma he was—saving her one moment, snarling at her the next! Heaven help the woman who loved him, for she'd not know from one second to the next how his temper might—
The murmur of voices reached her ears. She had dropped to one knee and was in a quite inelegant position, still not having retrieved the fallen volumes. She gathered them up, stood, and gave a gasp as in her haste she stepped upon the hem of her frock and the high waistline ripped disastrously. The voices were closer. Vaille and Miss Hilby. Catching sight of herself in the glass of a framed print, she uttered a moan of dismay. Her carefully arranged coiffure had been torn loose by the falling book; no longer neatly upswept, the entire left side flopped in total disarray. She tossed the books onto the reference table. She'd not the least intention of allowing Miss Hilby to see her looking such a fright, and so made a dive for one of the deep window bays. She knelt on the cushions, slid the curtains closed as quickly and quietly as possible, and crouched back, waiting for them to pass.
They did not pass. She could have wept when she heard the door close. She had no least desire to eavesdrop upon another private conversation, and reached for the curtain, determined to reveal her presence.
Already however, the Duke was speaking, and in a gentle tone she'd not heard before. "… my poor girl, of course I do not wish you to be unhappy. I am assured you honestly imagine yourself in love, but—"
Fro
wning a little, Sophia drew back her hand.
"Imagine!" Miss Hilby sounded between tears and anger. "You know my heart is given. And my love is returned. You cannot convince me otherwise!"
There was a small pause, then Vaille said carefully, "I am sure many men have loved you, Charlotte. You are an exceeding beautiful woman. I merely seek, once again, to warn you that there will be no offer of marriage."
"Camille does not agree," she retaliated with quavering defiance. "He says that soon or late we shall be wed!"
"Does he, by God! Then I should take a horsewhip to that young scoundrel! My dear child, you must surely realize he has deceived you!"
Sophia gave a shocked gasp as Miss Hilby sobbed, "No, no! He has not! Oh, Philip, when he speaks to you, promise me that you will at least listen to what he has to say."
"That will not be necessary, for I am convinced he has no intention of coming to me on such an errand. Waste no more years, my dear. Nor throw your life away on one who is— quite ineligible."
"Oh…" Charlotte wailed. "How c-can you say such… cruel… things?"
For a moment the Duke made no response. Then, with slow reluctance, he said, "One must sometimes be cruel… in order to be kind. Despite what my son may have told you, ma'am, you do but delude yourself. I may not know him well, but I suspect Camille was merely—"
There was a wild outburst of sobbing, the sound of running feet, and a door slammed. Sophia, kneeling motionless, heard the creak of a chair and a deep, groaning sigh.
It was a sigh she echoed as she stared blindly at the closed curtains. How despicable that the Marquis should so injure those who loved him. It was hard to know which of them she most pitied: poor trusting Miss Hilby, or the much tried Duke of Vaille. It must have been exceeding difficult for so well bred a gentleman to utter such a deplorable indictment of his son… yet had Miss Hilby one ounce of sense, she would have listened, for he had spoken honestly. It was folly for her to continue to delude herself. Damon might be fond of her. She was very beautiful, but he would not marry a woman older than himself. Besides, if he truly loved her, he would certainly… never have— Sophia bit her lip, appalled to find herself entertaining such unkind thoughts. It was nothing to her if Miss Hilby chose to throw her silly self at Camille's head, just because— She gave a gasp, mentally pinched herself for her wickedness, and hearing the door open, peeped through the curtains. Vaille was leaving. His head was bowed, but as she watched, he straightened his shoulders and stepped into the hall, his carriage as proud as ever. Her heart aching for him, Sophia waited a few minutes, then slipped from her hiding place.
"Marcus!" Sophia withdrew her hand from her cousin's arm, spun to face him, and cried furiously, "You really are insupportable! You should have told me at once so that I could have thanked Damon instead of—" She frowned and stopped.
He took up her hand and, again pulling it through his arm, led her across the lawns on this bright morning and soothed, "It was jolly decent of him to speak to the Duke, and I'm sorry I neglected to tell you of it, but—no great harm done. You seem to—er, be going along well together. Cannot say I blame you. He's a handsome devil, and they say in Town all the hopeful mama's are hot on his trail. I hear he's become most adept at dodging 'em, and so charmingly that the ladies sigh and languish just the same."
"Sigh… and languish," murmured Sophia through set teeth. "Do they now?"
"So they say. There are some odd whispers about him, but—I must confess, I'm devilish drawn to the fellow even though he ain't a sportsman and don't—"
"Ride or fence or spar—or do anything a gentleman should do," she intervened scornfully.
"Such as," Clay said stiffly, "saving your life?"
Sophia caught her breath. If Marcus knew how Damon had shaken her in the catacombs and the insulting things he'd said, her cousin's obviously spiralling opinion of their reluctant host would undergo a drastic change. Her brow furrowed. Too drastic! Clay was the soul of honour. He would confront Damon, and they would very possibly come to a challenge. God forbid! Despite his splendid military record, Clay was no great marksman and no match for a crack shot like Damon! She looked away, therefore, and merely said, in what she hoped was a calm tone, "I am not unmindful of my obligation and intend to express my thanks at once."
Clay's brow cleared and he patted her hand approvingly. He was a happy man this morning: not only was his financial situation resolved so that the crushing spectre of Newgate no longer haunted him, but he was about to join the party preparing to depart for Bodwin Hall. Despite his reluctance to leave her at the Priory, Sophia, knowing how much he wanted to see the showplace, had argued that although she was most anxious to greet Stephen upon his arrival, her brother had business with Damon that he would wish to conclude before leaving for Kent. This, she had pointed out, would give Clay ample time to look around the hall and return to escort them on the journey home.
When they reached the stables, Feather, Genevieve, and Ridgley were getting mounted. Vaille, poised and elegant as ever, was admiring a splendid grey stallion that a groom attempted to restrain from devouring Genevieve's fine chestnut gelding. Clay called eagerly to the other riders that he would be "going all the way" with them, a statement that was received with jubilation.
Damon stood at some distance from the stables, engaged in earnest conversation with his head groom. He glanced over as the glad cries rang out and called sharply, "Hold him, Trask! He's too full of fight! Saddle up the bay stallion for the Major."
Trask started away, but the Duke was intrigued by the big horse and went over to take the reins. The grey quieted and stood docilely as Sophia and Clay walked to Vaille's side. "You look as radiant as ever, my lady," he smiled. "Sorry about this fire-eater, Clay. I suspect you are disappointed."
"Not at all, sir. Especially since your son has given me leave to ride the bay. He's perfect."
"Pretty fair," Vaille qualified. "Inclined to throw out his right knee."
Mindful of her intent, Sophia slipped away and approached the Marquis. He did not see her coming, having rudely turned his back upon them all, and when she realized he and Mr. Quinn were discussing the absent Nancy, she paused, eager to learn of the girl's whereabouts.
"… not like the lass at all, m'lord," Quinn was saying. "She sent word by one of the locals as how she will take an accommodation coach to London so soon as her Dad do be better off. Reckon she knows how soft her mistress do be." He shook his head. "More'n one of my men would do—I can tell'ee! Still—" He broke off, glancing enquiringly to Sophia.
The Marquis swung around. "Good morning, ma'am. Dare we hope you shall leave us without any further uproars?"
His eyes were sneering, his mouth curving to an unpleasant leer. Sophia felt her face become hot and was rendered speechless with shock that he should so address her in front of a groom.
Quinn, also taken aback, stammered, "My lady—er—have you seen our Viking? He do be mortal fine…"
She wrenched her mind from its preoccupation with casting the Marquis to the lions and followed the man without another word. The bay truly was magnificent, and she joined the others in her admiration of the animal. Vaille passed the reins of the grey stallion to Trask as soon as Clay took possession of the bay. Sophia managed somehow to concentrate on the remarks the Duke addressed to her and to respond with some degree of sanity. From the corner of her eye, she saw Damon saunter toward the house; a few moments later the riding party left, Clay calling to her that he would be back by three. They headed along the driveway, and Damon paused on the steps, turning to wave as they drew level with him.
It was a brilliant morning, the sky blue, a few white clouds standing about, a gentle, if rather sultry, breeze blowing Although she was still raging inwardly, Sophia could not but admire the beauty of the scene. The vivid green of turf and trees; the vibrant colours of the flower gardens; the sparkling plumes of the fountain; the fine, high-spirited animals; Genevieve looking poised and lovely; the Earl, still red in the face fr
om having tossed Feather up into her saddle, but both he and Clay such splendid examples of British manhood.
And then, suddenly, Genevieve turned her gelding, calling something to Damon. Trask, who had been standing smiling rather vacuously at the handsome group, had let the reins slacken. The grey stallion, fired by a new sight of the hated gelding, thundered straight for his enemy. Genevieve was taken by surprise as the chestnut reared in fright. Thrown, she fell with a shriek. The stallion plunged to the attack, eyes rolling, ears laid back, teeth bared. The chestnut bucked frenziedly, rear hooves slicing the air only inches above the prostrate girl. The Earl and Clay swung their mounts simultaneously, but the animals panicked and collided.
Without a second's hesitation, Vaille left Sophia and raced toward Genevieve, but Damon was closest. He started forward. The stallion reared, hooves flailing, screaming his defiance. Damon froze. He shrank back and quailed, one arm flung across his terrified face.
Vaille, running, shoved his son aside and, with unflinching valour, reached up to grasp the reins, somehow avoid those flashing hooves, and with strong hands and firm words pull the raging beast down.
Sophia, also running, tossed a disgusted look at Damon. She was briefly aware that his face was haggard and streaked with perspiration; then she was past and rushing to help Genevieve.
Cancrizans Priory seemed a very quiet place now. As she left the stables, Sophia experienced an odd feeling that a chapter had closed in her life that was of more importance than any preceding it. She wandered toward the sprawl of the house, thinking of Genevieve. The plucky girl had seemed more concerned for Damon than for herself. After assuring Vaille she was unhurt and perfectly able to undertake the ride, she had run to the steps where her cousin waited silently and clasped him in her arms. Speaking in a low rush of French, she had pulled down his dark head and kissed him resoundingly on each cheek. He had muttered something, and she'd laughed and shaken him chidingly, but whatever it was she'd said had failed to bring an answering smile. When they had ridden away at last, the Duke had come to thank Sophia for helping. His eyes had swept through Damon as though he were not there, and the Marquis had sauntered back into the house, his faintly ironic grin reflecting no trace of the shame he should have felt.
Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 04] - Love's Duet Page 13
