by Julia London
He looked at the spilled food and the broken porcelain on the carpet. “That was not very smart,” he opined.
“I don’t want your opinion,” she said as she resumed her seat on the edge of the bed.
“You might need your strength.”
“Why? It looks as if I shall be locked up here until Percy returns, and if that is true, I would rather die.” She fell to her back on the bed, her gaze fixed on the ceiling.
“Percy will not return,” he said. “He agreed to leave my house for one hundred pounds. He had the opportunity to take you with him, but he did not believe one hundred pounds was enough for two.”
Her eyes narrowed menacingly at that news. “You are a liar,” she said, her voice surprisingly hoarse. “Mr. Percy has gone for help.”
As he suspected, the woman was uncommonly stubborn. How could she possibly believe that Owen had gone for help? Was she truly so naïve? “He has gone, Miss Fairchild,” he said impatiently. “But not for help. He won’t come back, for he has what he wants for the time being—one hundred pounds and his freedom.”
Miss Fairchild suddenly sat up. “Suppose that is true. Then what do you intend to do with me?” she demanded. “Keep me locked away in this godforsaken place until the world has forgotten me? Or do you intend to use me for your base desires?”
The question made him feel a bit guilty; he had indeed thought of taking her into his bed. It didn’t ease his thoughts in the least to find her so wildly alluring this morning, her blue eyes crystal and bright, her hair bearing the look of having had a lover’s hands run through it. Her gown, he noticed, was wrinkled. If he hadn’t known she was locked inside this room while they escorted Percy out of Powys, he might have believed she’d just come from her lover’s bed. Frankly, the image of her beneath Percy, as he had found them yesterday, had not left him all night. He could think of nothing but her body, Percy’s hand on her breast. Of himself, buried deep inside her.
He unthinkingly clenched and unclenched his right hand. “You are a young woman, Miss Fairchild,” he said quietly. “You cannot possibly understand the strength of a man’s desire or his true intentions. Yet I trust that with time, one day you will realize what I am telling you today is true: Mr. Percy was only moments from having your virtue and your fortune, and you were only moments away from handing it to him.”
She colored, but lifted her chin defiantly. “And what if I were, my lord? What business is it of yours?”
“None. Your life is yours to waste as you see fit, your body yours to give to whomever you please. Once I have proof of your identity, you may yet throw your life away on the likes of Owen Percy—I cannot stop you. But without proof of your identity, I will not hand you four thousand pounds that I know will end up in his hands.”
“You are a monster,” she breathed angrily, “the most despicable creature I have ever met.”
He flinched inwardly, but shrugged indifferently.
“It will take weeks for proof to arrive from London, especially now with winter upon us. And I suppose you think to keep me prisoner here?”
“I prefer to think of you as my reluctant guest, and I your reluctant host. You may stay…or you may go. I care not which.”
She snorted indelicately. “I am hardly free,” she said disbelievingly. “I can’t even walk out that door if I choose.”
He glanced at the door and stepped back, gesturing toward it. “You are free.”
“Ha,” she said. “What if I were to walk out that door, and the gates, and keep walking until I reached Rhayader? Then what would you do, my lord?”
“It is quite far. And there are clouds coming in. But you are free to attempt it.”
She looked warily at the door, then at him. She slowly came to her feet, her eyes on him. She moved haltingly at first, as if she meant to test him—then slowly walked around the bed, watching him closely.
When she passed him, she ran.
Rhodrick did not try to stop her, but stood and listened to the sound of her shoes on the stone steps, running as hard and as fast as she could from the monster in the room.
He shoved his hands in his pockets, gripped the handkerchief she had dropped in his study, and waited until he could hear her no more. Then he began the painful descent to the main floors.
After finding Mrs. Bowen—“There was a bit of a spill above,” he said—he returned to his study, intent on working while Miss Fairchild foolishly wandered the hills, searching for her lover for all Rhodrick knew.
Miss Fairchild might look for him all she liked, but Rhodrick felt certain she would return when she was cold and hungry.
An hour or so later, however, when he happened to glance up, he noticed a bank of black clouds had engulfed the peaks of the Cambrians. Storms that rode in from the west like this were often quite dangerous. As much as he would like to leave her to her own devices, he couldn’t. He groaned; Cain and Abel began to thump their tails in anticipation of something exciting happening.
“Bloody chit,” he muttered angrily as he stood and glanced at his dogs. “Out,” he said, and the two hounds were instantly on their feet and at the door. The three of them made their way to the foyer, where Rhodrick was met by Ifan, who held out his hat and his gloves.
“Did you see the girl’s direction?” he asked in Welsh.
“The main road, my lord,” Ifan responded, and bowed so low that Rhodrick could almost see his reflection in the bald pate of his head.
“Had she anything with her? A cloak? A bonnet?”
“A red cloak, milord. And a small beaded bag.”
He nodded, took the hat and gloves, and stepped outside. Cain and Abel bounded forth ahead of him, their noses taking in the day’s events in the courtyard.
The dark bank of clouds was moving steadily forward like an invading army from which there was no escape, so Rhodrick hastened his step to the stables, had his mount saddled and another horse fitted with a ladies’ saddle. Holding the reins of the second horse, with his dogs running alongside, he rode out through the castle gates.
Nine
G reer stopped running when her lungs burned and began to walk, striding purposefully down the rutted road, wincing each time she stepped on a rock. Would that she had taken a moment to change into her sturdier boots, for her shoes were all wrong for this sort of terrain. She’d paused only to grab her cloak and the reticule in which she kept the things most dear to her.
She paused to catch her breath and sat on a rock at the side of the road, thought again how she would personally like to string the prince up and beat him like a carpet. Envisioning him being dragged behind a team of oxen appealed as well. It was remarkable, she thought, that she was not frightened any longer, but simply exhausted and incredibly frustrated.
She looked back the way she had come—she had walked far enough that she could see nothing but the road and the thick forest whose towering firs rose up on either side of the road.
Greer shifted her gaze to the direction in which she was headed. She could see nothing but the road and the firs in that direction, too. The only difference was that in the direction she was walking, low black rain clouds had formed and were moving toward her.
Honestly, she believed she might walk for hours and hours before reaching anything even resembling civilization. That is, if she wasn’t left for dead by highwaymen or some sort of forest creature that wanted to feast on human flesh.
The sting of tears in her eyes caught her by surprise—she opened her reticule and looked for her mother’s handkerchief, which she always carried, realizing that she had managed to lose it in that wretched place. So she removed her glove to dry her eyes.
What a fool she’d been! She’d trusted Mr. Percy with her life, had believed his esteem of her was real. How could he possibly have left her here for one hundred pounds? Bloody bastard. Rotten blackguard. She realized that he’d enticed her into all sorts of trouble with his charming manner at every step of the way.
The sound of an approac
hing rider startled her, and she vaulted to her feet, looking about frantically before crashing into the dense foliage of the forest and hiding behind a tree, one hand to her pounding heart, the other over her mouth to keep her gasp from being heard.
She heard the rider—riders?—pass by. She removed her hand from her mouth and tried to see through the foliage as she quickly fit her hand in her glove. The riders slowed, then stopped. And then started back toward her. Greer froze; her heart almost leapt out of her chest. She did not move—she dared not move. But her pulse was pounding in her ears and she did not hear the dogs until they were almost upon her. A tiny shriek of surprise escaped her, and she instantly clamped a hand over her mouth. He’d come to take her back! The bloody scoundrel had lied—she wasn’t free! He was toying with her!
The dogs, realizing she was known to them, trotted on. Greer did not move, but stayed behind the tree, holding her breath. She heard a horse neigh, then the sound of hooves again, coming toward her. She pressed her back to the tree, closed her eyes, and prayed.
He stopped again, near enough that she believed he could reach out and touch her. Several silent moments passed in which Greer’s heart beat so hard and her fear grew so suffocating that she suddenly fled. She just ran into the forest, holding her hands before her to push the bushes and tree branches from her face.
She heard him bellow her name and veered left, sliding recklessly down a slope. She could hear him coming for her like a wild boar crashing through the trees, drawing closer and terrifying her.
She screamed when he caught her, tackling her legs and knocking her to the ground, the two of them landing in a shower of leaves. Greer kicked out and clawed the earth, trying to drag herself from his grip, but he scrambled up her body, flipped her onto her back, and pinned her arms to the ground with his hands, her body with his legs.
His eyes narrowed angrily on her; they were both panting. Greer screamed again, and he winced at the sound. “God in heaven, there is no one to hear you, so you may as well save your breath!”
“You are a liar!” she shouted. “You said I was free!”
“You are free, you foolish chit!”
“Then why are you following me?” she demanded, valiantly attempting to free her arms.
“I have asked myself that very question and could arrive at no satisfactory answer,” he said, and clamped his legs around hers in a viselike grip when she tried to buck him. “Inexplicably, I feel the need to protect you. Again,” he added with a dark frown at her breasts, which were dangerously close to spilling out of her gown.
Their closeness and his gaze on her bosom made her feel terribly exposed; she could feel the heat of her discomfort bleeding into her face and neck, and bucked harder.
“If you are foolish enough to believe you are in some sort of danger and insist on fleeing on foot, so be it,” he snapped, his grip on her arms tightening. “But you cannot possibly make it to Rhayader with a storm imminent!”
As if the heavens wished to prove his point, a few drops of rain began to fall. Greer ignored them and twisted beneath him. “If I didn’t have to run through the forest to escape your protection, I’d be quite capable of walking to Rhayader.”
“And if you weren’t so bloody stubborn, we’d be sheltered now. And for your consideration, I will tell you that you have walked only three miles thus far. Rhayader is yet another six.”
Greer stopped struggling and glared up at him. “As far as that?” she cried. Several more fat drops of rain fell. “What sort of place is this where there is no civilization!”
“I have no patience or time for your foolishness.” He got up and leaned down, slipped his hands under her arms and jerked her to her feet. “If you insist on running into the forest to hide behind trees, I will not stop you. You may find the journey to Rhayader easier if you avail yourself of one of my carriages on the morrow,” he said, clamping his hand around her wrist. “But at the moment, you will return to Llanmair!” He began to march her along behind him, pulling her when she lagged, holding her up when she slipped.
It was almost as if he were perturbed that she had interrupted the course of his day by escaping. Then again, Greer imagined murderers, profligates, and imprisoners of unmarried women were quite often impatient.
Nevertheless, a return to Llanmair was really more than she could endure. “If I am to believe you, then why can’t I have a carriage now?” Greer demanded.
“Because a storm is coming.”
“A storm! That is naught but an excuse!” she argued. “I believe you fear that if I reach Rhayader, I shall tell them all how abominably I have been treated, and the authorities shall come for you straightaway.”
The prince paused, and for the first time, he smiled. Actually, it was scarcely a smile, rather a flash of amusement that had skirted the features of his face. “To whom do you think the good citizens of Rhayader owe their allegiance, Miss Fairchild? A silly young woman from London who, by all indications, has no more sense than a woodchuck? Or to me?”
“The good citizens of Rhayader will not stand for false imprisonment!”
“Indeed not. But I would suggest that as you will arrive under your own free will, free to come or to go as you please, the residents there might question whether or not you have indeed been falsely imprisoned, or if you’re not simply a bit barmy!”
She gasped with indignation.
“I am returning to the castle,” he said firmly, “and so are you. I would suggest you steel yourself to soldier through another night at Llanmair.”
As if she could possibly soldier through another night! But his grip was ironclad, it was beginning to rain more heavily, and thunder rumbled closer to them. She was stuck, the realization of which made her feel even more exhausted and ravenous and furious with the world at large. “How do you expect me to ‘soldier on’ in either of the horrible rooms I have been given at your castle?” she asked petulantly. “I will not go back to that locked room or I shall go mad!”
“You may return to the room where you first slept if you like.”
“That is even worse!”
He paused again, looking surprised. “I beg your pardon?”
“The bedchambers to which you subject your guests, reluctant or otherwise, are horrible!” she exclaimed. “They are very cold, and there are quite a lot of mysterious creaks and moans to keep a body awake at night, and all the rooms seem to lock from the outside. It is a very unaccommodating castle!”
“Forgive me, Miss Fairchild, if my house is ‘unaccommodating.’ I was not aware that one required a bit of luxury to better swindle her host! If it is another room you require, you need only ask,” he said, and jerked her forward again, marching at a remarkable clip, given his uneven gait. The rain was cold and hard against her skin, and Greer wished she’d brought a bonnet. How had she ever thought to escape wearing nothing but the clothes on her back and one ridiculously thin cloak?
“Do you know how to ride?” he asked gruffly as they reached the road.
“Yes, of course I know how to ride,” she snapped.
He pushed her toward the horse bearing the ladies’ saddle and moved to lift her, but Greer threw up a hand. “I am perfectly capable of mounting a horse! I don’t need or require your assistance.”
With a smug smile, the ogre stood back. She tried to get her foot in the stirrup, but it was too high, and her skirt was not full enough to allow her to lift her leg without revealing too much of it to her observer.
With one failed attempt, she stood back, studying the saddle. “Oh for God’s sake,” the prince said irritably, and roughly grabbed her about the waist.
“I beg your pardon!” Greer exclaimed hotly, but he ignored her, lifting her up and seating her squarely on the saddle. He looked up at her face; his hands slid to her hips. She could feel the heat in his gaze and his hands, could feel her body responding to it, and shifted in her seat. “I will thank you not to do such a thing again.”
“You have my word,” he snapp
ed, dropping his hands. He remounted his horse, then turned back to Greer and reached for the reins of her horse, but she promptly snatched them up. “At least do me the favor of allowing me to ride the horse, my lord.”
His gaze fell to her lips for a brief moment before he turned and spurred his horse forward. Greer’s horse, apparently not wanting to be left behind, broke into a trot before Greer had even situated herself. She grabbed tight hold of the reins, brushed her wet hair from her face, dislodging several leaves in the process, and with her back straight and stiff, she rode along, pretending she was the one in command.
They had ridden just a few minutes when thunder cracked directly overhead, causing Greer to shriek in fright. Ahead of her, the prince suddenly veered off the road onto a path through the forest. So, of course, did her mare—she may as well have been riding a mule, the horse was so stubborn, refusing to obey any command she attempted to give it. In fact, the stupid little mare broke into a gallop in her haste to reach her companion and the dogs. Once again, Greer was helpless. She looked straight ahead as the little mare caught up to the big black hunter and trotted alongside him.
Greer did not deign to look at the prince, catching only a glimpse of him with his hat pulled low over his eyes. He shouted above the rain, “If you pull up and back, she will heed you.”
“I know that,” Greer shouted back, and lifted her chin as if she intended to be trotting alongside him.
He shook his head and said something in Welsh that she did not believe sounded very flattering, and she shot a heated look at him. “I beg your pardon? I do not speak Welsh—”
“You should.”
“But I don’t. So if you were speaking to me, I did not understand you.”
