by Carie, Jamie
Alex turned it back and forth, a hundred new questions forming in her mind. Was it a child? A young woman? From what faraway place had it come?
"The poor dear," she muttered as she lifted the skull toward her face and peered—eye to eye—through the blank sockets. Alex blinked . . . and then blinked again through the ancient spyglasses as her gaze swept the hazy, mist-shrouded horizon. She stopped. It couldn't be. She slowly lowered the skull and gasped.
A ship.
Alex watched it grow closer and then ran up the steep incline of the rocky hill toward the castle that was her home. Much of the castle was uninhabitable, but the family had salvaged and repaired the great hall and several smaller rooms for bedchambers. Centuries ago the castle had been a first line of defense for Northern England against the Scots, but it was eventually attacked and overrun by Vikings—nasty pirates who had destroyed the monastery.
In those days ships were common on Holy Island's shores, but it had been decades since anything other than local fishing boats bobbed on the North Sea, and Alex could not ever remember a visitor gracing their small village that had not come from the land route. That is until now. With the ship growing bigger and bigger before her eyes, she knew someone was indeed coming and they would be asking for the lord and lady of the castle.
That thought had her running in earnest through the old great hall and then up the stone steps to her bedchamber. She still clutched the skull and paused on the threshold of her room to look down at it. What if the ship had something to do with this? Perhaps they were murderers come back to kill them all!
She shoved the skull underneath her pillow at the same time reaching for the ancient sword propped against the wall beside her bed. She brandished it in front of her, or rather tried to. The thing was so heavy she only managed one swipe through the air before it fell with a thud onto her bed. Oh well. Little good one sword would do against a ship full of murdering pirates. If only the castle's cannon still worked.
Turning from that thought she pulled her nightdress over her head, rushed toward the armoire, and flung the doors wide. She stood, baffled, at her simple dresses. There wasn't anything of elegance or refinement here. If she showed up to greet them in any of this garb, they would hardly believe she was the lady of the castle. Then again, maybe she should pose as a servant or the chatelaine perhaps, and give over the castle willingly to protect the villagers.
No, she shook her head. She was a Featherstone and a Featherstone would never take the coward's way out.
Another idea stopped her short. Her breath caught at the thought. Dare she? With a small smile she turned from the armoire and rushed from the room.
The door to her mother and father's bedchamber was closed. A sudden stab of sadness shot through her heart. They had been gone so long this time. And no letter in months. She took a deep breath and pulled up her chin. No time to feel sorry now.
She turned the knob. The creaking hinges groaned against the silence. Moonlight spilled into the room from a long, narrow window. She glanced at the bed, the coverings thick with dust. Why had no one kept the room clean? It wasn't like Ann, the housekeeper, to shirk her duties. Unless of course the rumors were true. That her parents were never coming back. That they had met with some misfortune and were—No. She wouldn't believe a village soothsayer and a bunch of foreboding gossips. She would continue to pray and believe in God's power to save. And anyway, she would know, deep in her heart; if something had happened to them, she would have a feeling of it, and she did not have that feeling.
Turning from the thoughts, she ran, near blind, over to her mother's large armoire and opened the doors. Her hand shook a little and she bit down on her lower lip as she reached into the back and drew out a faded blue satin gown. It was old, older than she at twenty, but still lovely. It had been her mother's wedding gown. Alex held the garment up to her chest and took a deep breath. It should fit perfectly.
After donning the dress, she sat at her mother's low dressing table. A mostly empty jewelry box sat on one corner. Alex dragged it toward her and opened the lid. Inside was a small set of combs with paste jewels looking like tiny emeralds and blue sapphires along the edge. With practiced ease she twisted her long, dark hair into a knot that was slightly askew and secured it with the combs.
She leaned forward and studied her reflection, hoping she looked older and authoritative. Arched, dark brows over large, pale blue eyes. An oval face of classic lines with a small, straight nose and full lips. She pinched some color into her pale cheeks and then shrugged at herself in the mirror. She always had looked younger than her years. She would just have to brazen it out.
Now to awaken Ann and Henry, the servants who were now so old Alex did most of the work around the castle. She had to be sly about it, of course, or risk hurting their pride. Ann and Henry were more like grandparents than servants to her. Heaven only knew the shock her appearance would give them this night! A laugh escaped her throat as she pictured their faces. And where had Latimere trotted off to? Her giant, white Great Pyrenees was usually at her heels. He would put the fear of God into the scoundrels. She would send Henry out to search for him with one of those large bones from supper if time permitted.
The thought of time running out had her scurrying back toward the great hall and then deeper into the castle where the servants' quarters were next to the kitchen.
"Ann! Henry!" She called out as soon as she was near. "Wake up! A ship is coming."
She banged on Henry's door hoping he would hear her. It wasn't long before Ann stuck her head out of her bedchamber, cap askew, worry in her eyes. "Lady Alex, it's the middle of the night. What are you doing up and about? You should be in bed, child."
Ann came out into the hall just as Henry opened his door and gaped at them like a beached fish. "What's happened to cause all this racket?" His expression turned awestruck as he peered through his spectacles at Alex's unprecedented attention to her appearance.
Alex hurriedly explained. "There is a ship in the harbor. A real ship. And it's coming this way."
"A ship? Who could it be? Whatever could they want with our little island?" Ann looked down at Alex's bare feet and frowned.
"I don't know but we're soon to find out. Hurry and dress. Henry, I want you to find Latimere and meet me in the great hall. Ann"—Alex shrugged, her brow wrinkling in thought—"mayhap you should make some refreshments. Just in case they are not here to murder us and take the castle."
Ann's eyes grew huge with fright. "You must hide, child. Just look at you dressed like that."
Alex wasn't sure if Ann was complimenting or insulting her. She huffed out a breath of frustration. "This is our home and I will not let anyone take it from us. Now hurry—both of you." She turned to go, a parting command shouted over her shoulder. "I found one gun. Bring any other weapons you can find!"
Hoisting up the heavy satin skirts, Alex groaned to see her dirty bare feet. She was turning to fetch her only pair of satin slippers when a heavy pounding sounded on the castle's front door.
Bare feet or not, it was time to meet her future.
With a pounding heart and the rusty pistol she'd found in the deep recesses of the kitchen pantry hidden in the folds of her skirt, Alex opened the massive door. It groaned on its old hinges and the wind blew strong and salty in her face as she looked up at the smartly dressed man standing with two soldiers on either side.
The man cast a quick head-to-toe glance at her and then bowed low over a turned-out leg. Swinging his hat round to his chest, he gripped it and stared at her, seemingly dumbstruck.
Harmless looking enough. Alex gulped down a chuckle at the sight.
"I have come to see Lady Alexandria Featherstone," the man said in a thin, nasal voice that sounded like he was more afraid of her than she was of him.
Oh, bother. He would never believe her the lady of the castle now. She shou
ld have had Henry answer the door like any proper noblewoman would have thought to do. Instead she curtsied out of confusion and lifted her arm toward the great hall without even asking his name or business. She was seriously botching this.
"Wait." She stopped his progress into the castle with her flat palm thrust toward his chest. "What is your business with Lady Featherstone?"
He bowed again, the two men on either side of him standing like statues with ominous expressions frozen on their faces. "I have news for her ladyship. News of great import."
He could be lying. Even if he didn't look it, he could be dangerous. The thought brought to mind her gun. She lifted it, hoping he couldn't see the rust in the dim moonlight, and pointed it at his chest. It would have been so much more fortuitous to have found some bullets to go with it. The soldiers eased back . . . assessing and reaching . . .
"Don't even consider it!" Alex flashed her best squint-eyed look of disdain at the soldiers, pointing the weapon at each of them by turn. If nothing else she did have experience brazening her way out of dire situations. Why there was the time she was caught red-handed camping out in the Yardley's barn searching for the ghost they swore was knocking about keeping them awake each night. And then the time . . . oh, wait. Now was not the time to be thinking of her debacles. Task at hand, Lady Featherstone, as if anyone around here ever called her that! She almost snorted.
"No need to fear, sir, so you may call off your hounds, though I am an excellent shot. It's just that I realized I don't even know your name. Can you prove your story of news?"
They stared at her for a long, slack-jawed moment, and then the smaller man in the middle reached into his pocket and pulled out a heavy packet of papers. He motioned toward them with his head. "My name is Michael Meade, secretary to the Duke of St. Easton."
Alexandria's heart sped up at the sight of the papers. The Duke of St. Easton? She shook her head, spiraling down, down, down. Something was wrong. This man hadn't come to rape and pillage in the usual way. No. Some dark feeling hovered and then wrapped around her shoulders, sending spikes of fear exploding through her head and down her back.
This man had come with another kind of destruction.
"My lady?" The man, Mr. Meade, took a step toward her, his arm outstretched toward the gun. "Are you Alexandria Featherstone?"
"What do you want, sir?" It took all the control she had to ask the question without a quiver in her voice.
"I regret to inform you that your parents, the Lord and Lady Featherstone of Holy Island, Northumberland, England, are, um, presumed dead. The Crown has awarded your guardianship to his grace, the Duke of St. Easton."
Dead? Alex gripped the gun tighter in a hand gone cold. It shook from the rusted tip, up her arm, all the way to her shoulder. Her breath came in little puffs. She shook her head.
"I would have known. I would have felt it." She shook her head again. "It's not true." The gun was so heavy. Fingers, arms, chest—everything went numb. She couldn't hold the gun any longer. She dropped it to the floor, where it promptly exploded with a massive sound and spun in a circle. Mr. Meade screamed.
With wide, unblinking eyes they stared in shock at each other.
Great heavens. There must have been bullets in it after all.
Chapter Three
The silence was shattering.
Music. God help him, he missed it. His bits of heaven every afternoon had turned to a dark hole that sucked him further toward the edge. The days dragged on in hellish silence and in the most inner parts of him, he wondered if he would ever hear it again. What that life would be, he couldn't bear to fathom, didn't want to fathom.
It had been weeks since Gabriel had finished his breakfast as fast as may be, sent the doctor off to find the specialist of the ear, and then closeted himself in his library. He'd been a whirl of motion at first, gathering the men he trusted to look after his affairs, while putting about rumors that the Duke of St. Easton was preparing for a long journey. It wouldn't do to let his fellow investors and speculators discover a problem, especially an illness. No, that wouldn't do at all. So he closeted himself in his town house and tried to go about his day as best he could, as normal as he could, but he wasn't fooling those close to him. He could see it in their eyes—the pity. More alarming was the bleak despair of life without sound.
There had been moments, a few precious moments, when he'd thought he heard something. It was coming back. It would come back. Then he'd seen the special ear doctors—Saunders and Curtis—both blooming idiots as far as he was concerned. They'd poked and prodded, experimented with their metal contraptions and torturous devices, and then handed him a ghastly looking ear trumpet made of tortoiseshell.
"Only the best for a duke." Saunders assured him.
He looked at the man, not much older than he was, and curled his lip. He hated it. Hated putting it to his ear and leaning toward the person speaking. He'd even once been tempted to say eh? He bit off the word and nearly his tongue in the process instead. It made him feel old, even though when he looked into the mirror—short black hair, black brows over what some claimed were startling green eyes, a straight nose, a little too thin in his opinion, and two days' growth of beard on his face—well, he looked like the same confident man in his prime that he'd always been. The ridiculous-looking contraption hadn't worked anyway.
The best the doctors could do was to stare at him with their pinched lips and scribble out driveling sentiment. "So sorry, Your Grace. We don't know what to make of it. There appears to be nothing wrong with your ears." He'd sent them packing with sharp words much as if he'd been shooting bullets at their heels.
Nothing wrong with his ears! Gabriel slammed the book he was reading down on his desk. If there was nothing wrong with his ears, then why couldn't he hear anything! His mind screamed the question, but he really didn't know if he'd said it aloud or not. And he really didn't care. Let the servants pity him. It was why he stayed locked in this room, refusing to see anyone, even his cloying, meddling sisters and mother. The thought of his reportedly distraught mother brought a pang of regret to his chest, but he just couldn't bear it. He could not endure her grief—the wringing hands, the weeping, the feeling that all was lost for the family.
He felt the vibration of his throat as he growled like the panther he'd sometimes been compared to with his short black hair and green eyes. He was about to rise to pace again when he saw something white on the floor. He bent and picked it up. A letter, the letter from the prince regent. He flipped it open and reread it. One hundred thousand pounds annual. The Featherstone estate was well provisioned, it would seem. Who knew such wealth could be found in the northern climes of Northumberland, on a craggy island in fact. There must be investments. Coal? Shipping ventures? He would have to find out if the estate was to be administered by him until the girl married. His Majesty had not mentioned her age or situation, typical of the prince regent, but without knowing any details and unable to go himself, he'd been forced to send Meade after the chit. She could be a babe for all he knew, and what he would do with a baby or a child was more than he could fathom. Mayhap he could foist her off on one of his sisters.
Charlotte was the eldest sister, married and already tied down with four youngsters, but when he thought of the way they'd been as children, she always bossing him and looking at him with that stern-eyed, tight-lipped glare whenever he did something annoying, he shivered with the memory of it.
Then there was Mary, a sweet thing, shy and becoming. She was married but he'd always wondered if it had turned out a happy union. She seemed smaller, somehow, when Lord Wingate was about. She rarely spoke or smiled. It was something he should inquire about. He hadn't given it enough attention, and as head of the family it was his duty to see that his sisters fared well. Yes, he would give Roger a summons and have a little chat, put some of the panther's steady gaze on the younger man and watch him sweat.
The fact that he could not have that chat drove into him like a fist in the stomach. Oh, yes. He was deaf and could not hear anything anyone said! He growled again, tears pricking, balling into his throat until he could hardly breathe. He'd never known such frustration: stifling, choking, enraging . . . heart wrenching—he hung his head. He buried his face into his hands, holding on to his sanity with little more than a thread of reason.
Alexandria.
Alexandria Featherstone. The name comforted him somehow, brought to mind a fairy creature from a world too brightly colored to ever be sad. He would concentrate on her and distract himself until his hearing returned. Stay focused on the task at hand.
She was most likely a child. Behind his closed eyes he imagined a pretty little girl, bright blonde hair and blue eyes with a laughing smile. She wouldn't know he couldn't hear her. She would smile at him and laugh at his attempts at humor and make his heart feel light enough to take another breath. He would not give her to Charlotte or Mary or even his youngest sister, Jane. Jane would be perfect for her as she'd only been married just above a year and was pining for a child from all accounts. But no, he would raise her himself. He would double her estate with careful investments, making her one of the wealthiest women in the world, and then he would find her a perfect match . . . and she would love him for it. She would love him just as he was.
Oh, God help me.
He had truly lost his mind with such thoughts. He wanted to lie on the floor and sob, but he couldn't do that again. He'd already shamed himself beyond the pale by lying in his great bed and very quietly crying into his feather pillows. Enough was enough.
He rubbed his face with his hands and sat back up. Maybe he would try fencing this afternoon. It was a face-to-face sport and might not be dependent on sound. The thought of a quick succession of parries and then the elegant thrust of attack with a turned-out wrist and forward hip thrust caused a rush of anticipation to course through him. Physical activity—that's what he needed.
