by Leah Sanders
Nothing more. Nothing less.
After an entire day of just enough of his particular attention, Anastasia was quite certain he was making a concerted effort to let her know precisely where he stood on the prospect of their marriage.
He was not pleased.
He would never see her as anything other than inconvenient duty.
Anastasia accepted another glass of claret. Her third. She rarely drank, but somehow the situation seemed to call for it this night.
The smile Baldwyn offered so freely to Lady Katherine as they shared their confidence made her blood boil. A smile that should be hers alone, yet she rarely saw it. With her, he was ever the stern and tacit suitor.
Perhaps the rumors were true. It was said Lady Katherine held a secret tender for the Duke of Paisley. He would know the gossip.
"Are you well, Lady Anastasia?" he asked her suddenly. How he seemed to know the exact moments she was upset when he rarely looked at her was a mystery.
"I am, your grace," she replied with a wicked sneer.
He cocked an eyebrow and stared at her a bit longer before turning back to his partner.
Lady Katherine lowered her voice and murmured something into his ear. He laughed.
Chances were it was the claret. Anastasia's head was positively swimming in it. Whatever it was, every one of her senses was heightened and fully focused on what was transpiring in that moment between her intended and Lady Katherine.
She knew she was glowering, but she wasn't about to stop.
And when Lady Katherine patted Baldwyn's forearm, Anastasia could no longer ignore her growing rage. And just before she opened her mouth to speak, the thought flashed through her mind — perhaps that third glass of claret had been a mistake.
"The two of you are rather cozy. And where is Banbury at present, I wonder, Lady Katherine?"
"You know well, Lady Anastasia, that he has retired in order to prepare for an early morning departure," she replied. Her clear eyes leveled on Anastasia's.
"How fortunate for the Duke of Paisley," Anastasia snapped. Too much wine or not, she knew she had gone too far with that outburst. But the overwhelming impulse to scratch out the trollop's eyes frightened even her. She fled from the room, hurrying through her father's study and out onto his terrace.
The bitter cold wind seemed to slice right through her as she hit the outside air, but she did not care. She rushed to the farthest corner overlooking the garden, which was covered in a thick blanket of fresh snow and inky darkness. Covering her face with both hands, she allowed the sobs to rack her body until she could cry no more.
How long had he stood there before Anastasia sensed his presence behind her on the terrace? No doubt he had followed her out to administer the much deserved reproof after the scene he had just witnessed. The anticipation of that event settled in her mind along with the equally unwelcome realization that this was what life would be like with this man. Forever.
No passion. Only duty.
Armed with her indignation and infused with liquid courage, she gave voice to her thoughts.
"What is it about me you find so terribly repulsive?"
"Repulsive? Whatever do you mean?"
"You rarely look at me. You never touch me. It's as if the one stolen kiss put you off forever. Am I that dreadful?"
"Anastasia, I—" His blue eyes were wide with shock. Her words had taken him quite by surprise. Perhaps he thought she hadn't noticed his indifference.
"There are times that you stare at me as though you cannot believe your misfortune to be forever bound to one such as me. Though for the life of me, I cannot comprehend what it is about me that repels you so. Other men find me interesting enough." She was fighting her own tears now. He looked at her as if she had gone mad, but she couldn't stop herself from speaking.
"I'm sorry, your grace, but I do not wish to be someone's duty. I have no desire to be simply the burden a man must bear. And you do not want me. That much is clear." Her heart was breaking with the honesty of being laid bare before the duke. She had held it in for far too long. She turned her back on him. His piercing glare was more than she could stand.
"I have loved you — always. As far back as I can remember, it has only ever been you to whom my heart has called out." Her voice was no more than a whisper now. "And I always dreamed you would one day sweep me off my feet, carry me off to your castle in Scotland and have your way with—"
She was interrupted by a strong hand on her elbow, spinning her around before she could resist. And before she could utter a syllable of protest, Baldwyn's lips were crushing down on hers in earnest.
He lifted her fully from the ground, pulling her flush against him, stealing her breath away.
She struggled against him for only an instant. A thick haze descended. Was this really happening? No. It was a dream. Wasn't it?
Instinctively, she slid her arms around his neck and pulled him closer still, meeting his searching mouth with her own, coaxing him further. He needed no more invitation, but plunged his warm velvet tongue into her mouth, engaging hers in a slow rhythmic dance.
From somewhere distant, she understood that he had lifted her into his arms and was carrying her away — to where, she didn't care. She only hoped he wouldn't stop kissing her.
****
He must stop kissing her. But his prolonged abstinence only increased his appetite for her. The heat of her body pressed against his was like water to a man dying of thirst.
Baldwyn could thoroughly ruin her. Here. Now.
She wanted him to. She had said as much.
Only one thought stopped him from doing so.
She was young, and had never before been thoroughly kissed. She wouldn't know how to stop if she wanted to.
That left him alone to guard her virtue. No matter how much he hated that responsibility. Now — before her wanton groaning melted all his chivalrous resolve.
With painful regret he set her on her feet, pried himself from her, and stumbled backward with labored breath.
Her golden brown eyes, still glazed over in a cloud of desire, accused him of letting go too soon. She leaned toward him, reaching for his face, but he stepped back, dodging her touch, instead grasping her hand in his and kissing her fingers.
Confusion seemed to mingle with pain of rejection in her dark eyes again. His heart broke at the sight.
"No. No. Anastasia, listen to me," he pleaded. "I want you. Heaven knows I do. Every moment in your presence without touching you — without feeling the warmth of your lips on mine — has been pure torture. Torture only the devil himself could devise." He released her hand and retreated another step, holding up a hand to keep her from approaching him.
"If I had believed for one instant you thought I didn't want you, I would have… You must believe me, my love. I thought only to guard your virtue."
"I asked you for no such favor," she interjected.
"I sought only to protect you. My duty—" He couldn't keep the tremor from his voice, and no matter what his mind was saying, the rest of his body was still fully aware of how much he desired to throw caution to the wind and take her as his own.
"Hang your duty, Baldwyn Sinclair," Anastasia whispered, her voice thick with emotion. "And hang you!"
Before he knew what had happened, before he realized he had said anything wrong, she spun on her heel and rushed down the stairs into the dark garden, leaving Baldwyn gaping after her in disbelief.
Chapter Seventeen
Anastasia didn't even feel the cold wind slicing through her thin shawl. She stumbled blindly through the snow drifts, heading who knew where. Crystalline flakes began floating around her and the only sound was her heavy breath and the crunch of her feet as she trudged on toward her unknown destination.
Tears stung her cheeks, streaming unchecked down her face, and the frigid winter breeze burned the remaining wet trail.
Duty. That's all she was to him. An unpleasant responsibility put upon him by his ailing grandmother whom he simply coul
dn't find it in himself to refuse.
Where would that leave them when the deed was done and the dowager was dead and buried? He would resent her. Despise her for taking his last shred of freedom and strangling him with it.
It wasn't her intention. She had no desire to cause him pain. She had loved him since she was seven. Since he had rescued her from the giant oak and shared an apple with her, speaking of turtledoves and her mourning father. Somewhere deep within him she knew that boy lived still. That knight in shining armor who would save her from all harm.
But she couldn't do it. She couldn't be the thorn in his side.
The darkness seemed to fall around her like a blanket of coal black ink, muddied only by the flurries which suddenly seemed to be increasing in intensity. She glanced about her but could see nothing. No landmarks of note.
In her despair Anastasia had wandered haphazardly, not sure which direction she had taken from the house. Not a single star lit the darkness. The clouds were black and thick, concealing the moon and all the stars.
Fear gripped her chest, stealing her breath. She twirled wildly, eyes widening in search for something, anything, to indicate where she might be.
Her foot caught on an unmoving obstruction in the path, sending her flailing to the cold, hard ground. She landed with a crunch on her hands and knees. Her hand caught a sharp rock, and she felt the tear of flesh through her glove. A cry wrenched from her throat, piercing the silence of the dark.
On hands and knees, Anastasia felt the ground all around her until her gloved hand found the rough solid root of an oak tree. Her oak tree. Tracing the root to the trunk, she eased herself into the crook at the base.
She had been there a thousand times. More times than she could count. Huddling tightly against the trunk, she was able to block the cold wind somewhat. Her thin evening shawl offered little protection, and though she hadn't felt it when she fled the manor house, the ice was beginning to settle in her veins now, cutting right through the fabric of her bodice and undergarments.
Perhaps not such a blind stumble after all. Something deep inside her had guided her to the one place she had always felt free and safe.
The throbbing pain in her left hand drew her attention. Her glove was drenched with warm moisture out of place in the dead of winter. She lifted her hand to the space right in front of her eyes, but the darkness made it impossible to see any more than a silhouette.
She peeled off her glove and wrapped it tightly around the cut, then clutched the wounded hand to her chest. Anastasia could find her way back to the house blindfolded, but she wasn't ready. Not ready to face him yet.
Closing her eyes, she recalled the memory of that afternoon so many years ago. Perhaps she had been far too absorbed in her fantasy. Perhaps she had looked at the man through the eyes of her fancy for too long. He might never be to her everything she imagined him to be.
But she simply wasn't ready to give up on him.
Anastasia huddled closer to the ground and shivered. She should be heading back.
****
It was pride. Plain and simple.
He should have gone after her right away, but he didn't. Instead he stood nursing his ego on the terrace for several minutes. He had told her how he felt — she had cursed him and run away. A relationship made in Heaven.
None of that mattered now. Lady Anastasia had been gone far too long.
Baldwyn paced the hall outside Lord Marks's chamber door.
He would have to go after her, but he hadn't been to visit the country house in over five years. She could be anywhere on the grounds, and with the snow coming down as it was, there would be no trail to follow.
Blast him.
He had waited too long.
And now she was lost out there in the storm in nothing more than a light shawl.
Abruptly he approached the door and pounded on it.
No answer.
Baldwyn pounded again, more insistently.
After what seemed like hours, the door creaked open and Lord Marks peered out through bleary sleep-filled eyes.
"Your grace? What is it?" Lord Marks blinked several times and concern grew in his eyes.
"Lady Anastasia. She is missing." The words barely choked through the knot in his throat.
The door closed in his face. Baldwyn sighed. Was the man still asleep? He slapped his hand against the door frame and spun on his heel. He couldn't wait for Lord Marks to realize it wasn't a dream.
Halfway to the stairs, Baldwyn heard the click of the door behind him.
"Paisley, wait. We shall need lanterns."
****
Anastasia hadn't intended to fall asleep. A chill racked through her as she woke. How long had she been out here? Her hand still throbbed, but the bleeding seemed to have stopped.
The stiffness made it hard to move, but she pushed herself up to stand, stomping her feet briskly against the cold hard ground. Fresh powder flurries blew off her skirts as she shook them out. There was no feeling left in her feet. She stomped them again harder, trying to reclaim sensation. Nothing.
She had to get back to the manor house. Flurries of snow blurred her vision, making all the trees around her look the same. Which way was it? Her head swam in a haze of confusion. She had been in these woods a hundred thousand times. Whirling around, she glanced all about looking for a clue of what direction she should take to return to the warmth of her father's fireplace.
Her heart leapt to her throat when she realized she was hopelessly lost. Lost in a place she should know like the back of her own hand. Frigid tears stung her eyes, and surges of chills swept over her again and again.
A loud steady rattle split the air around her, and Anastasia studied the shadows for signs to explain the noise. She lowered herself to the ground and slid up against the old oak tree, staring wide-eyed into the darkness. The rhythmic tapping tore through the silence, and she wrapped her arms around herself to keep from shaking.
Then she realized… her teeth — the ear-splitting clatter was coming from her own chattering teeth.
Anastasia chuckled, pulled her knees to her chest, and wrapped her arms tightly around them.
****
Armed with a lantern, a flask of brandy, and a pile of warm woolen blankets, Baldwyn trudged into the darkness heading toward the fields, while Lord Marks took the trail toward the pond.
The bitter wind whipped the flame within the glass, casting a flickering curtain of light against the freshly fallen snow.
He followed his feet, not certain exactly where they were taking him, but trusting they knew something he didn't. The only sound was the frantic icy crunch beneath his boots as he broke into a trot.
"Anastasia!" he belted out. His voice echoed back at him.
He listened and heard nothing in return but the sound of his feet pounding the ground.
Again and again he yelled her name, growing more anxious with each unanswered call. It was only a little over an hour she had been gone, but it was so cold, and she had only a light shawl. What if she was injured, lying somewhere unconscious in the snow? Baldwyn's chest constricted around his lungs, and he struggled for enough breath to call her name again.
"Anastasia!" he forced out with a mournful gasp.
****
Anastasia lifted her head. The cold air was a shocking slap in her face, stinging her cheeks and nose. What was that sad wail floating toward her through the darkness? It rang in the tree branches overhead — the call of the turtledoves flittering from tree to tree high above her.
They called to each other over and over. They must be lost in the cold and the dark as well. Somewhere in the frosty haze of her mind she recognized the faulty naturalism. Turtledoves didn't muddle about in the English countryside in the winter, but her ears told her it was the same sad cry, the resounding despair of a turtledove searching for its lost mate.
"Anastasia!" The doleful moan hovered in the branches overhead. Was the turtledove calling her name? She blinked and looked up,
scouring the inky black sky for signs of the unseasonable birds.
"I'm here, little turtledove… I'm down here on the ground," she crooned in a sing-song voice, hardly more than a whisper.
"Anastasia!" Her name drifted to her ears again, growing closer and closer, like a bird spiraling down to alight by her feet.
She closed her eyes tight and rested her head against the trunk of the tree. This must be what death was like. And now the light shining all around, so brightly she could see it through her closed lids. Any moment she would feel the warmth of the angel's arms encircling her, carrying her on to Glory.
"Anastasia," the angel's voice cracked. Nothing like she would imagine an angel to sound. "Anastasia, are you hurt?" An odd question for an angel to ask.
She struggled to open her eyes, finally earning a squinting glance. The bright halo trimmed an angelic face with eyes blue as cornflowers.
Warmth spread from her shoulders, as two strong hands grasped her and pulled her slightly forward, and then draped a thick blanket of heaven around her, wrapping her tightly.
"Your lips are blue, Princess." The deep voice found its smooth timbre and ran over her like warm honey, heating her from the top of her head to the bottom of her toes.
"Is it you?" she whispered.
The angel nodded. "It's me, Princess. Your loyal knight." His hand smoothed her cold cheek in a slow, deliberate stroke. "I've come to rescue you."
She smiled dreamily as he lifted a shiny flask to her lips. "Drink this. It will warm you."
The liquid slipped down her throat, radiating heat all the way down.
Anastasia gazed at her rescuer. "Are you my turtledove?"
"Yes, yes!" He laughed and scooped her up in his warm, protective arms, bestowing a light kiss on her forehead. "Your turtledove… and I've been calling for you, my lost love," he crooned against her ear.
