“Save your concern for one who truly matters.” The look in her eyes changed, and tears mixed with the rain on her face. “Your son is missing. Do you understand that?”
“And you blame me?”
“I do!” she cried. “James is missing…”
“Has run away, you mean!”
“…because you failed even to introduce yourself to him or acknowledge him when you had a chance. He’s run away because he was afraid. If you had listened to anything that I told you in Bristol…if you had taken into consideration his age...his condition...”
“Have you considered, madam, that perhaps your own shortcomings in raising him with some sense of discipline--”
“Don’t you dare criticize me. He has grown and thrived in my care.”
“A weed thrives on the roadside with very little tending.”
“Insult me as you wish.” She jerked her arm free. “But let me go. By God, I will find him. And when I do, I am taking him back with me to Pennsylvania. It is obvious to me—and to James—that you have no real wish for him to be here. Only…damn me, but if I had known that sooner, I never would have allowed you to uproot that child.”
She struck off in the direction of the old mill again, leaving him cursing himself bitterly for unleashing his temper at her. In so doing, he had let her take charge.
“Mrs. Ford!” he called, going after her.
She trudged on, giving no indication of having heard him.
“Rebecca!” he shouted, reaching her side with a few long strides. This time as he took hold of her elbow, he spun her around and grabbed her other arm, as well. He wasn’t forcing her to stay put, he reminded himself, but he would damn well intimidate her if that’s what it took to hold her long enough to make her see reason. She turned her face away, refusing to look at him.
“I was…I was rash in my words. I have no right to criticize you for what you have done for James.”
“I have no time for your apologies, either.” She tried to pull out of his hold, but Stanmore only tightened it. His fingers dug into the soaked fabric of her sleeves.
“And I have no time to drum up an argument. We are both after the same thing.” He motioned toward the darkening sky. “It soon will be night, and I am wasting time not helping with the search.”
“Then go,” she cried out, twisting toward the mill.
“I cannot. Not when you are running around in this storm, endangering yourself without purpose.”
“I am not the one that you should concern yourself with. It is James who--”
“It is James who will be needing you when he is brought back,” he interrupted, shaking her once. He didn’t want to think about the gray water beside them. About the possibility of a boy gone forever. He needed her back at the house, where her situation would not prey on his mind. “Have you considered the predicament you may be creating? What happens when James is returned and you are not there to greet him? You are the only one that he really knows. The only one who will be able to comfort him.”
Her body sagged slightly in his arms. “But I...I just cannot stay there...waiting. I feel so…so helpless. I…” She looked up at him with tormented eyes set in a face suddenly showing her weariness and vulnerability. The wind blew wet strands of hair across her pale cheek.
“Think of him! Think of how you can help him most,” he said reasonably. He finally had her attention. “Let me take you back to the house. I was raised in this place. I know every hiding place where a boy of his age can go. I know how far he can run and in which direction. I’ll go after him myself…but I need you at the house to care for him when we bring him in.”
She didn’t answer him, but Stanmore took her silence as a sign of assent. Wrapping his fingers around her wrist, he pulled her toward his horse. Her steps were heavy, resignation written in her every movement. He removed his coat and wrapped it around her shoulders. Although wet, he hoped the warmth of his body would offer some comfort.
He didn’t trust her to hold on, seated behind him. So instead, he lifted her easily onto the back of the giant animal and swung up behind her.
She didn’t utter a word as Stanmore wheeled the hunter around. She held herself rigid, away from his chest, her eyes searching in the distance. The hands clutching the mane of the horse were nearly blue beneath the mud, though, and he could see the shiver trembling uncontrollably on her lips. Wrapping a hand around her waist, he pulled her against the warmth of his body.
“We’ll be there soon.” His chin brushed the soaked strands of hair, and he frowned at the unsettling feeling of protectiveness that coursed through him. “Let Mrs. Trent see to your needs when you get back. Dry clothes. A cup of wine. You cannot allow yourself to become ill…not when he…well, not when the lad needs you most.”
Silence was her only answer. In a few minutes, Solgrave came into view, standing solidly against the storm. The lamps had been lit, and Stanmore pressed a hand against her shoulder, drawing her more tightly against his chest to protect her from the whipping rain.
Certain things were starting to make sense now. Birch’s immediate liking of this woman, for one. The trust that the lawyer bestowed on her. This was a totally uncharacteristic response in the old bachelor. Stanmore could see that there was something about her that spoke of strength—an independence that was not based on position or wealth. Added to that, the woman had compassion and intelligence…and she was as obstinate as a rock. And yet, right beneath the pale skin and stormy blue eyes, there was a vulnerability that he doubted everyone saw.
He hadn’t even dismounted from his horse when Daniel and several of the grooms and footmen rushed out into the rain. He handed the soaked woman down from the mount.
“Any news?” he asked of his steward.
“Some of the men have come in and gone again. They’ve talked to most of the villagers, m’lord. It appears fairly certain the lad did not go to Knebworth.” The steward nodded his head toward the lake. “Shall I put together a party with hooks and lines to…”
“No!” Stanmore interrupted the steward with a warning glance. “We’ve more places to look yet. See that Mrs. Ford is attended to.”
Rebecca held his coat up to him. He reached for it, and their gazes met in the pouring rain.
“You will bring him back.”
“I’ve said I will.”
CHAPTER 10
The darkness that descended was complete and broken only by occasional flashes of lightning. The wind and rain still lashed at him as he rode, but Stanmore sensed that the gale was beginning to blow itself out. Dashing the rain from his eyes, he reined in his mount at the edge of a small meadow, peering through the dark for the ruined cottage that he knew was nearby. It was one of the last places he could think of to look. He frowned at the thought of going back empty handed.
The hut had been a tumble-down affair even when Stanmore had roamed the woods as a boy. As he nudged his horse into the clearing, though, he realized he had not been out in this area for fifteen years, at least. The cottage had once been inhabited by gamekeepers of the estate, but no one had lived there in decades.
Another flash of lightning showed him that his memory was not so bad, after all. Framed by tall plane trees and a few ancient oaks, the cottage sat at the far edge of the meadow. Even at a glance, Stanmore realized that the hut was far more decrepit than he recalled.
But the condition of the place would mean nothing to a boy seeking shelter from the storm. The forests that covered the rolling hills and valleys for the next mile or so would soon give way to farms and then the park belonging to Squire Wentworth’s Melbury Hall…but James wouldn’t know that.
Stanmore dismounted before the hut and secured his horse to a low stone wall. Taking a step toward the low door, he stopped and eyed the shelter warily. Even though half of the thatched roof had fallen in years ago, the place did not have the feeling of being totally deserted. Branches, broken to a uniform length, had been stacked against the stone wall. The leather hinges
that once held the door in place had long ago given way, but someone had fairly recently pulled the stout wooden planking up against the narrow opening. The single window even appeared to have a hide tacked across the inside to keep out the weather.
And as Stanmore stood there, the shifting wind brought him the smell of a wood fire. Man or boy, he thought, someone was in that cottage.
Just to be sure, the earl circled the cottage. Gypsies regularly came through the area, though usually in the fall, and they rarely camped in this part of the estate. An escaped convict or a wandering beggar was not likely to have wandered so far from the roads or from the farms, either. More than likely, it was simply one or more of the children from his estate or from Melbury who had been doing the minor repairs. They had always been drawn to the hut. When he himself was young, he had played “storm the keep” in this very place. How many times he led his ‘army’—composed of the woodcutter’s sons and the Trent boys—to victory against some of the farm lads from Melbury.
The flashes of lightning told him that no serious repairs had been made to the cottage. A stream of water was running from a small gap in the crumbling wall at the back of the hut. Deciding that discretion was probably in order, though, Stanmore crouched and peered through the small opening. The fallen thatch blocked his access, but he could see the light of the small fire flickering on the wall across the small space.
As he watched, he saw a young hand reach over and carefully place a broken branch on the fire. Obviously, the occupant had not heard him approach, for there was no nervousness in the boy’s movements as he added another branch to the fire. This time Stanmore caught sight of the lad’s other hand.
It was James.
Stanmore’s lips twitched, and a feeling of relief swept through him, its intensity surprising him and causing his face to immediately crease into a frown. He remained where he was for the longest moment and just stared at what he could see of the boy. His back was turned, and the earl could only see the extended arms and muddied knee breeches and the bare legs and feet. Although late in May, the chill night air lacked the feel of summer, but still on this stormy night James had chosen the discomfort of this ramshackle cottage over all the luxury that had surrounded him at Solgrave.
Stanmore pushed himself wearily to his feet and made his way around the cottage to the door and the slab of wood propped against it. He considered for a moment and then took a step back toward his horse.
“Holloa! Is anyone in there?” he called loudly over the sound of the storm.
Moving forward, he pushed the door aside and peered in. The fire was still burning, but the lad had disappeared. He ducked his head and entered the cottage. On the far side of the hut, two muddy feet protruded from beneath the fallen thatch.
As Stanmore looked at the boy, the rain began to come down again in earnest through the broken roof. He studied the low and unsteady rafters and then crouched before the boy’s hiding place.
“There is no point in running away or hiding. You must be soaked to the skin now. At this rate, you’ll probably come down with a fever and die within a fortnight.”
James didn’t move from his hiding place, so Stanmore glanced up at the inside of the place. Someone had indeed been spending time in there recently, for there were telltale signs throughout the space. The ashes in the fire indicated that more than a few meals had been cooked there, and the bones of rabbits and squirrels in a small pit by the wall told him that his deer park was at least feeding someone in the neighborhood. With a wry smile, he turned his attention back to the boy who was stubbornly continuing to ignore him.
“Come, James! I can see you, lad.”
There was still no movement, and he remembered what Birch and Mrs. Ford had told him about the boy’s difficulty in hearing. He stood up and heaved a pile of thatch to the side, revealing the boy.
He had Elizabeth’s eyes. And her coloring. And the same blonde hair. And he was shivering slightly from the rain…or from fear of him. The earl stretched a hand out to the boy.
“It is time for you to return to Solgrave.”
The lad made no move to accept the proffered hand. He just continued to stare at him with a piercing glare that Stanmore also recognized.
“You’ve put the household in complete disarray today. Now, I know you don’t care a rush for my people’s concerns, but there is one person there that I know you do care for.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “Mrs. Ford was so upset that she went out in this storm searching for you…alone and on foot. We were able to bring her back to the house for a short time. But if I don’t take you back right now, then she will be going out again.”
Stanmore jerked a thumb toward the dry corner of the hut.
“I doubt she’ll be as lucky as you to find a place to dry out or a fire to warm herself. She will be coming down with a fever, and it will be your fault. So if you care nothing for her…”
James rose to his feet, but said nothing.
With a grunt, Stanmore used his boot to put out the fire while the boy went and stood by the door waiting. When the earl motioned for James to go out ahead of him, he was amused to see the boy replace the slab of wood across the front of the door.
The two walked in silence through the rain to the waiting horse. Stanmore, lifting the child onto the back of the animal, was amazed to realize that—even soaking wet—James weighed almost nothing.
There was a great deal that Stanmore knew he himself had to say to the lad. Some explanation for the past perhaps. Some greeting or introduction, he supposed, this being their first meeting. Still better, the boy deserved a good tongue-lashing for the trouble he had caused Solgrave’s servants.
But he said nothing. Instead, the ride back to the house was made in absolute silence, broken only by the rumbling of thunder receding in the distance.
***
The bed remained untouched. The household had finally settled after the ordeal of the day and night. Rebecca sat quietly on a chair in her bedchamber and pondered the emotional sleigh ride she had experienced in the last twenty-four hours.
She had never been more saddened or crazed than at the moment when she’d discovered Jamey missing this morning. And she could not recall a moment of greater joy than she’d experienced tonight at the sight of him descending safely from his father’s gleaming horse. She had rushed into the rain and had cried as her boy had run into her arms and buried his face into her neck—mumbled words of apology nearly drowned out by the sound of the earl issuing directives to his servants. After a moment, though, she had to draw back and release Jamey, allowing the housekeeper and the steward to take charge of him.
Overseeing their efforts from a distance, she had seen them do everything she would have done and more. Drying him. Dressing him in warm clothing. Feeding him. Putting him to bed. She had nodded encouragingly when he had directed his soulful gaze at her.
He was James Samuel Wakefield, the heir to a vast fortune, the next earl of Stanmore. And Rebecca knew—as difficult as it was for them both—she had to hold herself back and allow Jamey to learn to deal with these people who were a part of his future.
Earlier, when she had returned to the house and was waiting for news of him, Rebecca had found plenty of time to think over what the earl of Stanmore had said to her. It was the truth. It was her fault that the young boy had acted so hastily this morning. Her lack of experience in bringing up a child—her years of excessive protectiveness—had led to Jamey being so dependent on her, so attached to her. Now, she had to do her best to help him become more independent…to acquire what he needed to take his true place in the world.
She brushed away the tears on her face and pressed a hand to the ache in her chest. It was no help. She was an unholy mess, but she was truly missing him already.
Rising to her feet, she tightened the belt of the robe Mrs. Trent had given her earlier and walked toward the door. She had said goodnight to him, gently refusing to sit with him when he was finally put to bed. But now, a c
ouple of hours later, she knew he would be asleep. And she had to see him. She had to at least look at him and try to soothe her aching heart.
The hallway was quiet when she stepped out. As she approached his door, she had a moment of panic. What would happen if he were missing again? But her mind was quickly put at ease when, upon opening it, she saw him sleeping peacefully, as if nothing had ever been amiss in the world.
Rebecca stepped in and quietly closed the door behind her.
The curtains were open, and a soft blue light imbued the room with a pervading sense of serenity. The rain had stopped, and a bright moon had somehow worked its way through the clouds. Outside, the countryside glistened beneath its white beams.
Rebecca stood for the longest time with her back against the door, watching the young boy sleep.
Jamey! Only a short time ago, she had thought her life so complete. She had been a mother to someone who needed her. She had been fulfilling a promise she had made long ago, and in so doing she had filled up her own life with joy. She brushed away a tear and walked toward the bed. Leaning over him, she pulled the blanket up to his chin. She touched his unruly hair and brushed a soft kiss over his brow.
Straightening up, her heart leaped in her chest.
The earl of Stanmore, sitting in a chair in a shadowy corner, was gazing at her intently. He obviously had been watching his son sleep, but now his gaze was fixed on her. It was a strange, unsettling look. It was like looking into the eyes of a great cat.
Embarrassment, guilt, emotions that she somehow couldn’t put a name to surged inside her. She took a step back, but found the earl’s piercing gaze following her. With one quick look toward the sleeping Jamey, Rebecca turned and—as calmly as she could—escaped the room.
She was down the corridor, nearly to her own door, when the sound of the earl’s tread made her pause.
The Promise Page 10
