“I…B-b-but…” Richards stuttered.
“Go now!” the man exclaimed, sounding exasperated. “Fetch the doctor. And give me that gun. If I see the shooter, I shall kill him myself.” He wrenched the pistol from Richards’s grip.
“Allez!” the man roared.
Richards stumbled down the corridor before them. The man held Élise tightly as he negotiated the stairs. At the bottom, he drew to a halt and watched Richards burst out the front door. It slammed behind him.
“Damn,” the man muttered, sounding very English once again.
He just stood there, staring at the closed door, holding Élise against him. Seconds passed.
Élise peeked up at the man. He had a strong, solid face. Darkly handsome, with a square jaw and piercing dark eyes. He was staring down at her.
“I’m going to set you on your feet,” he murmured. “Can you walk?”
“Oui…” She blinked, surprised by the French word emerging from her mouth. It had been a long time since she’d forgotten to speak English. “Yes.”
Slowly, carefully, he slid her down his body until she wobbled on shaky legs. His fingers closed over her forearm, preventing her from running, as did the gun he still held in one hand. “Remain close to me. Do not say a word.”
“Yes,” she whispered.
She followed his order not to speak as he tugged her out onto the landing and down the steps that led to the street. Beyond the resident fear, a thousand questions simmered in her mind.
Why had he killed Dunthorpe? Why hadn’t he killed her, too? Was he kidnapping her for a reason? For ransom? But if that were the case, how could he have known she was at home today? No one knew she was in London…
A black-lacquered, unmarked coach awaited them at the curb. The man glanced up at the driver, who tipped his cap low over his forehead and then looked away before Élise could discern any of his features. All she could tell was that he was an older man, with gray-streaked brown hair.
The man who’d shot Dunthorpe opened the door, lifted her by the waist, and thrust her inside the coach as if she were a slab of meat he’d just purchased from the butcher.
She stumbled in, her eyes unaccustomed to the darkness. Another figure sat inside the coach, shadowy in the darkness.
“For God’s sake!” the shadowy figure exclaimed when she fell half on him. He took her shoulders and pushed her off him. Dieu, it was another of them. Maybe she had been unwise not to attempt escape earlier, when it was just one big, frightening man she’d had to deal with. Though this one, admittedly, was somewhat smaller.
“What’s this, Hawk?” the shadowy man asked.
“Lady Dunthorpe.” The big man’s voice was completely flat as he said her name. He came up behind her and arranged her into the forward-facing seat opposite the smaller man. Then he sat beside her, his enormous body a threatening mass of muscle.
The carriage lurched into motion, and the man across from her studied her, his head tilted in fascination. She caught glimpses of his features from the shifting light that filtered in through the slim gaps in the curtains covering the windows. He was quite young—just a boy, really—with angular, handsome features. He looked rather…French.
She took a shuddering breath, then closed her eyes.
Dunthorpe is dead. Dunthorpe is dead.
If she were a good wife, she’d be weeping. Crying out, grieving, keening, mourning her dead husband. Trying to kill these men who had caused his death. But she knew, better than anyone, that Dunthorpe was undeserving of her tears. Or anyone’s tears, for that matter, though no doubt his death would be considered a national tragedy.
The English could be such fools.
It was telling that, even though she was terrified to be a captive of these clearly dangerous men, this was less terrifying than being alone with Dunthorpe.
The big man—Hawk, the youth had called him—had promised not to hurt her. She looked at him now. Men would say anything to attain a woman’s capitulation—she knew that. She couldn’t trust him to hold to his word.
He met her eyes with his dark ones. His expression was flat—devoid of any emotion. That cool gaze sent shivers of trepidation skittering down her spine.
“Lady Dunthorpe,” the youth mused, surprise evident in his young voice. “She wasn’t supposed to be at home.”
“No,” Hawk said darkly, “she wasn’t.”
The youth drew in a breath. “Well, then. What do you intend to do with her?”
Élise glanced back and forth between the two as they talked about her as if she weren’t present. Neither of them spoke with a French accent now, so she assumed that Hawk had faked the accent earlier. But why?
And then the truth of it struck her. It was because he wished to make it appear as though Dunthorpe’s assassin had been a Frenchman.
She understood completely. It was far easier to place blame for the murder of such a well-loved man on an enemy than on a compatriot.
Hawk shook his head, and she saw the slightest tightening of his lips at the edges. This man didn’t wear his emotions on his face. To read him, she’d have to watch him carefully, look out for the subtlest clues. If he didn’t kill her before she had the opportunity to try to understand him.
Now that her mind was working properly, she realized she already understood a few things about him, and she collected those facts in her mind as the carriage rattled down a quiet London street. He was extremely large and extremely strong. He was ice-cold and impenetrable, but with chinks in that surface. He was a competent killer. He was not French. He knew something of Dunthorpe’s nefarious deeds, and the latest scheme, whatever that might be, had been what had caused him to kill Dunthorpe.
And he probably thought she was in league with her husband.
She wrapped her arms over her chest and squeezed her body tight. She was cold—it was a chilly early-spring evening, and she had no coat.
Nevertheless, a kind of odd calmness flushed through her. She would accept her fate, whatever it might be. Dunthorpe was dead, and no matter what happened now, it would be all right. All that mattered was that he was dead.
A weight settled on her shoulders, and she glanced at the big man in surprise. He’d laid his own coat over her and now pulled at the front so she was tucked in tight, as if in a blanket.
A thoughtful kidnapper, this one.
“Keep her close,” Hawk muttered to his friend as he deemed her warm enough and turned away—a much-delayed and noncommittal answer to the youth’s question about what he planned to do with her.
“Ah.” The youth nodded, and then he glanced out the window. “We’re almost there.”
“Are we being followed?”
“I don’t believe so.”
“Did you see the butler?”
“Oh, I saw him, all right. He burst through the door and then set off running down the street like wolves were nipping at his arse.” He cast Élise a guilty glance. “Beg pardon, my lady.”
She didn’t answer him, just stared at him blankly, and he raised a brow at his large friend. “I think you’ve gone and petrified her with fear, Hawk.”
Hawk glanced down at her. Then he shrugged. “Easier this way.”
She straightened her spine but tightened her arms around herself. As if her two spindly arms could protect her from men such as these. “Who are you?” she whispered. Her voice sounded rough—like she hadn’t used it in a week.
“No one,” Hawk said quietly. “Ghosts. Specters in the night. You’ve never seen us.”
She frowned at the absurdity of this and opened her mouth to give a fitting retort, but just then the carriage came to an abrupt halt.
“And here we are!” the youth said cheerfully. “Home, sweet home.”
Turn the page for an excerpt from the first book in Jennifer Haymore’s sinfully sexy regency House of Trent series,
The Duchess Hunt
Available now
Prologue
Sarah Osborne had only liv
ed at Ironwood Park for a few days, but she already loved it. Birds serenaded her every morning, their trilling songs greeting her through the little window in the cottage she shared with her father. Each afternoon, the sun shone brightly over the Park, spreading gentle warmth to her shoulders through the muslin of her dress as she ran across the grounds. And in the evenings, lanterns spilled golden light over the façade of the great house, which sat on a low, gentle-sloped hill and reigned like a king over the vast lands of the Duke of Trent.
If Sarah looked out the diamond-paned window of the cottage she shared with her father, she could see the house in the distance, framed by the graceful, curving white branches of two birch trees outside the cottage. She gazed at the house often throughout the day, always giving it an extra glance at night before Papa tucked her in. It stared back at her, a somber, massive sentry, and she felt safe with it watching over her. Someday, she dreamed, she might be able to draw close to it. To weave through those tall, elegant columns that lined its front. Someday, she might even be able to go inside.
But Sarah wasn’t thinking of Ironwood Park right now—she was thinking about a butterfly. She dashed down the path in pursuit of the beautiful black-and-white speckled creature flitting from leaf to leaf of the box hedge that marked the outer boundary of the garden. She hiked up her skirt and chased it through the wrought-iron gate that divided the garden from the outer grounds.
Finally, the butterfly landed, seemingly spent, on a spindly branch. Sarah slowed and approached it cautiously, reaching her hand out. She let out a long breath as her finger brushed over one of the wings. The butterfly stared at her. So delicate and gentle. It seemed to nod at her, then in a soft flutter of wings, it flew away again, leaving Sarah gazing at the bush.
“Oooh,” she murmured in delight. It wasn’t just any bush—it was a blackberry bush. Last summer, when Mama had been so ill, Sarah had picked blackberries nearly every day. Blackberry root tea had soothed Mama’s cough-weary stomach, but Sarah loved the berries’ bumpy texture and burst of sweetness when she bit into one.
It was early in the season for blackberries, but among the ripening berries that loaded the bush, Sarah found a small handful that were ripe enough to eat. She gazed at her surroundings as she ate them one at a time, savoring the sweet taste edged with the slightest tinge of sour.
Not only one blackberry bush grew here—there were many. They sprawled from the ground in no orderly fashion along the bank of a trickling stream.
Sarah turned to glance in the direction she’d come from to make sure she wasn’t lost. The domes of the roof of the great house peeked through the elms, a reassuring beacon.
Her handful finished, she went back to searching for ripe berries, picking through the thorn-covered branches. She searched and picked and ate until her belly was full, light scratches from the thorns crisscrossed her arms, and the dark juice stained her hands. Looking dolefully down at her skirt, she realized blackberry juice had stained her dress as well. Papa would be displeased if he saw, but she’d scrub out the stains before he came home.
Her braid was being unruly again—strands had fallen out of it, and her dark hair wisped across her cheeks. She blew upward, trying to get them out of the way, but that didn’t work, so she pushed them away and tucked them behind her ears with her dirty hands.
And then she saw the butterfly again.
At least, it looked like the same butterfly. Beautiful and enormous, its wings speckled like a sparrow’s egg, it had settled on a twig deep and high inside one of the blackberry bushes.
Sarah stepped onto a fallen branch. On her tiptoes, she leaned forward, peering at it. “Don’t fly away,” she murmured. “Don’t be afraid.”
She reached out—this time not to touch it, but to catch it. She wanted to hold it, feel its delicate, spindly legs on her palm.
Just a little farther…Crack! The branch snapped under her feet, and she lurched forward, her hands wheeling against the air as she tried to regain her balance. But it was no use. With a crash, she tumbled headfirst into the blackberry bush, gasping as thorns grabbed at her dress and tore at her skin.
She came to a stop on her knees inside the bush, her hands clutching the thorny undergrowth.
Panting against the smart of pain, she squeezed her eyes shut as she freed one hand and used her fingers to pick the thorns from the other. Blood welled on her arms, a hot stream of it sliding down around her forearm. Each breath she released came out in a little moan of pain. Her knees hurt horribly, but she couldn’t regain her balance without something to hold on to, and there was nothing to grab except painfully thorny branches.
“Can I help you, miss?”
She tried to look over her shoulder toward the voice, but a thorn scraped over her cheek, and she sucked in a breath.
It was a man’s voice, she thought. A kind voice. “Yes, please, sir.”
“All right. Stay still.”
It seemed to take forever, but slowly, using a small dagger, he cut away the thorny branches that twisted around her. Holding her by the waist, he gently extracted her, pausing to cut away any branch that might scrape her on the way out.
Finally, he settled her onto her feet on solid, thorn-free earth. Taking a deep breath, she turned around and looked up at him.
He was a boy. A big boy—far older than she was. Freckles splashed across his nose, and dark blond hair touched his shoulders. He gazed at her, concern denting his forehead between his crystal-green eyes.
“Are you all right?”
Sarah wasn’t accustomed to talking to boys. Especially handsome boys wearing breeches and fine dark wool coats. And boys whose voices were deepening with the imminent arrival of manhood.
Speechless and wide-eyed, she nodded up at him. His expression softened.
“Here.” He crouched down and withdrew a handkerchief from his coat pocket. Ever so gently, he swiped the cloth over her cheek, dabbing up the blood that had welled when she’d tried to turn to him. Then he folded it and tried to clean her hands. Then he looked at her knees. Following his frowning gaze, she looked down, too.
“Oh no,” she whispered.
Her skirt was rent from her knees to her feet, and her stockings, also ruined, showed through. Worse, caked blood stuck her dress to her torn stockings.
Papa would be furious.
She must have made a sound, because the boy’s brow furrowed. “Does it hurt terribly?” he asked, his voice grave.
Sarah swallowed hard. “N-n-no.”
The edges of his lips tilted up in a smile. “You’re very brave, aren’t you?”
At those words, her fear melted away. She squared her shoulders, and, standing tall, she looked directly into his green eyes. “Yes, I am.”
“Where do you live?” he asked.
She pointed toward the grand domes of the roof of Ironwood Park. “There.”
“Well, isn’t that something? I live there, too. Can you walk?”
“Of course I can.”
Side by side, they walked down the path that led toward the house. Sarah’s knees hurt, and she couldn’t help it—she hobbled just a little. Without a word, the boy put a firm arm around her waist, steadying her.
They passed the gardener’s cottage where Sarah lived with her father and headed toward the back side of the great house itself. Sarah didn’t speak, and neither did the boy. She bit her lower lip and glanced at him from the corner of her eye, watching him walk. He was tall and strong, and she liked the way the sun glinted on his hair.
But as they drew closer to the house, and it looked more and more like he actually intended to enter it, her body grew stiff. She didn’t know where Papa was, but he’d be very angry if he discovered she’d ventured too close to the house. Above all, he’d stressed the importance of her staying out of the family’s way. If she bothered anyone, he might lose his position.
The boy slowed as they walked beneath the shadow of the enormous house, and then he looked down at her. “Are you all right?”
/>
“Mm hm.” Her voice wasn’t much more than a squeak.
He stopped altogether and pulled away from her, watching her carefully to make sure she was steady.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“Sarah.”
“I’m Simon.” He glanced at the back of the house, which now loomed over them, so massive and heavy she could hardly breathe, and then back to her. “Come inside and I’ll make sure you’re taken care of.”
She licked her lips, unsure. Then she whispered, “My papa said I mustn’t disturb the family.”
“You won’t be disturbing the family.” He said it like a promise.
She gazed at up him. She didn’t know why, but she trusted him completely. He could have told her he took daily walks on the surface of the moon, and she would have believed him.
He continued, “I’ve been a rather poor doctor, so I’d like Mrs. Hope to take a look at those cuts. She has a salve that cures scratches like those in a trice.”
Sarah had no idea who Mrs. Hope was, but the scratches still hurt—they stung and ached and itched. A salve that could cure them fast worked as sure as a lure into the forbidden.
She gave a little nod.
He took her least-affected hand, gentle with her scratches. “Come, then.”
He led her up the stairs and into a vast room that made her hesitant steps grind to a halt. It was the largest room she’d ever seen. Open and cold and vast, lacking furniture except for a few benches and tables lining the walls. But those were too ornate to even be called benches. Metal legs shaped into vines held enormous slabs of marble. The tables held beautiful vases and busts of important-looking men. The room was almost overwhelmingly pale—the giant stones that made the walls were of an off-white color, and the plasterwork that adorned the walls and ceiling pure white. The only color was provided by the black checks on the tiled floor, the metalwork of the benches, and the enormous gilded chandelier that hung down in the center of the room.
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