Loving the Bitter Baron: Sweet and Clean Regency Romance (His Majesty's Hounds Book 11)

by Arietta Richmond

  She wished that she understood why he responded like that. Sometimes, she felt as if he cared for her, as she increasingly cared for him, and then the next minute he would be completely distant. It made her doubt her own judgement, doubt what she had seen, yet… she could not make herself turn away from him. Still, no other man had ever interested her as he did.

  Once they were back in the library, seeing what the others had found, she felt isolated again, almost ignored, as he threw himself into conversation with Hunter and Charles. Dinner was no better, she felt invisible at times, and eventually pleaded fatigue, and retired early. Hunter watched her go, thoughtfully, but said nothing.

  The next few days, Lord Tillingford spent some time showing her parts of the house – but less and less each day, as he was drawn into the activity surrounding the gardens and farms. If she were to be uncharitable, Alyse might had thought that he was beginning to actively avoid her. She pushed the thought aside, unwilling to accept its implications.

  Eventually, there came a day where he professed to be unable to accompany her at all, leaving her to Mills’ assistance only, again.

  ~~~~~

  Gerry could stand it no longer. He could not spend another day so close to her, and not touch her, not speak of how he felt. Treating her coldly, when he wished to do the exact opposite, left him achingly miserable. They sat in the parlour, sipping an after-dinner drink. He took a deep breath, and spoke.

  “Lady Alyse, I fear that I must leave you to your own devices tomorrow, with Mills’ assistance, of course, so that I can focus on the work needed for the farms. Please feel free to explore wherever you wish, of course.”

  Her face fell at his words, and he felt a cad for speaking them. Yet what choice had he?

  “Gerry, I’m sure that Charles and I can move things along – your farmers know us now – you can spare part of the day for Alyse, surely?”

  Hunter spoke softly, but Gerry turned to him in surprise – why would Hunter say such a thing? This was ‘help’ that he did not need!

  “No. I feel that I need to be there, to see their reactions, and reassure them. After all, I am the one who will have to deal with it all, once you go home.”

  Hunter frowned, but before he could say anything further, Lady Alyse spoke up.

  “Lord Tillingford, I understand, that will be perfectly all right – I am certain that Mills can show me anything that I wish to see, he has been most helpful.”

  Her words were polite and calm, but her voice shook a little, and her fingers twisted together. She looked down, nibbling at her lip as she finished speaking.

  “Thank you, Lady Alyse.”

  She looked up, meeting his eyes for a moment, and such sadness filled hers that it stole his breath. Then she hid the emotion, and forced a smile onto her face.

  “I find myself fatigued after the day – I believe I will retire now, the better to feel more awake tomorrow. If you will excuse me?”

  “Certainly. Good night.”

  Nerissa watched Lady Alyse walk from the room, then turned, her eyes meeting her husband’s.

  “Hunter, do you think Alyse is well? She seems very tired and out of sorts these last few days – not really herself at all.”

  Hunter glanced at Gerry, who looked hastily away.

  “I am sure she’ll be fine, Nerissa – if I know my sister, she’ll worry away at whatever is disturbing her until she solves it.”

  Gerry wondered, at Hunter’s words, what ‘solving it’ might look like, in this case, if what worried her was himself.

  ~~~~~

  Cunningham, sweeping the courtyard, slowly, watched as the door opened, and the girl came out, followed by the footman, Mills. Good. Otford wasn’t with them. Perhaps this was his chance. Casually, he followed them, all the while making it look like he was simply doing a job.

  Chapter Twelve

  “Oh! How silly of me. Mills, I wanted to go down into the cellars again today, and we haven’t brought a lantern. Please, go back and fetch one. I will wait here – it’s pleasant to feel a little sun on my face, even if it’s quite cold today.”

  “Certainly, Lady Alyse. I’ll be back as quickly as I can.”

  Mills turned and went back the way they had come, passing a servant who was sweeping the courtyard. Quite what he was sweeping, Alyse couldn’t tell, for the courtyard looked scrupulously clean to her – but she supposed it only stayed that way if it was swept all the time.

  She stood, turning slowly in place, studying the building yet again, her sketch journal firm in her grasp. It was a new one, for she had, just the previous day, used the final page in the previous one, which now lay beside her bed upstairs. New journals were wonderful – the paper crisp and untouched, the edges a little ragged where they had been cut, the whole thing still smelling of the binder’s glue and the scent unique to paper and leather, untouched by ink.

  In the sunlit silence of the courtyard, the soft swish of the broom on the cobbles came to her clearly, from behind her. Then it stopped. Almost before she had time to notice, she was grabbed, roughly, from behind. She opened her mouth to speak, to scream, to… she did not know, and, before she could, the chance was taken from her, as a large, dirty hand clamped over her mouth. A strong, sackcloth clad arm wrapped around her, pinning her arms to her sides, and hauling her back against a hard body. The smell of the man made her gag.

  Then they were moving.

  She squirmed, fighting against his grip, but he was far stronger than her. He made a deep growling noise, and simply kept dragging her along. They went through the door, and rapidly down the shallow stairs towards the cellars. As he turned along the passage, passing side doors, moving towards the door which led into the deepest cellars, she began to struggle again, her mind full of terrified thoughts about what he might want, what he might do to her.

  He dragged her onto the steep steps going down into the darkness of the next level, and she kicked at him, twisting desperately.

  “Be still, ye little baggage, or I’ll drop ye, and let ye fall all the way down. There’s lots o’ steps, and by the time ye reach the bottom, I’ve no doubt ye’ll be in no condition t’fight me. One way or t’other, I’ll be getting ye t’ the bottom.”

  Alyse stilled, horror at his words driving a chill through her. It would seem that he didn’t care if she was hurt – and a fall like that could break bones. If she were to escape, she needed to be whole of body.

  His strength was frightening. He just lifted her, with that one arm, and went down, surefooted in the darkness, holding her so that she hung limply against him. Her journal was still clutched in her hand, and her bag of pencils flapped against her, where it dangled from her wrist. It seemed nonsensical to keep hold of the journal, yet reflex made her do it.

  As they descended, her eyes adapted to the darkness, and she recognised, with a start, where she was. Through another door, and she was certain – before her was the wall with the stack of wine casks, and the shoved aside pile of planks and blocks. He moved as if he knew where he was, as if it was planned. When that movement took them across to the dark opening in the wall, Alyse panicked. She knew what was in the room at the end of this passageway.

  Struggling, flailing, kicking, she fought his grasp. She felt her pencil bag slip, and fall from her wrist as she struggled. He laughed in her ear, a sound which had nothing to do with happiness, and which contained the echoes of madness in its tone. He dragged her onwards, until they reached the iron bound door. Kicking it open, he pulled her through.

  “Here we are. Such a nicely decorated room, isn’t it, milady? I’m quite certain we’ll have a lovely afternoon here. I fully intend to enjoy myself. Now, lets get you settled. Where might be best?”

  The torture chamber surrounded her. Full of implements which, in the hands of a madman like this, could wreak utter destruction on a frail human body. Fear froze her in place. He dragged her forward, until they stood before a wall from which various chains and manacles protruded. He took his
hand from over her mouth, and reached out to tug on one.

  “Let me go! What…”

  She got no further.

  “Silence, woman. I’m not wantin’ ye screamin’… yet”

  He accompanied the angry words with a hard slap of his free hand across her face, and the world went grey and unsteady. The second slap was even harder, and the blackness closed in. She barely felt herself falling.

  ~~~~~

  Cunningham let her drop to the floor, kicking away the damned book that fell from her hands. He unrolled the rope that was wrapped around him, beneath his tunic, and considered where best to bind her. The manacles were rusted shut, so that wouldn’t work. But there was a chair in one corner – a devious thing with loops to tie things to, and which looked like it was designed for use with any number of the other things in the room. That would have to do. He picked her up, taking his time about feeling the shape of her body as he did so, and carried her over to drop her on the chair. A pity that he needed Otford as an audience, before he did anything much to her – it was a long time since he’d had anything of a woman, especially one so clean and pretty as this.

  He tied her to the chair, arms and legs held in place, and some ropes about her neck and body, just to be sure. Satisfied, he went to the corner of the room, and pulled out the lantern he had stashed there weeks ago, lit it, and hung it from a hook. Studying his handiwork, he smiled, a grim smile. Now, to make sure that Otford came to find her, alone.

  He might have to go out and lure the man here – but best to wait first, and see if luck was with him. While he was waiting, he might as well have a close look at the tools in the room, and decide what to use on her. Nothing too nasty – at least to start, but things that would have an impact, which would leave very visible marks. He wanted Otford to suffer, just from watching, as much as possible.

  ~~~~~

  “Damn!”

  Gerry pulled his horse to a halt, and slipped down. Lifting the horse’s front foot, he confirmed his suspicion – the shoe was gone. Somewhere along the road, it had come off, and now the horse was limping.

  “I’ll have to walk back with him. Not only is the shoe gone, but the large stone I just pulled out has bruised him. He’ll likely be lame for a week or so, even with a new shoe. You go on to the outer farms without me.”

  “We will, and we’ll report back on all of our discussions. At least the weather’s dry – not such a bad day for a walk!”

  “Indeed, Hunter – and we walked through worse many times in the war – I’ll not suffer much for a good walk. I will see you this evening.”

  Turning, Gerry set off, leading the limping horse. Half an hour later, he could see a horseman coming towards him, moving fast. He wondered who it was, and why they were in such a hurry – for this road only went to his farms – who would need to rush out here?

  A terrible sense of foreboding came over him, and he watched the horse approach, wishing it faster still, so that he might know, now, what had happened to occasion such hurry. Soon, the horseman drew up beside him, the horse breathing hard. It was Mills. Gerry looked at him with great concern – the man rarely rode – why was he here?

  “Mills, what…”

  “My Lord…”

  They both spoke at once, then stopped. Gerry waited, waving Mills to continue.

  “My Lord, I… Lady Alyse…”

  “What, man? Get a coherent sentence together, and tell me.”

  “She’s missing. I left her in the courtyard, near the door to the old Keep understorey, and went back to get a lantern, as she wanted to go into the cellars, and when I returned, she was gone. Just gone. I’ve searched, and I’ve left others searching, but we haven’t found her.”

  Gerry felt his heart stop in his chest. Missing! But what could possibly have happened to her? He did not know, but a sense of panic seized him, a sense of certainty that something was terribly wrong.

  “Here, take my horse and walk him back, he’s lame. I’ll take yours and ride back as fast as I can.”

  “Yes, my Lord, as you wish.” Moments later, Gerry was galloping down the road, his mind running through a series of wild imaginings of anything and everything that could possibly have happened to Lady Alyse.

  He wished, in that instant, that he did not have as good an imagination as he did.

  ~~~~~

  Alyse woke to flickering lamplight, her head fuzzy and aching, the side of her face feeling oddly tender and wrong. It took a few moments for her mind to make sense of what she saw in front of her – a few moments in which she also discovered, when she went to raise a hand to feel her face, that her arms were bound to the large chair she seemed to be in. It all came rushing back, and she suppressed a scream as she realised where she was. Panic could not help her – somehow, she needed to stay calm. The light showed her, all too clearly, the room’s collection of torture implements – and the man who was moving amongst them, picking things up, fiddling with them, putting them down again, and moving on to the next thing.

  She did not want to consider why he was doing so.

  Now that she could see him, she realised that her abductor was the servant who had been sweeping the courtyard. But why? What reason would a servant have for this? The words he had spoken came back to her - words that had implied that he planned to hurt her – and she shuddered, fear chilling her. She was bound and helpless, in a room full of devices specifically designed to hurt people, held by a madman with apparently evil intent. It was like something out of a Gothic novel, the sort of thing that Sybilla might write, except that it was real, and she supposed that it was entirely too much to hope for, to be rescued by a hero, as would happen in a novel.

  At that thought, the image of Lord Tillingford rose in her mind, and she wished, desperately, for his presence – surely, he could deal with this man who held her?

  But… no-one knew where she was. The servant had timed things precisely. No-one had seen her taken, and Tillingford Castle was so large – they would have no clues for where to start. Although… Mills knew where he had left her – that was at least a beginning, something to cling to as giving some hope. She was quite certain that Mills would have raised the alarm. So perhaps it was a matter of time, perhaps she needed to concentrate on surviving, on somehow convincing this madman to not hurt her, not kill her, long enough to give them time to find her.

  It was not much of a plan, but it was the only plan she had.

  ~~~~~

  Gerry abandoned the winded horse at the stables, apologising to the groom as he ran towards the Castle. When he reached the courtyard, he stopped, observing everything before proceeding. The first thing he noticed as out of place was the broom, dropped and seemingly abandoned in the middle of the cobbled space. Very strange – his staff were normally tidy about such things.

  He walked towards the door to the Keep understorey, where Mills had apparently left Lady Alyse, looking for any sign of anything unusual. Inside, his mind screamed at him to hurry – but where to? There was no point rushing if he did not know where she was.

  She may have simply become impatient, and wandered inside, then become caught up in drawing. He could not discount the possibility, although it seemed unlikely, given that Mills had been unable to find her. The door was ajar, which might be significant, and might not. But when he reached it, something glinted in the sun. Looking closer, he saw a few strands of pale gold hair, caught on a splintered edge of the old door.

  How long had it been there? Could it be from one of the many times she had been through that door? Or was it a sign that she had gone this way, today? Gerry paused – he needed a lantern – if there was a chance that he would need to go into the cellars, he needed light. He spun on his heel, and rushed across the open space to the kitchens, demanding a lantern from the shocked kitchen staff. With a command that they send footmen to follow him, he spun again, and ran back to the Keep door.

  Once inside the Keep, he had to choose a likely direction. Down seemed best, as she ha
d spoken of going to the cellars, so he turned onto the shallow steps that led down to the first level of cellars. Studying the steps, he saw what might have been ordinary marks, but which looked more like a new set of scuffs on the steps, and on the near side wall. Could she have slipped? Or was there a more sinister possibility. His blood ran cold in his veins at the thought. But why would anyone wish to harm her, or to take her? He could not imagine a reason.

  He kept going, but there were no more signs of anything unusual. At the bottom of the steps he continued, passing through the next door. Here, the floor was earth, and here, there were signs of something odd.

  Across the floor, and along the passage, to the door which led to the steep steps, which went down to the next level of the cellars, there were what looked like scuff marks, overlaying faint footprints at random intervals. Almost, he thought, as if one person were dragging another, unwilling, with them. He stood a moment, coming to terms with the terrible possibility that such an image might be exactly what had happened. Then, taking a determined breath, he pressed on. He did not want to descend those next stairs – for down on that level lay a room that he never wished to visit again, much though it haunted him.

  But the trail of footprints and scuff marks led through the door, so he went. There were few marks on the stairs, but more on the floor at the bottom, and another few wisps of hair on the lower door. And then he was standing in the room with the wine casks, the room with an opening on the other side, that led to only one place. Gerry paused, shaking. He did not want to go towards that room. But he must. Slowly, he crossed the dusty floor, until he stood before the opening. That part of him that the dreams called to wanted to simply go down the corridor, to see that room again. Another part of him wanted to turn and run. But what steadied him, in the end, was remembering what he had seen in Lady Alyse’s sketch journal.

  She had been in that room, and had the courage to see it simply as a collection of old artefacts, much like an attic full of old furniture. If she could view it like that, surely, so could he. He stepped into the passage, and, as he did, his foot brushed against something. He stopped, and looked down. It was the bag that Lady Alyse carried her pencils in. A mixture of horror and elation filled him. She would never willingly lose that bag. But at least he now knew that she had been here.