A SINFUL SURRENDER: Spies and Lovers

by Laura Trentham

  “Historic?”

  “Indeed, it is. Alfred, the fourth Lord Wyndam, commissioned the build during the reign of Charles I, but it’s also…”

  “Quaint?”

  “In a fashion, I suppose, but it also has a certain air of…”

  “Coziness?”

  “Decrepitude,” he said at the same time.

  It seemed her fears had not been misplaced. “How decrepit?”

  “Besides a few rooms, the castle has not been maintained. Yet another reason I can’t believe my father was bilking the Crown of a fortune.”

  As Delilah attempted to unpack his words and formulate a reply, he continued. “I have thoroughly investigated my father’s finances. He was not a regular at any club nor at the racetrack. The rooms he rented in London were fashionable but hardly ostentatious. His stables were depleted. If he was involved in the illicit sale of tainted gunpowder, he was a pawn who earned nothing because he knew nothing of the ultimate scheme. I have to believe that.”

  His voice was both desperate and adamant. Who was he trying to convince? Her or himself? “Could we circle back around to the state of the castle? When you say air of decrepitude, what exactly does that entail? A bit of grime, or holes in the roof?”

  “We patched the holes months ago.” He waved a dismissive hand.

  “But there were holes?”

  His saddle creaked as he squirmed. “A few, but O’Connell and I repaired the roof and cleaned up the damage from the animals and elements. Mostly.”

  “Mostly.” She didn’t even pose it as a question. Her excitement was morphing into dread at what awaited. Mrs. Devlin’s sly warnings about the castle took on added weight. “Is it haunted?”

  “I haven’t had a single encounter with any of the rumored ghosts in residence,” he said blandly.

  She wasn’t sure if he was serious or teasing and was afraid to ask. Instead of focusing on the spiritual, she concentrated on the physical. “How much damage from the elements and the animals?”

  “The rooms with the worst water damage have been sealed off until I can hire workmen to make them habitable. The downstairs is quite comfortable in spite of all the stone. The vermin have mostly moved on.”

  Vermin? A shudder went through her that had nothing to do with the wind buffeting them. “Tell me this, will we be sleeping on cots in the drawing room, or is there a clean, dry bed to lay our heads on tonight?”

  “Of course there is a bed. The west wing was spared the water damage. Mostly,” he added in a whisper followed by a clearing of his throat. “Ah, I see the turnoff ahead.”

  Crumbling stone walls that were hip high along some sections and knee-high along others lined the drive. Wild flowers grew along the edges, and woods stretched on either side of the approach. It was picturesque, and a modicum of hope reemerged.

  Delilah raised herself higher in the stirrups and peered ahead to catch a glimpse of her new home. Around a bend, the castle came into view in the middle of a clearing. She gasped, not because of the general air of shabbiness, but because of the beauty of the place. It was a castle straight from her gothic novels. Full of ghosts and vermin but also romance and adventure.

  Sand-colored stone formed turrets and high walls with slits for windows. She could imagine archers manning each one. The ground around the castle had settled, leaving the castle sitting on a slight rise.

  As they drew closer, a wooden bridge clued her into the realization the depression had once been a moat. While she noted the repairs to the bridge and the east wing, the bones of the castle were sturdy and handsome.

  Marcus led them to the stable yard. The stables too had seen better decades. The walls had been patched with different woods, lending them a quilt-like quality, but they looked snug. The chuffs of horses could be heard from inside. A dog rushed out of the stables. It was lean with a tannish coat, its tail whipping back and forth in excitement. Marcus dismounted to greet it with an equal amount of enthusiasm. Master and dog resembled one another in their lean handsomeness.

  “Who is this?” Delilah asked. While her confidence with Pegasus had grown over the morning’s ride, Delilah wasn’t brave enough to attempt a dismount. She waited for Marcus to turn his attention from the joyful reunion to her.

  “Hermes. He’s an English greyhound. Fast runner when he isn’t lazing around, which is most of the time.” After one last affectionate pat, Marcus took her waist and lifted her down, her hands on his shoulders. Once on the ground though, he didn’t let her go.

  “If I had been honest about the state of my estate, would you have reconsidered my offer of marriage?” His face was solemn.

  Delilah took a breath and looked around her, squaring her shoulders. Would the castle require work? An enormous amount. “My mother has treated me as if I need to be protected—even from my own impulses—since my illness, but I’m not weak. I can work as hard as you to set things to right.”

  “Your father mentioned a nervous disposition when I offered for you.” He stepped back and examined her with an admiring eye. “If your nerves are weak, mine must have crumbled into dust. What was this affliction?”

  “I contracted a lung malady after becoming lost on the moors. I was bedbound and feverish for weeks. Ever since, Mother has attempted to protect me from my baser instincts for adventure. I thought to satisfy myself with my novels. You know how well that worked out.”

  A laugh burst from Marcus before he turned quite serious once more, taking her hands in his. “I wasn’t coddling you when I neglected to be open with you about the condition of the estate. To be frank, I was… embarrassed.”

  She blinked dumbly for a moment. “Why?”

  “Because you are used to a higher standard than I can provide.” His gaze shifted over her shoulder. “And I didn’t want to hand you a compelling reason to turn down my offer of marriage.”

  His admission set her stomach tumbling. He had wanted to wed her. The newness of their marriage made it difficult to know how to respond. “My childhood was quite simple. We lived comfortably, but with no extravagance. Father did not make his fortune until I was quite grown.”

  He looked her in the eyes, his intensity startling. “I will turn things around, Delilah. I promise.”

  “You don’t have to do it alone, you know,” she chided softly. When she might have said more, O’Connell came out of the heavy front door, his bandy-legged gait listing him side to side.

  “Ah, it’s good to see you arrived safely and none too soon. Weather is turning once more. Cook has tea and cakes waiting.” O’Connell plucked the leads up. “I’ll get the horses rubbed down and settled.”

  Dark clouds from the south painted over the blue sky of their travels. A fat droplet hit her cheek and slid down to her jaw, inciting shivers.

  “How is everything?” Marcus asked.

  “Quiet. For now,” O’Connell added the last over his shoulder with the same ominous darkness as the coming storm.

  “Let me introduce you to your new home, my lady.” Marcus offered his arm, and Delilah took it. Spring rains had carved trenches along the courtyard, making the cobbles underfoot uneven and precarious.

  “You have a cook?” She was more than mildly relieved. While she could make tea and peel a potato under duress, she would not flourish in the kitchen.

  “She’s worked at the castle all her life and has been a godsend. Besides Cook and O’Connell, there’s Ella, a maid-of-all-work, and Duncan, a stable boy who helps out where he’s needed. No butler or housekeeper at the moment, I’m afraid.”

  “We’ll manage.” She gave a bracing squeeze to his arm. “We’ve survived thus far, haven’t we? Given time and a little luck, we’ll turn Wyndam Castle into a home for us and—” Our children. She stopped the flow of words, uncomfortable with how easily her mind tripped in that direction.

  The heavy wooden front door had bradded metal hinges and a matching knocker in the form of a dragon hanging from the middle. Marcus shouldered the door open, and Delilah
preceded him inside. While the narrowed windows had given the castle a romantic feel from the outside, the large room would remain dim no matter how bright the sunshine.

  The length and breadth of the room gave her pause. Tapestries and rugs softened the unrelenting stone walls and floor. Longbows, crossbows, swords, and axes hung on either side of the large, ornate fireplace set in the middle of the long wall. A scarred wooden table with benches on either side looked small in the space, but Delilah estimated it could seat twenty with ease.

  Two large comfortable-looking armchairs of a more recent vintage were placed before a fire whose heat did nothing to cut the chill from where they stood. A decanter and glasses set on a low table were positioned between, as if waiting for two knights to negotiate a peace.

  Had she stepped into a storybook?

  She blinked and took in the iron chandelier, empty of candles, above their head. She could see no water damage from this vantage point. Perhaps Marcus had exaggerated the situation.

  “It’s magnificent.” Her voice echoed.

  He relaxed, as if he’d been expecting her to pass a severe judgment on his home. “The great hall was built to impress and intimidate. I’m glad you appreciate the stark grandeur. We’ll take tea in the drawing room. This way.”

  He led her to a door she hadn’t noticed. She stopped short inside the doorway. This room was better lit by a large bay window looking onto an overgrown center courtyard. The difference between the barely adorned great hall and the drawing room was a jolt. It was as if they’d been transported into a different house altogether.

  The ceiling had been painted in the Baroque style with plenty of naked cherubs. The floor was crammed full of plaster busts and paintings and life-sized marble statues. The mismatched tables were covered in vases and knickknacks. A path had been cleared to a settee upholstered in a fabric with large red poppies on a black background.

  Marcus let out a sigh. “My grandfather fancied himself a collector. Unfortunately, it appears to be a worthless pile of imitations.”

  The rattle of cups on a tray grew louder, and Delilah stepped toward the settee to make room. Her foot caught on the frayed edge of the rug, and she stumbled. Her elbow jostled a bust of a young man with unevenly spaced eyes and crooked lips. It teetered for a heart-stopping moment before crashing to the floor and breaking into half a dozen pieces.

  “Lord preserve us,” a young girl carrying the tray said in an accent reminiscent of the farm wife who came to Stoney Pudholme during market days. “Another one meets his maker.”

  “One day soon, we’ll clear the whole lot out. The worthless pile.” Marcus kicked a piece of the plaster head out of the way, took the tray from the girl, and set it on the low table in front of the settee. Two empty vases stood on one end of the table while a flock of tarnished, brassy-looking candlesticks clustered on the other.

  Marcus gestured toward the young girl. “Ella, this is your new mistress, Lady Delilah Wyndam. Delilah, this is Ella.”

  Ella dropped into a shallow, wobbly curtsey and grinned, a strip of pink gums showing above her white, remarkably straight teeth. She couldn’t have been more than sixteen and was as skinny as a wild cat. Her bright smile elevated her from plain to pretty. “Nice to make your acquaintance, my lady. I cleaned your chambers and even put fresh linens on the bed.” She offered the information as if clean sheets were an unusual occurrence.

  “Thank you, Ella.”

  “Shall I sweep up the mess, sir?” Ella turned to Marcus and cocked her head. Her comfort with Marcus was apparent.

  “You can see to it later. Run along and see if Cook needs help for now.”

  Her walk out of the room turned into a skip before she disappeared around the corner.

  Delilah scooted sideways around the table to avoid knocking over the vase to perch on the edge of the settee, the aggressive red flowers off-putting. “Ella seems young and energetic.”

  “She is Cook’s niece and a hard worker. There’s not many who want to work at the castle.” Marcus took the armchair, their knees bumping. A week ago such casual contact would be forbidden. Now she fought the urge to lay her hand on his thigh for a quick reassuring squeeze.

  The china cups were mismatched but clean, and Delilah poured for them both, gratified by the hot, strong brew. Marcus shifted and worried his bottom lip. One of the legs of his chair slanted to the side with a creak as if ready to splay to the floor in exhaustion.

  “The sleeping chambers,” he said shortly.

  “Yes?” She took another bracing sip, restored by the familiar custom.

  “It’s customary for a husband and wife to have separate rooms for reflection and privacy, but there’s only one habitable chamber.” Marcus stared into the dregs of his tea. “I can sleep in the stables with O’Connell, or we can… share?” The look he shot her through his lashes could only be described as hopeful.

  Delilah’s mother and father shared a chamber in their home in Stoney Pudholme, but upon their ascension into Society and move to London, they had adopted the attitudes of the ton and now spent their days and nights apart. Delilah didn’t want Marcus to schedule visits to her bed. She wanted to curl into his warmth and strength and talk… among other things.

  Heat crept up her neck, and she covered her discomfiture by cutting a piece of the lopsided plain cake. “Sharing a chamber seems the only practical option. Anyway, it seemed to work fine the last two nights, don’t you think?”

  Before she could expand on her reasoning, she stuffed a forkful of cake into her mouth. The cake might not have passed muster in London’s drawing room, but it was scrumptious.

  He sat back with a wickedly satisfied smile. “Eminently practical.”

  After the two of them polished off the tea and cake, Marcus stood and held out a hand. “Let me show you the rest of your crumbling abode.”

  She slipped her hand in his, and before she realized what he was about, he’d tugged her into his body, the back of his fingers brushing over her cheek.

  “Thank you,” he said before touching his lips to hers in a chaste kiss.

  “For what?”

  “For being the brave, beautiful lass I met in an almost deserted library. This place is a challenge, and so am I.”

  She wound her arms around his neck and gave him a kiss that wasn’t chaste at all. A yelp broke them apart. Ella stood in the threshold of the room with a worn broom. Her eyes were wide, and her cheeks flushed. “Pardon me, sir. My lady.”

  “Come in, Ella. You can clear away the tea tray. I’m going to give my wife a tour of the rest of the castle.”

  Marcus pulled Delilah into the great hall. Her giggles were silenced when he took advantage of the shadows to press her into a tapestry and kiss her until she forgot her worries about his father’s guilt or innocence, the coded book, and the murderer on their trail.

  Chapter 16

  After giving Delilah a tour of the few upstairs rooms that were livable and a dinner of stew and crusty bread, Marcus slumped behind the desk in the small study. It was the only room in the house bearing the fingerprint of his father.

  One wall was filled floor to ceiling with books, most of which were older than Marcus. Portraits of his ancestors filled another wall. The resemblance between the solemn men staring down at him and his face in the looking glass every morning was striking. Only the hairstyles and eye colors were different.

  But it was the picture above the fireplace that drew his eye time and again. Captured in the flush of love, his mother smiled at someone off to the side. She had been a beauty, with red hair and soft-green eyes. His eyes.

  An armchair sat the perfect distance away so the sitter could stare at the portrait in comfort. The hours Marcus’s father had spent in the chair had left a physical impression in the cushions. Marcus had left the chair empty. It felt like sacrilege to attempt to fill the space.

  Marcus found himself seeking solace and searching for answers in the study, but his father’s ghost never appeared to hel
p him. At the moment, however, Marcus was less concerned with the ghosts than with the living. Namely, attempting to remain alive. He propped his elbows on the desk and rubbed his temples. The coded book was open, and the strings of letters swam before him. The code was as yet indecipherable.

  Simple alphabetic codes hadn’t done anything but produce more gibberish. A numeric code hadn’t fared any better. It was becoming apparent Marcus didn’t have the skills to translate the book and hadn’t a clue who might be able to help him. He was no better off than he had been months ago. In fact, he was worse off.

  By stealing the book and marrying Delilah, he had drawn the full attention of a ruthless murderer. Retreating to the country had bought time, but how much? Hours, days, weeks? How determined was Lord W to acquire the book? If the book implicated Lord W, as Marcus suspected it did, the answer would be “very.”

  A scream echoed through the great hall and sent him bolting upright. The chair tipped over and added to the cacophony. He sprinted out of the study as another scream rang out from upstairs. Delilah.

  How had Lord W managed to infiltrate the castle?

  Taking the stairs two at a time, he was on the first-floor landing in seconds, his heart pumping more out of fear than exertion. The screaming had stopped, which only escalated the sense of urgency. Sprinting to the door of the bedchamber, he burst inside, heedless of the awaiting danger.

  He rocked to a stop in the middle of the room. The flickering light from the fire cast dark shadows in the corners. Marcus made a quick inventory around the room. Expecting to find Lord W ready to bargain with Delilah’s life in exchange for the book, Marcus was disconcerted to find… no one.

  No one except for Delilah. She was on her knees with the covers clutched in her fists to her chest, her night rail slipping off one shoulder.

  “What’s wrong? Did you have a nightmare?” Marcus strode to the window and peered through the gap. It was wide enough for a lean man to slip through, but reaching the window from the ground would be difficult and opening the sash from the outside nearly impossible. Nevertheless, he made an inspection, seeing nothing out of the ordinary in the slanting moonlight.