She didn’t pull back from his anger—he’d give her that—but she hesitated, her eyes searching his. “The Bible—”
He sneered at her words. “A moldering text written by dead men. They tell me that to spill my seed upon the ground is a sin. Nonsense. What else have you?”
Her tongue wet her lips and his cock jerked, for he’d been erect since her abrupt entrance into his bedroom. He ached for her fire, her certainty. “The courts—”
“Old men who live on bribes and their own importance. Is this wisdom? Is this the apex of our justice?”
Her eyes narrowed. “Laws that Parliament—”
“Oh, Séraphine,” he purred, pushing his nose close to her jaw to inhale her righteous scent. “Who do you suppose sits in Parliament? Who makes the laws, runs the government of this great and lofty nation, hmm?” She hadn’t bathed this morning, he could tell, and she smelled of herself: woman, sweat, sex. He licked across her cheek, tasting salt and pure saint, to her mouth. He bit her lips. Once, twice, a third time, wanting, craving. He pulled back to see her face only with the greatest force of will. “I, Séraphine. I am the government. Dukes and marquesses, earls and viscounts. Men who have land and money and power and have had it for generations and generations, amen. We decide what is right and what is not. Who shall hang for the theft of a handkerchief and who shall be let go for the rape of a maidservant. We decide how many windows on a house shall be taxed and how many men shall die in a war. We are the ruling class.” He smiled at her as sweetly as he knew how. “Now tell me, do you really think one such as I should be making these rules of right and wrong?”
She stared at him, mute, his burning Séraphine, defeated. She had only to admit the game over now.
He let her go and strolled to the provisions basket, planning to look for another apple or perhaps a piece of cheese with which to tempt her. He could be a benevolent victor.
“That’s it?”
“Hmm?” He turned to find her right behind him. What a sneaky thing she was!
Her eyes were narrowed, her nostrils flared, and she didn’t seem to have noticed that she’d lost. “That’s your explanation? You can do anything you bloody well please because you can’t tell right from wrong yourself and you don’t accept other commonly held standards of morality?”
He cocked his head. “Yes?”
“No,” she said, quite firmly, quite as if she were no longer a mere housekeeper, a commoner, born to a sheep farmer, a servant. As if she felt she were his equal in this.
Perhaps even his superior.
“No,” she repeated. “I don’t accept that. You are hurting others with your stupid philosophy, with your disregard for everyone else. You can hold frivolous balls on a moment’s notice if you wish, you can scandalize society on a whim, but you cannot marry a woman who doesn’t want to marry you. It is wrong.”
She was so sure of herself—and him. Reluctantly he was fascinated. His lips began to curve upward. “Who says it is—”
“I say it is wrong.” She placed her palm flat against his chest, the first time she’d ever voluntarily touched him outside the sickroom, and even through banyan, waistcoat, and shirt, her hand seemed to sear his skin. “Not the Bible, not the courts, not the Parliament, I say that it is wrong. Let Hippolyta Royle go, give her a carriage and the footmen from Hermes House, and send her home. Do it now, Val, because you can be a better man than this.”
He stared into her eyes, flaming so brightly for him, and felt himself on a precipice, wavering, the earth beneath his feet crumbling.
If he fell, would he burn?
He took her hand from his chest and lifted it to his mouth and kissed her palm. “No, my sweet Séraphine,” he said very, very gently, “I will not, for I think you have mistaken something grave about me. I may be a philosopher, but it is but one of my faces. Turn me and I’ll show another. One I think you’ll find less amusing, but nonetheless just as true.”
She tried to pull away, but he wouldn’t let her.
She scowled up at him. “What face is that?”
He smiled, perhaps a trifle sadly, who knew? “The face of a ruler. Everything I have done, everything I do, is simply to consolidate and gain power. Look around you. This is what my ancestors did. That story I told you as we arrived? About the man who killed the former master of this castle and raped his wife? Did you think it a fairy tale? No, his blood runs in my veins. I was bred to do what I am doing now. Don’t fault the viper for striking. It’s what snakes do.”
Her lips trembled, but her eyes were dry, as if she’d already given up hope of persuading him and he did not mourn at all. Not at all. “The blood of that woman who was raped is in your veins, too, isn’t it?”
Oh, she knew where to hit. “Naturally. But I think it’s less apparent, don’t you? The story says she was dark and small.”
She shook her head. “So all that talk of right and wrong—that doesn’t matter in the end to you at all?”
He hesitated—just for the smallest fraction of a second—because he had always found the question of right and wrong rather fascinating.
But then he smiled at her. “Only in the abstract. I will keep Miss Royle and I will make her my wife. Because she is the most beautiful and wealthiest heiress in England, because she is a prize, and because I can.”
Her eyes seemed to blaze at him. “You don’t care what I think.”
It wasn’t a question so he didn’t answer—but he caught his breath. And had she been paying attention that might’ve been answer enough.
But she was pulling her hand away and turning so she didn’t notice.
His empty chest was cold, so very cold.
“Away with you, Mrs. Crumb,” he said. “I’ve made my decision and no pretty words from you will change my mind.”
She left.
And took all the warmth from the room.
SOME, BRIDGET THOUGHT late that night, might think it rash to attempt a rescue that same day, what with being a stranger to the district, with few allies, fewer funds, a freezing, desolate landscape, and not much time to plan.
Some were probably not half-blind with rage at a thunderously stupid man, of course.
Wonderfully stimulating, rage was.
She crept down the spiral staircase to the dungeons, trying to make as little noise as possible. In theory the guards should all be asleep due to the concoction she’d placed in their ale.
Theory, of course, was a long way from practice. She just hoped that she hadn’t used too much of the thick, black liquid she’d purchased at great expense from Mrs. Smithers. She really didn’t want to kill one of Val’s apes.
Although the thought wasn’t worrying her as much as it should, come to think of it.
Val was having a very bad effect on her sense of morality.
As she rounded the last turn, though, she exhaled a sigh of relief. Four burly forms were slumped over the table—and they all appeared to be breathing rather noisily.
Hurriedly Bridget found the key ring—unfortunately under one of the men’s stinking arms—and ran to the middle dungeon room. “Hsst! Miss Royle!”
“Is that you, Mrs. Crumb?” Miss Royle’s face appeared at the little window.
“Yes, I’ve come to rescue you,” Bridget said stoutly.
She inserted the key and turned it in the lock with a great screech, wincing as she did so. Couldn’t the guards have oiled the bloody lock?
“Oh, thank you,” Miss Royle said as she came out of her tiny prison.
She was sadly much the worse for wear, her hair coming down in a tangled cloud about her shoulders, smudges on her nose and forehead, and with a blanket wrapped around her. Bridget had noticed this morning that under the blanket she seemed to have on only her chemise, as if she’d been taken in the night. What kind of swine had a woman kidnapped in her nightclothes?
“I brought a cloak,” Bridget had begun, when Miss Royle’s dark-brown eyes widened. She darted around Bridget, picked up a coal shovel, a
nd smashed it over the head of one of the guards who had started to rise.
The coal shovel made a clanging, bell-like sound.
“Oh!” Miss Royle said, and then beamed at Bridget. “You have no idea how satisfying that was after the last five days.”
“They didn’t hurt you, did they?” Bridget asked anxiously.
“No, not in the way you mean.” Miss Royle wrinkled her nose and toed the man on the ground. She looked as if she wouldn’t mind hitting him again with her shovel. “But they were rough and I don’t think they’ve bathed in the last month or so. And being cooped up with them in a carriage, Mrs. Crumb—quite disgusting.”
Bridget blinked. “Please. Call me Bridget.”
“Really?” Miss Royle said, swinging the coal shovel onto her shoulder as a soldier might a musket. “Then you must call me Hippolyta.”
“Very well… erm… Hippolyta,” Bridget said. “I’ve some clothing for you. We should hurry.”
“Of course.” Hippolyta put on a man’s buckled shoes, patched hose, and a too-big cast-off dress formerly belonging to Mrs. Smithers, the cook.
Bridget held out the last item of clothing. “I’ve a cloak for you, but I’m afraid it isn’t… well.”
The cloak was huge, dingy gray and variously patched in dark green, bright blue, and red plaid. It also smelled rather strongly of horse.
“Ah,” Hippolyta said. “Thank you.” She donned the cloak and smiled brightly. “Warm!”
Bridget nodded briskly and led the way back up the dungeon stairs. This time of night most of the servants were asleep. By dint of discreet inquiry Bridget had learned what she’d already suspected: Val was not well liked in the area, even though he’d been gone eleven years. It hadn’t been hard to find a few people to either look the other way or help outright with the aid of bribery. Something a master of plots and schemes should’ve thought about before haring off to his gloomy old castle. Oh, but that was right—he didn’t pay attention to his hired help.
Swine.
They made their way through the kitchens and out the back door into the inner keep. The night sky was cloudy, but the waning moon was revealed for a moment, the old oak’s twisted branches black against her pale face.
“The stables are on the other side,” Bridget explained, drawing her borrowed coat closer about her. It was damp and cold tonight, the air heavy with the prospect of rain or snow, and she was beginning to wish she’d brought her shawl as well.
They hurried over the frozen ground to the outer gate and around the side of the castle walls. The stables appeared deserted, but a sturdy pony was waiting for them, tethered outside, as promised.
“I’m sorry,” Bridget apologized. “It was the only animal I could get on such short notice.”
Hippolyta looked doubtful. “Can he carry us both?”
“I hope so,” Bridget said grimly.
Hippolyta nodded and untied the pony and led him to a mounting block. She swung on the pony quite competently, Bridget far less so, and then they headed out into the black night.
“Where are we bound?” Hippolyta asked. She was riding behind, actually guiding the pony.
“To the local village.” Dear God, the pony was so slow! She hadn’t counted on this, that the animal wouldn’t be able to move as fast bearing the both of them.
Bridget glanced behind them. Ainsdale Castle seemed to loom in the night, far too close still. A few lights shone from the windows. She couldn’t tell, but she didn’t think an alarm had been raised. He was probably still up in his rooms, clad in his flamboyant purple banyan, a glass of wine in one hand, an ancient book in the other.
Unaware that she’d demolished his plans good and proper—or would have once she’d gotten Hippolyta safely away. Did you really think this was over between us just because you declared it so?
She faced forward again as the pony headed out onto the desolate moors. Now. If only she and Hippolyta could have a little luck…
Half an hour later they crested a little hill and Bridget glanced around, relieved to see that in the far distance lights twinkled. She hugged herself. The wind was whipping her skirts about her ankles and the clouds had completely hidden the moon. “There, you see? That should be the village. All you need to do is keep it in sight and you’ll soon be there. You’ll want the first cottage with a red door—it’s Mrs. Ives’s, the former housekeeper of Ainsdale Castle. She doesn’t much like the duke and Mr. Dwight assured me she’d hide you for the night. There’s an early-morning mail coach that’ll take you to London.”
Bridget swung her leg over the pony’s neck, sliding to the ground with relief. She hadn’t wanted to tell Hippolyta, but Bridget could count on one hand the times she’d ridden a horse.
“Please.” It was hard to see in the black night, but she could hear the worried note in Hippolyta’s voice. “Don’t go back there. He’s mad. I’ll never forgive myself if he does you harm, Bridget.”
For a moment a thrill went through Bridget, perhaps a culmination of the day’s tension and plotting and excitement. And then she said, “Don’t worry. The duke won’t harm me.” Physically, at least, she amended to herself. “Besides,” she added more practically, “I’ve only money enough for one ticket to London on the mail coach.”
“But—”
In the distance a high, almost musical baying could be heard. It was drawing nearer—as it had been for the last ten minutes. The foxhounds of Ainsdale Castle were tracking them.
If Bridget hadn’t been expecting them, she might’ve been frightened clean out of her wits.
As it was, the sound only set spurs to her resolve. “Go!”
Hippolyta finally turned the plump pony’s head toward the lights and set off in a bobbing gallop.
Just as icy raindrops began spitting from the sky.
Bridget, meanwhile, picked up her skirts and jogged in the opposite direction. It was crucial to her plan that she draw the tracking dogs away from Hippolyta. She wore a man’s coat—all right, one of Val’s coats—over her dress and the pockets were well stuffed with diced raw bacon. Every few paces she dropped a few pieces.
She was on a path but it was black, and the rain was making the way slippery. She had to be careful not to turn an ankle or run into the gorse accidentally.
Meanwhile the baying of the dogs was getting louder. It occurred to her that foxhounds weren’t trained to merely track an animal and point it out as a gentle spaniel might do. Spaniels left the prey for the hunter to deal with.
Foxhounds usually tore the fox apart at the end of the hunt.
Suddenly her clever plan to throw the hounds off Hippolyta’s scent didn’t seem quite so clever.
Surely Val would call off the hounds?
Could one call off foxhounds?
Bridget found herself running faster, her skirts caught up in both hands, the bacon entirely forgotten. Her face was wet, her breath was coming in pants, and there was a stitch in her side.
The baying was right behind her, loud and oddly musical and she fumbled at her pockets to throw out all the bacon lest the hounds tear her limb from limb to get at it.
A giant black beast came rushing up to her, the sound of hoofbeats thundering in her ears. She cowered, waiting to be trampled, but instead strong arms reached down and seized her, sweeping her up.
“I have you now, my Séraphine,” growled the Duke of Montgomery in her ear. “Did you really think I wouldn’t come for you?”
DOGS HAD BEEN the weapons of his father.
Val watched distastefully as the animals milled in the mud about his mount’s hooves, snapping and fighting among themselves over the scraps of meat she’d hidden in the pockets of one of his favorite coats. He’d expected his fair Séraphine to make a rescue attempt, but not so soon—or so recklessly.
He tightened his arm about the warm, wet, breathing woman in front of him and kicked the mare into a gallop. She gave a little shriek and he grinned into her stupid, ugly mobcap. She was a servant and probably
unused to riding. Served her right, constantly defying him.
He, however, was a duke and had been made to ride since the age of five. Better to have an heir dead of a fall from a giant horse than one not quite up to snuff in his riding, had probably been his father’s thought on the matter. Assuming his father had given any thought to his son’s instruction at all.
They crested a hill and he gave the mare her head, galloping o’er the stormy moors in the moonlight, his captive maiden in his arms. Oh, it was dangerous to be sure. The mare might put a hoof into a hole and tumble them all into the ground, breaking their necks, but he found he just did not give a damn at the moment.
She’d well and truly provoked him this time. She’d lost him a wife for a second time—first by preventing his blackmailing Miss Royle and now by actually freeing the heiress. It was almost as if Séraphine had something against the matrimonial state. But worse—much, much worse—she’d run away herself.
That was unpardonable, unforgivable, unjustifiable. Hit him, shame him, spit at him—anything but turn her back on him. She couldn’t simply quit their game. That, that was not allowed.
And when he’d realized that she was out there on the stormy night moor, alone save an aristocratic lady and a goddamned bloody pony…
He growled beneath his breath.
She stilled against him, like a rabbit under a hound’s jaws, her heart beating rapidly, and he was glad. She ought to be afraid of him. He was a very bad man and she was completely under his power. He could do anything to her.
Anything at all, really.
Time she learned that.
The lights of the castle were nearing and regretfully he let the mare slow.
For the first time since he’d captured her, she spoke, through chattering teeth. “What are you doing?”
“Bringing my prize home,” he said lightly as they drew up before the castle doors, “as my ravaging ancestors did. As I understand it, it was customary to throw the prisoners in the dungeons, feast, and then have a merry time torturing the captives, but I think I’ll omit that part.”
One of the waiting stablemen ran over in the rain to catch the mare’s bridle.
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