“I don’t want to hear about the ghost frightening you,” Garth told them severely. “You’re grown men, and you know better than to believe that a ghost could attack a woman.”
“Nay, Yer Grace,” one of the men said, “we don’t think the ghost attacked the women. We believe the ghost is warning us about a killer who stalks the night.”
“He hasn’t killed anybody yet,” Garth said, “and you’d be wise to fear me more than some unknown assailant. I’m sending you out in groups of two. You’ll be safe.”
The wind howled through the shattered window as if to contradict him, and the men fell silent. Rand thought for a moment they would defy Garth, but then Peterson shrugged himself into his coat and said, “We’ve got to go after her. Can’t have Miss Sylvan out in the dark all alone. She might hurt herself.”
With little murmurs of agreement, the men drifted out to do their search.
“They like her,” Rand said in amazement.
“They get tired of sweeping up window glass.” Garth kicked at the glittering shards. “That’s the first one you’ve broken since she came. Where’s James?”
“Here.” James strolled out of the shadows, still dressed in an appropriately frayed coat and hat, and wearing scuffed boots.
“You’ll go with me,” Garth commanded.
“I think not,” James answered, plain and flat.
Garth collared him. “Dammit, James!”
“I’m the one who fought at Waterloo while you waited in safety at home,” James said fiercely. “When it comes to battle experience, I’m miles ahead of you, Your Grace, so I suggest you unhand me.”
“James.” Aunt Adela sounded frightened.
“Garth, please.” Lady Emmie had tears in her eyes.
Garth and James glared, eye to eye, until Rand drove his wheelchair into Garth’s legs. “By Jove!” Garth released James with a jerk. “What do you think you are doing, Rand?”
“If you want to fight James, then do it. But do it after Sylvan’s been found.” Rand stared at Garth until Garth glanced away, then he turned to James and said, “Locate her for me. I depend on you. Bring her back.”
James smiled, swift and angry. “I will, Rand. I will.” He left without another glance at anyone.
Betty brought Garth his greatcoat and helped him into it. He looked embarrassed, sheepish. He shouldn’t have alienated James, and he knew it. But his drawn face testified to his weariness, and Rand said, “We’ll talk about it tomorrow.”
Garth nodded, then he said to Betty, “You’ll organize the men as they come back?”
She nodded, white-lipped. “I’ll get them tea and biscuits, but I won’t let them stay until Miss Sylvan’s found.”
Coming to Rand, Garth put his hand on his shoulder. “Go to bed. We’ll find her.”
Rand’s weariness struck at him bone deep.
“Go to bed,” Garth repeated. “You really don’t need to worry. Sylvan’s a nurse. I’ll wager she’s stronger than any of us.”
Rand thought about the things Sylvan had told him—her pain and anguish. He remembered the sadness that had been haunting her during her stay.
Then he thought about her search of the battlefield, her service in the hospitals, her strength in the face of social stigma. She was strong. No one knew how strong. She was the only woman he could depend on, the only woman who neither feared him nor feared for him. She’d left him on the cliff as a token of her confidence in his abilities.
Shouldn’t he show the same confidence in her?
“Betty will help me to the sofa, but you must promise—”
Garth lifted his hand. “I swear Betty will come to you when Sylvan is found.” He walked toward the door, then turned. “But what I want to know is—what madness made Miss Sylvan flee the house?”
“Not madness,” Rand said. “Stupidity. My stupidity, and I’ll never forgive myself if—”
“If she’s the madman’s next target?”
Rand rubbed his hands up and down his thighs. “She’s got to be safe. She’s got to be.”
7
What stupidity had chased her from the warmth and light of Clairmont Court? The wind in Beechwood Hollow whipped Sylvan’s skirt and raised goose bumps along her skin, but it offered no answer.
At least no answer that she wanted to hear. Perhaps she could blame the drink, or her fainting fit, or her frustration with Rand, but the truth was that her own stupidity had chased her out the door. She had no reason to resurrect the memories of Brussels, and she never should have told Rand. Most assuredly she shouldn’t have been tempted by Rand’s offer of solace in the comfort of his bed.
Sylvan stopped walking, took off her slipper, and shook a pebble free.
And what did she think a jaunt outdoors would solve? True, she loved the fresh air, the sound of the sea, and the sense of freedom. But she discovered that none of the three could light the darkness, and in the country, darkness reigned supreme.
Sylvan had, for the most part, grown up in London. Light glowed from windows, from carriages, even from gaslights on a few stretches of street. But out here, Sylvan could stand on the side of the hill, sweep the area with her gaze, and see nothing. Nothing except…what was that?
She tensed and stared at a light that bobbed along, then vanished. What was that? Did the ghost need a light for his jaunts around the country? Worse, did the light of spectral death shine from within him?
Or did the person who attacked Pert seek a new victim?
Ghosts frightened her, but even with the sighting on her first night, she didn’t really believe in them.
She did believe in murderers.
With little, embarrassing whimpers, she started to run, fell over a stump, and skidded into a boulder. Head spinning, she slowly eased herself erect and searched herself for injury. She found it, too, when she poked her finger through the rip in her dress and touched her knee. Wincing, she explored the oozing patch of skin and wished this didn’t remind her so much of her youthful exploits. After all, she was no longer a young hoyden trying to escape her father’s domination, and she needed to stop acting like one.
Painfully, she stood erect and started limping in what she hoped was the direction of Clairmont Court.
It would have been better if she hadn’t gotten lost. Conceited as she was, she thought she could find the paths she’d explored in the daytime. But it was so dark out here—wait! There was another light. She crouched as if that would shield her from the distant glow, but it vanished just as the previous one had. Vanished, she supposed, around some rock or over some hill.
Standing, she redoubled her efforts to get back to Clairmont Court, hoping that the downward grade was nothing more than a dip in the moist soil.
At Clairmont Court, the servants kept the fires stoked night and day, and a warmth permeated everywhere. When she got back, she’d call for warm water and ask Betty to help her get into bed. If only it weren’t so dark out here.
The wind whispered fear into her ear. Or was it the wind? Did she hear a voice? “Good evening,” she called, and her voice quavered. “Who’s there?”
Only a rattle answered as gravel tumbled down a stony lip.
Small animals, she thought. Little, skittering beasts with sharp teeth and big eyes who peered at her but were totally harmless.
But if they were harmless, why did they need those sharp teeth?
The stony lip became such a sheer rise she walked while touching it with her hand, and the slope declined rapidly beneath her feet. She didn’t ever remember coming this way, but Clairmont Court was this direction. Soon she’d be seeing lights, wouldn’t she?
House lights, not those damned walking flames that she glimpsed again out of the corner of her eye.
The rocks that rattled off the cliff above her this time were bigger, and she jerked her guiding hand away from the smooth stone.
Small animals couldn’t have caused this slide, and wolves had not roamed England for hundreds of years—so she’d been
told.
She smeared her hands across her face. She couldn’t lie to herself. It wasn’t wolves or small animals or even an assailant she heard. Fear stalked her, not some lurking menace. Tonight, she was her own worst enemy, not knowing which direction to turn, and she wanted to go home. Groaning, she reached for the stone cliff again—and heard an answering groan of piteous distress.
Leaping back, she looked high where she thought the top of the cliff might be, and saw nothing. But she heard it. A muttering. A scuffle. An intimidating, wordless whisper.
The scrape of rock against rock.
She ran backward just as a boulder plummeted off the cliff right to the place where she had stood. She kept running when she heard the roar of rage—then she stepped off firm ground into midair.
Rand woke in his bed, totally bewildered. A candle burned on the stand. Wind howled around the windows. Night still pressed against the glass, yet he felt as if hours had passed since he lay on the sofa.
Sofa? He passed his hands over his eyes. When had he gone to bed? Who had put him to bed? Why was he still in his clothes from the previous day? And why was the outcry of men growing in intensity?
Sylvan, he thought, and yelled, “Sylvan!”
No one answered. Probably no one heard him. The tumult grew with every moment. “Jasper,” he shouted, but Jasper didn’t answer.
But Jasper had to be there, else how would Rand have gone from the sofa to the bed without waking?
A chill crawled down his spine, and he fought off that sense of anguish with a roar of fury. His door burst open at the sound, and James stood in the doorway with Sylvan in his arms.
She was covered in dirt like a confection rolled in chocolate powder. Wrapped in James’s cloak, she shivered pitiably, and Rand feared he saw bruises on the caked forehead.
“I’m not hurt.” Her teeth chattered as she spoke. “I was very lucky.”
James’s expression belied her attempted cheerfulness. “She fell off the middle ledge near Beechwood Hollow.”
“God!” Rand stretched out his arms and James brought her to him, presenting her as if she were Rand’s possession. Cold seeped from her through Rand’s shirt, and he wrapped her in a warming hug. “What’s broken?”
“Nothing,” she said quickly.
She didn’t try to get away from him, Rand noted. Whatever had happened during her nocturnal wanderings had frightened her enough that she huddled close, tucking her head against his chest.
“Nothing that I could find,” James answered. “But she was unconscious when I found her, although she revived almost immediately. She said she’d heard noises on the cliff above her and jumped back to avoid a rockfall.”
Rand brushed at Sylvan’s face, and as dirt and bits of grass fell away, he confirmed a bump on her forehead and a bruise on her cheek. He glared at James, furious at the desecration of her elfin beauty.
James patted his pockets until he found his snuff box. “Don’t glare at me, Rand! I’m not the one who imagined a voice on the cliff.” Flipping it open with his mutilated hand, he lifted a pinch to his nose and sneezed violently. Then, turning his head toward the hall, he announced with a distinct lack of pleasure, “His Grace has returned.”
Garth had indeed returned. He charged into the room like a bull on the rampage, and with one look, took in the situation. “Miss Sylvan, you’re safe.” He heaved a sigh of relief. “Because of Loretta, I feared…well, let’s save that for the morning.”
Rand and James exchanged glances, and Sylvan stirred in Rand’s arms.
“You’re nothing but a big lug!” Betty spoke with open aspersion from the doorway. “You could have waited to say something as leading as that. Miss Sylvan, what are you doing in bed with Lord Rand?”
“I’m cold,” Sylvan said.
Betty stared, her eyes narrowed in disapproval, until Rand said, “Oh, leave her. It’s innocent enough. Half the family and all the staff are in here, and I’m surprised Mother and Aunt Adela haven’t appeared.”
Betty gestured toward two serving maids weighed down with trays, and directed them to place their burdens on the table. When they left, she took the flickering candle and lit more until the room glowed. “Your mother and aunt were asleep in the ladies’ wing when I went to check on them. You behave yourself, Lord Rand, and I’ll not get the urge to go wake them.”
“I’ll behave myself.” Rand’s promise was fervent and heartfelt. To Garth, he said, “Tell me what happened.”
“We might not have found Sylvan, but we found Loretta.”
“Loretta? Wasn’t she staying with Nanna?” Sylvan struggled to sit up, and Rand held her tighter. Glaring at him, she whispered, “Unhand me.”
“Later,” he whispered back.
Garth reached for the first cup of tea Betty poured, but Betty sailed past him and gave it to Sylvan. This time Rand let Sylvan sit up—well, she couldn’t drink that tea in a half-reclining position—but he didn’t let her out of his lap. He wasn’t likely to, either. “So, tell us about Loretta, Garth,” Rand commanded.
“Are you sure?” Garth looked significantly at Sylvan.
Betty said, “Tell them.”
With an injured look at the housekeeper, Garth said, “Loretta stayed at Nanna’s until Nanna was resting quietly and Nanna’s older girl said she could handle things, then Loretta left to go home and check on her own family. Her husband doesn’t like it when she’s gone, you realize. We found her—”
Horror began its slow, familiar build inside of Rand. “Found?”
Disgruntled, Garth admitted, “Jasper found her crawling in the dirt, trying to get home. She has a broken arm and probably a broken hand from trying to protect her head.”
Betty put the pot down with a rattle. James cursed, and Rand caught Sylvan’s cup before tea slopped over the edge.
He couldn’t believe he was hearing this. Not again. Not now.
“Blackguard hit her with some kind of rod. Marked her up horribly. Her face…” Garth pulled out a soiled handkerchief and wiped the sweat that started from his forehead. Then, with resolution, he said, “But Loretta’s a tough old bird and she’s already swearing she’s not going to die from this.”
“No.” Rand took a shallow breath. “No deaths.”
“I’ll send a package over from the duchess,” Betty said, half to herself, then lifted the teapot in her shaking hands.
“Mr. Donald was arriving just as I left, and Jasper guarded Loretta’s bedside so closely I wondered…well.” Garth kept his eye on the hot brown stream as Betty poured again. “Her husband ranted a bit until I spoke to him.” Again he reached for the cup, but she stirred in sugar and presented it to James.
“By Jove,” Garth protested, “ladies first, and all that, but I’m the duke.”
Wrapping his fingers around the fine china cup to warm them, James smiled smugly. “I found Sylvan.”
Sylvan. Rand looked at her, close in his arms, and found her looking back at him. Maybe he didn’t deserve someone like Sylvan. Maybe he’d sinned too often and too well. But he wanted her in his life, and he’d take her now and make himself worthy of her later…if there was a later.
“Yes, well.” Garth squirmed and glanced around. “You tracked dirt all the way from the front door.”
He couldn’t have been more ungracious, and Betty punched Garth in the arm. “That’s a fine praise to give your cousin for tramping all over Clairmont Estate in the middle of the night. You’re just jealous because you didn’t find her with your well-made plans and your men and their lanterns.” She poured tea. “Besides, you’re none too clean yourself. There’s dirt tracked from the front door more often than not, and everyone pretends ignorance when I complain.”
She presented the cup to Rand with a flourish. Now he had to let go of Sylvan, but he did it unwillingly. This might be the last time he would touch her. The last time…
Sylvan settled on the pillow next to him and asked, “Who did it?”
Guilt brought Rand
’s mind back to Betty’s complaint. “Who tracked dirt?”
Heads swiveled in his direction, and James had recovered enough of his good humor to say, “Don’t be daft, man. She wants to know who attacked Loretta.”
“You would not relish the knowledge.” Garth took the last cup of tea in his rough hands.
Garth was right. Rand wouldn’t relish the knowledge, but he feared he already knew. “The ghost?”
“Tall man, dark hair, but she couldn’t see his face. Loretta didn’t say it was the ghost. In fact, she even scoffed when one of the neighbors made mention of it.” Staring into the cup, Garth seemed to have forgotten to drink. “The fact remains, everyone in the village thinks it’s the ghost, come to avenge himself on me for operating the mill.”
“The ghost,” Rand repeated dully.
“Then he should attack you,” Sylvan said to Garth.
“No.” James finished his tea and returned the cup to Betty. “Whoever it is—assuming it’s not a ghost—knows that the best way to attack Garth is to attack his people.” At Sylvan’s murmur of surprise, he shrugged. “We have our disagreements, Garth and I, but I’m not blind to his good points. He’s just blind to mine.”
“I know your good points,” Garth said with irritation. “I just wish you’d apply them to doing your duty to me.”
“Rather than to my country?” James shot back.
“You’re not doing your country any favors by agitating for a return to the Dark Ages.”
Before the timeworn quarrel could erupt again, Betty took Garth by the sleeve. “Your Grace undoubtedly wishes to freshen yourself.”
“Dammit, woman!” Garth jerked himself loose. “You—” he paused and observed the expression on Betty’s face, “are undoubtedly correct. I do want to…um…”
He started for the door, and Rand freed himself from his living nightmare: he had to know the location of everyone, especially—“Where’s Jasper?”
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