“Gentlemen,” he heard his mother say before he was out the door, “do not like to be contradicted to their faces, Susannah. You were married to George, surely you learned that.”
“No, ma’am. George wasn’t often at Mulberry House. I learned little or nothing.”
“Oh,” said Charlotte, wondering if George had lost his hot blood immediately upon begetting Marianne. It sounded, depressingly, as if he had. “I’m sorry, my dear.”
“So was I, ma’am.” Not entirely, Susannah thought as she carried Marianne upstairs for her nap. The last several years, she had rarely seen him. She doubted he would have known his own daughter if he’d stumbled over her in the street. But he had supported them until he had died.
Five hundred pounds. When she gained her bedchamber, she immediately sat down at the small writing desk, drew a piece of foolscap from a delicate drawer, and began to make a list.
She wanted to kick herself when she realized later upon review, that she’d written “clothing” at the very top.
The baron was a lecher who planted marigolds, with great care. It was all very strange. “Lecher.” Charlotte was right, it was an intolerable word. It didn’t suit him at all, which had to be odd as well, since he was a renowned womanizer.
Susannah was deeply asleep, alone for the first time. Marianne was sleeping in the Mountvale nursery with her new nursemaid, Lottie. Betty had left to tend to her ill mother. Susannah was dreaming about a man—a stranger to her—who was digging about in flower beds. He kept saying over his shoulder that he didn’t like bulbs, that they always rotted and he’d be damned if he’d plant any more of them.
He pulled out a grayish bulb, whirled about, and held it up to her nose. “Smell it,” he said.
She didn’t want to, but she breathed in deeply. She began to choke. The smell was sickly sweet. Then it was in her throat and it burned and she was choking.
She began to struggle. Suddenly she was awake and there was a man standing over her, holding a damp cloth over her nose and mouth.
She tried to rear up, to jerk away from that cloth, but his hand was on the back of her head, forcing her face into the cloth. She held her breath, striking out with her fists, but not for long. He hit her squarely between the shoulder blades, and her breath whooshed out.
She felt light-headed and dizzy, then she felt nothing at all.
“My lord, Mrs. Carrington is gone!”
It was Fitz, his face as white as his spiffy collar, panting in the open doorway of the baron’s bedchamber.
“What do you mean, gone?” Rohan shook his head to clear away the remnants of the strange dream he’d had. “It’s only seven o’clock in the morning, Fitz. Maybe she’s gone for an early-morning ride, perhaps she’s gone to play with Marianne, you know that little imp—”
“She’s gone, my lord. Gone! Elsie just happened to look in on her as she passed her room. Her bed was empty, the sheets tumbled and jerked about. Her bedchamber has also been ransacked.”
“Ransacked? You’re certain? You said that Elsie is flighty, loves drama. Have you checked this yourself?” But Rohan had already thrown back the covers. He was naked, and the wooden floor beneath his bare feet was colder than a patch of ice.
“Your dressing gown, my lord. That’s better. You can be seen now, although the maids would perhaps prefer you in a natural state. Yes, I verified that Elsie hadn’t been indulging in playacting. Mrs. Carrington is gone, my lord. Her bedchamber is a mess. Someone took her.”
Rohan cursed deeply and fluently. “All the doors were locked, we had men patrolling the grounds. What about the footmen guarding the doors?”
“I don’t know.” Fitz turned even whiter. “Oh, my goodness, I don’t know.” The old man nearly ran out of the room, the baron at his heels.
None of the footmen had been hurt. None of the footmen had seen anything.
Charlotte tenderly and thoroughly examined Augustus to ensure that he had suffered no injury.
“You neither heard nor saw anything?”
The four footmen shook their heads. Augustus said, “No, my lord. We kept awake since we took over from the others at midnight. There was nothing to disturb us.”
Augustus spoke very well. His mother doubtless appreciated that. The baron shook his head. Who gave a damn if Augustus spoke like a country yeoman?
The thief had taken her, but how?
“My lord, I’m sorry, but Marianne wants Mrs. Carrington. She’s yelling her head off and Lottie is beside herself. She’s new and Marianne doesn’t quite trust her yet.”
“I’m coming,” Rohan said. He and the men had been searching for the past six hours for any sign of Susannah. Nothing, they’d found nothing. He was very worried now, but he didn’t know what to do. He wanted a bit of luncheon, then he would go out again. His mother, garbed in men’s britches, jacket, and a jaunty hat, had just left to join another search.
Lottie was trying to comfort a squealing Marianne, who was also squirming madly in her arms. Rohan walked to her and said, “Marianne! Stop that racket, you’re making my head hurt.”
Marianne, taken by surprise, stuck her fingers in her mouth and began sucking hard.
“That’s better.”
Marianne suddenly launched herself at him. Lottie missed, but Rohan managed to grab her out of the air.
He held her close, his heart pounding. She was gasping, giving small hiccups. “What is this, little pumpkin? Your mama isn’t here right now, but she soon will be.”
“Mama always kisses me good morning.”
That sounded nice. Dear heavens, he was losing what little brain he had remaining.
“I woke up without my mama’s kiss.”
He kissed her cheek. “There, that’s a baron’s kiss.”
Her fingers went back into her mouth.
“Did you eat, Marianne?”
Marianne just sucked harder on her fingers.
Lottie shook her head. “She wouldn’t accept a single bite, my lord.”
“Very well, then. I’ll take her downstairs. We’ll both have our lunch.”
Lottie could only stare at the master of Mountvale Hall, the man who was known far and wide for his amorous exploits, his wild dissipations. He was willingly holding a little girl? He was willingly taking her downstairs to feed her? She couldn’t wait to go home to begin spreading the news that the baron wasn’t acting as he should. Goodness, he even seemed to be quite fond of the child.
Mrs. Horsely came into the breakfast parlor with a plate that had on it small piles of everything a very young person could possibly desire to eat.
Rohan carried Marianne over from the window. Toby was already seated. He looked terrified, drawn and ill.
“Stop it, Toby, we’ll find her,” Rohan said in a powerful and firm voice, wondering if that commanding voice would convince a flea.
“Yes, sir,” Toby said. “I can’t eat, sir, else I know I’d puke.”
“Then please don’t. Have you ever fed Marianne?”
Toby shook his head.
“Then I suppose it’s my job. Well, little pumpkin, will you take a bite of these very yellow eggs?”
Marianne stared at the eggs, then looked at him. Tears spilled out of those enormous eyes of hers and fell down her cheeks.
“I want Mama. I don’t want yellow eggs.”
“I wouldn’t either. It’s luncheon, after all. Here, take a bite of this nutty bun.” He took the first bite, then broke off a small piece and put it to her mouth. She ate it.
He felt as though the heavens had anointed him. He was a natural.
But the euphoria didn’t last long. Within ten minutes, Ro-han wanted to throw Marianne out the window. She was alternately crying, spitting food onto his waistcoat, mashing eggs with her fingers, and screaming.
“Sir, perhaps I could help.”
“You, Toby? You’re a brave lad, but this is a battle you can’t win. Neither of us can.” He sighed and walked out of the breakfast room with Marianne drap
ed over his shoulder. She was finally so exhausted from yelling and fighting that all she did now was slurp on her fingers.
Rohan took her to the estate room, sat down in his father’s cracked and worn chair, and rearranged the child in his arms. Soon he would rejoin the search.
Who had taken Susannah and why? It had to be the same man who had broken into Mountvale House the first night they’d arrived. It wasn’t Tibolt. He would never believe that.
The how of it was driving him mad. The thought of her in danger bowed him in on himself.
It was Charlotte who found him sleeping, with Marianne pressed against his chest.
She blinked at the unexpected sight.
“Dearest.”
He opened his eyes to see the Vision standing in front of him. He shook his head. It was his mother. “Please tell me you have found Susannah?”
“No, we’ve found nothing at all.”
Rohan cursed, but very softly so as not to risk awakening Marianne.
His mother thought him tender and altogether wonderful. Of course, his father had adored all his children, although Tibolt and George had severely disappointed him with their prudish and proper ways, but that had been later, once they were out of short coats. Such a pity he never knew that George had perhaps not disappointed him all that much.
As for Rohan, it hadn’t occurred to him that he sounded tender. He just knew he couldn’t bear Marianne screeching in his ear again. He rose. “I must go search for Susannah. She must be all right, Mother, she must.”
“You will find her,” Charlotte said, studying his beloved face. She laid her hand lightly on his shoulder. “You will find her.”
10
SUSANNAH MOANED, CLUTCHED HER STOMACH AND VOMITED into the moldy straw beside her. She vomited until there was nothing left in her belly. She fell back against the straw, panting with exertion.
“You’re awake. Finally.”
A man’s voice, beside her. She felt so weak it was difficult to turn her head to see him. But she did. He was wearing a cravat tied over his nose and mouth and an old felt hat low over his forehead.
“What do you want?” Her mouth felt parched, her tongue swollen. “Why did you take me from Mountvale? How did you even get in?”
The man laughed, a laugh muffled through the cravat. “Ah, now that’s a decent question, isn’t it?”
As the foul belly cramps eased, fear came surging in. Her hands were tied in front of her and her feet tied as well, with just a little give between them. She was wearing only her nightgown. Her hair fell long and tangled down her back. “May I have some water, please?”
He grunted. “Yes. But first let’s get you out of here. I can’t bear the stench.” He leaned down and picked her up. He carried her out of the small room and down a short corridor into another room. Everything smelled old and rotting. Boards hung swinging from their nails off walls. She saw no windows. Where was she?
He laid her down on more moldy straw, then rose, saying, “Don’t move or I’ll hurt you.”
She tested the ropes around her wrists. They weren’t terribly tight, but they wouldn’t give either. She began quickly to untie the knots at her ankles.
She straightened quickly when he returned with a mug. “Drink.”
She drank, then spat the first mouthful of water into the straw beside her. The rest she downed eagerly. She lay back, panting, on the straw.
He came down to sit beside her. He seemed tall, well muscled, and young. He was also strong, for he’d carried her as if she’d weighed no more than Marianne. She must remember everything she could, but the fear pounded at her, numbing her mind. She closed her eyes against it.
She saw the baron. He was giving her one of his wicked smiles. Then she saw a marigold held in his large brown hand, heard him humming. She said, “Where are we?”
“Tucked away someplace where no one will find you. I will not toy with you, ma’am. You will tell me where George hid the map and you will tell me right now.”
Map? What map? George had never spoken of a map, he had never shown her a map.
“I know nothing of a map,” she said as she opened her eyes. She saw his dark eyes gleam with anger, and she added quickly, “I swear it. You robbed Mulberry House three times. You found nothing. You managed to get into my bedchamber here at Mountvale, but you found nothing. That’s because there is nothing to find. There is no map.”
The man leaned over, grabbed her nightgown in two big fists, and ripped.
Susannah screamed and tried to roll away from him.
“There,” he said, holding her down easily. “Now you will tell me everything or I will shortly have you completely naked. If you still refuse, then I will take you. George said you weren’t much in bed, but I’ll force myself.”
“Please, there is no map.”
He pulled the nightgown open, laying the two jagged edges flat. She lurched up, gasping. He pushed her back down, his hands on her shoulders. He leaned back then. “Don’t move again. Beautiful breasts. I wondered. George said you weren’t much of anything, but he was lying. Perhaps he was afraid to tell us of your beauty, afraid we’d come after you and you would welcome us.” He reached out a gloved hand and cupped her left breast. “No marks on them from childbearing. Are there marks on your belly?”
Her heart was near to bursting with fear, gut-wrenching fear that made her want to vomit again, only there was nothing to vomit. “Please,” she whispered.
“Please what?” His gloved hand still cupped her breast. His fingers squeezed.
“No, please stop. Listen to me. I don’t know about any map. Indeed, I have very few items that belonged to George. I will give them to you.”
He frowned at that and sat back, wrapping his arms around his knees. “What items?”
“There are several books—George was a great scholar. I know he loved maps of all sorts, but there weren’t any.” She pictured the small locket he had once given her that she had kept. No, it was too small to hold anything, much too small, and she didn’t want to give it up. It was the only gift he had ever given her. As for her wedding ring, it had been but three small rubies set in gold. She had sold it some six months before, when it had been low ebb with her father.
“What else?”
He was looking at her breasts. She tried to hold perfectly still, but it was difficult. “There are a few letters. No maps there. And a waistcoat he left at Mulberry House. There is nothing else.”
He said very slowly, his eyes still on her breasts, “I don’t know if I believe you. No, I rather believe that I don’t, at least for the moment.” He came forward on his knees above her. He ripped the nightgown to its hem and pulled it open.
She froze with shock.
“No marks on your belly. Aren’t I the lucky lad?”
She began to fight. She raised her legs and kicked him, catching him in his arm and hurling him sideways. Then she rolled away from him, coming up on her knees. She needed a weapon, please, God, something, anything.
She saw the hay rake leaning against the wall. She staggered to her feet and grabbed it between her bound wrists. She had only time to turn before he was on her.
“You damned bitch!” He was panting, he was so angry. He grabbed at her, but she wrenched free. Her nightgown ripped under her arm, hanging off her now. She turned on him, rage filling her, overflowing, and she rammed the handle end of the rake into his chest.
He yelled, falling back, flailing the air until he lost his balance and, groaning, fell onto his back in the straw. She had but a moment. She could take only short, mincing steps. She made the door and flung it open. She wanted to yell her relief. She slammed the door shut and turned the key in the lock just as his fists struck hard against the wooden door. Then his booted foot kicked the door and it shuddered in its frame. She knew it wouldn’t hold long.
She whirled about. She had to escape. She would untie her ankles after she’d escaped him. There was no time now.
She heard a splinter
ing sound. Oh, God, he would be on her in a moment.
Rohan and three neighbors, all on horseback, were fanning through the east meadow. He reined in Gulliver for a moment at the top of a rise and looked at the sprawl of land beyond. Suddenly there was a flicker of a memory. Over to the west, in the maple forest, hadn’t there been a small shack in a clearing that had been abandoned years before? He’d been only a boy when the gypsies had camped there, using the shack not for themselves but for their horses. He remembered how strange he had thought that was. They had piles of hay in the shack. No, surely it had crumbled to the ground and been consumed by the forest by now. There had been no gypsies in years.
Still, he parted from his neighbors and rode Gulliver hard to the maple forest.
Susannah realized then that she’d been prisoner in a dilapidated cabin that was falling down on itself. But the two doors to those small rooms, they’d been new. So had the locks. What had this place been? Why had there been moldy straw in those two rooms?
Why was she thinking about that moldy straw? She was losing her mind. She had to escape. She was out the front door that was hanging loose on its hinges, nearly ready to crash to the ground. She was in a very small clearing. All around her were maple trees.
She heard him yell, heard the door crash open.
She ran with tiny steps into the forest and barely made it to the cover of the trees before she heard the man shout, pain and rage filling his voice. “Damn you, you silly bitch! I don’t want to kill you, I just want what is mine! Come back here or I will hurt you when I find you! Where do you think you will go?”
Oh, God. She could make a foot at a time, not more. She felt the ropes digging into her ankles, deeper and deeper as she strained to pull. He would be on her quickly enough. Was the ground damp? Could he see her pitiful little steps?
There was no hope for it. She couldn’t wait. She dropped to the ground and began untying the ropes at her ankles. It was slow going.
She heard him shouting, cursing her, threatening her. She kept working the knots. Finally they came free.
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