“As he should, since they are.” With a grunt of effort, Amy pulled the blankets out from underneath Lord Northcliff and prepared to roll him between the sheets.
“He’s a very handsome man, isn’t he?” Miss Victorine asked in a wistful tone.
“How can you say that?” Amy didn’t bother to glance at his face. “He has stolen our livelihood.”
“Dear, stealing has nothing to do with the fact that he was a fine-looking lad who grew up to be a fine-looking lord.” Miss Victorine’s lace-gloved hands fluttered into the air, then descended to rest at her waist. “Just because I’m too old to climb the ladder doesn’t mean my mouth doesn’t water when I gaze on the peaches.”
Amy caught her breath on a choking laugh. Miss Victorine was an odd mixture of aged sauciness and old maid primness. She was quite severe with Amy’s outspokenness, chiding her for any untoward remarks, yet she had lived alone for a very long time, and she believed that entitled her to say whatever she pleased. That candor was one of the reasons Amy found her so endearing.
In a reflective tone, Miss Victorine said, “His father was not at all handsome. It’s a bit of a surprise to see young Jermyn looking like a darling angel.”
Amy looked at the man lying on the bed.
A darling angel? What madness made Miss Victorine call the marquess a darling or an angel? He was neither; rather he was a spoiled lad who snatched what he wanted without a care for anything but his own desires.
Yet…yet Amy had to admit he did draw the female eye. His skin was toasted brown—from hunting, she supposed, or some other outdoor dilettante activity. He had a very nice nose, as noses went—strong and well-shaped. His lips were too big and soft, although perhaps that was because they had fallen open and a hearty snore issued from between them.
Miss Victorine giggled. “He sounds unharmed.”
“He does, doesn’t he?” For the first time since Lord Northcliff had burst into her life and ruined it with his perfidy, Amy wondered who he was and why he had done what he had done. “Did no one teach him anything of morals and responsibility?”
“His father did! He was a good man. A good lord.” Wearily, Miss Victorine sank into the rocking chair and pulled Coal into her lap. The big cat curled himself up as tightly as he could, yet his front feet hung over onto the seat. “He was overly proud of his heritage, and taught his son to be proud also, but perhaps he was right. After all, the Edmondson family is one of the oldest in England. The original Edmondson was a Saxon lord who stood up to the Conqueror and declared his claim on Summerwind. The official legend says William I was so impressed with his bravery he gave him the island.”
Sensing more to the story, Amy asked, “And the unofficial legend?”
“Says that the Saxon’s wife had softened William’s wrath in a bedtime tussle and won her husband the land.”
Amy laughed aloud.
“I don’t know, Amy.” The chair creaked as Miss Victorine rocked, a troubled frown on her plump face. “Do you think we’ve done the right thing?”
Amy perched on the mattress beside Lord Northcliff’s shoulder and took Miss Victorine’s hand. Pressing it reassuringly, she said, “I truly do, but more important, we don’t have a choice. We have no money. The villagers have no money. This Lord Northcliff is trying to run you out of your house—he says you owe him rent!—and the villagers off their lands, and your family has been here for over four hundred years, and their families have held their land for at least as long as the Edmondsons. With ten thousand pounds, we can go where we wish and leave money for the villagers, too.”
“But even if we succeed I’m going to have to depart my dear island.” Miss Victorine’s hand trembled in Amy’s.
“When we succeed,” Amy said firmly. “I know we’re going to have to find another home, and isn’t it horrible that he’s chasing us away? But we were going to have to leave anyway, and this way, with the money from the ransom, we’ll be able to go somewhere we like and buy ourselves a nice new home, one that has no cracks to let the mice and the rain in.”
“I’m too old to enjoy a new home.” Miss Victorine’s faded eyes were pleading.
“Wherever you go, I’ll go and stay with you. I promise. We’ll be happy.” Amy hated to see Miss Victorine so miserable, and she burst out spitefully, “And who knows? Maybe someday Lord Northcliff will crash his carriage for good and all, and we’ll be able to come back to Summerwind.”
In horror, Miss Victorine snatched her hands away. “Don’t wish for his death. It’s bad luck!”
Coal stood up and glared at Amy.
Amy murmured an apology to Miss Victorine and rubbed Coal under his soft chin. But she didn’t really regret her ill-wishes. When she thought of how Lord Northcliff was ruining the life of a poor, sweet, old lady, she wanted to shriek with frustration. She wanted to shake him until he saw sense. She wanted to…she wanted to arrange a carriage accident that would finish him off.
When she saw Miss Victorine trying to be brave and hide her misery, Amy burned with fury at the darling angel called Lord Northcliff.
Miss Victorine stared at the supine form behind Amy. “He lost his mother when he was seven, and he was raised without any feminine softening influence. That was why he used to come to me, I think. He liked to be petted and cosseted.”
“Don’t all men?” Amy asked tartly.
“I suppose.” Miss Victorine sighed as if she were weary. “But some lads we want to pet, and some we want to slap.”
Startled by the gentlewoman’s vehemence, Amy asked, “Who do we want to slap?”
“Mr. Harrison Edmondson has never been a favorite of mine. He is Lord Northcliff’s uncle, and I blame him for young Jermyn’s indifference to his lands and his people. Harrison radiates cold, and his eyes are small and set closely together.” Miss Victorine nodded sagely. “You know what that means.”
Amy didn’t have the foggiest idea, but she nodded back and stood. “You’re exhausted. You should go to bed.”
“I couldn’t sleep! Not after this excitement.” But Miss Victorine’s eyelids drooped as she contemplated Lord Northcliff, and Coal’s eyes drooped as he contemplated Miss Victorine. “His mother was an amazingly pretty woman. Dear Jermyn has his mother’s coloring, and it looks even better on him.”
It was true. His hair was a searing mahogany that made Amy’s fingers itch to touch the curls and see if they burned. She did touch the slanted brows, so oddly dark, brushing them lightly with her fingertips. She checked to see if any soot came off, if he suffered from some peculiar desire for black brows, but it appeared nature had created that improbable combination of hair color and facial hair.
It was a curious thing to hold a vital man under her control. Odd and intoxicating. Musing aloud, she said, “I wonder if his body hair is red or black.”
Miss Victorine gasped. “Amy! That is nothing that a proper young lady such as yourself should concern herself about.”
Although Amy had tried to explain the life she’d led before she had made her way to the isle of Summerwind, Miss Victorine couldn’t comprehend her background. Miss Victorine knew only that Amy was nineteen years old and had the manner of a princess—which she truly was, although Amy would never admit that to anyone here.
Yet the two of them had something in common—a wicked, mischievous streak, so Amy grinned at Miss Victorine. “Probably I shouldn’t concern myself with his body hair; I do it to please you.”
“Most certainly not.” Miss Victorine sounded prim, but she scooted her chair closer. “I have never seen an unclad male form in my life, and I haven’t suffered for the lack.”
“By an extraordinary coincidence, I haven’t seen an unclad male form in my life, either. I’d say it’s time to remedy the situation.” Tugging his shirt open, Amy peered down at his chest.
“We can’t look at him when he’s unconscious! It’s…it’s immoral.” Miss Victorine fanned herself with her handkerchief.
Coal watched the white cotton as if
contemplating how it would shred.
“Dear Miss Victorine, we abducted him from his own estate. I hardly think sneaking a peek at his chest compares.” Letting his shirt drop back, Amy added, “Besides, we looked at his face.”
“That’s different.” Miss Victorine leaned closer. “What color is it?”
“What color is what?” Amy teased.
“You know. The hair on his body.”
Amy flashed her a grin. “Red.”
“Appropriate,” Miss Victorine said crisply.
“Why do you say that?”
“You’re gazing upon the gateway to hell.”
“I don’t think I looked that far,” Amy said reflectively. “Here, help me put him under the covers. I doubt if he wakes before morning.”
“Mr. Edmondson!” Royd, the butler, stood in the doorway of the study at Harrison Edmondson’s London home. “There’s a messenger come from Summerwind in Devon, and he says it’s urgent!”
Harrison Edmondson, Jermyn’s uncle and his business manager, wondered if luck had done what planning and stealth could not. He doubted it; success had never felt so far away as in these last few weeks, and if he didn’t bring matters to a satisfactory conclusion soon, he’d be the great-uncle of a bouncing baby boy who would be the heir to the whole grand and glorious Edmondson fortune.
As he remembered the list of possible brides he’d been ordered to submit to his arrogant twit of a nephew, his hands curled into claws.
Give him a pistol and he could do the job himself.
Hell, he didn’t even need a pistol. He glanced toward the glass-front cabinet he kept in his office. Inside was a variety of interesting weapons—French poison rings, Italian daggers that popped out to surprise the victim, a sword hidden in a cane…
And when committing murder, no planning, no weapon could compete with an opportunity presented and seized.
He knew that. He had seized opportunity before.
The messenger crowded in behind Royd, splattered with mud, his chest heaving from his hard ride. With a tug of his forelock, he presented Harrison a stained, slashed missive. He gasped, “Footman found it…in the gazebo…affixed with a knife.”
“My good man!” Royd remonstrated, a fearful eye trained on Harrison. “You can’t burst into Mr. Edmondson’s presence in such a manner!”
Harrison waved his butler to silence. In a soft, measured tone that promised retribution, he said, “If you can’t keep him out, then I suppose he will burst in.” Snatching the missive from the man’s insistent hand, Harrison opened the crinkled sheet and read the carefully penned lines.
I hold the marquess of Northcliff captive. Leave ten thousand pounds in the old Northcliff’s Castle on the isle of Summerwind, five days hence or your nephew dies.
Harrison gaped, disbelieving. It wasn’t…it wasn’t possible! Such a happenstance was amazing, impossible…more than he could stand.
Throwing back his head, he burst into wild laughter.
At last, at long last, fate had played into his hands.
Chapter 4
By degrees, Jermyn came to consciousness. He didn’t particularly want to; he had just enjoyed the deepest sleep he’d had since he’d broken his leg. But his neck was kinked oddly and his mouth was open, dry, and pressed into the pillow. So although he fought waking, awareness came inevitably, filling his senses.
First he noticed how very much he liked the scent in his room, like clean linens overlaid with the odor of freshly turned earth. The sounds that came to his ears were rhythmic, a light clacking interspersed with a deep creaking. A warm weight rested against his side. He felt rested, really well, except…He frowned. What odd dreams he’d had, about bad wine and a boat and a beautiful girl with eyes the shade of poison—his eyes popped open. He sat up in bed.
No, not a bed. A cot. A narrow iron cot attached to the wall with bolts, with a thin feather mattress, thin sheets, and a shabby fur throw.
Beside him a huge black cat rumbled its displeasure, then settled more comfortably in the middle of the mattress.
A swift survey of his surroundings showed Jermyn a room with three small windows near the open beamed ceiling…a cellar. Gray light filtered through the glass, its feeble illumination allowing him to discern no more than still square shapes…furniture. Achest. A long table. Chairs. A small iron stove. He touched the wall beside his cot…rock. Cool, hard rock.
He still wore his clothes, although his cravat was gone and his boots were off. He wasn’t wounded or hurt. So…“Where the hell am I?” he asked aloud.
“In Miss Victorine’s cellar,” a calm, female voice answered.
The clacking and the creaking ceased. He turned to look behind his head, and a womanly form rose from a rocking chair. With daunting efficiency, she lit a lantern and lifted it, hanging it on a hook on the ceiling. It illuminated his surroundings—a cellar the size of a bedroom, full of empty wine racks and old, broken furniture—but most important, it illuminated her, the girl with the poison-colored eyes.
She was handsome, with a thin figure and features so proud as to be disagreeable. The color of her mouth reminded him of cherries in the spring, but her expression was reminiscent of that of his first governess when she had gazed on the small, dirty boy she had been given to tutor. Something about this girl’s air made him very well aware of his dishevelment and more than a little abashed that he’d slept in her presence. Sleeping was vulnerability, and he didn’t want to be vulnerable in front of her. “Who, madam, are you? And what am I doing here?”
“I’m your gaoler, and you’re our prisoner.” Her matter-of-fact tone made the words all the more incongruous.
“Absurd!”
At his vehement denial, the cat rumbled its displeasure and leaped toward the stairs.
Jermyn put his feet to the floor.
He heard a rattle.
Could it be…? Was that…? But no, that was impossible.
He moved again. Again heard the clank of metal against metal.
A chain? Was that a chain? Did she dare…? He extended his foot. He looked…and saw it.
He saw it, but he couldn’t believe it. He could not believe it. “That is a manacle.”
“So it is.”
“Around my ankle.” His chest constricted.
“You’re a bright one.” Her calm manner proved she didn’t even recognize her danger.
“Get…it…off.” Chained! He growled with fury.
“No.”
“Perhaps you didn’t understand me, girl.” He looked at her from under lowered brows. “I’m the marquess of Northcliff, and I said to get…it…off.”
“And I don’t care who you are, you’re here and here you’re going to stay.”
A flame of pure blue rage seared all thought out of his mind. With the instinct of a caged beast, he let out a roar and leaped at her.
She jumped back, her face alive with shock.
His hands reached for her throat—and the chain jerked him off his feet. The stone floor met his outflung body with a thump that knocked the air out of his lungs. For a long, agonized moment he couldn’t breathe. Then he could, and it was worse. Painful reprisal for his rage.
His leg, his stupid leg, felt as if he’d landed on hot pokers.
And all the time he lay there and gasped like a dying fish, that female stood and watched without offering sympathy or assistance. To him. To the marquess of Northcliff, the man whom dowagers and gentle ladies adored.
When at last he could lift his head, he asked, “What have you done?”
“What have I done?” She lifted a mocking brow. “Why, I’ve kidnapped the marquess of Northcliff.”
“You dare admit to it?” Inch by painful inch, he dragged himself back onto the cot.
“Admitting to it is the least of my sins. I did it.”
She was enjoying herself. He could see it in the saucy tilt of her lips, the jaunty lift of her brows. He couldn’t comprehend that any woman would have the gall, the sheer unadulte
rated nerve to take him off his own property…He straightened. His eyes narrowed. “Wait a minute. There was a man.”
“I hired him to lift you. He’s gone now,” she said swiftly. “You won’t see him again.”
“I don’t believe you.” Stretching out his leg, he rubbed the thigh, feeling the bone through material and muscle. It didn’t feel broken, but he’d wrenched it again, and his pain was her fault. Hers. This insolent baggage. Speaking in the condescending tone she so richly deserved, he said, “No woman would come up with a plan like this, much less be able to execute it.”
“I’m depending on that kind of thinking. Everyone will imagine you mad when you say a woman took you—if you even dare admit it.” She inclined her head to him in mocking homage.
“Women don’t have the ability to sustain a thought long enough to put such a plan in motion.”
“Actually, you’re right.” She grinned, not at all offended. “It took two women.”
“Miss Victorine,” he remembered. “You said I was in Miss Victorine’s cellar.”
“That’s right.”
“Are you trying to tell me that Miss Victorine Sprott helped you kidnap me?” He well recalled Miss Victorine. When he was a lad, he used to come over with one of the fishermen, run up the walk to her stately old cottage, and she would serve him cakes and tea, then walk with him in the garden and tell him about the plants. Everything he knew about tending flowers he’d learned from Miss Victorine—and now she had kidnapped him? “Nonsense!”
“Not nonsense. If you think about it, there’s a certain justice in her actions that you can appreciate.”
He straightened. “What are you babbling about?”
“Please, I beg of you. Don’t try to pretend ignorance. It does you little justice and will avail you nothing.” The girl’s contempt whipped at him.
In that moment, as he listened to her elocution, he realized what he should have realized before. She might dress like a servant, but she spoke like a lady. That was what had bothered him last night—at least, he hoped it was last night—at the gazebo.
The Barefoot Princess Page 3