The Gentleman's Quest

by Camille Elliot

  With what she hoped was not too dramatic a gesture, Honoria clutched at her reticule, still around her wrist.

  Winarc's eyes narrowed. "Give it here."

  Christopher helped untwist the strings of her reticule and removed the bag from her wrist. His actions in opening it and removing the box were sluggish.

  "Quickly, now," the man said impatiently.

  Then Christopher once again stepped in front of her, shielding her with his body from Winarc's pistol. He fumbled, and the box fell to the ground. When Winarc's gaze followed it, Christopher reached out and pulled at the horse's bridle.

  The horse whinnied as its head was yanked to the side. Winarc shouted, and the gun fired. Honoria ducked instinctively.

  Christopher launched himself at Winarc, pulling him from his horse. The poor animal sidestepped and reared, then bolted. The gun flew into the bushes somewhere.

  Honoria saw a shadow above her and jerked away, but it was only the coachman jumping down from the box to help Christopher, who was wrestling with Winarc on the ground. Sally's terrified shrieks split the air.

  Winarc dealt Christopher a hard blow to the eye. He jerked away.

  Sunlight glinted against the blade of a knife. "Christopher!" she screamed.

  The coachman rushed Winarc, distracting him from Christopher. Winarc slashed with his knife, and it sliced into the coachman's thigh. He cried out.

  "John!" Christopher shouted.

  Winarc rolled to his feet, grabbed the puzzle box from the dirt, and raced down the road.

  Chapter 7

  Even with his vision impaired by his tearing eye, Christopher had initially intended to jump to his feet and run after the man, but he couldn't leave John bleeding on the road. Honoria had gone to his coachman, and the maid, Sally, was climbing down from the box of the coach.

  After giving his cravat to Honoria to staunch the bleeding, he unhitched a horse and rode to Heathcliffe Manor, which was not far. He dispatched a servant to run for the doctor, then returned to the coach with a cart to transport John back to the manor.

  His family was shocked, to say the least, although his father looked more affronted at the disorderliness of the event. Christopher explained about the accident and a man appearing to attempt to steal from them. Sally had been instructed not to mention the box, but simply that the man had demanded valuables from them.

  When he returned with the grooms to collect his coach, his father's head coachmen mentioned that the wheel had been tampered with. "Wouldn't have lasted more'n a mile or two," he told Christopher. "The man pro'lly followed ye an' waited for the wheel to gi' way."

  Which meant that the tampering would have happened at Merritton. The man must have followed them there after all, despite their night travelling. His coachman would have seen to the horses rather than remaining to guard an empty coach, and Christopher could well believe that Lord Merritt's grooms would be as lax about their duties as the house staff, which would have made it simple for the man to sneak into the stables to do whatever he wished to the coach wheel. Since the country lanes between Merritton and Heathcliffe Manor were not well-travelled, tampering with the wheel would enable the man to accost them when they were alone on a road rather than at an inn or at the manor house.

  As he entered the house, Honoria was descending the main staircase wearing a white muslin gown with a bright red ribbon sash, which he recognized as his sister's. He was reminded of when Honoria was nineteen, ready to embark on her come-out after her year of mourning for her father's death.

  She had met him and Stephen at the front door of Merritton wearing a muslin gown, embroidered with red and yellow silk threads. "What do you think?" she'd asked them both.

  "Too grown up for you," Stephen had teased her.

  Rather than answering him back tartly as she normally would have, she'd bit her lip and looked down at her hem.

  "Now what has distressed you?" Stephen asked with the callousness expected of an older brother.

  "I am too much of a country girl," she'd said. "I fear that the parties and gaiety will not suit me."

  Christopher had been tongue-tied at the sight of her in the gown, looking lovely and so unlike the playmate of his childhood. He'd wanted to reassure her, but all he could say was, "Your debut will be a grand success."

  "Christopher and I will introduce you to our friends, so you shall never lack for dancing partners," her brother had told her.

  However, Christopher remembered a twinge of misgiving at some of the rackety fellows he knew in London dancing with Honoria. Perhaps he'd be more discerning as to who he asked to stand up with her.

  As the memory faded, he saw that her beauty at six and twenty had grown more luminous. She had been raw and awkward at nineteen, but now she was graceful, confident, and carried an air of equanimity that affected him as well. Now knowing what she had endured at Aubrey's hands made him marvel all the more at her strength.

  "Dr. Penton has been to see your coachman," she said.

  "Will John recover?"

  She made a slight grimace. "You know Dr. Penton. He is never optimistic, although to his credit, he never exaggerates. He has stitched the wound but remains concerned about infection. Indeed, John is already feverish. But your mother has sent to the village for your old nursemaid, Nanny Lawton, to care for him."

  He relaxed. Nanny Lawton was famous for her abilities in the sickroom.

  She glanced about, then led him to the door directly to his left, which was the small breakfast room, empty at this time of day. "I had forgotten what shocking gossips your father's servants are," she said after she closed the door behind them. "Sally tells me that they all believe this is connected to the murder in the stables."

  "They are not wrong."

  "They don't know that." She sighed. "Christopher, I feel exceedingly guilty deceiving your family, especially when they have been so kind to me. Perhaps we should tell them—"

  "No, we should tell them nothing, for their own safety. I do not wish to appear callous about John, but we must leave here as soon as possible. Whoever wanted the box surely knew about the map. Else why expend so much effort to acquire it? Once that person realizes the map is gone, he will come looking for us."

  "But your family—will they be safe?"

  "If we leave, I believe they will be. Whoever wants the map will follow us, supposing that we have it." He hesitated, then said, "Honoria, don't be angry at me, but I want you to stay here, as well."

  Her eyes became amber flames. "Oh, no, you—"

  "Hear me out." He held out his hands. "If you were my sister, or my mother, I would never agree to take you with me when I knew full well a man was willing to harm me to get what he wants."

  "I am no kin of yours," she said. "I am not your responsibility. And while you found the box and the map, it involves my family, not yours. We're going to see my Great-Aunt Elizabeth, not one of your relations. Do you think she will consent to speak to you about matters that may be important or even scandalous for my family?"

  "We still don't know why my knife was used to kill Rauser, and why it occurred in my father's stables."

  "There are many things we do not know. But what we do know involves my family."

  Her straight light-brown hair had fallen into soft wisps around her face, but in contrast, her eyes were hard and determined. She was as stubborn as he, and yet perversely, it made him admire her all the more.

  "You're right," he said.

  She blinked at him. "What?"

  "You're right. This is about your family and a treasure that belongs to you."

  She straightened, blinked at him several more times, then said, "Er … yes. Exactly."

  "I should not have suggested you stay behind."

  "Uh … yes."

  He was trying not to smile, but he couldn't seem to control his mouth. "I never see you at a loss for words."

  She glared at him. "I can ensure you are at a loss for words."

  He thought it best to change t
he subject. "It would scandalize my family too much if we were to leave tonight, so we shall leave early tomorrow morning."

  "I shall be ready." She gave him a hesitant look. "Christopher, believe me when I say I have no schemes in mind, but I wonder if it is wise to bring Sally with us. After what happened with your coachman, I fear for her. Anyone who travels with us will be in danger."

  "But your reputation. All the servants at Heathcliffe will know Sally did not accompany you when we leave."

  "What is my reputation worth for her safety? It is not ideal," she admitted, "and I fear your reputation will suffer as well, but you are the heir to Viscount Heathcliffe, and that covers a multitude of sins."

  "You cannot sacrifice your good name. It is a lady's greatest possession."

  "I may be a lady, but I am also an impoverished spinster." Her cheeks grew pink as she mentioned something so vulgar as money. "I am only attractive to desperate men."

  He could tell that she tried to hide the bleakness of her emotions from him. He could not stand by and allow her to do this. "Honoria, you must marry me."

  She stared at him, then said, "Good gracious, no!"

  Somehow he had not expected his first proposal of marriage to be refused so resoundingly.

  "Christopher, you are offering only because of some misguided sense of guilt over Stephen's death and that you were not able to protect me from Aubrey seven years ago."

  He could not put into words what he felt, how seeing her again had brought back a rush of feelings he had forgotten, how the changes in her over the intervening years had quickened those feelings. "It is not guilt," he said, although he had a stab of doubt as he said the words.

  "It is kindness," she said, with a small smile. "And I did not intend to be so ungracious about your proposal. But to any observer, I am forcing you into a corner, and after this is over, you will come to resent me." She looked away. "I could not bear that."

  "I would not resent you."

  "You do not love me. We hardly know each other. It has only been a few days."

  "But you are my friend."

  "After this is over, we shall still be friends."

  He realized that after this, he wanted to be more than friends, but he could not convince her of that now. "A compromise, then," he said. "We shall take Sally tomorrow, but leave her at a small inn. We shall avoid stopping in places where I am known, so we may travel anonymously. It would have been necessary anyhow to avoid the notice of whoever has been pursuing us."

  "Yes, that is sensible."

  "But Honoria." He took her hand. "If I feel you are in danger, I want you to obey whatever I tell you to do, regardless of what that is. You must promise me."

  Her eyes clouded. "Christopher—"

  "Promise me."

  She sighed. "I promise."

  He squeezed her hand. "I vow I will protect you from whoever may try to harm you."

  She smiled and touched his cheek. "Your respect for me is worth more than a thousand treasures."

  He could not help himself. He framed her face with his hands and kissed her.

  Chapter 8

  His kiss was both unexpected and overwhelming for Honoria. As a girl, she had dreamt of Christopher kissing her, but then she'd had no idea of what a kiss from a man was like. She had not allowed any boy the liberty while her heart belonged to her brother's friend. And then Aubrey had turned kisses and touches into something violating and repulsive.

  Christopher's kiss was beautiful.

  She was surrounded by the scent of sandalwood and a deeper musk that was Christopher's. His hands were tender on her face, but his mouth pressed in harder, as if to convince her that this was not the kiss of a cousin, or a friend, but a man who desires a woman. His lips moved over hers, tasting and touching.

  She ought to stop this. As the future Lord Heathcliffe, he had so much ahead of him, whereas she had become a shell of the person she once was. She was no longer the carefree girl he had known, but a woman whose soul felt beaten and tired. She had nothing to offer him except a temporary means to assuage his guilt.

  But this was Christopher. His touch made her feel like she was floating. She trusted him to always strive to do what was best for others. He would not blindly obey her every whim, but he would always listen to her.

  And he was kissing her as if she were the only woman he cared for. As if she were a woman he could love.

  His hands had moved to her waist, and he pulled her against him. Her hand had drifted to his neck, bare because he had not replaced his cravat, and she felt his heartbeat fast and strong under her fingers.

  A thudding sound outside the closed door made them break apart—someone coming down the staircase. They stared at each other as the footsteps passed by the breakfast room and out the front door.

  "Honoria," Christopher breathed. He bent his head to kiss her again.

  She drowned in his kiss for a long moment, but then steeled her resolve and pushed him away. He released her reluctantly.

  "We must go on as if this didn't happen," she said, her heart breaking. "I meant everything I said to you before."

  He frowned. "The Honoria I knew wouldn't run away."

  "The Honoria you knew is gone."

  She turned and fumbled with the door latch before leaving him in the breakfast room.

  The air was cool, but she ran out of the house anyway, across the wide front lawn and down toward the tree line. The grass was damp from a recent rain, and the water soaked through the thin slippers she'd borrowed from Christopher's sister.

  The air was almost icy under the trees, but she walked on. Her heart was so heavy that it was difficult to carry it inside her chest as she stumbled forward. She knew she was following the right direction when she passed a familiar clearing with a shallow mound rising in the middle and a few young saplings crowning the top. When a bush tugged at her skirt, she slowed and picked her way more carefully in order to protect the fabric, mindful that the gown was not hers, but she did not stop.

  She passed the well at first, but soon realized her mistake and doubled back to find it. She skirted around a thick stand of trees, hung with mistletoe, and then she was standing in front of it.

  The old well had been a favourite haunt of hers, Stephen's, and Christopher's when they were children, although they had not gone there often once the boys went away to university. It had been filled in long ago, but the round stone wall still rose from the ground. It had aged since she'd seen it last—there was more moss on the stones, and it had started to crumble on one side, but it was still sturdy enough for her to perch on the edge.

  The quiet of the woods penetrated her. She didn't understand what she was doing. She had not intended to force his hand, to lead him to offer her a marriage of convenience.

  No, he had not been forced. But he had a good heart, and she should not have been surprised that he would see that marrying her would protect her.

  She wanted Christopher, and yet she did not want him. Because she loved him, and he did not love her.

  But was it not better to have him any way she could? What was right? What was wrong? What was best? Honoria fisted her skirts in her hands and bent double, squeezing her eyes shut.

  He had called her strong, but she was a coward. She was afraid of the possibility that his impulsive offer would result in his hatred of her. And who would blame him? She knew that his guilt would keep him from feeling anything deeper for her, even if he were so inclined. She did not want him to marry her out of guilt.

  She had known him for most of his life, and he was too much like her unemotional father, who had been only mildly fond of her mother at some times, and despising her at others. When Honoria had been old enough to realize it, she had silently watched her mother's heart break each time she spoke to her spouse, a man she'd married in hopes he would come to love her in return. It had never happened.

  This was the true reason Honoria couldn't marry Christopher. Because she was too much of a coward to risk what was
left of her tattered heart. After all that she had lost, after all that her uncle had done to her and her mother, after the way Aubrey had treated her, after the shock of her brother's death and being evicted from her home, she was too weak and frightened now to take the fences she had never balked at before.

  Mr. Criddle would be petulant, boring, predictable. She would never love him, and he would never love her. In his house, her heart would be safe. She would never know emotional pain, or longing, or fear of rejection. She would never need to hide warmer emotions from Mr. Criddle as she would with Christopher.

  Really, her reasons for not wanting to fall in love with Christopher Creager had not changed. She felt for him as a young woman what she still felt now as a desperate spinster. Although it was utter folly not to marry him, it would be too painful to accept his offer, to repeat her mother's heartbreak. And she was too afraid of that pain. She had become fearful of a great many things.

  If Christopher loved her, perhaps …

  But he did not love her. She would not add delusions to her list of faults.

  And he would never love her, if she married him. Fondness did not grow into love. No, it grew into resentment. Had she not seen as such in her own home? Even Christopher's parents were merely civil to each other.

  If she married Mr. Criddle, she would want for nothing. She would expect nothing.

  With Christopher, she would want more. And there was the crucial difference.

  Chapter 9

  Honoria hadn't been alone with Christopher since the kiss.

  They had next seen each other at dinner that night, in the company of his family. Christopher had told them that she had intended to visit her Aunt Dunbar at Merritton on an errand for her mother. Since Christopher had been near her uncle's home on business, he had offered to escort her, so she would not travel alone with only her maid, and had convinced her to stay a night at Heathcliffe to see his family again.