Her gloves were at the bottom of the basket, a disreputable pair of thick cotton ones that had once been white. At least, she thought they used to be white, but she wasn’t entirely sure. They certainly weren’t white now.
“You like gardening, my lady?” the younger Crombie, a gangly lad of around eighteen or so asked. He was dressed like his father, but he had a full head of dark hair, straggling out from under his hat.
“Horticulture,” she said firmly. She jerked a thumb in the direction of the origin of the smoke. “What’s that?”
Crombie the elder sighed, his broad chest heaving. “Next door, my lady. The new neighbor is digging and suchlike.”
“Does it happen every day?”
The man nodded. His jowls shivered. “All the time, my lady. Day and night. But the wind isn’t always in the right direction. Not much we can do about it.”
“Well I can do something,” she said, “and I will if it doesn’t stop soon.” She’d speak to Gerald.
If they were clearing the ground, the fires wouldn’t last long. But the smell was stronger here. The tang hit the back of her throat, threatening to make her cough. They were burning more than dead trees. “I’ll ask my brother to send word. Perhaps he can ask our new neighbor to move his fires.”
“Or we’ll have to give up this part of the garden,” the older Crombie said gloomily. He seemed like the gloomy type, with heavy lines engraved on his face between his nose and mouth and between his brows.
Next week, July would arrive and everything would produce as if the world were ending in August. The smoke would taint everything. Past the orangery was an orchard, the boughs heavy with apples, plums and pears. All that would be in danger if that smoke was constantly pouring over them.
After nodding to the gardeners, Dorcas made her way inside the orangery.
Waxed linen blinds were rolled up at the top of the roof so that the sun wouldn’t burn the plants in the heat of the day. The temperature inside was already comfortably warm as Dorcas took off her cloak and donned her canvas apron. That would protect her clothes well enough. The long bench that ran down the center of the structure held several stacked terracotta pots, some clay troughs and sacks of good topsoil and compost. Perfect.
Humming under her breath, Dorcas set to examining what the Chinese agents had sent her. Carefully, she set to opening the packages with their Chinese writing on the outside. She tried not to tear the paper. Those symbols might be vital instructions, but until she located a Chinese speaker, she’d have no way of finding out.
An hour later, she stretched. She’d made good use of the troughs, filled them with tiny pebbles to help with drainage, a layer of topsoil and half the contents of six packages. There were many more. She’d brought a few in her basket, the rest were here waiting for her.
She found a pair of scissors in the corner, enough for her needs. Each package was wrapped in paper, and then another one with those symbols on it. If she didn’t label the troughs somehow, she wouldn’t know what the plants were when they came up, so she’d better use what she had. Dorcas made labels. Each label on each package she pinned on the trough, using a bit of twig to make a rudimentary flag.
Once she’d seen the results of this planting, she’d do the others, but a staggered approach was probably the best.
Putting her hands in the small of her back, she straightened and stretched. Goodness, what time could it be?
Perhaps she should find an old clock to bring down here. Nothing chimed the hour, so she would have to bring her own timepiece. Gerald had given her an exquisite pocket watch for her birthday last year, but she wouldn’t bring that. The delicate mechanism was too perfect.
Gerald never treated the triplets as an entity, and while they all received watches last year, the timepieces were different, suited to each sister. Dorcas’ had a string of daisies engraved around the gold case, and inside the watch showed the equinoxes. Damaris’ had shown the phases of the moon, and Delphi’s had a design of Atlas and Neptune on the case, repeated inside.
Meantime, she only had the progress of the sun to tell her when she should go in to dinner. If she should at all, come to that.
Today wouldn’t be the first time she’d worked until the sun sank low in the sky. They got used to preparing a plate for her and keeping it warm until she came in. Dried-up and cold food was her usual fare when she was deep into a project. And she wasn’t alone in that, either. She’d had a few merry, impromptu meals with her sisters at midnight.
Dorcas put down her trowel and stared sightlessly at the bench by the window. She missed her sisters. They’d never been apart before. Damaris marrying was a wrench, and now Delphi was gone. She might never come back, if she could find a suitable place in Rome. She had nobody to talk to about her bitter disappointment with Blackridge. She’d been sadly mistaken in him. A long session with her sisters, casting all the abuse at him they could think of would have helped to soothe her spirits.
Dorcas had never known loneliness before and she didn’t know how to manage it. She would. Work would help. She picked up her trowel and dug into the next trough. She’d fill this one, then she’d water all four and see what happened to them in the next few days. The seeds had been fairly normal, some tiny, some large. Others were dried, so she’d plunged them into water. She’d study them tomorrow. They were too dry to do anything with today. These small pieces of life had traveled halfway across the world. Who knew what they held?
Sometime later, she had no way of knowing how long, the light above her dimmed. Probably clouds, preparing for another downfall. It had to be time for her to go in to dress for dinner. As if reminded, her stomach rumbled. She looked up.
As she’d supposed, a thick cloud covered the sun. But it wasn’t nature that had caused it. The dense, yellowish stream of smoke had intensified. Light fought to get through the sickly yellow mass, but was mostly unsuccessful. Tossing her gloves and apron on to the bench, Dorcas walked to the door, and opened it.
How had she not noticed that stench? The smell of sulfur and burning flooded over her the minute she opened the door.
What was going on?
Careful to close the door behind her, she went in search of the Crombies.
She found them standing by a hedge, staring up at the strange cloud above.
“Have you seen anything like this before?”
The youngest nodded. “But not this bad, my lady. Nasty smell. They’re doing something terrible over the hill, that’s for sure.”
The oldest Crombie heaved a lugubrious sigh. “Mining, that’s what it is. They’ll ruin the gardens.”
Past the hedge was a field and, beyond that, a gentle hill, preventing her seeing what was causing the smoke. This was intolerable. She would not allow this to continue. Someone must be in charge over there, and she was just in the mood for giving him a piece of her mind.
Crombie said more, but Dorcas didn’t hear him. She had already climbed the stile and was making her way to the hill that separated her from seeing what was going on.
The hill was steeper than she’d thought. By the time Dorcas reached the top, she was panting. But the sun was still shining, or trying to, and the noxious cloud was still there. Smoke drifted from something behind the hill, feeding the cloud. This couldn’t go on. Whatever they were doing, it would affect her plants, and this side of the estate. It could even reach the house.
She’d just take a look and then go back to tell Gerald. Surely he could see the cloud from his study in the house. Why had nobody told them about this before? Just one look, one peep at what was going on, and then she’d go back.
Leaning over, she rested her hands on her knees, waiting until her legs stopped aching and her breath came back. Lord, she must have rushed up that hill. And after hours on her feet, concentrating—
Someone seized her from behind, dragging her up, clamping his hand over her mouth. “Spying were you? We’ll see what the master has to say about this!”
Dorcas st
ruggled, fought desperately, but the man was too strong for her. He tightened his hold, and she sucked in air. Or tried to.
The more she struggled, the tighter he held her. His arm clamped around her waist. She kicked back, and had the satisfaction of feeling him wince.
The effort cost her dearly. She couldn’t breathe. Spots danced before her eyes, and now she struggled for air, not to get away. She tried licking, biting, but she couldn’t get purchase on anything. The hand smelled of pipe tobacco, big and brutal.
Blackness descended.
Chapter Fourteen
Dorcas blinked and opened her eyes. She was lying on something soft. Above her, the sun shone brightly but it was obscured. A beam of light came in from the side. An entrance, maybe, a door left open.
Cloud, oh yes, but this was…tightly woven fabric filtered the light.
She was warm, covered with a blanket.
She rolled over. And groaned. Aches were making themselves known. A brutal pain shot through her when she knelt on something that dug into the soft part of her knee.
A voice from her other side murmured, “No, no. Be still. I’ll help you.”
Dorcas went still. Despite the Scottish accent, she knew that voice. Dizziness and confusion threatened to overcome her. She’d fainted. No, someone had cut off her air supply.
Gathering all her strength, she shot out of the bed and bolted.
An arm looped around her waist and drew her close and a hard body pressed against her own. The Duke of Blackridge murmured again, his breath hot on her ear. “Dorcas, no, don’t struggle. You know me. You must know I won’t hurt you.”
She thought she did, but then, she’d thought she was going to marry him. She could be wrong on both counts instead of just one. But she couldn’t fight.
Dizziness overwhelmed her, and he was far too strong for her. She had no choice but to let him lift her and settle her back on the bed. For it was a bed, although unlike any she’d ever seen before. No drapery above, and the head and footboard were low, and slatted. But it felt perfectly solid.
A neat cabinet stood opposite, a chair set before it. A table and stool added to the comfortable furnishings, and a washstand. There was even a rug on the uneven floor.
She remained flat on her back, staring up at him. Someone had removed her cap and her hair had come loose, strands sticking to her neck and her lips.
Spitting her hair out of the way, she spoke. “What the devil are you doing here?” Fury and confusion warred within her.
The Duke of Blackstone wore clothing as plain and rough as hers. Brown wool breeches were tucked into well-worn, dull boots, the kind a gentleman would die rather than wear, except he was wearing them. He didn’t have a coat on, but his shirtsleeves were smudged and dirty. His long, leather waistcoat looked as if it were molded to him, so soft was it.
A simple wig was suspended from a hook on a stand behind him, together with an unadorned three-cornered hat, gray with age, and a brown coat, faded where the sun had got at it.
“Dukes don’t wear workmen’s clothing.”
A grin spread over his face, deepening the dimples in his cheeks. “Ladies don’t wander around the countryside alone, wearing plain, old clothes. They don’t wear linen caps without frills, and they don’t sport jackets more often seen on kitchen maids, either.”
How dare this man answer her back? Well, at least she had his true measure now, the perfidious devil! “What would you know about that? Do you make a habit of visiting kitchens?”
Lying on her back like this put her at a distinct disadvantage to the man towering above her. He was sitting on a three-legged stool about a yard away from her, but he still made a solid, powerful figure. Planting her hands on the blanket, Dorcas pushed herself up to a sitting position.
He held out a tankard. “I’m afraid I can’t offer you tea or wine, or anything as sophisticated as that. Would you like some beer?”
She swallowed, hating to admit that her throat was sore, but she reached out and took the tankard. It was filled with small beer, the kind workmen drank. She took a sip, then another. The cool liquid washed down her throat, unfurling and bringing her back to reality.
There, that was better. At least it would be, once the spinning had stopped. After a minute, it did, and she did indeed feel more like herself.
“What are you going to do with me?” she demanded. “And why would you want to do this? What have I done that you would do this to me? Are you short of money? Is that it? Because I won’t let you abduct me.”
He leaned back and tapped his teeth with the short nails of his right hand. He was certainly giving her all his concentration. “I think, lassie, you should ask one question at a time. You think I’m abducting you? No, it’s not that. It would never be that. My man found you on top of the hill, and he thought you were spying.”
“What?” Bewildered, Dorcas tried to make sense of what he was saying. “Spying on what? Or who? Or did he just want to kill me?”
She took another sip of the beer. It was good, better than the kind provided to workmen as part of their wages.
His expression turned grave. “He didn’t try to kill you. He was just a bit overenthusiastic. It was my foreman and, believe me, he’s been severely reprimanded for treating you so roughly.” When Blackridge looked grave, he dedicated his heart and soul to it. “He doesn’t know you, so he erred on the side of caution. I shouldn’t be here, Dorcas.”
His unadorned use of her name sent an illicit thrill through her. Truly, she felt completely recovered now. Suddenly, the vast halls and staircases at the house felt like home. And she wanted to be there. “Explain,” she said, quelling the response to hearing her name on his lips.
“Someone tried to kill me.”
He bent, went down on one knee in the classic proposal position. Oh, so now he decided she was worthy? Dorcas didn’t know what to think. She sat very still, waiting for his next move.
“Here.” When he reached for her hand, she didn’t snatch it away. The touch of his warm flesh sent ripples of awareness through her and memories of their time in London. She was weakening, even though she was trying not to. She couldn’t afford to forget that he was married. Whatever this was, she couldn’t forget he was a married man. And not to her.
“Feel this.”
He made her feel exposed, so much that she wasn’t comfortable with herself. And he was only showing her his bare head. He guided her fingers to the back. She saw something as she parted his hair. “You mean this?”
Greatly daring, reaching out, she gingerly touched the lump. There was a gash next to it, freshly healed. She didn’t touch that.
He winced and hissed in pain. Dorcas removed her hand. “Yes, that.”
He lifted his head and met her gaze. So he was feeling it, too, the connection, that despite everything that had happened, lay between them. It was a relief to know it was mutual, since she didn’t seem to be able to control the way she reacted to him. Even though nothing could come of it, it was just there.
He smiled, brief, and then it was gone, leaving her stunned by the way it transformed his face. He didn’t have the kind of obvious, smooth-skinned beauty like his friend Kilsyth possessed. This was something earthier, deeper. He was Hades to Kilsyth’s Apollo, with their friend, now Damaris’ husband, in the middle, the mediator.
Dark eyes stared into hers. “That’s how I know somebody is trying to kill me.” He stayed where he was, completely still, not taking his eyes away from hers. “Two times, Dorcas. Once when I was approaching my ship, and once when I was still aboard. That was the attack that could have killed me, had my quartermaster not been with me. You had just left.”
She didn’t know what to say at first. Recalling that day when she’d been so unhappy sent regret and sadness through her. But after that, someone had done this? “Who would want to kill you?” She flapped her hand in a gesture of frustration. “No, I know, you already said you didn’t know. Are you sure the same people did it both times?
”
He nodded. “Fairly sure. Of course, I can’t be absolutely certain. But each time, they were looking for something. One said to the other, ‘Have you found it?’ So it wasn’t me, it was something I had. Something I stood in the way of them getting.”
“And you have no idea what that is.” Of course he didn’t.
“So, what are you doing here?” she asked then.
He got to his feet, moved around before he came to sit down again and reached for her hand as if that were a normal gesture between them. Married, he’s married. “I came here to complete my recovery.” He gave a harsh laugh. “I couldn’t let them see that I was vulnerable, and I was concerned they would seek me out while I was still weak. When I strike, I’ll do it on my own terms, and without mercy. Nobody hurts what is mine. Nobody.”
He looked so fierce, Dorcas shrank back. But their hands were still linked, and she couldn’t go far.
“I was waiting for you to arrive. If you had not come here today, I’d have come to you. You were there that day. I wasn’t sure they wouldn’t come for you.”
“You would have come to me?” She couldn’t hide her pleasure at the thought, that he wanted to protect her. But he should have visited Gerald. Oh, no, of course he couldn’t, because they’d left London. He might not know about the manor in Hampshire. They certainly didn’t tell many people about it. Yesterday, she’d been planning for a long, lonely life spent with her plants. Although he hadn’t mentioned the resumption of their connection, he had made his concern for her plain. Would he have done that from duty alone?
“Indeed.” He glanced around the small, modest space. “I was fortunate to have this in storage. My uncle was a military man, and these are the things he traveled with.”
That explained the obvious quality of the furniture in this tent.
“And the accent?”
He shot her a sly grin. “I learned the brogue from my nurse. My mother hated it, so I used to tease her with it. I don’t want the men here knowing who I am, so I resurrected it.”
A Trace of Roses Page 11